Bitter Fruits: DI Erica Martin Book 1 (Erica Martin Thriller)

by Clark-Platts, Alice

  ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ Martin said with a smile.

  He shrugged. ‘Thought you could do with some sustenance. It’ll be a long day.’

  Martin sat on the bed next to him and took a bite of the sandwich. ‘True enough,’ she said with her mouth full as Jim swigged from his mug.

  ‘Are we okay?’ she said eventually when she’d swallowed. She moved her hand between them. ‘You know. Okay?’

  Jim leaned back on the pillows, resting his mug on his stomach. ‘Yes, of course. We’re just tired at the moment. It’s like that sometimes.’

  They looked at each other in silence.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said, sitting up. ‘How about we get a takeaway tonight? You can tell me what’s been going on, and we’ll have a couple of beers.’

  A flash of irritation passed through Martin. As much as she would have loved to do this, Jim always seemed to forget what her job entailed. He just didn’t get it. In the middle of a murder, to act as if everything was normal, as if life just carried on. Nothing would carry on normally for Martin until Emily Brabents’ murderer was safely locked up in Durham Prison. She said nothing, her eyes moving down to her plate. She didn’t feel hungry any more.

  Jim sighed. ‘Well, if you can. I know things will be hectic for you.’

  Martin took his hand and squeezed it. This was the problem with them. A moment of carelessness, a moment of anger and then always the remorse. The house was full of it – seeping out from him and then her and then back to him again.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said eventually as he lay back, putting his mug softly on the bedside table. ‘Really, I will,’ she said, leaning in to him. He nodded, a resigned look on his face.

  ‘Thanks for the sandwich,’ she said, standing up as her alarm clock finally began its relentless tolling.

  Martin walked up the North Bailey with a takeaway coffee in hand, looking up at the cathedral towers as they appeared between buildings. The slow rising sun had made a peach melba of the sky, and Martin breathed the crisp air in through her nose, enjoying the feel of the cold on her skin. Durham was beautiful, and empty, at this time of the morning. On a whim, she saw the cobbled alleyway up to the cathedral and wandered up it, reaching Palace Green at the top, where her shoes were gradually dampened by the dew-stained ground.

  A voice called out to her as she neared the main entrance to the cathedral, still locked shut given the untimely hour. She turned to see a man approaching her over the grass. The man slowed, his gait easy. He was wearing biker’s leathers, his blond hair flattened – presumably by his helmet. He nodded at Martin, holding out his hand. ‘Sean Egan,’ he said with a friendly smile. ‘Good to meet you.’

  Martin looked at him blankly for a second before the name flared in her brain. Press. He was the little shit of an author of the website article she’d read last night in Butterworth’s office. She raised her eyebrows and shook his hand reluctantly, wondering how to play it.

  ‘How are you finding Durham?’ Egan asked.

  ‘Great,’ Martin replied, wondering idly when people would stop asking her that question. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Egan?’

  ‘It’s more like what can we do for each other,’ Egan said with a smile, putting his hands in pockets. ‘It’s in your interest too, isn’t it – to get the truth across? We’re your best bet for that. So tell me, what’s going on here? With the students?’

  Martin could hear the bolts of the cathedral door sliding across. The mechanism of the clock tower began to grind. Once the doors opened, she could escape from this conversation. She exhaled then took a slow sip of her coffee. ‘You know I can’t say anything about an ongoing investigation. You will have heard my statement yesterday, no doubt.’ She couldn’t help herself and gave a condescending smile. ‘Even despite that, you seem to have a lot of ideas about it.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve read my article I see,’ Egan shrugged. ‘I’ve seen what’s on the internet,’ he continued. ‘The photos of Emily.’

  Martin’s lips wavered for an instant on the rim of her cup. Had Egan seen the evidence of the trolling of Emily before it was taken down by the team or afterwards? If the latter, how had he managed it? And if before, why had he been trawling the university social media?

  ‘It’s a great story, Martin. You know it. Trading sex photos online. Obsessed love amongst the students,’ Egan smiled again. ‘Murder.’ He rubbed his thumb against the corner of his mouth. ‘People want a result. Young girl killed in plain view.’ He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘Time’s ticking on.’

  The cathedral bell boomed out its first of eight chimes as the entrance doors creaked open slowly. A maroon-dressed verger peeked out, squinting into the bright of the sunlight. Martin took her chance and turned rapidly away from Egan and headed across the grass towards the building. ‘Be careful, Mr Egan,’ she threw over her shoulder at him as she went. ‘Get your facts straight before you print.’

  ‘And what about the principal?’ Egan called out over the noise of the bell. ‘What about his relationship with the students?’

  Martin paused, imperceptibly she hoped, before she recovered and quickly entered through the large oak doors, into the sanctuary within. She didn’t turn back to see if Egan was following but a moment later she heard the roar of a motorcycle engine spark into life and then fade into the distance.

  She paced to the west end of the cathedral, to the slender columns of the Galilee chapel. Here, the building hovered over the precipitous gorge down into the River Wear, near the spot where the weir funnelled its waters. She sat heavily, running her mind over what had just taken place. She thought about what Mason had said yesterday – talking about the boys. Whatever the situation was there, was it common knowledge in the university? How did Egan know about it?

  The sound of the cathedral organ barrelled its way through the previous quiet, making Martin jump. She looked at her watch, she needed to get going. She headed through the cloisters, which stretched off into the distance ahead, leading down to the nave and the famed stained glass at the eastern end of the building. The window depicted the Annunciation, where Mary towered, bejewelled in coloured glass, shrouded in blue and gold, stars in her hair. Her hands, in supplication and crossed over her body, reminded Martin of how Emily had lain similarly, almost in state, in the police tent down on the riverside.

  Several tourists were already making their way quietly along the route which Martin had just taken, stopping now and again to study the fresco murals and statues which lined the walls. Who was Emily? Martin wondered as she walked past Mary, the sun streaming through now, illuminating the gaudiness of the glass, reminding Martin of cellophane sweet wrappers. According to what they’d found out about her in the last twenty-four hours, Emily seemed a typical upper-middle-class girl from a normal family. She’d come here to Durham in the way that most kids did these days. No real hankering to learn, no massive desire for education – just because that’s what was done. University was a given for someone like her. To not have come would have been a rebellion.

  Conversely, Martin’s university education had been an anomaly. Her parents had never understood how it signified her escape from Seaham, the small place where she’d grown up. She’d gone to Northumbria University in Newcastle to study English Literature and Psychology, where a dearth of grants coupled with an explosion of tuition fees meant she’d had to live at home her whole time there, studying alone at the small desk in her bedroom. She remembered the puzzled looks her mother would give her as she brought her cups of tea, pausing on the threshold of the room to stare at her daughter in small wonder at what she was packing into her head from all those books.

  Martin reached the exit, at once surrounded by a host of tourists despatched from a coach. The selfish hustle of life, no patience given to the dead, it seemed. Everyone wanted a result and they wanted it quickly. Emily’s murderer needed to be found, and then they could all get on with their lives again. A bird squawked as Martin emerged i
nto the morning light. She would take her time, though. She had to be slow, deliberative. She wouldn’t hurry Emily. Emily still had her story to tell.

  Twenty minutes later and Martin considered Stephanie Suleiman as they sat in her office. She wasn’t your average-looking counsellor: she wore a sari, she looked demure, sedate, shockable. Not someone who, Martin knew, would be dealing with the students’ lives in dirty, minute detail.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me, Ms Suleiman,’ Martin began.

  Stephanie shrugged.

  That was the other thing, Martin thought. She didn’t act like a demure woman either. She seemed positively ballsy. Martin internally flexed her muscles and got down to business.

  ‘I know we’ve received copies of your files on Emily, but obviously I wanted to talk to you in person about her. A picture is emerging of Emily as someone who was suffering a large amount of bullying. I believe also, in confidence, that she was self-harming. Do you know anything about that?’

  Stephanie glanced down at the papers on her desk and then pushed them away slightly from her. She looked up to face Martin. ‘If you know already, then …’ She shrugged again. ‘Yes, she was self-harming. She’d been cutting her arms since Easter. At least, that’s when she told me, when we talked about it. Look, Miss … ?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Martin.’

  ‘Miss Martin. A lot of students come to me with issues, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ Martin acknowledged. ‘But I want to talk to you about Emily – about her issues. Why was she doing this? What had happened just before Easter to make her want to do this to herself?’

  ‘She had got involved with a boy. The boy wasn’t that interested. She slept with him to keep his interest. He took a photo of her in some kind of compromising position.’ She frowned and opened her hands wide. ‘Somehow it got on to the internet, was passed around by the students who thought that gave them free rein to torture the girl.’

  There was silence.

  ‘That’s it?’

  The counsellor stared at Martin. She turned her palms flat on the desk. ‘What more is there?’

  ‘Who posted the photo? When did it happen?’ Martin continued.

  ‘I’m not sure. I think it was just before Christmas, but I wasn’t seeing Emily then. She had experienced these attacks for some time before she came to me.’

  ‘She came to you for help.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you help her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How, may I ask?’

  ‘I gave her a space where she could talk, get things off her chest. She could talk to me about the cutting. About her feelings, her emotions.’

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘Did she what?’

  ‘Share her emotions? What did she say about it, Ms Suleiman?’ Martin looked at her, vaguely exasperated. ‘This is a murder investigation. We need to know everything we can about Emily and what she was going through. Everything.’

  Stephanie stood and walked to the window. ‘There is no everything,’ she said with her back to Martin. ‘There is only what I heard. Gestures I saw. A feeling in the room.’ She turned to face her. ‘These are not “everything”. They can give you an impression, a picture, but you will never know everything, Miss Martin. You will always be in the dark to a certain extent.’

  For fuck’s sake, Martin thought to herself. ‘Thank you, Ms Suleiman, for pointing this out. I realize we can’t know everything from every angle.’ She took in a slow breath. Patience please. ‘But what I’m asking, then, is what your impression was. What did you think was happening to Emily?’

  The counsellor inhaled and brought her hands together in a prayer underneath her chin; she was in shadow as the sun shone in behind her through the window. ‘Miss Martin. I see how it works here, you know? I see everything. Men and women think about sex in different ways. It’s an illusion to think otherwise. Once girls believe they’re equal to boys, that’s when the trouble starts. They can never be the same. Ever.’

  Martin looked at her, frowning. ‘You really believe that? That they can never be equal?’

  The counsellor sighed and spoke patiently. ‘Women don’t want sex in the same way as men. It’s a biological fact. If they pretend they do, that they like it indiscriminately with no strings, then that is when the irony occurs. Because in handing it out on a plate, like food, they may think they’re strong but they are in actuality giving out what is desired by the men.’ She upturned her palms with a beam on her face. ‘Sex with no strings! The men don’t care whether the women want to do it or not. All they care about is the prize, the upshot.’ She looked at Martin. ‘The orgasm.’

  Martin shifted in her chair. She didn’t buy this. ‘That’s saying that all men would rape, though, given the opportunity – and we know that can’t be true.’

  Stephanie tutted loudly, apparently misunderstood. ‘Not rape, Inspector. No, no. But in a situation where a girl is just as promiscuous as a man it cannot be the same.’

  ‘Why not?’ Martin demanded. ‘Why wouldn’t a woman want sex just as much as a man?’

  The counsellor was silent, her eyebrows high.

  ‘That’s not how it’s presented here anyway,’ Martin continued. ‘The photos, the trolling. There’s more to it than that. It’s hard and aggressive but, when it comes down to it, isn’t all of it just peer pressure? Which is why Emily was so upset. Because she was so judged and maligned for what she did. It was unfair. She played the game and then got ostracized.’

  ‘You still have a choice, though, do you not? If she was so strong, as a woman, why would she bow to that? She liked to think she was beating her own drum, she was carving the way for other girls …’

  Happiness is a choice: the tagline on Emily’s social media pages flashed into Martin’s brain, and she suddenly felt desperately sad for these girls who walked a tightrope between what they believed about themselves and what life presented them with.

  ‘I don’t know, Ms Suleiman,’ Martin said. ‘Maybe Emily really did enjoy it. The sex, I mean. And the thing that made her unhappy was everyone’s reaction to that.’ She stopped for a second, thinking. ‘And if that’s true, then what choice is there really? For the girls? Until things change in the wider world.’ Martin mentally shook her head: this interview was becoming an exposition. ‘All I can see is a girl who wanted to get a guy and be in with the popular crowd. You and I might go about it differently, but,’ she smiled, ‘that’s what makes us all unique.’

  ‘Emily was like this, she convinced herself she was inured to it. But the truth?’ Stephanie paused, thinking. ‘The truth is that Emily – or any woman in fact – can’t give herself up sexually without feeling. Whether they’re a first-year student or a pornographic star. My impression of Emily? Emily was acting out something foreign to her. And not in a nice way.’ She nodded as if corroborating it to herself. ‘Emily was not something I understood, really.’ She stared at Martin good-naturedly. ‘We cannot know everything, I believe. What Emily was – well, I don’t think she even knew herself.’

  Martin left the counsellor’s office, frustrated by the lack of concrete answers she’d provided and yet annoyed by what she had said. Maybe everything couldn’t be known – or shouldn’t be known – but that was what Martin fought against in her job every day. The not knowing. She would conquer it – that feeling – she would not be beaten by it. She would work Emily out, discover who she was and find out what had happened to her.

  She walked back in the direction of the station, breathing in the spring air deeply, deciding to make a quick detour along the riverside to see if anything was happening at the Joyce boathouse. She shoved her hands in her pockets as she trotted down the bank to the weir. Within the police cordon, the luminous yellow tent remained over the ground where Emily’s body had lain, protecting the earth which might yet hold clues to her death. Further up the river, Martin could see the red roof of the boathouse, bunting still fluttering in the breeze – a continuing
reminder of the day of the murder.

  As she headed in that direction, the gurgling river to her left, she thought about what the counsellor had said. Did she mean Emily was acting out something by posing in the photos? Or in the self-harming? This was the problem. Why couldn’t the woman just answer a question? Why had Emily agreed to pose for Nick? Had she known he, or his mate Shorty, would post them for everyone to see? Why would she want to be seen like that? Despite what she had said to the counsellor, Martin couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be viewed in that way.

  She reached the boathouse, ducking under the cordon, nodding to the lone PC who was left there, waiting to interview intermittent passers-by. Flowers had been left along the nearest stretch of the bank leading up to the boathouse. Martin bent her head to read some of the messages attached to the bouquets. A few intransigent observers of the crime scene persisted, huddling under nearby trees. Martin watched them watching her. That ghoulishness of the public, the fascination with actions which went beyond the pale. She could understand it. It was why she did her job.

  A seagull squawked above her, the noise of it bringing her back to reality. She breathed in deeply and turned away, deciding to time the walk from the boathouse to Prebends Bridge. She strolled along the riverside, looking up at the bending tops of the trees, putting herself in Emily’s place on that night, the night she died. Why had she left the boathouse when she did? Had she planned to meet someone? Or was she just pissed and tired and wanting to get back to her room in the college?

  What would Emily get out of the photos online? Viewing it from every angle, Martin couldn’t see the advantage. Thoughts flocked into Martin’s head, making her shake it a little, try to settle them down. Emily was using her sexuality. At first to get Nick and then … why? Martin thought back to last night with Butterworth, to the thoughts she’d inadvertently had about the male members of her team and how they might view her. She exhaled swiftly, feeling uncomfortable all at once. Was this what women still did? Used their sexuality to get ahead? She thought back to what the counsellor had said, about the simple lack of equality.