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

by Clark-Platts, Alice

  ‘Any note?’ she asked as Jones, too, scouted the room.

  ‘Not yet. Except …’ She reached under the bed, where the handle of a bag could be seen poking out. ‘Here’s her handbag.’ She put it on top of the bed and looked carefully inside. She pulled out a cream envelope. ‘A letter addressed to Michael.’ She handed it over to Martin, who opened the envelope quickly. She scanned its contents then looked back at Jones.

  ‘This case just gets more fucked up with each hour,’ she said softly.

  24

  I texted Emily immediately after I’d watched the video. I didn’t mention I’d seen it, I just pretended it would be good to catch up when she was down in London. She texted back almost at once and invited me to her brother’s gig. I should say I was excited about this. I would have been looking forward to seeing Emily anyway, but the idea of going to see a proper band, where I almost knew the drummer, was pretty thrilling.

  The gig was on the Wednesday in between Christmas and New Year. I told Mum I was meeting a friend from university and ignored the raised eyebrows that this information produced. I wore jeans and a black T-shirt, completely innocuous, I thought. I wrapped my Nightingale scarf round my neck and over my jacket before stepping out into the cold London air. The tube was busy from Walthamstow to Hammersmith. The Christmas party season was in full swing and I had to barge my way out on to the platform at my destination. I picked up one of those trashy free newspapers as a defence mechanism as I was still quite early. It annoys me that I am so incapable of being late. I am always fascinated by those people who can never get anywhere on time. What are they thinking? How can they forget that they are supposed to be somewhere – is life so all-consuming, exciting or stressful for them that the time disappears from their consciousness? Arrangements I make with others never leave the front of my brain. They stay there as markers to hold on to, that I am actually part of society, not merely its ironic observer.

  I had a pint in the pub next to the Apollo before going in. I had arranged to meet Emily in the lobby. Of course, she was late. I stood there with my paper, looking at posters of upcoming gigs. It all seemed so apart from me, so disparate from what fired my soul. But still I was intrigued by it. I observed its glitter with the stealth of a magpie, trying to find a way to steal a prize. A prize I didn’t really know if I wanted. Emily was part of that. She was my connection to that world, the bridge I could take to it, my only way in. But then I remembered, Emily was lost at the moment. She, who had been accepted so easily by the realm which spun separately from me – that realm was a dark and desperate place for her nowadays.

  ‘It’s so good to see you. Thanks for coming.’ She rushed at me, dabbing at both my cheeks with her lips, a child pretending to be a grown-up. I felt as if I were at a cocktail party and not standing in a dingy pseudo-Victorian lobby surrounded by gothic-clothed teenagers carrying supersized cups of Coke. Emily’s family were making their way into the auditorium. They didn’t bother to greet me, naturally accepting my presence as a hanger-on. Emily seemed buoyed by my company, though. She linked arms with me as we walked into the dark of the concert hall. We walked past the needless red velvet seats, all pointing upwards as their occupants stood, bunched in, fated to move restrictedly, in rows of stilted dancing. The Brabents family and I moved on past them to a doorway in a corridor off the main space. We would be watching the gig from a box at the side of the stage.

  We stood there, a crowd of shadowy shapes in the dim light off-stage. Emily’s dad (I presumed) opened some bottles of champagne, and we remained there in the half-light, holding plastic glasses of warm fizz. Emily and I were towards the back of this small group, near the door to the corridor. She was in front of me as I leaned my back into the wall, but we could hardly hear each other over the noise of the kids jamming in to the theatre, the heat rising in proportion to the squashed masses.

  ‘How have you been?’ I semi-shouted over the din.

  More friends of the Brabents crammed into the box. I removed my scarf awkwardly, looping it over the arm which held my plastic cup. Emily shrugged.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘How was Christmas?’

  ‘Fine.’ She jutted her chin towards her parents standing at the balustrade, looking down at the stage. ‘They’ve been a bit of a nightmare.’ Mrs Brabents was wearing a spaghetti-strapped top with skinny jeans, and her face was thick with make-up. She looked less a mother, more a secretary on a night out.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Oh, you know, just …’ She looked over at them. Mr Brabents had his back to his wife, talking to another man in jeans. We were all wearing the same clothes, I noticed, and I sighed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Emily looked up at me, her eyes shining in the golden light of the stage. I smiled ruefully.

  ‘Nothing.’ I took her hand. ‘Thanks for asking me tonight.’

  She patted my hand. ‘That’s okay. I know you don’t have many friends at Durham.’

  I grimaced internally. The waiting instruments on the stage took on a frustrated quality. Why wouldn’t somebody just get on and play them? I sipped from my cup.

  ‘And you?’ Emily said brightly, oblivious to my discomfort. ‘Christmas good?’

  The elephant in the room was practically sashaying down the aisles at this point. Could I tell Emily about the video? ‘Yes,’ I decided to persist with this inane conversation. ‘Fine.’

  Emily nodded. She turned to look at the stage and then at her watch, an expensive circle of silver on her slim wrist. I finished my drink and pretended to look at the stage too. Seriously, it was interminable. When would they start? The crowd were also restless. People had begun to spill into the aisles, out of their seats, edging closer to the stage.

  ‘I’m going to get a beer,’ I said suddenly.

  ‘Oh, but there’s more wine …’ Emily gestured ineffectually towards her father. I smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I’d rather have a beer. Do you want anything?’ She shook her head as I left the box and headed back down the velvet-swathed corridor. The Victorians really did know how to make a meal of their décor, I thought as I headed back to the lobby. I couldn’t help but think of brothels: the richness of opulence so in your face, it made a mockery of its supposed class. Carpetbaggers, I thought. A bit like the company I was keeping. I felt anger rise to the back of my throat as I walked off. It was a rank taste in my mouth.

  I stood in line at the small bar near the entrance. This was not how I’d planned this evening to go. I was on the verge of leaving, when Emily appeared at my elbow. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘This isn’t much fun, is it?’

  I looked up at her from where I’d been staring at the floor, lifted my eyebrows a bit, part puppy dog, part James Dean, I hoped. ‘Not really,’ I admitted.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, touching my arm gently. ‘I do like you, you know. Even if I’m a bit rubbish at saying it.’ She licked her pretty pink lips with the tip of her tongue, her eyes meeting mine for a second too long.

  The queue moved, and I went with it, reaching the bar and leaning on it, turning my head towards her. For once in my life, I think I looked cool.

  ‘Beer?’ I said with a slight smile.

  25

  Tuesday 23 May, 2.36 p.m.

  Butterworth leaned over his desk. He was frowning, his white shirt pulled tight across his chest, pearls of perspiration dotting his forehead. It had turned into one of those hot afternoons that stab incongruously into the season, catching people unawares, hurriedly ripping off their jumpers, debating bunking off work to make the most of it, larking around in fountains, a holiday atmosphere. Not here, Martin observed quietly. She looked at Butterworth. He was on the cusp of anger, she could tell, his eyes dark with annoyance.

  Butterworth finished reading the note left by Rebecca Brabents, placed it on his desk and looked up at Martin and Jones. He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Fucking air conditioning,’ he murmured. ‘What’s the point of it, if it doesn’t work on the hottest afterno
on of the year?’ He sighed, adjusting to the new development at hand. ‘So, talk to me. What are your thoughts?’

  ‘We’re waiting for the post mortem results, obviously. But it seems pretty uncontroversial to state that Rebecca Brabents hanged herself. We’ve had a look at her phone. You can see the video on it. Looks like someone emailed it to her from an anonymous account. It must have been horrendous for her to see Emily like that. And looking at this,’ Martin gestured to the letter, ‘she had some serious issues with Michael Brabents.’

  ‘This video,’ Butterworth asked, ‘we’re sure it’s genuine?’

  Martin nodded. ‘Certainly looks that way. We’ll need to get Nick Oliver in for a formal interview. He’s quite obviously the boy in it, and Emily’s face can be clearly seen.’

  Butterworth sat back in his chair, looking perplexed. ‘So Emily was making pornos … ?’

  ‘Not necessarily, sir,’ Martin interjected. ‘This could’ve been another private thing between the two of them. She might not have known it would be uploaded online for everyone to see.’

  ‘Why the wink, then?’ Jones asked quietly.

  Martin looked at her for a moment. ‘I don’t know,’ she said at last.

  ‘Who sent the mother the video?’ Butterworth asked.

  ‘Someone who wanted to provoke a reaction,’ Martin answered, her mind spinning through the possibilities and coming up with her own conclusion. ‘Look, something was happening in this family that we haven’t got to the bottom of yet,’ she carried on. ‘Rebecca Brabents appears to be accusing her husband of abuse. Violence towards her and the family. It’s not set out in so many words but …’ Martin read from the note which Butterworth passed to her. ‘I can’t go on with life as it is now. What you’ve done. You’ve wrung everything out of me. All of us have been affected, there’s nothing left of us now. Kit barely sees us because of you. And now Emily has gone.’

  ‘You take that as meaning abuse, do you?’ Butterworth asked.

  ‘Your anger and temper are too much for me. I can’t take it any more,’ Martin read out loud and looked up again at him. He was testing her, she was thrown back to her English class at school. Her interpretation of a book versus her teacher’s. She didn’t like it. ‘Rush mentioned something about it, if I remember rightly. She’d come up on the train from London at the beginning of the year. She’d been staying with a friend then, not with her parents. If they’d been having problems, if Emily came from this sort of a background, and then is thrown into a culture of sexual bullying, she may have thought she had to join in. Survival of the fittest in a way.’

  ‘That’s a leap, Martin.’

  Martin shrugged. She knew that was the case. She was beginning to see Emily.

  Butterworth gave a loud sigh and stood up, moved to the window. Martin shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Humid air hung in folds across the room, a bad-tempered shroud. She knew he was under pressure, and the pot looked like it was about to boil over. ‘How many fucking potentials are we looking at in this case, eh?’ he said with his back to them. ‘It’s been over twenty-four hours now, and we’ve got a confession from Charlie Manson on speed, we’ve got Dirk fucking Diggler on film with the victim and now we’ve got – oh guess who?’ Butterworth gave a sardonic laugh. ‘The father!’

  Jones stepped up to the plate. ‘We couldn’t have foreseen this development, sir. Mrs Brabents’ suicide was an unexpected incident. Obviously, now, this is a big lead, and we’ll run with it.’

  Butterworth turned to focus on Jones. ‘Thank you very much, DS Jones, for that stunning piece of summary and logistical planning.’ He moved to come round the desk. Standing over them both, he folded his arms, his height and build overshadowing them. Here it comes, Martin thought.

  ‘This is a fucking shambles!’

  Martin stood too. She had had enough of this from him. Standing, she equalled Butterworth, eyeballed him, unbowed. ‘I need to go down to see where the Brabents lived,’ she said firmly. Butterworth looked as though he might protest, but she cut him off. ‘What was going on in that family?’ she asked. ‘We haven’t understood Emily yet and we need to.’ She nodded. ‘Michael Brabents is being watched discreetly in the rooms at the college. He’s not going anywhere. He’ll wait for the post mortem results of his wife.’

  ‘They’ve organized a memorial service for Emily tomorrow. The university thought it would be good for the kids. He’ll be here for that,’ Jones pointed out.

  ‘Right. So I’ll go down this afternoon. It’s not far – an hour or so in the car. We can take a decision then on our next steps.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Martin. I need you here, solving this murder, not off on your fucking summer holidays.’ Butterworth unfolded his arms, put his hands in his pockets. He sat back on the desk, retreating. A sign, Martin hoped, that he knew he was out of line.

  ‘I’ll be a few hours,’ Martin said calmly. ‘In the meantime, Jones can be looking for Daniel Shepherd while we wait for the psych report on Rush. Then we’ve got all the information. Then I can interview Brabents.’

  Butterworth’s pupils dilated into dark swirling planets.

  ‘Trust me, Sam,’ Martin said with conviction. Butterworth seemed to exhale.

  ‘All right. Get out of here before I change my mind,’ he said in a softer tone, looking at Martin. Jones glanced from one to the other, narrowing her eyes. Martin turned and walked out, Jones following swiftly behind.

  26

  Stephanie walked through the woods near the cottage, the sunlight dappling through the trees as she went. She thought back to when she’d first had anything to do with Daniel Shepherd. It was just after the Christmas holidays, and all the students were back up at Durham. Emily had left her office after a particularly upsetting session, and Stephanie had been writing up her notes carefully, worrying about her. But what could she do in reality, she remembered thinking. In the course of that session she had actually advised Emily to go to the police about the Facebook comments and the threats, but Emily had looked at her as if she were mad and had left, tears still wet on her face.

  Stephanie wrote her notes, turning over in her mind whether she should go to see the principal of Joyce College about the situation when an email had arrived in her inbox. It was from a non-university account, but Daniel was a student, he said. She skimmed his email. There was nothing unusual about a student messaging her out of the blue, and they often did it from their personal accounts, worried about prying eyes, many of them needing someone to talk to confidentially. The email was brief, but she liked his tone.

  Daniel said that he was worried about Emily, that he was her good friend. He understood that Stephanie would be unable to talk to him about Emily directly, but he asked her just to keep him informed, let him know if there was any way he could help. He wanted to be there for Emily. What she was going through was so awful, and she didn’t have anybody else watching out for her. He had sounded so defeated – even the principal of Joyce, he wrote, wouldn’t listen to him, although he had tried to contact him to let him know. Stephanie had printed off Daniel’s email and filed it and then, later, maybe because of it, given up the idea of contacting the college.

  Stephanie hadn’t broken Emily’s confidence, but she had kept in touch with Daniel. He had begun emailing her regularly. A shadow lurked on her conscience about this. In all honesty, she didn’t know why she had reciprocated. Maybe it was because they’d never actually met. She had suggested it once, wondered whether he was in actual fact crying out for help for some reason of his own. They had arranged a time one evening, and she had waited for him for over an hour. Eventually, he had sent an email apologizing but he had an essay due on Samuel Beckett and was battling the deadline. She hadn’t proposed another meeting until recently. Somehow it was easier talking to him without seeing his face. In this way, she had persuaded herself that these emails were a brief respite; that it was okay. It was so easy to get bogged down by it all, her job, trawling through th
e detritus-laden waters of these kids’ lives.

  Stephanie stopped for a while in a small clearing. That’s why they called it trolling, Stephanie remembered, breathing in the smell of hay bales drifting in from the surrounding fields. It was a loaded hook, trawling through the sea from a fishing boat. Trying to get a rise out of someone, tempting them to take the bait. Stephanie was lured on a daily basis, listening to their stories, hearing their sorry tales. But Daniel was different, he seemed somehow above it all. He cared about Emily, he cared about himself. He even seemed to care about Stephanie. She knew the university authorities would find it odd. But these weren’t children. They were considered adults by society. If she wanted to have a friendship with one of them, really, where was the harm in it? It was like writing to a younger brother in many ways. Her younger brother, Ajay, whom she hadn’t seen for so many years.

  Daniel wrote to her constantly about Emily, about his relationship with her. Stephanie told herself that this was good, that it would mean she could help Emily. She could see from his emails that Daniel was falling in love with Emily and that this was not reciprocated. She felt sorry for Daniel, he was so vulnerable, so sincere in his dealings with her. She had almost cried when she had read his last email to her. How he had gone away for Easter. How dreadful things had become with Emily. She had replied, asking him to meet her. But he had refused, and since then she had heard nothing.