‘I’m not even going to bother answering that,’ Martin said. ‘This is what I think happened. I think you and Emily got into a fight that night. She went home for Easter and you went off to – God knows where. And when you came back from the holidays …’
‘What?’ Nick sneered. ‘I’d festered about it for four weeks and then as soon as we got back, I dragged Emily off down to the weir and killed her? Give me a fucking break.’
Martin scraped her chair back from the table in the interview room, the noise of it making Nick jump in his seat. ‘What time did you leave the party at the boathouse, Nick?’ she asked rapidly.
‘Uh, about 7.30 p.m. I think. I’ve told you that.’
‘We’ve got several witnesses who say that Emily left the boathouse at around the same time. And yet,’ she paused with a disbelieving smile, ‘weirdly, you didn’t see each other.’ She waited with her arms folded. ‘I think you did see Emily, Nick. I think you’re lying,’ she said at last.
Nick flushed red, cockiness seeping from him, a panicked boy left in its wake. ‘I didn’t do it. I swear to you,’ he said, rubbing his face into his sleeve. Martin thought back to when they had first talked to him, outside the lecture theatre, bounding along the corridors; the epitome of chutzpah. Now he seemed shrunken and worn out. She softened her voice and spoke quickly before the lawyer could remind him he didn’t need to answer her questions.
‘I’ve been doing this a while, Nick, and do you know what I know?’
He looked up at her, his arm still resting on his forehead like a schoolboy.
‘It’s better to tell. That weight? The one you’ve got on you, all the time – pressing down on you like a ton of bricks? That’ll go. It will be gone. And whatever comes next, whatever you have to face, it can’t be worse than living like this, can it? With this pressure? Whatever you’ve done, Nick, we can sort it out, right? People make mistakes. Make them all the time. We can sort it out. I know …’
Tears rolled down Nick’s face. He was deflated, shrivelling from the inside out, a rumpled mess of the boy who had swaggered so effectively before. He swallowed nervously, took a sip of water.
‘I know you didn’t mean to do it,’ Martin continued softly. ‘Talk to me. Tell me how it was. You did see Emily, didn’t you? On Prebends Bridge?’
His lawyer changed positions in her chair and began to speak, but Nick held up his hand, preventing her. He nodded slowly. ‘She was just standing there. I couldn’t tell who it was at first, it was getting dark, it was hard to see.’
‘This was when?’
‘It must have been about 7.45 p.m.’
‘And what happened? What did you say to her?’
‘I went up to her. I was a bit pissed. I said I was sorry about everything that had happened before Easter. That things had got out of hand,’ Nick sniffed.
‘Did you mean it? Or were you just on the pull?’ Martin looked hard at him.
He half-smiled. ‘Sort of. I felt bad for her. When you spend time away from Durham, it gives you a bit of perspective, you know?’
She nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Anyway,’ he sighed. ‘I didn’t want there to be bad feeling between us. ‘ ’Specially not before the exams. We both had to do well.’ He looked up at Martin then in a vague alarm. ‘I’ve got to get a training contract with a magic circle firm next year.’
Nick’s lawyer shifted slightly at that, and Martin made a note on her pad. She had no idea what a magic circle firm was. ‘And how did Emily respond to this?’
‘She was a bit drunk as well. At first, she told me to fuck off. She said she’d had enough of being treated like a slut.’
‘Was she? Treated like a slut, I mean?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘It’s just a game, you know? It’s just the way it is. Girls and guys. They’re just different. I liked Emily. I really did.’ Nick looked on the verge of tears again. ‘But, you know, I wouldn’t have married her.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Girls like that. She’s too wild. Too strong. Not the marrying type,’ he mumbled.
‘So,’ Martin said heavily. ‘You were happy to sleep with Emily. Post sexual photos of her online to get some kudos, get slaps on the back in the bar.’
‘I didn’t post all of them.’ He wagged his finger at her, pausing. ‘Emily was always so on it, you know? She was …’ he continued, waving his hands around as if searching for the right word. ‘She got it – what goes on here. She knew people judged her on her looks, her body. She didn’t seem to mind. She used it to her advantage. I was surprised when she got so upset, I didn’t get it. I mean, if you’re going to get yourself photographed, why wouldn’t you mind people seeing them?’
‘But did she get herself photographed to begin with? As far as I understand it,’ Martin skimmed back through her notes, ‘the original photo at the Christmas Ball was a trick by you. And then you emailed round the video?’
‘Yeah, that was a joke. I was a dick, all right?’ Nick was pale under his tan. ‘But then it got out of hand. I see that. But she let it happen. It was just as much her as me.’
She considered him, thinking. ‘She wasn’t persuaded to take those photos by anyone else so far as you’re aware?’
He shook his head.
‘So, the night of the Regatta, you wanted to make it up with her. Carry on whatever it was you had with her.’
‘Yeah, I suppose,’ he answered, looking down.
‘So what happened? Did Emily not like this proposed deal?’
He grimaced. ‘She slapped me,’ he said.
She paused slightly before speaking. ‘She slapped you,’ she repeated, ‘because she wasn’t happy with you dumping her then picking her up again?’
‘I suppose,’ he mumbled.
‘And how did it make you feel? Being slapped by her?’
‘It didn’t make me feel anything.’
‘Really? It didn’t make you feel angry? I’d feel angry if someone smacked me in the face and I didn’t deserve it. You didn’t deserve it, did you, Nick?’
‘No. I mean – I didn’t deserve it. But I didn’t feel angry. I didn’t feel anything.’
‘Did you go to Emily’s memorial?’ Martin asked suddenly. ‘I don’t think I saw you there.’
‘No,’ Nick mumbled.
‘Why not?’ She looked at him intently. ‘She was your girlfriend. Why wouldn’t you go?’ She stopped and said softly, ‘Unless you were ashamed, perhaps?’
‘You think I didn’t go because I was ashamed?’ Nick looked desolate, his voice cracked forlornly.
Martin was silent.
Nick stared at her, defeated. ‘It’s not true. But what’s the point, you’re not going to believe me. I can’t prove it. I …’
‘What can’t you prove?’ she asked. ‘Why didn’t you go to the memorial?’
‘I did go to the fucking memorial!’ Nick cried out. ‘You saw me! You chased me out of the fucking door and through the graveyard.’
She paused, thinking, remembering the boy at the cathedral door, the chase through the gravestones. She’d thought that boy had been Daniel Shepherd.
Nick pushed his chair back and stood up. He walked towards one of the grey walls in the interview room, jiggling his arms as if trying to get the blood flowing. He flexed his fingers before putting them together and cracking his knuckles with a loud snap. ‘Look, are you going to believe me? I’m telling you everything.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you?’ he said desperately, his eyes shining with tears.
‘Yes, I am,’ Martin nodded firmly. ‘Trust me.’
Butterworth met Martin in the corridor as she left Nick a while later. ‘Rush and his dad will be here in an hour,’ he said, looking down at her.
She gave him a brief smile. ‘Thanks. I’m sorry we’re playing musical chairs in the interview room.’
Butterworth sighed. ‘Assistant Chief Constable Worthing’s on the warpath, but I told him we’d have a result soon.’ He raised one eyebrow. ‘You sw
ore it, after all.’
Martin ignored the latent flirtation. ‘We’ve had a break at least. Nick Oliver admits he saw Emily on the bridge.’
‘And … ?’
‘Before she was killed. Says they had an argument, she slapped him, and then Nick stalked off and left her alone.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘Is a spat enough? For the brutality of what was done to Emily?’ Martin asked, her eyes growing distant, as if thinking out loud.
‘People have murdered for less,’ Butterworth said.
‘Yeah, I suppose.’ She rubbed her lips together. ‘But we need to ask Rush about the photo Emily had on her MacBook. That provides a concrete motive.’
‘Why did Emily take that photo?’
She sighed. ‘I think it’s just what went on. There was an entire currency of swapping photos, videos. Everyone did it.’ She grimaced. ‘Does it.’
‘And the alibi given by Mason for Rush?’
She shrugged. ‘Enough for reasonable doubt? I don’t think so, not once we put the evidence of the parties Rush was hosting and the interest Mason had in him on the table.’ She leaned back against the wall and gave another sigh.
‘What is it?’
‘This Daniel Shepherd. He keeps popping up: with the counsellor; online; even that journalist had been in contact with him. I just …’ Butterworth waited, studying her face until she met his eyes. ‘I just don’t get him,’ she finished lamely.
Well,’ Butterworth said, taking a step back. ‘See how you get on with Rush. If anyone can get something out of him, I’m sure it’s you, Erica.’
She smiled at him. ‘Thanks.’
He turned to leave. ‘But don’t take your eyes off Brabents,’ he said over his shoulder as he walked away. ‘The clock’s ticking, don’t forget.’
She watched him go. The clock was ticking loudly. On everything.
49
Thursday 25 May, 11.11 a.m.
Martin and Jones looked at him through the grimy glass of the door to the interview room. Simon Rush was sitting on an orange bucket seat, leaning forwards, his elbows on his knees. His father was positioned next to him, a lone Sphinx guarding the tomb. Martin thought back to how he’d been in the last interview. Something had been triggered in him then, when he was pushed, when he was put under stress. Something frightening to witness. And yet – her lips moved as if talking to herself – the doctors had found no disorder, no condition suffered by Simon, other than some depression and anxiety.
The thought came impulsively to Martin that Simon’s father knew nothing of the alibi Principal Mason had given the boy. Simon had been transferred to hospital on the same day and had almost immediately afterwards withdrawn his confession. There had been no chance to tell him about it. Mervyn was a bully, and Simon was afraid of him. All right then.
‘You’ll be watching upstairs?’ she said to Jones, who nodded. ‘Give me about fifteen minutes. See how it’s going. I’m going to push Simon a bit. When you see him getting stressed out, cause a diversion.’
Jones looked at her, perplexed. ‘A diversion?’
‘Anything, Jones,’ Martin said, exasperated. ‘Use your imagination.’
Jones straightened and lifted her chin. ‘Yes, boss. I’m on it.’
Martin smiled at her. ‘Good for you, Jones.’ She took a breath and pushed the door open. As she walked in, Rush turned his face to her and smirked briefly with cold eyes. She sat down with a relaxed expression. Mervyn Rush folded his arms pointedly.
She had turned on the tape, given the caution and was about to begin when Simon said, apropos nothing, in a statement which sounded as if it had been prepared, ‘I admit I was trolling Emily. But that’s it. All the other stuff,’ he shook his head, closing his eyes tightly as if remembering a bad dream, ‘it was all lies. I was at breaking point. When I saw you in Principal Mason’s office the morning that Emily was found, I saw my chance. I needed anything to get me out of here, out of Durham.’
Martin considered this, taking a moment. How to play it? Simon’s father was clearly letting him speak this time around. He had dealt the trolling card. Okay, then, she would match him. ‘Tell me about the trolling, Simon. What exactly do you mean by that?’
‘Do you mind if I … ?’ Simon gestured to the small window high up one of the walls in the interview room. Martin shook her head, and he got up to stand underneath it, lifting his chin towards it as if to elongate himself, reach up and out to the sky. He turned to face her and a tunnel of sunlight appeared to zone downwards on to his head, dust particles floating above him like a halo. He swallowed before speaking. ‘With trolling, I mean I verbally insulted her online. I typed things on her profile, on the photos that had been posted of her.’ He raised his eyebrows and gave a small shrug. ‘I was despicable, Detective Inspector, I mean, really despicable.’
‘Give me an example. Of the things you said.’
‘Slag. You are an ugly slut and the best you could do would be to kill yourself. Nobody would care anyway. You’re so ugly, nobody would even want to rape you.’ Simon looked Martin dead in the eye. ‘See?’
Martin clasped her hands behind her neck. ‘But why, Simon? Why would you say such awful things? I know you had been hurt by Emily but you liked her, didn’t you? It seems from what her friends say that you were quite keen on her, fancied her. Why would you want to hurt her like this?’
Simon shook his head, and tears sprang into his eyes. She studied his face carefully.
‘I was under a great deal of stress,’ he said at last, taking his seat.
There’s the opening, she thought. ‘Tell me about that stress, Simon.’ She spun a quick glance at Mervyn before looking back at the boy. ‘Was the stress to do with your relationship with Principal Mason?’
Simon made a sound at the back of his throat.
‘What relationship?’ Mervyn asked, frowning.
Martin gave him a puzzled look. ‘Ah, I’m sorry. I thought you were aware of the statement the principal of Joyce College gave subsequent to Simon’s arrest.’ She turned her eyes to Simon, who had begun to breathe rapidly. She leaned back in her chair. ‘Simon, calm down, please. Have some water. We don’t need any histrionics again. There’s nothing wrong with you, so let’s just keep it calm, okay?’ She poured him a glass and he gulped at it, wiping his mouth after taking a drink.
Mervyn sat back in his seat and crossed his legs. His pen dangled in his fingers, tapping a rhythm on his knee. ‘What are you talking about, Inspector? What statement?’
‘Aaah, let’s see.’ Martin picked up the papers she had put on the desk in front of her. ‘Yes, here we are. What did he say again?’ She looked up briefly at Simon before glancing back down. ‘That’s it. He said that He – that’s Simon – uh, sexually excited me.’
‘Stop it,’ Simon said in a dull voice.
Martin thought fast, took a punt, hoping Jones would catch up from where she would be watching this with Butterworth. ‘And, ah yes, here we are,’ she pretended to read aloud, ‘Simon would have parties, which I would attend. When asked what would happen at those parties, the principal said, uh, we would do private things. Things between men.’ She looked up, the dregs of a sad smile filtering away on her face. ‘Is that the stress you mean, Simon?’ Simon had a sheen of perspiration across his forehead. Mervyn’s mouth gaped open unattractively. ‘I can’t imagine how horrific that must have been for you,’ she said. ‘To be involved in something so …’ She cleared her throat. ‘Seedy.’
‘I don’t know what you think you’re playing at here,’ Mervyn said in anger, ‘but you’d better explain yourself. You’re talking utter rubbish.’ His eyes glinted steel at his son. ‘Isn’t she, Simon?’
Simon licked his lips and appeared to be unable to speak. Come on, Jones, Martin thought. Come on.
A knock came at the door, and Jones entered, slightly red in the face. ‘Your, uh, car’s blocking the car park, boss. Sorry. You have to come now and, uh, move it now, if you d
on’t mind.’
Martin stood quickly and went to the door. ‘I’m sorry, Simon. I just have to deal with something. Won’t be a minute.’ She ducked out of the room, leaving Simon and his father alone. ‘My car’s blocking the car park?’ she whispered to Jones outside, in a disbelieving tone. ‘That’s the best you could come up with?’
Simon and his father sat in silence, next to each other, both staring straight ahead. After a moment, Mervyn bent his head self-consciously, darting a look to the corner of the room where the camera was, leaning in closer to Simon without looking at him. ‘What the fuck?’ he whispered.
Simon said nothing, his eyes fixed on a point on the wall in front.
‘Tell me you haven’t been up to your old tricks, you little shit. Tell me.’ Mervyn spat the words hoarsely. His mouth curled down at the ends in disgust. ‘Have you been sticking your dick where it shouldn’t go, Simon? Eh, you little queer?’
Martin and Jones watched them silently through the window in the door, hidden from sight. Rush and his father looked like statues, knees facing forwards, hands on the table. The only outward sign of rage was Mervyn’s furious eyes and his mouth, twisting and turning like a fat slab of red, wet muscle. Simon, on the other hand, was still as stone and pale as marble. Martin waited, watching Mervyn’s mouth, unable to hear the words but grasping the fury, knowing that the interview tape was still rolling inside. Eventually Mervyn stopped, his mouth hardened and flattened, and he moved his head back to centre. Simon still stared; his eyes were blank and cloudless spheres.
Martin opened the door loudly, marching in with Jones right behind her. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said briskly. ‘Now. Where were we? Jones?’
Jones smiled and introduced herself. ‘Maybe we could talk about last Sunday, Simon. Try and rectify the truth from your statement which you, uh, now say is untrue. Is that right?’ She waited for Simon to respond, but nothing came. ‘Okay, then.’
They waited for a few minutes as Simon continued to stare at the wall. His nostrils flared briefly.
Bitter Fruits: DI Erica Martin Book 1 (Erica Martin Thriller) Page 26
