Mervyn leaned towards his son. ‘Simon, talk to me. Are you okay? What’s going on?’
Simon’s face crumpled as he looked at his father and he began to cry. ‘It’s not good enough,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s just not good enough.’ He sat quietly sobbing for a few seconds, shaking his head in disbelief. He lurched his head up without warning and banged his fist on the table. ‘It’s not fucking good enough, is it?’ he screamed at his father.
Mervyn Rush stared in bewilderment for a moment before pulling himself together and speaking with authority. ‘This interview needs to be terminated. My son is clearly in no fit state to be questioned. He needs medical attention right away.’
Martin stared hard at Simon as Jones muttered into the tape machine hastily before turning it off. She glanced at Martin, who nodded imperceptibly. ‘Yep, okay, interview suspended. We’ll call the Force Medical Examiner to come and see Simon in his cell.’
Martin gathered up her papers, still looking at Simon, as Jones opened the door to leave. Simon began a high-pitched giggle. ‘Cornetto, please, Mum. The one with the strawberry sauce. Wait!’ Moving to the door, Martin turned back to find Simon’s eyes locked wide on her in a stare. A feeling of sudden coldness stole through her; his eyes were like ice. ‘Don’t leave me … please. Mum! Please don’t go,’ he yelled. Martin closed the door behind them as Jones jogged down the corridor to get the Custody Officer. Standing outside, Martin felt the thump of her heart in her throat, hearing Simon’s cries morphing into the keening of an abandoned child.
What had just happened there? What was Principal Mason doing giving Simon an alibi when the boy had confessed? Martin walked slowly away from the room, away from the cries resounding in the hallways, bouncing off the dark-grey ceilings of the police station. She shivered involuntarily, remembering the stare Simon had given her in the room, which pulled against the weight of the alibi, now stuck to the case like a limpet on the underside of a hull.
There was something in that stare. Something wrong about it. But the truth remained that if the alibi was good, then who had been the one on the riverbank that night? Who had been the one to strangle Emily Brabents?
16
I saw the photo the week after the Christmas Ball. I had kept my head down since then. There were only two weeks or so until the end of term. I would be going home to Mother, of course, for Christmas and I was dreading it. For most of my childhood, I can remember only about two happy days in Walthamstow, and on both of those the sun was shining. The idea of going back to my mother’s little house with the gas fires blazing and winter darkness descending every day on the dot at four o’clock was almost too much to bear. My bedroom was cold; the duvet cover matched the curtains. Even living with Zack was preferable to staring at pebble-dash houses across the street from my tiny double-glazed window.
I put it out of my head most of the time and carried on. My essay on James had been reasonably well received; I was now concentrating on Byron for my swansong essay before the holidays. It was only when I was leaving the library after working on this the following week that I first knew anything about the photograph.
The main library doors opened on to a small terrace, which sat at the top of a large flight of stone steps leading down to a grassy mound. People would mill around on this terrace, smoking and chatting, procrastinating, avoiding going into the library, where they would have to face the reality of work. I was standing outside, taking a break with a polystyrene cup of stewed tea, breathing in some air and thinking about light and darkness and the Hebrew Melodies. Perfection was a tricky concept. Even in the few people I had loved, it tripped around the edges of them; I supposed it was their imperfections which emphasized the good in them, was that what Byron was saying?
I leaned over the railings at the edge of the terrace and looked down, dangling my now-empty cup between my fingers. Below me on a patch of grass sat Shorty, Nick’s friend. He was with another sporting type; they had kit bags between their legs, which were splayed on the ground – yet more display of their cock-a-hoop confidence. I could hear them laughing as I hovered above them.
‘Seriously, she was loving it. That’s what he says anyway.’ Shorty was holding his phone, it’s screen flat in his palm, so I could see what was on it.
The other boy spoke, ‘She looks like she’s loving it.’ He snorted. ‘Nick’s such a cunt, though. Does she know about the photo?’
‘Nah, don’t think so. He texted it to me on the way home.’
‘Didn’t she stay with him?’
Shorty laughed, ‘That’s the hilarious thing. He didn’t even take her home. Shagged her in the cloakroom, and then the bus took her back along with everyone else.’
‘Jesus, he’s got some nerve.’
Shorty got to his feet. ‘Yup. That’s why we love him, dude.’
They both stood and began to move off. I didn’t hear much else, I didn’t want to anyway. I was frozen there. I couldn’t believe my ears. I was so angry, I’d never felt that rush before, a swinging sensation inside of me. A palpitation of rage so pounding it drowned out the crowd noise of the idiots around me. My knuckles flexed involuntarily as I realized I wanted to hit something. I hoisted my rucksack on to my shoulders and, tossing my cup into a dustbin at the bottom of the stairs, I ran. Down the hill, burning my lungs, singeing them with a lack of oxygen, sucking in air too infrequently for it to be called breathing. My feet slapped over the cobbles, I was winged; at once I was Pegasus. I flew through the streets, hard now over the tarmac. And then I was at the bottom. Deep and dark, the sun had gone cold; I was at the bottom by Nightingale, my college, my alma mater. I stopped, taking in the air I had missed. I leaned over, my hands on my knees.
‘Hello?’
Again, Emily had found me post-run, at bay with physical exertion. I raised my hand weakly, managed a half smile as I continued drawing down air. Emily laughed gently. ‘Running again? Why are you always in such a hurry?’
I straightened and arched my back slightly. I didn’t know what to say. The photograph had left a negative on my brain. Looking at Emily, all I could see was her body, curled over Nick’s; long legs, open, inviting, disgusting. I shivered, my eyes dipping away from her.
Emily’s head dropped. ‘You’ve seen the photo,’ she said, a statement.
‘How do you know … ?’
‘Everyone knows. Someone’s put it on Facebook. Fraped, they call it.’ She grimaced, a tiny frown on her forehead. ‘Raped by Facebook. Nice, isn’t it?’
‘Can’t you take it off? Delete it?’
Hey eyes were dull. She shook her head and put her hands in her pockets. ‘They’ve created a separate page. I can’t even get access to it except to comment and what am I going to say?’ She gave a bitter laugh.
I looked up the street where we were standing. ‘Look, let’s go to the pub. We could do with a drink.’
Emily shrugged, and we turned to walk away from the bottom of the hill. We went into the first pub we came to, The Marlowe, a tiny pub not often inhabited by students due to its serving of real ale as opposed to fluorescent drinks in bottles. I bought Emily a Baileys and I had a pint. We sat in the back room, opposite each other in a booth. Our knees touched under the table. We sat in silence for a moment.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked in the end.
She nodded, turning her glass around in her hands.
‘Have you spoken to Nick about this? What he’s done?’
Emily looked up. ‘Have you seen it?’ she asked.
‘Seen what?’
‘The page. What people are saying?’
I shook my head.
Tears fell then on to a cardboard coaster on the table advertising Harp lager. I fumbled in my backpack and found a tissue, which I handed to her.
‘It’s disgusting. You can’t imagine what it’s like. It’s so humiliating.’
‘But why would he do such a thing? Why would he take a photo in the first place?’
I didn’t ask the qu
estion which blazed inside me: why were you having sex with him in a cloakroom at a ball?
‘I don’t know. He said it was just a joke. But,’ Emily swallowed, ‘it’s got out of hand.’ She reached into her bag for her iPhone and scrolled down until she found what she was looking for. She passed it to me over the table. I glanced at the screen, not wanting to see what was there. Thankfully, she’d passed by the actual photo but had stopped at the comments underneath. How can you live with yourself, you slut? said one, You deserve to be tied up and gang banged.
I gulped down about a third of my pint. My cheeks were flushed. Why don’t you just commit suicide and save us all the bother?
I stared at Emily. ‘Who’s writing these things?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t recognize the names. People must make fake accounts.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘They can’t really be called Princess87 or Thunderpants. Ugh. It makes me feel sick.’ She looked around the pub as if she were caged or trapped.
‘Me too, Emily. This is crazy. Have you shown Nick? What does he say about this?’
She looked down at her drink. ‘It’s not his fault. He didn’t post the photo. It was Shorty, I think.’
‘He took it.’
‘I know. But – you know, I was stupid.’
Yes, you were, I wanted to say but didn’t.
‘You need to tell someone. Why don’t you go to the police?’
Emily shuddered. ‘I can’t. It’s too humiliating. I just want to forget about it.’
‘What about the principal of Joyce? Mason, is that his name?’
‘Him? You must be joking. What’s he going to do?’
‘He can get this stuff taken down off the web. This is – this is abuse. He can tell the police if you don’t want to do it.’
‘No. I don’t want that. Nick would get in trouble.’
‘Seriously? Why are you protecting him? The guy’s a dickhead.’
Emily finished her drink, swirls of cream clinging to the sides of the glass before reaching fingers of dregs down to the bottom.
‘I’m tired, you know? I’m really tired.’
I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I just sat there. Useless. It wasn’t a feeling I liked. ‘You know what?’ Emily finally said. ‘I think I might just go to bed.’
She left me there, sitting in the pub. Sitting there alone because I didn’t know what to say to make her feel better.
17
Monday 22 May, 8.05 p.m.
Principal Mason was waiting for Martin in the small room adjacent to the police station’s main reception area. This served as an interview room for those who walked in off the street asking to talk to the police in private. Martin looked in through the glass window of the door, watching him before she entered. He sat with his head bowed, a puzzled expression on his face, as if finding his previous confidence leeched from him, hiding beneath his feet on the linoleum floor. As Martin walked into the room, though, he snapped his head up, mustered a look of pure authority on his face.
Martin pulled the chair out opposite him and sat down without saying anything. There was silence for a minute or so, before Mason let out a short puff of air from pursed lips.
‘Can you keep this confidential?’ he asked.
Martin shook her head. ‘You’re going to have to make a statement. You’re giving him an alibi. It needs to be seen and digested if we’re going to let him go. If we’re going to disregard his confession and not charge him.’ She leaned forwards. ‘What you’re doing here? It’s big. You’re saying that Simon is lying and that Emily’s murderer is still out there.’
Mason had the decency to swallow nervously, Martin thought. She wanted to ramp this up with him. Make him see the consequences. She sat back in her chair, put her hands in her lap. ‘Let’s take this one step at a time,’ she said. ‘Where did you see Simon and when?’
‘He was on New Elvet. It was about seven-thirty.’
‘Why were you there?’
‘I was supposed to have a meeting in Churchill Hall. You can check with Julia Earl, it’s in my diary. I was due to meet with members of the administrative board. I walked all the way there from Joyce but when I got there, it turned out the meeting was cancelled. The message hadn’t got through to me.’
Martin gave a questioning look.
‘It’s true. So I left Churchill and was walking back towards Elvet Bridge when I saw him. He was sitting smoking on the wall outside the main lecture theatre.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
The principal shook his head slowly. ‘No.’
‘So you only saw him for a short while. He could easily have walked down to the river from Elvet. He could have got there in minutes.’
‘No. It didn’t happen.’
‘What do you mean? How do you know?’
‘I know because I followed him.’ Mason looked Martin dead in the eye. ‘I followed him,’ he repeated. Martin could see a film of sweat shining across his forehead. She realized she was kneading her fingers tightly into the top part of her thighs. She stopped it and took a breath.
‘Why were you following Simon, Principal Mason?’ she asked.
Mason closed his eyes before answering. ‘I was interested in him. He, uh, interested me.’
‘Sexually?’
‘I suppose so.’ His eyes opened again. ‘But you must believe me. Nothing had happened.’
‘You liked him from afar?’ Martin clarified.
The principal nodded.
‘Does anyone else know about this interest?’
Mason shook his head. ‘I would be grateful …’ He paused, letting the implication hang.
Martin pinched her nose with her fingers. It was at these moments when she loved her job, the adrenaline coursing through her. She was very aware of her body, of her movements, of the need to control her genuine reaction. She could feel it bubbling inside of her – she almost wanted to laugh. ‘So, where did he go?’
Mason looked puzzled.
‘Rush. When you followed him. Where did he go?’
‘Oh, nowhere really. He finished his cigarette and wandered up to the city centre for a while. Looked at the cinema and then walked back to college.’
‘For how long?’
‘An hour? Forty-five minutes?’
‘And when he got back to the college?’
‘He went to his room.’
‘You saw him enter.’
‘Well, I saw him enter the building. I didn’t follow him to his room. That would have been odd.’
Martin smiled. ‘Indeed.’
Mason shifted, acknowledging something. ‘I didn’t ask for this,’ he said finally. He found something of his old veneer, plastered it on his face. He would be believed because of who he was. He gave Martin a smile which rested on the fringes of patronizing.
‘Easy for you, isn’t it?’ he said.
Martin looked at him levelly, saying nothing.
‘Sitting in judgement of people.’ Mason scoffed quietly. ‘As if you know anything.’
Martin continued to stare at him. Her heart pounded in her chest. She tried to breathe deeply without Mason noticing her need to calm herself. Someone walked past the room outside in the corridor, and the sound of their voice dropped into the room, breaking the moment.
‘I know that a young girl has been murdered,’ she said at last. ‘I know that her parents will never be the same. And,’ she leaned forwards again, ‘I can see that there were some kids here who were chasing their tails, driving themselves crazy with sordid photos and texts. With nobody to guide them, nobody to reassure them that they didn’t have to behave like that. Nobody. Quite the opposite in fact. Just a sad old man who wanted to get his rocks off on a child half his age.’
Mason inclined his head. ‘You think it matters? A tramp like Emily getting her comeuppance? She asked for it. I’ve seen the photos.’ He smiled. ‘They showed me them, the boys. We looked at them and we laughed.’ He tilted back in his chair sticking his f
eet out in front of him, crossing his legs at the ankles. Martin noticed he was wearing yellow socks. Mason bent his head forwards as if imparting a confidence. ‘Between you and me,’ he whispered, ‘she would have spread her legs for anyone who asked.’
He sat back like a man who has played his last ace. Martin bent her head to one side, considering him. When she spoke, her voice was a velvet cloak on a bed of nails. ‘Why would Simon lie?’
The principal coughed as if what he’d just said had never taken place. ‘I don’t know, Inspector,’ he said wearily. ‘He’s had some issues this year. He’s under a lot of pressure with his studies.’
Martin kept silent.
‘He’s expected to get a double first. His father anticipates great things from him.’
‘He’d confess to a murder he didn’t do?’
Mason sat up straight, curling his mouth in anger. ‘I don’t know! I’m just telling you what I saw.’
Martin stood up, adjusting her suit jacket as she did so. ‘Thank you, Mr Mason. What you’ve said has been most revealing. I’m going to send in Detective Constable Tennant now to take a statement.’ She nodded briskly and turned to leave the room. Stopping at the door, she moved back to look again at Mason, who was gazing up at the ceiling. The words sat on her tongue like bullets, ready to spit, ready to maim. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands and left the room.
Oh, Emily, she thought as she walked down the corridors in the bowels of the police station to find Tennant. Who did you have to help you? Who had been your friend?
Jones sat at her computer. Facebook was an absolute waste of a life, she thought. That and Twitter. What on earth was the point of it? Nothing anybody had to impart was remotely interesting. To anyone, Jones would have thought, puzzled by the whole concept. Emily’s page in particular was filled with utter inanity. She ‘liked’ numerous things, including several awful bands, in Jones’ opinion, along with Joyce College itself, the Durham hockey team, Sixes nightclub and a society calling itself the Chunky Carrots, which Jones had absolutely no intention of investigating further if she could help it.
Bitter Fruits: DI Erica Martin Book 1 (Erica Martin Thriller) Page 11
