The Taken: DI Erica Martin Book 2 (Erica Martin Thriller)

by Alice Clark-Platts

  A goblin reared in his stomach, climbing the walls of his oesophagus with muddy feet. Fielding pushed his way out of his seat, racing unsteadily up the aisle of the train carriage. Just in time, he made it to the toilets, before the contents of his stomach splattered all over the Trans-Pennine express lavatory with the force of a bullet from a gun.

  Fielding was not to leave the toilet for an hour and a half, until he made himself stagger out as the train pulled in to Durham station. Stumbling out on to the platform, he saw Jonah Simpson calmly waiting for him.

  ‘Got a bug, have you?’

  Fielding brought his lips together, limply moving towards the station exit. ‘The tea,’ he mumbled as he went. ‘The old woman’s bloody tea . . .’

  40

  Martin looked out from her office window, down on to the police station car park. Beyond it, she could see the modern buildings of Durham lining the curve of the River Wear. Behind her, the medieval jigsaw of the Cathedral seemed to weigh against the city, creaking on to the cobblestones of The Bailey, leaning against its university colleges and overshadowing the students trip-trapping along. The beauty of the Cathedral and the historical buildings of the city never managed to make Martin forget the decay they represented: the transience of life, as the waters of the river lapped over and over again at its banks. As those venerable buildings hardened with age, so sprouts of new life, of the new generation, pushed their heads up through the earth. Martin leaned her head against the window, condensation wetting her hairline. Sometimes, everything seemed just a little bit too complicated.

  She sat back at her desk, thinking about Fielding’s call from Blackpool and the seeming impossibility of finding Mercy Fletcher. She still couldn’t shake that dream about her, and now it seemed that getting hold of her was like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack. And nothing more had been revealed about Sera Snow and her twins. If Mackenzie’s insinuation was right – that she’d had some involvement in their death – wouldn’t there be evidence of it?

  A few taps on her keyboard later and Martin had brought up the local paper based in Blackpool. Looking through the archives for any reference to the Snows, she trawled for a while through countless mentions of Tristan opening various clubs and attending association dinners. He’d advertised a preventative hair-loss product. Martin wrinkled her nose, looking at his grinning face holding up the bottle. There was nothing more until she went back further, searching for any articles on the Snows in the 1980s.

  And that was where she found it.

  THE BLACKPOOL DAILY FATALITY ON A583: TWO-YEAR-OLD TWINS DEAD

  23rd January 1988

  Tragedy struck the town of Blackpool yesterday when two-year-old twin brothers Peter and Michael Snow were hit by a lorry on the A583 leading out of Blackpool towards Preston. Both boys were killed on impact.

  Eyewitnesses say that the boys appeared to run out into the middle of the road in front of a truck. The driver of the vehicle, Graham Steele (43), was also killed.

  As it happened, Sarah Snow (32), the twins’ mother, was left helpless on the side of the dual carriageway as she watched them run in front of the lorry, witnesses say. She has been transferred to the Victoria Hospital for assessment although she suffered no injuries.

  Popular self-help guru and local healer, Tristan Snow (41), was said to be too devastated to comment.

  The family have asked for privacy at this time.

  Martin read the article rapidly, images shunting into her brain as she scanned down the page. Pictures of those boys, running out into the road, turning back to their mother who stood powerless on the verge, then the slamming of the truck, the scream of the brakes. But after what Mackenzie had said . . . was that the truth? Had Sera stood by in agony or had she pushed . . .? Had she . . .?

  ‘Murder suspect on the run with the victim’s daughter,’ Sam’s voice said from the doorway, making Martin jump. ‘Unfortunate headline.’

  Martin felt a clutch of nerves in her stomach at the sight of him. ‘If they’ve printed that, they’ve seriously run away with themselves. It’s Violet who’s been bailed anyway, not her mother,’ she said.

  ‘Right, well. Bit of a fuck-up at the hotel, so I hear.’

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ Martin replied, getting to her feet and snatching up her bag.

  ‘If that is the headline, we’ll be talking about a review team.’

  ‘This isn’t helpful, Sam,’ Martin snapped. ‘I’m on my eighth coffee of the day and I’m en route to talk to the troops. You coming?’

  ‘Look,’ he said, unexpectedly catching her hand and holding it in his. ‘I’m sorry about the other night. I really am. I know you’re under pressure, and . . .’

  ‘And?’ Martin asked, her eyes softening.

  ‘And I don’t want to add to it. I just . . .’ He moved his hand in between the two of them. ‘I just think we should take it slowly.’

  ‘He’s putting in the divorce papers tomorrow.’

  Sam nodded. ‘You’re sad?’

  Tears sprang to Martin’s eyes and she wiped them away quickly, embarrassed. ‘Yes . . . no. I mean . . . a bit, I suppose.’

  ‘You’ll be all right Erica,’ Sam said, looking at her intently. ‘You can’t be perfect at everything, you know.’

  She gave a half-laugh. ‘I’m not perfect at anything, I don’t think.’

  He reached up to touch her cheek. ‘Just don’t push me away,’ he said.

  Martin looked at him for a long minute. ‘I’ll try,’ she said at last.

  ‘So Mercy has disappeared, it seems,’ Jones said, settling herself back at the table in the incident room.

  ‘Yep,’ Martin replied wearily. ‘But maybe the priest Jonah Simpson will know more about her. I mean, why did he contact Egan in the first place? Does he know anything about Mercy? Was there systematic abuse going on at the church? Jones, I know you spoke to Nina Forster about her claim that she was assaulted by Tristan in his dressing room in 1995.’ She breathed out before addressing the rest of the team, filling them in.

  ‘From what Nina says, Snow is looking like your basic paedophile. Means the papers will be digging like ferrets – looking for other girls. It’s pretty bloody imperative we get hold of Mercy. Not only to get more background on what was going on when she was around, but also to secure her alibi for the time of Snow’s death. Clearly, though,’ Martin said, rubbing a hand across her face and catching a glimpse of Sam watching her from the doorway, ‘our main priority is to find the AWOL Sera and Violet. What does the hotel say?’

  Tennant spoke up, looking down at his notes. ‘No one saw them leave. Receptionist reckons they must have taken the staff lift at the end of their corridor which goes down to the basement car park. They’d parked the car there. Surveillance were expecting any movement to be on foot.’ Martin glared at Tennant, who shrugged. ‘It’s a cock-up, Boss. But the flying squad’s out searching. It won’t be long until we find them.’

  ‘Let’s hope that’s the case,’ Martin barked, stealing another glance at Sam. ‘So, Mackenzie warned me at the hotel that Sera was – I quote – dangerous. And I just found this.’ She passed out copies of the Blackpool Daily page. ‘An article describing how Sera and Tristan’s twin boys died in an RTA nearly thirty years ago. Note the name change. She was called Sarah back then. Not Seraphina. Why is that, I wonder?’

  Jones and Tennant waited without speaking.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Martin admitted. ‘I don’t know if it means she’s responsible for their deaths, although that seems to be what Mackenzie’s implying. And if she is, does that mean she’s taken Violet rather than the girl going with her mother voluntarily?’

  ‘They could just be scarpering, Boss?’ Jones put in. ‘Either one of them could’ve killed Snow, so now they’re legging it.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Martin acknowledged. ‘The whole lot of them. They act almost like a hive. It’s like they don’t do anything separately, off their own bat. They were in his th
rall – Snow’s. And now he’s gone, they’re spinning.’ Martin paused, thinking. ‘Who is he, eh? Tristan Snow? I always say it: if you find out how someone lived, you’ll find out how they died. So . . . who was he? How did he live?’

  ‘He was a bully,’ Jones answered.

  ‘A religious nut-job,’ Tennant added. ‘And a paedophile, looks like.’

  ‘I read his autobiography,’ Martin said, with a sigh. ‘It says nothing. Yes, he was those things, but he was more than that. He was someone who had a persona. Didn’t he?’ Martin gazed round the room. ‘He wasn’t what he appeared to be. To the world, he was righteous, moral; upstanding. But in reality he was committing assaults, having affairs, and, by the looks of the bruises on Sera and Antonia, well versed in a dash of domestic violence. But he took those children in, didn’t he? And his followers – the people that watched him on telly, that came to his services, asked him to heal them – they thought he was the dog’s bollocks, didn’t they?’

  ‘Even his wife and daughter,’ Jones said.

  ‘His wife, yes. Violet, I’m not so sure,’ Martin replied.

  Jones sighed.

  ‘What is it, Jones? Why the despairing face?’

  ‘Why are you so adamant that Violet isn’t anything to do with this, Boss? I mean . . .’ Jones swallowed, aware of the eyes of the room falling on her flushed cheeks. ‘She’s the only link we have to the murder weapon. She had motive . . . She was being psychologically mistreated by her father – look at the DVD you showed us. She knew about his affairs. Maybe she knew about the sexual abuse? She obviously knew something about Mercy. Maybe she was protecting her mother?’

  ‘And the pigeon? Why would she – why would anyone, for that matter? – plant a pigeon carcass under the bed?’ Martin asked, pushing her on.

  ‘We still don’t know for sure it didn’t just fly in of its own accord,’ Tennant said.

  ‘It couldn’t have flown in that gap. It was too small, the bird’s neck was broken,’ Jones continued, thinking out loud. ‘The pigeon was a symbol of the church. Deucalion was Noah, right? He sent the pigeon to find land to save them all. Snow thought he was Deucalion, or Noah, saving everyone, so . . . whoever killed Snow sent a pigeon to kill Deucalion . . .’

  Martin looked approvingly at Jones.

  ‘. . . it’s a symbol of all that was wrong in their home, their family. Violet could have left it there to make a point.’

  ‘Killed it, brought it into the B&B and stuffed it under the bed, without managing to leave a scrap of DNA on it?’ Martin asked, testing the theory.

  Jones shrugged.

  ‘Where would Violet have got the pigeon from?’

  ‘I don’t know, Boss. Where would anyone get a pigeon?’ Jones gave an apologetic smile.

  Martin waited a beat. ‘I take your point on all of that. I do,’ she said, shoving her hands in her pockets. She glanced at the door but Sam had gone. ‘And that’s why she’s on bail. Why she’s skipped bail,’ she grimaced a little. ‘But there are still loads of unanswered questions. And now with Sera missing, and this idea of the twins . . .’ Martin shook her head. ‘I just know it’s important. I want to know how that pigeon got in that room,’ she said as she leaned over the desk to answer a ringing phone. ‘Hello? Yes . . .’ She looked at Jones. ‘Yep, got it,’ she said, before putting down the phone. ‘Jonah Simpson is downstairs. Come on, Jones. Let’s go.’

  41

  Violet drank greedily from the water in the glass. Her mother watched her from a chair in the corner of the cellar, her head on one side.

  ‘Thanks,’ Violet said. ‘I was so thirsty.’ She looked around: at her feet stuck out in front, still tied up with a length of rope. ‘What’s going on? Why I am here . . . like this?’

  ‘Ssh,’ her mother answered. She looked towards the cellar door. ‘I don’t want him to hear you. He thinks you’re out of it, asleep.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  Sera didn’t respond. She moved her hands over the knees of her crossed legs. She looked prim: a librarian at a book sales conference.

  ‘What’s going on, Mum?’

  Sera shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you now. You just have to trust me. He’s going to help us.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘You don’t know him. He’s a member of the flock. He’s going to try and get us away from here. Far away.’

  Violet tried to sit up further, wincing as she moved her head.

  ‘It hurts.’ She looked at her mother. ‘Who did this? Why am I tied up?’

  ‘Violet, I can’t tell you now. I had to get you here.’

  ‘But if he’s going to help us, why am I tied up?’

  ‘Because if they find us, we need an excuse – why we’ve left the hotel.’

  ‘So we’ll blame him?’ Violet’s voice rose a little in her confusion.

  ‘Ssh! I don’t want him to hear,’ her mother repeated.

  ‘But why would he agree to hide us and then risk being accused of kidnapping us? It doesn’t make sense.’ Violet began to slide her feet along on the ground. ‘I don’t like it. I want you to untie me.’

  ‘I can’t Violet. Please. Just trust me.’

  ‘No, I won’t. I can’t breathe. It’s horrible down here. Why have I been tied up like this? I don’t like it. Let me go!’

  ‘Stop shouting! Do you want to ruin the whole thing?’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘I’m trying to do what’s best for us both. Please! Please just be quiet.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘If you don’t quieten down, I’ll go. Then you’ll be left alone here again, in the dark.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. Why would you do that?’

  ‘Shut up. I can hear something.’ Sera paused, listening. Above them, a sound stabbed into the silence. ‘It’s him! He’s come back.’ She stood up and brushed her skirt, as if ridding herself of the cobwebs and dirt of the cellar. Violet looked at her, bewildered, from her prone position on the floor.

  ‘This is insane. Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ll be back soon. Just keep your trap shut.’

  ‘Mum, please don’t go. My head hurts.’

  Sera’s shadow passed across the light at the top of the cellar stairs.

  ‘Mum – Mummy . . .’

  Sera didn’t look back as she shut the cellar door behind her, leaving Violet once again in the pitch black.

  42

  It was an effort for Martin to disguise the uneasiness she felt as she looked at the elongated form of Jonah Simpson. His mouth was downturned; his chin seemed to stretch to his chest, giving his facial expression a sombre and mournful quality. He smelt stale, with that tang of the unwashed and a faint metallic aroma of blood. Martin had the feeling as she looked at him that he was hanging by a hook in an abattoir of his own destruction; he eked out his existence as a cipher, more ghost than man.

  To focus, Martin looked down at the papers in front of her. ‘Mr Simpson . . . may I call you Jonah?’

  ‘Mr Simpson is fine.’ The priest’s mouth was tight as she came into the interview room, appraising her fully from toe to head. He had not deigned even to acknowledge Jones. When he reached Martin’s eyes with his own, however, he had sat up straighter, as if recognizing that she were the person to whom he needed to communicate his role in this whole affair, as if he were somehow desperate to impress upon her his status.

  Martin shrugged. She didn’t care what he thought about her, good or bad. ‘Why did you get in touch with Sean Egan at the Durham Chronicle, Mr Simpson? Obviously, we’ve read the article, but I wonder – why did you go to him first? Why not come straight to the police with these allegations?’

  ‘In due time, their foot will slip. For the day of their calamity is near. And the impending things are hastening upon them . . .’ Jonah said, his eyes closing briefly. ‘When I read that Tristan Snow had died . . .’ He brought a tentative hand up to his face and touched the wart on his cheek, swallowing deeply.
‘When I . . . when I heard about Tristan’s death. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from on top of me. A weight I’ve had for many years.’ He nodded, his hands moving down to his lap. ‘I’ll admit it, I’m glad he’s dead, Inspector.’

  ‘Yes,’ Martin said, zeroing in on him with her stare. ‘And I want to ask you about that. But I’d like you to answer the question. Why go to the press first and not the police?’

  ‘I told the journalist this . . .’ He wagged his finger at her. ‘The man was, well – not to put too fine a point on it – he was a monster.’

  Martin waited.

  ‘All right, then,’ he said, and gave a short laugh. ‘Because I didn’t know . . . I didn’t know who else to tell, as a matter of fact. My daughter . . .’

  ‘Seraphina . . .’

  ‘Sarah,’ he rebutted, sharp. ‘She was christened Sarah.’

  Martin inclined her head.

  ‘She and I haven’t been in touch since I left the church. We don’t speak . . .’ His eyes closed for a moment. ‘But once he was dead, I saw the tributes. Heard the eulogies . . . and I couldn’t . . .’ He straightened in his seat. ‘I couldn’t sit by and say nothing.’

  ‘A monster . . .’ Martin parroted the priest, ruffling through her papers ostentatiously, although she knew exactly what it was she wanted to ask. ‘You mentioned a girl called Mercy to Mr Egan. What can you tell me about her?’

  ‘Mercy was a victim of his, just as we all were.’

  Martin leaned forward, her hands on the desk. ‘What kind of victim?’

  Jonah licked his lips. ‘I think it was sexual. We all thought it. Although no one ever said it.’

  ‘Did Mercy ever bring charges?’

  The priest laughed. ‘No, no, Detective Martin. Charges? Her mother was . . . absent. Who else was there?’

  ‘You? Other members of the church? Your daughters?’

  He remained silent, shaking his head.