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

by Clark-Platts, Alice

  ‘Simon?’ Martin said gently after a time. ‘Simon? Can you hear me? You need to tell us what happened on Sunday. What happened down at the boathouse and on the bridge? It’s okay, Simon. You can tell us now.’

  Simon blinked slowly and looked down into his lap. Martin waited, holding her breath. When he looked up, his face had changed. His eyes had darkened from blue to grey, and he put his head to one side, as if preferring the view from this angle; his chin was lifted a little higher. He removed his glasses and began to speak. His voice was different. It was softer and less well-spoken. He seemed now in a state of complete calm, his breathing steady, his hands resting idly on his jeans. He looked at Martin all the time as he talked, gazing right through her as if through a window. She let him go, let him speak without interruption, a cold shiver mounting steadily up her spine as she listened to his words.

  ‘I love going to the weir. It’s the one place I feel … at home,’ Simon said. ‘It was always there, you know? The waters rushing, the noise of it. It was peaceful,’ he sighed.

  ‘It was a bright morning. I hadn’t seen Emily since arriving back at Durham the week before. I couldn’t bear to think of Easter. I’d pushed those weeks to the back of my mind. I was focused on running, on reading again and revising for the three exams I had to take at the end of the month. I had avoided Joyce, skirting round it on the routes of my runs. I stuck to the river, tracing its course around the island of the old part of the city. It’s mouldy, don’t you think? That mound of medieval architecture? Green and slimy, sinking into the water.’ He smiled briefly. ‘I always ended up at the weir, though. I could sit and watch the white water bubbling like a cold cauldron for an hour at a time.’

  Martin frowned. Simon was a changeling. Where he had been staccato, ranging from mute to monosyllabic, now he was articulate – talking in a strangely old-fashioned way, using words like beacons – lighting the way for Martin to see exactly what he was describing.

  Simon smiled. ‘You know what a big deal the Regatta is in Durham. It was happening right then that day, downriver. I knew there would be a full-on day of partying with brass bands tooting, punnets of strawberries and cream, the colours of all the colleges flying in the wind, culminating in a big drunken free-for-all. But I was planning on seeing none of it. I had escaped up there, away from everyone, with my books and crib notes.

  ‘I heard some voices then, coming along the path up to the bridge. I didn’t want to see anyone so I ducked out of sight, into the bushes on the bank. It wouldn’t be the last time I would do that before the day was out.

  ‘The voices receded, and I emerged from my hiding place. It was past lunchtime, I guessed, although I wasn’t wearing a watch. I found a patch of shady grass near to the water’s edge but fairly out of the way and spread my waterproof jacket on the ground. I took out my notes and a textbook. The sun beat down on my back and on to my head. My eyelids kept dropping soporifically. The book must have fallen from my fingers, and I lay back on the ground and slept.

  ‘I don’t know how long I’d been asleep for but I was suddenly awake. It was much later, the sun was low. I sat up, rubbed my hands over my eyes and looked down the riverbank towards the city centre. I decided to abandon my books for a while and take a stroll, see how the party was progressing.

  ‘I walked slowly along the bank in the late-afternoon sun. I could hear the festivities before I saw them. There’s a lazy corner of the river, just underneath some willow trees, where coxes give pep talks to their boats. That’s where the Joyce boathouse is – and that day it was the castle of fun. Around it were stalls selling crêpes and strawberries and jugs of Pimm’s. People sprawled on the grass under the bunting, boats dripping with water discarded next to them. A loudspeaker droned above the noise, calling out race results. The competition was finished. and now it was time to get pissed in the evening light. Someone was half-heartedly blowing a trumpet, a sound which grated on my nerves, made me ill at ease.

  ‘I wandered around the prone bodies on the grass. I didn’t know why I was there. My sun-soaked sleep had shifted something in me, nudged the melancholy which I had successfully buried, so I thought. It emerged in me again, coming down on me like a shower, pin-pricks of misery obstructing me from the enjoyment I could see happening all around me. It wasn’t fair. It was then that my mobile phone buzzed with a message. It was from Simon, saying he needed to see me and that he was heading to Palace Green.’

  ‘Sorry, Simon. Can I just interrupt you there?’ Martin spoke, her heart hammering in her chest. ‘Did you just say that you received a text message from Simon?’

  Simon’s pupils slid over to her, his breathing steady. He nodded.

  Martin’s brow was furrowed, her mind racing. What was he talking about? A text message from himself?

  ‘I went to meet him,’ Simon continued. ‘He was upset and frightened. I comforted him as best I could. Held him. After a while, he ran off. I stood there watching him, as the night began to draw in. He ran past the cathedral and down to the river through the graveyard. I wondered then if he would go to the boathouse. I could hear the sound of the voices there, trailing across the warm wind like the tail of a kite. I didn’t know whether to go after him. In that state, he could have done anything. I made a decision. I turned to take the same path he’d just run down and followed him down to the weir …’

  Simon paused, staring off into space, unseeing. Martin glanced over at Jones, who also appeared in a trance, so closely was she studying Simon. Only her fingers tapping her thighs in a rapid manner betrayed her confusion at what they were hearing. Mervyn Rush had turned his head to look at his son, an appalled expression on his face. He made to speak, but Martin cut him off. ‘Wait!’ she said quickly. ‘Let him finish. Simon? Simon, it’s okay. Keep going. Tell us what happened next.’

  Simon lethargically moved his face to Martin’s and gave her a weak smile. He nodded before taking up his monologue again.

  ‘The first person I saw as I got down to the riverbank was Emily. She left the throng of people at the boathouse and began to walk towards me along the course of the river. She looked miserable, I thought. The feelings I had for her – well, they’d never left me. Despite the trolling, despite everything that had happened before Easter and the awfulness of the holidays, I wanted to check that she would be okay.

  ‘The light was waning, and clouds were rolling in with the rain. It was getting dark, so I don’t think she saw me. Emily stumbled a bit as she left. I guessed she had been drinking. You’d have to be a nun not to do so in this environment. And Emily certainly wasn’t that – ha!’ Simon gave a short laugh before continuing. ‘I was sober, though. The idea of the gallons of Pimm’s they’d all been drinking made my stomach sick. Emily put headphones in her ears, she was in a tipsy reverie, I could tell, listening to music as the sun went down, on her way back to Joyce, I presumed.

  ‘Except that was when I saw him. He was standing on the middle of Prebends Bridge. Waiting. Waiting for Emily.’ He paused, licking his lips again.

  ‘Who was standing on the bridge, Simon?’

  Simon continued as if he hadn’t heard Martin. ‘Emily carried on, stumbling a little up the bank towards the bridge, she was still listening to her music. The noise of that trumpet continued to blow from downriver, the melody cutting out on the wind like a bad internet connection. I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t spoken to her since the night of the Formal. What could I say? She hated me, I thought. So I stood still in the shadows behind a fringe of trees. It was still light but at that moment where the darkness is about to hit. Everything seemed bathed in blue.

  ‘She began to walk up the approach to the bridge, heading towards Nick.’ Martin felt Jones glance over at her. So far, Simon’s story tallied with Nick’s: he had been on the bridge with Emily. ‘He was standing quite still, he must have come back from the Regatta at the same time as me but along the other bank, for some reason. As she stepped on to the bridge, he pushed himself off the ramparts whe
re he had been leaning. He moved towards Emily as she lifted her head and saw him for the first time. Underneath them both, the weir was dark with lights glinting through it. It looked like liquid liquorice.

  ‘Then suddenly, as I’d thought he would be, I could see Simon watching them on the same side of the bridge as me. I didn’t know what was going to happen but I edged in closer. It was dusky now, they didn’t know I was there; I could only see their outlines. They looked like characters in a play. A sudden wail of that blasted trumpet and then it was quiet.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Simon, but I just want to get this clear,’ Martin said. ‘You were watching as Nick met Emily on the bridge? But Simon was also watching them, hidden in the bushes?’ She narrowed her eyes, watching the boy’s reaction. ‘You mean you were watching them, don’t you?’

  Simon ignored Martin, as if the question was an irrelevance and took a breath before beginning again. His voice lilted in the interview room, its timbre casting a spell over the other inhabitants, who stared at him as if stupefied, unable to believe what they were hearing. ‘I moved nearer to the bridge, wanting to know what Nick and Emily were saying. There was a slight breeze rustling the surrounding trees, making it hard to hear things exactly. I got as close as I could without being seen, bent over almost on my knees, straining my neck to get my ears closer. I could hear Emily’s voice; she sounded angry, talking nineteen to the dozen. Then I saw Nick take Emily by the arm. She tried to break free and managed to push him away so he fell back against the balustrade.’ Simon looked at Martin steadily, his shoulders sagging a little as if energy was leaking from his pores.

  ‘And was that when you moved up on to the bridge, Simon? Were you trying to protect Emily?’ Martin asked, her voice low, trying to keep him going.

  ‘Nick ran off,’ he answered patiently. ‘Emily slapped him, and Nick ran away, like he always does,’ he said with disdain. ‘That was when Simon went on to the bridge.’

  ‘Simon, let me get this straight. You went on to the bridge after Nick had run off?’ Martin repeated.

  Something passed over Simon’s face, a mild confusion. He seemed to focus again, his pupils dilating as he took in Martin, sitting on the edge of her seat in front of him, a fierce determination on her face.

  ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ he said in a puzzled way, shaking his head from side to side as if he had water in his ears.

  ‘What don’t you understand, Simon?’ Martin asked softly. The question floated into the air, a weather balloon seeking out lightning.

  Simon narrowed his eyes and jerked forwards quickly, unexpectedly, causing Martin to draw back in surprise. ‘Why do you keep calling me Simon?’ he snarled. ‘You know that’s not who I am.’

  Martin swallowed, looking him directly in the eye. The interview seemed to be hurtling towards some terrible, inevitable conclusion. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, opening her palms in an attempt to calm him. ‘I’ve got it wrong.’ She paused for a second, taking a breath. Simon’s eyes seemed to bore into her, into her very soul. She didn’t falter, she held his gaze. ‘Who are you then? Tell me who you are.’

  She knew what the words would be before they left the boy’s mouth. He smiled a charming smile, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. ‘Come, come. You know who I am,’ he laughed. ‘I’m Daniel Shepherd.’

  50

  Thursday 25 May, 12.13 p.m.

  ‘What do you mean you’re Daniel Shepherd?’ Martin asked quietly.

  Simon looked her, a smile playing on his lips. He shrugged. ‘What I say.’

  Martin stared at him. Mervyn and Jones were also transfixed, their eyes focused on Simon. He lifted his head in disdain.

  Martin gave a low whistle. ‘Good lord, boy.’ She gave a short cough, flicking her eyes to the CCTV camera, a feeling of cold calm stealing through her, wondering what the team would be making of this. She would bluster, she thought with a start, feeling the fired-up energy of a result pulsing through her veins. She would brazen it out to the finish line.

  ‘You’re telling me that your name is not Simon Rush. But that you are actually called Daniel Shepherd. I just want to clarify this.’

  ‘I am Daniel Shepherd,’ Simon repeated.

  Martin leaned forwards. ‘And yet, you say you saw Simon Rush on the bridge with Emily? It was Simon who was there on Sunday evening?’

  ‘On the bridge,’ the boy repeated sullenly.

  Martin cleared her throat. ‘All right. Let’s talk about Stephanie Suleiman.’ She pulled at her earlobe, thinking fast. ‘Stephanie has a folder full of emails from Daniel Shepherd. Did you send those emails?’

  Simon nodded.

  ‘Why did you tell her you were called Daniel Shepherd?’

  ‘I am Daniel Shepherd.’

  ‘Everything in those emails, all your descriptions of your friendship with Emily Brabents, your life here in Durham – that’s all about you? You as Daniel Shepherd, not Simon Rush?’

  Simon sneered. ‘How many times do I have to say it?’

  Jones shifted uncomfortably, wondering when Martin was going to call the medical examiner. Something had gone terribly wrong with his assessment. How had they missed this? Rush appeared to be in the throes of some kind of blackout, the effects of a multiple personality disorder perhaps. He acted as if he were a different person, seeming entirely changed before their very eyes. She looked over at Martin – should she step in? Martin, though, was oblivious to anyone else in the room but Simon. She sat forwards on her chair; she looked like a wolf stretching on her hind legs, ready to pounce.

  ‘Do you know a man called Sean Egan?’ Martin asked.

  Simon nodded again, blinking.

  ‘Did you email him a sex video of Emily and Nick from an email account with the name of Daniel Shepherd?’

  ‘Yes,’ Simon stifled a yawn and then giggled, putting a hand over his mouth.

  Martin took a breath. ‘Let’s take it back. When did you arrive in Durham?’ She smiled at the boy. ‘Daniel.’

  ‘Boring,’ Simon said with scorn. ‘As I said, everything’s in the emails to Stephanie. I started at Durham this year. You know I did.’

  ‘Simon, what are you talking about?’ Mervyn Rush interrupted, bewildered.

  Martin hurried on, ignoring Mervyn. ‘So, according to you, as you’ve detailed in the emails to Stephanie, you are not a third-year student but a Fresher at Nightingale College?’

  Simon smiled at her.

  ‘Is that when you met Simon? When you came up to Durham?’ Martin continued.

  ‘No, no, no. I’ve known Simon for years.’

  ‘Since when?’

  Simon looked over at his father, who was white in the face. ‘Simon’s daddy knows, doesn’t he? Why don’t you tell them, Mervyn?’ He paused, watching Mervyn’s bafflement. ‘No?’ Simon turned his head back to Martin. ‘I met Simon on a little trip to the beach he took with his mummy. Ah, it was a sad day, wasn’t it, Mervyn? Mummy running into the sea and never coming back. Poor old Simon. Standing on the beach in his little shorts, calling for her. And then he had to go home and see his daddy, who didn’t give a fuck,’ he hissed. ‘Shunted him off to boarding school, didn’t even have him back for Christmas. Oh, boo fucking hoo.’ Simon sniffed and straightened in his chair. ‘I kept in touch with Simon. Helped him through a few things. I was there for him. Unlike some people.’

  ‘Simon became friends with Daniel then? When he was a small boy?’

  ‘Ten,’ Mervyn murmured. ‘He was ten when his mother died.’

  ‘That’s what Simon always says you say!’ Simon cried gleefully. ‘She didn’t die. She killed herself. There’s a big difference there, Mervyn.’

  Martin shook her head slightly. She knew Butterworth would already be frantically on the phone, trying to get hold of the psychiatric team. But that hadn’t worked before. For some reason what was transpiring before their very eyes hadn’t been picked up on, hadn’t been diagnosed. This was a complete fuck-up. Martin felt the
sheen of a cold sweat. Was she facing the end of her career?

  She willed herself on, slapped herself in the face metaphorically. She was close – close to another confession to the murder, but this time in front of his father, a QC no less. She had to focus. To bring Simon or Daniel or whatever the fuck his name was to heel. Make him concentrate.

  ‘How do you help Simon, Daniel? I mean, you do help him, don’t you? Give him support?’

  Simon nodded firmly. ‘Simon’s under a lot of pressure,’ he said. ‘He has to do all these things he doesn’t want.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘Be the best. Get the grades. Be the president. Pander to Mason.’

  Martin waited.

  ‘It’s too much,’ Simon continued, shaking his head with tears in his eyes. ‘How can anyone expect him to cope with all of that? Especially when the girl he wants says no to him – rejects him. Especially when his dad’s such a cock,’ he snarled, looking at Mervyn. ‘Simon tries his best. He drinks too much. Takes a little something here and there to help him.’ He looked sadly at Martin. ‘I don’t agree with that, I’ve told him.’ He sighed. ‘But I do what I can. We go for coffee. We talk about books. We love talking about books. That makes him happy.’ Simon laughed. ‘He likes Greene, Inspector. Do you like Graham Greene, by any chance?’

  Martin smiled easily at him despite the rushing of blood in her head. Something sparked in her then, a flame of a thought at the back of her brain. ‘I do,’ she answered. ‘Very much.’

  Simon nodded, pleased by this. ‘Yeah, well. So that’s how I help him when he’s stressed.’

  Martin inhaled quietly. ‘And Emily? Was Emily his friend?’

  Simon frowned. ‘At first,’ he said quietly. ‘But then she went away from him. Got involved with all those dicks in college. Simon hated to see it. It wasn’t fair.’ He looked up without warning, with an expression of such pure innocence that Martin felt as if she had been smacked in the face. His body was stiff, a rigid conduit of … something … something Martin couldn’t quantify, couldn’t place. She continued to breathe quietly, observing him. What was it?