‘So, you explained to DC Fielding that you saw Mr Mackenzie walking along the hallway upstairs on or around 6 a.m. on the morning of Reverend Snow’s murder?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Eileen squeezed her eyes shut as if the film of that morning could be viewed behind her lids. ‘It was definitely him I saw. But I can’t tell you anything else.’ She looked at Martin innocuously. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Quinn. That’s very helpful. Now,’ Martin said dryly. She leaned forward to fold her hands on the table, feeling the surface dirt on her hands, ignoring the instinctive shudder within. ‘Just a couple of questions about you, if I may. About your life here. At Riverview?’
Eileen darted a look to the sideboard at that, her face turning pale. She gave a little laugh. ‘What about me? Nothing to tell, so there isn’t.’
‘Have you always lived in Durham?’
Eileen swallowed, her hand scrabbling at her neck. ‘No, not always. I came here with my late husband at the beginning of the 1990s.’ She sighed. ‘He came into some money. We bought Riverview. It seemed a good idea at the time.’
‘Where had you lived beforehand?’ Martin asked, her eyes warm, her body language open.
Eileen sniffed regally. ‘I was on the stage. Repertory theatre. I did it for twenty years.’
‘You must have travelled around a fair bit, then? Different theatres, different venues?’ Martin hesitated. ‘I’m wondering whether you ever performed in Blackpool?’
Eileen’s eyes met Martin’s, and she noticed their colour all of a sudden; they were a vivid blue. She would have been pretty in her day, Martin thought. Her eyes moved lower, spotting the chain around the older woman’s neck. A feeling prickled at the back of Martin’s neck. ‘That’s a pretty necklace,’ she observed. ‘May I see it?’
Eileen flushed, brought a hand up to her neck, covering the string of gold. ‘No!’ she said, flustered. ‘I mean, why do you want to?’
‘No reason,’ Martin answered, dragging her eyes away from it. ‘So . . . Blackpool. Did you ever perform there?’
‘I might have done,’ Eileen managed to quell her anxiety. Her hand dropped, exposing the tiny cross in her cleavage. ‘I can’t really remember. Why do you ask?’
Martin reached into her bag underneath the table and pulled out the copy of the photo. She pushed it across the table towards Eileen, who looked at it briefly before glancing back at Martin. ‘You haven’t touched your tea yet, dear. It’s going to go cold.’
‘Do you recognize that photo, Mrs Quinn?’
‘Can’t say I do, no. Who is it?’ She peered down at it. ‘Although. Is that Reverend Snow in it? With the lady?’
Martin folded her arms. ‘You know that’s Tristan Snow, Mrs Quinn.’
‘I do, do I?’ Eileen gave a short smile. ‘And how do I know that, pray tell?’
‘Because you delivered this photograph to Durham police station yesterday morning. You put it in an envelope and left it there, anonymously, for my attention.’
Eileen licked her lips quickly, her tongue darting in and out of her mouth. ‘No, I didn’t.’ But her voice shook and beads of sweat dotted her hairline. The room seemed ever more musty and close.
‘We have your fingerprints on it,’ Martin said gently. ‘I’m afraid it’s incontrovertible.’
‘It’s what?’
‘We know it was you, Mrs Quinn.’ Martin paused. ‘But the question is, why would you want me to see that photo? And more to the point, how did you come to have it in the first place?’
Eileen pushed her chair back as if she wanted to flee. Her hands shook and fluttered again at her neck. She looked over to the sideboard.
‘What is it, Eileen?’ Martin pointed to it. ‘What’s over there that’s so concerning you?’ she asked. ‘Tell me. Whatever it is, we can sort it out.’
Eileen shook her head emphatically. ‘No. Get out. You have to leave.’
‘I can’t leave like this, Eileen, I’m afraid. There are a lot of unanswered questions which I need your help with.’
Tears began to fall down Eileen’s face. ‘Please. Just trust me. I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s all been a mistake. It’s not my fault.’
‘What’s not your fault? Talk to me, Mrs Quinn. Come on now. Let’s calm down. Have a biscuit and talk this thing through. Is it about the cross? Around your neck? If you took it from Reverend Snow, we can sort it out. I’d rather you just said,’ Martin reached over the table to touch her hand and the landlady reared back as if she’d been scalded.
‘No! I said, no.’ Quinn stood up, her lips quivering. ‘I must ask you to leave this house now. If you want anything else you’ll have to arrest me.’ She wiped her face and stared coldly at Martin. ‘I mean it.’
‘I can do it,’ Martin said, standing herself. ‘But I don’t want to. It doesn’t have to be like this. If anything emerges from this conversation that proves to be important later, it won’t look very good.’
‘Please leave,’ Eileen whispered. ‘Now.’
‘All right, Mrs Quinn,’ Martin said, picking up her bag. ‘Have it your way.’
27
Martin drove up to the University Hospital straight after leaving Riverview, thinking about Eileen Quinn. The woman was strung out, worn out. It had rubbed uncomfortably against something in Martin, made her anxious. All the lonely people . . . Quinn, Antonia. All these women who ended up on their own with nothing except booze or cats for company. She should have stayed put, forced Quinn to say more. To explain why she had dropped that photograph off anonymously, confess to stealing Snow’s cross, if indeed she had. But Martin had wanted to get out of that house with its hot, cramped ceilings and rooms, patterns of desperation crawling up its walls. She had wanted to flee.
Now she forced herself to think it through rationally. The delivery of the photograph was a malicious act, it must be. The only reason for doing it seemed to be that Quinn wanted them to know about Tristan’s affair with Antonia. And the very fact of her having it in her possession in the first place must mean that she had known Snow in Blackpool, whatever she said now. Maybe she was an old girlfriend of Snow’s? But why she had stolen the cross? Because the way Quinn had reacted to Martin trying to look at it made Martin certain it was his. She caught her own reflection in the rear-view mirror as she indicated to turn off the main road. A sharp crease bit down the middle of her brow; crow’s feet lined her eyes. She pressed her lips together and with effort pushed those observations out of her brain, focusing on the case. What was in Quinn’s sideboard? The property had been thoroughly searched after the murder, whether Mrs Quinn realized it or not, and nothing of any relevance to the killing had been discovered. So what was it she was so afraid of?
It was another heartbreaker of a summer’s day. The vivid blue of the sky remained unmarred by wisps of cloud, and the honey scent of the golden Lady’s Bedstraw washed in through the car window as Martin turned her thoughts to what she had read last night. She had finished Tristan Snow’s autobiography in a couple of hours. There wasn’t much to it. Snow, according to himself, was the greatest thing to have hit the British Isles since the potato. He had a deep connection with the spiritual world; he was a genius at reading people’s innermost emotions. He was, quite frankly, a pretty top-notch human. So far so pointless.
The most interesting thing about the book was that he barely mentioned his family. There was no information about his background, his parents. A few tall tales about his childhood, but nothing that hinted at the marvellous person he would grow up to be. There was barely any mention of his wife, and nothing of his children. Of Violet. Or their twins, who Sera Snow had said had died. There was something strange about that omission, Martin felt.
She knew Jones suspected Violet and thought Sera was just plain old crazy. Was it no coincidence that a woman, despite suffering the loss of her husband, seemed to engender no sympathy from anyone, other than the sycophants who had lined the Market Square the other night? What would t
hey think, if they knew about the allegations Violet had made about Mercy Fletcher? And why was Sera so unreachable? It was frustrating. Martin wanted to sink her teeth into her: feel either terrible pity for her, or a hard suspicion that she was responsible for her husband’s death. And yet, she felt nothing. Sera was the personification of closed off.
Martin shivered a little as a gust of cool air drifted into the car, thinking about them all, how Antonia had lived with Sera and Tristan. This trip was a punt – coming up to the hospital. Nothing had emerged from the investigation into the attack on Antonia as yet. The spa had no CCTV, and none of its employees had noticed anyone strange on the premises. The doors to the treatment rooms were always closed when clients were inside, so it would be easy for the perpetrator to check that no one was around before entering or emerging from a particular room. Antonia had now been released from intensive care, but she was still very ill. The ward sister would put up a fight before allowing Martin to speak to her, she was sure of it. She regretted not bringing Jones, who was much better at softening up war-weary doctors and nurses.
‘She’s far too ill to see anyone,’ the sister said predictably, as Martin explained the reason for her visit.
‘I realize that. But this is a murder inquiry. And now also an investigation into what happened to Ms Simpson at the beauty spa. I just need to see her very briefly. Just to ask her a couple of questions.’
‘I can’t allow it. Maybe in a day or so. I’ve already had journalists sniffing around. The poor woman needs to rest.’
Bloody Egan again . . . Martin thought. ‘I’m not a journalist, though,’ she said. ‘I’m a police officer. I’m trying to help Ms Simpson.’ She looked down at the floor briefly before lifting her eyes back to the sister. ‘Look, not even for a minute? Not even if I offered a guided tour of the station as a raffle prize? You know, for the hospital fund?’
The sister laughed. ‘You’re joking, right?’
‘Sadly not. I’ve really only got my wit to get me through this work,’ Martin smiled. ‘I know you’re doing your job. But so am I. And whoever did this to Antonia Simpson needs to be found and stopped before they hurt someone else. You know?’
The ward sister looked at Martin.
‘Just five minutes?’
‘Go on then, but I’m timing you.’
Martin entered the room quietly. Antonia lay on her back, her head and face wrapped in white bandages. Her eyes were closed, their lids red raw and swollen. A machine beeped regularly by her side. Martin approached the bed.
‘Antonia? Can you hear me?’ She saw the woman’s eyelids flutter but remain closed. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Martin here. Erica. How are you?’
The machine beeped a longer sound. Martin turned to look at the green zigzags zooming across the screen.
‘Antonia,’ she whispered. ‘Do you know who did this to you? Did you see who it was?’
Martin could see her breathing, but otherwise Antonia seemed cast in stone, her hands lifeless on the bed next to her. Martin shook her head. It was useless. Antonia was too ill. It could be days before she was ready to answer questions. The door opened behind her and the sister came in.
‘Come on, Inspector. That’s enough. She’s very sick, pet.’
‘Yes, I can see.’ Martin turned back to look at the motionless form. ‘Thanks anyway. Will you let me know? If she makes a rapid recovery? It’s really important we speak to her.’
‘You don’t know who did it yet, then?’
‘No. Not yet.’ Martin straightened to leave. ‘But we will.’
‘Come on, then.’
As Martin pushed away from the bed she was suddenly grabbed by Antonia, who held Martin’s hand down on the bedclothes in a vice-like grip.
‘Antonia?’ Martin said, shocked. ‘Are you okay? What’s wrong?’
The machine started to buzz and beep as if panicked. The sister leaned forward quickly and pushed a button on the wall.
‘What’s going on?’ Martin asked, her hand still in Antonia’s grasp.
‘She’s gone into respiratory arrest. You’ll have to leave. Now.’
Releasing her hand with an effort, Martin stepped back as the door was flung open and bodies in dark blue scrubs began to fill the room, barking orders as they moved into positions around the bed. Martin flattened herself against the wall as they worked, watching the almost silent activity with utter respect.
As the paddles were applied to Antonia’s chest and electricity jolted her body, Martin stared. Antonia’s head was flung to one side by the violence of what was being done to her. All at once, her eyes flapped open. It may have been due to the physical effects on her body, but, later, Martin would swear that the look in Antonia’s eyes had been something very clear. She had stared at Martin, her eyes wide and fearful, as if she were desperately begging for her help.
‘I was with Mum, here in the hotel,’ Violet said, her eyes lowered, fixed on the froth on her mocha latte in the Travelodge coffee shop.
Jones moved her gaze to Sera, who was equally subdued. ‘Mrs Snow?’
‘Yes, I told the other one earlier . . . the man?’
‘DC Tennant?’
‘Yes. I told him,’ Sera said. ‘Violet came back from her interview with the inspector and we stayed in our room. Violet was so very tired after all of that. So we watched television and both of us had a nap before we went to the vigil . . . for, for Tristan.’ She wiped her eyes and looked at Jones reproachfully. ‘I mean, when is this going to end? This harassment? Haven’t we been through enough? What have we done, Sergeant Jones? What can you prove?’ She shook her head. ‘To take my daughter into the police station like a . . . a criminal. And then to only let her out on bail? So it’s not even over, it’s still hanging over us. It’s too much.’ She rubbed her thumb over the turquoise stone in her necklace rhythmically, her breath trembling from her in little gasps.
‘Your sister has been severely injured,’ Jones answered. ‘She’s been in intensive care. We just need to establish where you were when that attack took place.’
‘You think I did that too, don’t you?’ Violet burst out, her cheeks red. ‘For fuck’s sake!’
Sera put a hand on Violet’s, shushing her softly.
Jones shook her head. ‘We’re just making enquiries, Violet. No one’s being accused of anything.’ She looked across the lobby to where Mackenzie stood at the reception desk, glowering at her. ‘Well, I think that’s it then. You’ve made it clear that you were here in the hotel when Antonia was getting acid painted on her face.’ She stood up as Sera lifted her coffee cup to her lips. ‘You’ve been most helpful,’ she said as she left them both.
Jones walked across the hotel lobby, feeling three pairs of eyes on her back, then exited the hotel and crossed over the road to her car.
She loved me more than anyone. Did you know that? Every night, every single night no matter what, I would sit at the end of Violet’s bed. She’d be tucked under covers, her face freshly washed. We’d talk about her day, what had happened at school. Her night light would be on – she always wanted one – the room would be tranquil, minty-breathed, prepared for sleep.
‘I love you, Mum,’ she’d say to me, drowsy-eyed, her fawn’s legs curled beneath the duvet, still at last.
I would stroke her hair, watch her tumble into sleep. Just our breath, the whisper of our breath the only sound.
After . . . what had happened at the leisure centre – with Mercy, you know. Once, she asked me about it. Only once. She asked me if we were normal.
Can you imagine?
I sit here now, with my view over the lawn and I think – what is normal? Was it what happened after Mum left? Was it that silence that we endured? Or was it later on? When I was the brave one, and you were the little sister who followed me?
Years after and I still dream of the boys. They gallop on horses, wild and woolly over the West Pennines. They are always older in my dreams. Tall, with sapphire eyes and glossy blue-black hair. They
canter across the heather, the sun at their back. But then a hedge rears up in their path, zooming into view as if in a video game. The horses buck. And I lunge into wakefulness, my mouth circled in anguish.
You followed me when I was sixteen and you followed me later. After the boys had gone. All those secrets. All the things we shared.
You drank. I stopped speaking. These were the different ways we coped.
But then Violet came.
She asked me once, if we had any secrets, and I shook my head. She closed her eyes, her head heavy on the pillow, reassured. ‘No secrets between us,’ she said.
‘No, baby,’ I answered. ‘Never ever.’
PART TWO
* * *
weigh the blood you take upon you . . .
Euripides, ‘Medea’
28
‘Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.’
‘What did you say, love?’ Sera asked from where she was lying on the bed in their hotel room, a book face down in her lap.
Violet sighed. ‘Nothing. Just remembering something.’ She turned away from the window through which she could see night draping lethargically across the city, lights beginning to twinkle across it. It was an apparently benign landscape, although Violet felt the devils circling above it, beating their wings. She was out of that police cell, thank God. But still they came, the police. Sergeant Jones earlier, the other ones before that. She couldn’t shake the claustrophobia away: the white walls pressing down on top of her, pushing her down into the dank and musty earth.
She was on bail, they had told her. She shook her head, pushing her face into the glass, trying to catch her breath through it. Was it a crime to have the thoughts she had? Could they read her mind? Because if they could, she was going away for a long time.
The Taken: DI Erica Martin Book 2 (Erica Martin Thriller) Page 13
