Bitter Fruits: DI Erica Martin

by Alice Clark-Platts

  But always the run would end, and I would stalk up the steps on to Framwellgate and back into the land of the living. I would return from the run as Emily’s friend once more. Her amici, I thought sometimes, with a sneer. But I allowed it. I took what I could and to some extent I lived through her. Which was peculiar, because so much of what she did I thoroughly disagreed with.

  Emily had a steely side, she had ambition. As much as her vulnerability brought out the best in me, made me feel useful, I have to admit that I liked this other aspect. It made me think that if I stuck with her, she would stop me sinking into obscurity, reducing into nothing more than a human encyclopedia of twentieth-century literature and running routes on the north-east coast.

  As I say, though, often my views completely diverged from hers. Sometimes I even took Annabel’s part – Annabel, who was the more obviously conservative of the two. She had seemingly forgiven Emily for dumping her at the hockey social but looked at her with a cat’s eyes now, I could tell, slyly weighing her up, working out which side of her to butter up so that she could get some benefit from the relationship. Whether this was Nick too, I couldn’t tell – God knows what girls saw in that cretin. Both girls looked similar, they wore strands of pearls, curled their blonde hair to their shoulders and had a liking for cashmere jumpers, which made their bosoms look more mumsy than sexual. But Emily had it in her, I could tell, to rip the cashmere off, revealing a black lacy bra. And, as it turns out, that is indeed what she wore underneath.

  That quiet proclivity of hers became clear at another drink the three of us were having on a listless Sunday night. This time Annabel had driven us a little way out of the city, to a pub on the outskirts of Durham. Both girls were depressed, they’d said, emphasizing the word in their timbre as if the word on its own didn’t have the necessary effect. This was a common trait in the university. Language was considered almost an aside to the convoluted facial expressions and expressive body language used by my fellow students; as if a statement had no meaning unless accompanied by the actions of an Italianate clown.

  Anyway, there we were, out of town at last, Annabel had said, waving her hands as if to dispel a cloud of flies. I bought them both the ubiquitous vodka and sodas as well as my own familiar pint of Guinness. Emily was antsy and kept checking her mobile phone, which sat in front of her on the table.

  ‘There’s this game,’ Annabel said at one point. I looked at her while Emily continued tapping away on the screen of the phone. ‘Everyone puts their phone in the middle of the table. Whoever reaches for theirs first has to get the bill.’ I smiled at her, a shared acknowledgement of Emily’s distance; she hadn’t even heard Annabel’s joke.

  Annabel raised her eyebrows and gave me a weary glance when Emily went to the ladies at one point.

  ‘She’s obsessed,’ she said.

  ‘With Nick?’ I asked, knowing the answer.

  Annabel nodded. ‘He pissed her off today. Him and Shorty and some of the other hockey players were looking at these magazines in the JCR. Girly mags.’

  ‘And?’ I said. This news didn’t surprise me.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ Annabel took a sip of her drink, wincing a little at the cold of the ice as she swallowed. ‘Laughing about all the tits. They had a section called “Assess My Breasts”, or some such awfulness. You couldn’t even see the women’s faces. Just hundreds of boobs all over the page. It was disgusting.’

  ‘And Emily was disgusted too?’

  At that point, Emily came back to the table, smiling a little, holding on to her phone. ‘What was I disgusted by?’

  ‘Nick looking at that magazine today. When he said your boobs would be too small to get in something like that.’

  ‘He said that?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh,’ Emily shook her hair back from her face. ‘He didn’t mean it. They’re not anyway,’ She winked at Annabel before lifting her glass.

  ‘That’s not what you said earlier,’ Annabel said, apparently in a huff now that her gossip had been undermined.

  Emily gestured to her phone. ‘He’s just texted to tell me.’ She curled her lips in a sly sort of grin. ‘Thinks mine would be the best of the lot.’

  I said nothing, flummoxed as to how to respond to this. I could feel my cheeks reddening as I gulped down some stout.

  ‘Well, who would want to do such a thing anyway?’ Annabel said finally.

  ‘I don’t see anything wrong in it,’ Emily answered. ‘It’s my body. I can do what I want with it.’

  ‘Making money by getting naked?’ Annabel spluttered.

  This is what I mean. Annabel and I were actually more in line with our views. But there was something about the brazenness of Emily. I must admit, I found it attractive. She was blooming at Durham, seemed to be coming into her own. Even though this might diminish my role as her protector of sorts, I had to admire it. I never thought, of course, that any of her views would actually be tested.

  12

  Monday 22 May, 2.05 p.m.

  Doctor Brian Walsh looked up from his desk as Martin entered. He handed her a file of papers as she sat down. ‘I’ve emailed the report to you as well. Death caused by manual asphyxia. Some petechiae and contusion of the anterior neck,’ he said, as Martin scanned the report. ‘Her skin was drying out by the time the body was found, yet the contusions were dark, as you saw. I’d put time of death on that basis between eight p.m. and midnight.’

  Martin looked up. ‘Fast work, thanks. Anything else?’

  Walsh leaned back in his chair. ‘Her hyoid bone was shattered. That’s a small bone in the throat,’ he explained. ‘It’s very unusual to see that damage in someone as young as her.’

  Martin raised her eyebrows in a query.

  ‘Means whoever did it was a nasty bastard,’ Walsh continued. ‘Used a great deal of force.’

  Martin thought about this, remembering the peacefulness on Emily’s face as she lay with her eyes closed, the waters of the weir gurgling next to her. She shivered. ‘You were right about that baptism of fire, Doc.’

  Walsh nodded. ‘Looks that way. Hard for the city. For the kids to deal with something like this.’

  Martin got to her feet with a sigh. ‘Is she ready? Her parents are downstairs?’

  ‘She is. We’ve kept her eyes shut to hide the haemorrhaging, and her neck’s covered. Best they don’t see her up close, though. We’ve put her next to the observation room.’

  Martin picked up her bag and made to leave. ‘Thanks, Doctor Walsh.’

  ‘Fight the good fight, Inspector Martin,’ Walsh said, swinging his chair back to his computer.

  Martin smiled briefly and nodded before closing the door behind her.

  Rebecca Brabents sat staring into space, tissues poking through the crevices of her tightly curled hands. Her husband was next to her, his chair pointing slightly towards hers, his hands reaching for her but failing to make it beyond a slight scrabbling at his knees. Phillip Mason sat with them in the morgue waiting room, his body turned towards them, a study in empathy, his brows knit together, an expression of physical pain on his face.

  Only Mason’s head lifted as Martin entered the room with Jones. She hated these places. The mushroom-coloured walls and Reader’s Digest magazines provided no comfort here. The sole reason a person would be in this room was for the acknowledgement of death. The incessant drip and hum of the coffee vending machine the only vague life rhythm the place had to offer. Why was Mason still there? Presumably he’d met them at Joyce when they arrived in Durham. They would be staying there for the foreseeable future. But why had he come to the morgue? She would get rid of him; it wasn’t appropriate that he was here.

  Martin cleared her throat, and the Brabents looked across at her as if they were deep-sea divers, their eyes clouded by a hundred gallons of seawater. She made the introductions and then indicated that Michael Brabents should accompany her. At this, Rebecca Brabents, now twisting a piece of tissue into a tightly wadded snake, whipped her head around to face her h
usband. ‘I’m coming too. I want to see her.’

  Michael Brabents nodded, closing his eyes for a second as if to steady himself. They were an attractive couple, Martin observed. Rebecca had a boyish frame, wore skinny jeans and a furry gilet and had expertly highlighted hair which curled just short of her chin, appropriate for a woman of older years. He was wearing jeans too, with a pale-blue V-neck jumper and white T-shirt underneath. Michael Brabents gave the appearance of being relaxed, albeit grief-stricken, although a muscle twitched incessantly in his left temple. He had a nervous energy about him, Martin felt. He couldn’t remain still, some part of him seemed always to be tapping or jerking. She searched her brain for the apt word: he was taut.

  The sorry party moved out of the waiting room, leaving Mason behind with Jones. Martin led them down a white corridor. Nobody spoke. The whole scenario felt faintly surreal, Martin thought, a claustrophobic hush pulsating through the air. This was the worst part of the job. The forced stillness of acceptance before activity could resume.

  ‘Here we are,’ she said as they reached the appropriate door. Martin paused, resting her fingers on the handle. ‘Take your time,’ she said before pushing the door open. They walked into a fairly large room with a glass partition separating one side from the other. Beige curtains hung across the glass. As they entered the viewing space, the curtains rolled slowly open to reveal Emily’s body lying on a bed in the middle of the next room.

  Rebecca turned to Martin, confused. ‘Won’t I be able to touch her, to hold her?’ she asked.

  Martin shook her head. ‘It’s not allowed, I’m sorry.’

  ‘She looks so cold,’ Rebecca said, her voice rising faintly. ‘She needs a blanket over that sheet.’

  Martin said nothing, not knowing how to reply. This clinical room held such humanity, such life, despite its stillness and its silence. Where did it go, all that love and hate and grief and anger? Into these bland walls, into thin air? She shuddered a little. One thing was clear: there was nothing left in the body on the table. Whatever had been the essence of Emily Brabents, whatever had spurred her on, brought people into her life, made her laugh and made her cry – all of that was gone.

  Rebecca stood still, transfixed by her daughter’s shape. Michael was beside her, his knee jiggling as his eyes travelled the scene before him. Emily’s blonde hair was swept back from her forehead, a white sheet pulled up to her chin hiding the marks which showed where her life had been squeezed out. Rebecca made a sound without breath, a guttural cry, as she put her hand to the glass, tracing the outline of Emily’s head. She leaned her own forehead to the pane, crushing her face on it as if to get nearer to her baby, the cry turning to sobs. Michael moved closer, turning her into his arms, bending her head into his chest. He turned to Martin with dead eyes.

  ‘It’s her,’ he said. ‘It’s our daughter, Emily Brabents.’

  Martin nodded. ‘I’ll give you some time,’ she said quietly before leaving them alone in the room. As she waited outside in the corridor, the keening of Rebecca Brabents soared into the silence, accompanied only by the sound of a rhythmic thud. It was a moment before Martin realized that this must be Michael Brabents steadily knocking his head against the glass of the observation pane.

  Back in the waiting room, Mason and Jones looked at each other, Jones giving a quick smile before turning her attention to her BlackBerry. She wanted to get back to the station and start looking through all of the Facebook comments. And Annabel Smith still needed interviewing.

  ‘Sergeant Jones,’ Mason said, breaking the silence. ‘Simon Rush. Um, well, how is he?’

  Jones looked up, surprised. ‘He’s fine,’ she answered. ‘He’s in custody. We’re waiting for his father to arrive.’

  ‘He’s not considered a minor, is he? Why is his father here?’ Mason seemed to have turned pale.

  Jones shook her head. ‘No, sir, not a minor. He’s twenty years old. His father is a criminal barrister, so he’s asked for him to represent him.’ She gave a small shrug. ‘It’s allowed.’

  ‘Good. Uh, good idea.’ Mason seemed to be struggling with something. He shot a glance at the door, as if expecting the Brabents to reappear at any second.

  ‘I, uh, I don’t want to – what I mean is, are you sure this is right, Sergeant? Are we sure Rush is our man?’

  Jones studied the principal for a second before replying. ‘He’s confessed to the murder of Emily, sir. You heard it yourself. That’s all I can tell you at this time.’

  ‘And is that possible?’ Mason coughed a little. ‘I mean, do all the facts add up?’

  ‘Is there something you want to tell me, sir?’

  Mason flexed his hands, jacked himself up a little straighter. ‘No, no. I just want to be sure things are solid. I’m the college principal, a guardian ad litem if you will. I just want to check that Simon is being looked after.’

  Jones nodded. ‘Don’t worry about that, sir. You leave Simon Rush to us. He’s in safe hands.’ She looked at him again. ‘By the way, sir. Rush as the college president – how does that work? Is he voted in by the other students?’

  Mason shifted perceptibly on his seat. ‘Uh, yes. Normally that would be the case.’

  ‘Normally? What was the case here?’ Jones asked patiently.

  ‘Well, the vote was a tie, a draw. So, a casting vote had to be made.’

  Jones was silent for a second. ‘And who gets to make that casting vote, sir?’

  ‘Uh, I do,’ Mason answered hoarsely.

  The door opened, and Mason sat back quickly, folding his hands in his lap. Martin remained outside as the Brabents came in to the waiting room, following them in afterwards. They looked like ghosts, sitting down in despair on the waiting room chairs. Martin stayed standing, looking over at the principal as she spoke. ‘Mr Mason, I’d be grateful if you could give us a moment alone with Mr and Mrs Brabents,’ she said.

  Mason raised his eyebrows in surprise before giving a thin smile. ‘I’ll be waiting outside,’ he directed to the Brabents before sidling out of the room.

  ‘First let me offer you our deepest condolences,’ Martin said after he had left, knowing as she did so how ineffectual the words were. ‘I must tell you, now that we have a formal identification, that we are treating Emily’s death as a homicide.’ She paused. ‘I’m afraid the post mortem revealed that she was strangled.’

  Jones looked up at Martin at that and then back down at her lap, her thumbs crossed over themselves. Michael Brabents lifted his head, his mouth twisting as if in pain. ‘So when are we going to get the fucker who did this?’ Spittle dotted the corners of his mouth, a red flush spread across his cheeks. His grief had turned hot.

  Martin paused before speaking and, when she did, it was in a firm voice. ‘We will get the fucker, Mr Brabents. I can promise you that.’ She looked him in the eye, a beacon of certainty. ‘To do that, though, we need your help. Both of you.’ She looked across at Rebecca until Emily’s mother lifted her head to return her gaze. ‘We need you both on side, helping us to work out what was going on in Emily’s life before she died.’

  Jones took a breath and moved forwards, leaning her elbows on her knees. ‘Mr and Mrs Brabents, we need to paint a picture of Emily. Find out what her interests were, who she hung out with, who she had a crush on.’

  Michael spoke, ‘She didn’t have a boyfriend, if that’s what you mean,’

  ‘Well, that’s what we need to discover. She may have had relationships with people that you didn’t know about. Did Emily mention any names at all? Romantic or not.’

  ‘Did Emily talk about anyone called Simon Rush?’ Martin asked.

  Michael shook his head. ‘I don’t know him. No, not really. She didn’t really mention anyone.’

  ‘We didn’t listen,’ Rebecca said, turning angry, jabbing her finger at her husband, her sodden tissues falling to the floor. ‘You didn’t listen, as usual. That’s the truth of it.’

  Michael shifted his eyes to Rebecca and then back to
his lap as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘We spoke to Emily a lot. In fact, I talked to her just last week. She said she might come down next weekend. That was the last time we spoke to her …’

  ‘I had bought a chicken,’ Rebecca said, dull now and staring out of the viewless window. ‘I was going to roast it. We hadn’t seen each other for a month, I was so excited.’

  ‘You hadn’t seen her since the Easter holidays?’ Martin interjected. ‘How did she seem then? Happy or sad? Did she talk about her friends, her course?

  ‘She never mentioned her course. Hardly ever. I don’t think she was very interested in it. The subject was Michael’s choice.’ Rebecca smiled sarcastically. She drew in a breath, a shudder spilling from her, the effort of keeping herself together all too visible to Martin. ‘I know some names. I spoke to my daughter, and listened,’ she hissed towards Michael before taking another breath, calming herself. ‘She had lots of friends, people who wanted to be with her. But she was close friends with Annabel. There was a boy called Nick I thought she might have liked. He played hockey, and she was forever going to matches to watch.’ She paused slightly, thinking. ‘There was someone else, though, I think. I got the impression they were friends, but she never said his name.’

  ‘His name?’ Martin asked, sitting forwards.

  ‘Actually,’ Rebecca answered, wiping her eyes, which had begun to seep more tears, ‘he came to Kit’s gig, remember?’ She looked at her husband. ‘At Christmas? I think that was the same boy.’

  ‘You don’t know his name?’ Martin said again.

  Rebecca shook her head, frowning. ‘Our son, Christopher – Kit – he plays in a band, and they had a gig in Hammersmith over Christmas. It was a busy night, we had lots of friends there. I remember Emily saying someone had turned up from university, but we just didn’t pay any attention …’