‘This is Rob,’ Jones said, pulling a lanky, smiling man up to Martin. She looked up at him proudly. ‘My fiancé.’
‘Your . . .?’ Martin said in surprise. ‘I’m sorry, Jones. I hadn’t realized.’
‘Not to worry,’ Jones said cheerfully. ‘Happened when you were away. I wanted you to come tonight. Despite the case. Wanted you to come and meet us. See where I’m from, you know.’
Martin looked at her sergeant, her earnest grin, her hand wrapped in her lover’s. She felt a sudden stab of jealousy followed just as quickly by a hot flush of shame. A sense of panic that time was slipping away from her. That she’d sorted out nothing. That everything was shit and always would be.
‘Congratulations,’ she said, holding out her hand to shake Rob’s. She wondered if she should move to give Jones a celebratory kiss on the cheek, but bailed on it at the last minute, ending up patting her on the shoulder as if she were the Mayor or something. Seriously, she had to get out of there.
‘Emma’s told us a great deal about you.’ Martin turned to see a man in his sixties approaching – Jones’s dad perhaps? ‘Raves about it, working with you, she does.’
Martin coughed. ‘Ah well, we’re uh, very lucky to have DS Jones on our team, of course.’ She nodded as if to reinforce the point. ‘She’s a great asset to her colleagues.’ The words came to her like a television script. She gulped down some more wine, longing for the burn of relaxation it would bring.
‘We’re very proud of her.’
‘Dad . . .’ Jones demurred.
‘Well, we are. When a member of your family does well, you want to shout about it, don’t you? Boast a bit.’ He chucked his daughter under the chin. ‘And now you’re getting married, as well.’ He shook his head, the mysteries of life enveloping him for a moment; that he should be so lucky. He beamed at Martin. ‘Your parents must be very proud, too.’
‘Uh, yes. They are,’ Martin said vaguely. It occurred to her that she didn’t actually have any evidence of this. The desire for it strained and pulled within her like a dog on a lead, sniffing out clues and pointers. But she had nothing to show for it. Her police badge. And her sad face in the mirror, she supposed. She shivered a little as her mobile buzzed in her bag.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, turning away to take the call.
‘Looks like Partridge and his lads have got the murder weapon,’ Tennant said, with no introduction.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s some kind of statue.’
‘What kind?’
‘You need to see it really.’
‘Where was it?’
‘Well, that’s the thing . . .’
‘What?’ Martin asked. ‘What’s the thing?’
‘It was found in a public bin outside the B&B. It’s why it’s taken a while to find. It was wrapped in a garment.’
Martin waited, tapping her fingers impatiently on her hip.
‘A nightdress, I think. Some kind of dress, anyway. And that’s the thing,’ he repeated.
‘Spit it out, Tennant. Jesus, this is painful.’
‘The dress has got bloodstains on it. We’ve swabbed them. It’s Snow’s blood.’
‘Who does the nightdress belong to?’
‘DNA found on it matches that of the daughter.’
‘Tristan’s daughter, Violet?’
‘Yes,’ Tennant said unequivocally. ‘The dress wrapped round what looks like the murder weapon – from the DNA we’ve found – appears to be Violet Snow’s.’
16
It was a metal cross, a foot or so high. The figure of Christ was spread-eagled in its middle, in his usual fashion; his head lolling to one side, his arms stretched as if to eternity on either side of him. Above his head and around his body were the metallic, curling words of a prayer. Martin held the plastic bag that contained the cross up to the light in the incident room. Tennant sat on the desk in front of her. One of the fluorescent lights above them flickered on and off, plunging them into darkness sporadically.
‘Can someone get that fixed or just turn it off?’ Martin said irritably. ‘It’s like a bloody horror film in here.’ She felt the cross through the plastic as Jones flipped off the main switch and turned on the smaller desk lights. At once, the room became close, intimate, puddles of yellow light framing their faces. ‘The bottom of it juts into a point,’ Martin said. ‘It’s sharp.’
‘Reckon that’s what caused the skull fracture,’ Tennant said.
Martin bit her lip, thinking, rubbing the edge of the cross with her thumb. ‘Not initially,’ she said. ‘You could use it to thump him over the head first, knock him out. But you’d struggle to stick this into bone, on the off. Would be like trying to skewer a nail through wood without a hammer.’
They looked at the cross, considering this. The bottom of it was stained.
‘Snow’s blood?’ Jones asked.
Tennant nodded, easing himself off the desk and stretching his back. ‘Seemed likely, all things considered.’
Martin frowned at his sarcasm, turning her attention to the nightdress, also sealed inside a plastic bag. She smoothed out the top of it, examining the brown stains smeared across the embroidery on the neckline. ‘That’s an arrest. She’ll need to be brought in.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Even though it’s late. I want a wire put in their hotel room, too. Okay?’
Jones nodded her assent.
Martin looked again at the bag with the cross inside.
‘The cross itself. Is there anything distinctive about it? Why did you call it a statue on the phone?’
Tennant folded his arms, looking pleased with himself. ‘Well, it’s interesting.’ He gestured towards it. ‘See the writing on it?’
Martin nodded.
‘I’m a good Catholic boy, me. That there’s the prayer of St Anthony of Padua.’ Tennant pointed it out on the cross, as Martin and Jones peered closer.
‘What does it say?’ Martin asked. ‘You can hardly read it here, the writing’s so small.’
‘Behold the cross of the Lord,’ Tennant intoned, without looking at the inscription. ‘Fly you powers of darkness. The lion of the tribe Judah has conquered, Hallelujah.’ He sat back, grinning.
Martin looked at him. ‘Well, before we break out the champagne, Tennant, at you solving the case . . . perhaps you’d like to tell us what that means?’
‘I remember it from Sunday School. Me mam always made me go. You know how it is, the story of St Anthony’s brief.’ He looked over at them with emphasis. ‘There was this woman in Portugal. Hundreds of years ago, like. And she got possessed by the Devil, who made her think she should go and drown herself in the river.’
‘And?’
‘And, on her way to do it, she goes inside this church to have a pray and ask God for his help. So, she’s at the altar praying and she falls asleep. Later, she wakes up and remembers this vision she had while she was sleeping. It was St Anthony come to her in a dream. And she looks down, and there’s a letter in her hand.’
‘And what’s in the letter?’
‘It’s the brief of St Anthony. It’s that prayer,’ Tennant said, pointing at the cross.
Martin looked again at the tarnished silver metal. It was heavy in her hand. It could have smashed Snow’s skull, it was true. ‘And what does it mean, the prayer? It just helps you when you’re in need?’
‘Not quite,’ Tennant answered, patiently. ‘The woman was possessed, right? This prayer here, they say – well – it’s used to get rid of the Devil.’
‘It’s . . .’ Jones interrupted.
‘It’s an exorcism cross,’ Martin finished for them.
‘Correct,’ Tennant said. ‘Priests use the brief of St Anthony when they’re conducting exorcisms. When they’re ridding the body of evil spirits.’
At that, the strip lights in the room flickered on for a second and then off again. They looked at each other, startled. Martin gave a short laugh.
‘Shit, what was that?’ Tennant asked, his ey
es searching the room.
‘Come on Jones, let’s head over and pick Violet up. We can settle her in and then interview her first thing,’ Martin said, walking over to the wall and hitting it with the flat of her hand. Lights flared one by one across the room, a dazzling expressway of fluorescence, illuminating Jones and Tennant as if they’d been caught at a crime scene.
‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ Martin said, before turning and leaving the room.
‘What is it, Boss?’ Jones asked, as they crossed the car park to Martin’s car to drive to the Travelodge to arrest Violet. ‘You look bothered.’
Martin shook her head, perturbed. ‘It’s a bit too good to be true, isn’t it? Violet’s nightdress covered in her father’s blood, wrapped round the murder weapon. She’s not an idiot. Why would she do it?’
‘Didn’t think it would be found?’
‘Or she’s being set up.’
Jones flipped a glance at Martin. She seemed unwilling to accept that the girl might be responsible.
‘If you had whacked your dad over the head, what would you do with the thing you’d done it with? If you were an eighteen-year-old girl? Scared of being caught? In shock at what you’d done?’
‘Panic and shove it in a dustbin?’
‘Outside? And then come back inside and coolly go and make some tea and call the police?’ Martin asked, unlocking her car. ‘I don’t know . . .’
‘So it doesn’t fit?’ Jones said.
‘No, it’s not necessarily that. It’s just there’s . . . It feels like there’s something missing.’ Martin pulled out of the car park and headed towards the roundabout by the central shopping centre. ‘The Market Tavern,’ she muttered, noticing the pub as they drove around past the Market Square.
‘What’s that, Boss?’
‘That’s where Antonia Simpson started her pub crawl on the night of the murder. The Market Tavern.’
‘Where the journos hang out, you mean?’ Jones asked.
Martin touched the brake with her foot involuntarily, and the car slowed suddenly. ‘Say that again, Jones . . .’
‘What? About the journos? That’s their local. The Market Tavern.’
Martin gave a cold laugh, frowning as she turned the steering wheel. ‘No way. It can’t be. Fucking Keagan? Un-fucking-believable . . .’
‘What is? What are you on about, Boss?’
Martin shot Jones a look in the dark of the car interior, street lights zooming over their faces. ‘Antonia says the bloke she met that night was Irish. In the Market Tavern. Had a name like Keagan.’ She paused. ‘Ring any bells? Where the journalists hang out? I knew something was bugging me at that press conference. That little shit is everywhere . . .’
Jones continued to look nonplussed.
‘Sean Egan, Jones. That deeply annoying journalist. I bet you a million pounds that that’s who Antonia was shagging the night Snow was murdered.’
17
A sudden shaft of sunlight, hosting a thousand dust motes, sprinkled through the lace curtains at that window, do you remember that window? I had that kidney-shaped dressing-table with the pink satin cloth which fell from the top to the floor. That day, in particular, it was hot as a furnace sitting there in the shadow of the sun. The folds of the material rested on my knees like a blanket, hiding my dress.
I had the comb you had given me – something borrowed. It was cream plastic with satin roses stitched into the side. Once it was tucked behind my ear, they’d only be able to see the flowers.
Then you came in. Suddenly you were leaning in, pushing your face next to mine, beneath the curlicues around the mirror. You pursed your lips and made a kissing sound with your blonde hair waved around your head and down, on to your bare shoulders. Your dress was incredible. I was impressed, despite myself. It was turquoise and strapless and stretched across your chest, shimmering with undertones of gold and peach, pulling down into a fishtail.
You looked like a mermaid.
I didn’t even resent how good you looked. Something had been taking place in me of late. Thoughts pinpricked in my head like soap bubbles, bursting into nothing before they could make any impact other than a negligible wet stain, so pathetic it was meaningless.
I did think it was odd, though, when you touched my shoulders. So rare. So tender. ‘Well,’ you said to me, before hesitating. ‘Today’s the day.’
I could hear the rush of the sea outside the window, could picture the sucking of pebbles under the foam, water stretching over them and the sand until it retreated again and again, back into the depths, to another part of the universe – over on the other side.
‘Sera? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What is it?’
Your voice pulled me back into the room and my fingers quivered over my stomach. That small bulge which had hardened in the last few days. The tiny fluttering inside, the heartbeat, the insistent tapping of life.
‘Nothing. I’m fine.’ I smiled at you. ‘Couldn’t be happier, sweetie.’ I looked around the apricot-hued bedroom, the sun’s insistence at the window. And then I was confused again. Wasn’t this room west facing? I couldn’t understand such bright sunlight so early. I asked you what the time was and you told me that it wasn’t the morning. It was three o’clock and we had only an hour to get to the registry office.
I looked at you. My sister. Your reflection in the glass. How could time have passed so quickly?
I had slept all day, you said, managing a smile. No sneer, for once, this time.
‘Come on,’ you said, with a forced joie de vivre. ‘Let’s go down and have a drink before Dad arrives in the taxi. Drink to your last minutes of freedom?’
I felt sick suddenly. Everything around me seemed at once a pink or an orange. Apart from my dress, of course, which was still white. But, as we went downstairs for a Malibu and Coke, I couldn’t help it. I saw a chorus of waves lapping at my feet. And the water was pink with blood.
Later that night, I lay in another room as moonlight washed over my naked stomach. Tristan stirred next to me, his arm flung across my hips, heavy on my bones. I twisted the ring on my finger slowly round. Was this the happiest day of my life? That heartbeat again, tapping away inside. I turned to look at Tristan, his eyes closed, fast in sleep, a lock of hair sprung free across his forehead, breathing through his nose in a regular rhythm. His breath matched the sounds of the sea. In and out. In and out. Here, he was mine. Here, we belonged together. And the tapping inside me was part of us, part of that in and out, the movement of the moon tides.
Earlier in the day, in the hotel ballroom, underneath the streamers and the pale blue cut-outs of carriages and twinkling fairy lights, I’d also watched him. A whisky glass in his hand, holding court at a large round table. He was telling a story to his acolytes, their grins fixed on their faces, salivating at the thought of the laugh which they knew would eventually come, panting with joy at how they all slotted in together, fitted in as one. What’s a collective noun for a bunch of sycophants? I had wondered. A sap? Again, the thought bubbled up and burst on the fringes of my brain, barely leaving a mark.
This wasn’t like me. Or was it?
Tristan reached his punchline and the crowd duly laughed, meeting each other’s eyes with relief, mirth spilling out of them, pooling on the floor in a puddle. He turned to look at me and raise his glass in my honour.
My honour.
His friends rolled on their feet as one towards me, their glasses stretched up to the ceiling. I bowed my head well enough. The queen in her place.
But as Tristan put his drink to his mouth, I saw his eyes snap for the briefest second to someone else. His pupils dilated, his nostrils flared. He guffawed a laugh at something pointless. I knew before I looked, although I forced myself to prove it. I followed the direction of Tristan’s glance and there you were.
My sister.
Standing at the pillar, your head back, mouth wide, pink lips wet and open; the blue-gold fishtail spread around your feet. Venus on a fish slab. Yo
u flicked your golden hair off your shoulder and lowered your eyelashes, hiding me from your peripheral vision.
Tap, tap. Back in the moonlit dark, I felt that heartbeat thud again inside me, the waves swooshing outside. This was my ace to play. Once Tristan knew about the tap, once he found out about the baby, he would be mine entirely. The ring, the tap. Then you could laugh as loud as you liked, could swing into as many rooms as you wanted with your perfume and high heels and your clever, clever remarks.
But I know the value of peace. I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.
I would say nothing. Tristan was tied to me now. I twisted the ring back round and closed my eyes.
The sound of the waves washed over me and into sleep.
18
Martin let herself into her house long after midnight. Violet Snow had been arrested and was in a cell beneath Durham police station. She had come with them quietly, calmly. It had been Sera who had wailed, who had stamped in frustration. She who had screamed threats of lawyers and suing for damages. But Violet had said nothing, aside from giving the answers to the questions she was asked by the custody sergeant. She had quailed only once, when the door to the cell had opened and she had seen where she would sleep: the white cell with its rounded walls and steel toilet bowl; its hard, unyielding bed. But she had swallowed and entered like a lamb, sitting on the bed with her eyes closed, her hands in her lap, barely registering when they had closed and locked the door on her.
Martin had gone back upstairs to prepare for the next morning’s interview and then had watched seemingly endless videos on YouTube of exorcisms, miracle healings, and of Tristan Snow himself, working a crowd up into something of a frenzy. On the whole, the participants in his services or healings were merely emotional, longing for something beyond them. But, on one occasion, a clip had shown the congregation dancing and yelling wildly. Before it looked like it was getting too out of control, however, the tape had suddenly stopped.
The Taken: DI Erica Martin Book 2 (Erica Martin Thriller) Page 8
