Bitter Fruits: DI Erica Martin

by Alice Clark-Platts

  Mason moved his head to one side, considering her.

  ‘But there’s something I’m not sure about. Maybe you can help me with it?’

  There was a pause. A vague tapping could be heard from outside the window. A gardener banging his rake against a wall.

  ‘You do realize, don’t you, sir, that the alibi you’ve given Simon is undermined by your interest in him?’

  Mason shifted.

  ‘Bear with me,’ she continued. ‘Let’s say you and Simon were married.’ She gave a wide smile. ‘Now then, in some circumstances, we couldn’t compel you to be a witness against your own husband,’ Martin waved her hands as Mason frowned, ‘so to speak. And the reason we couldn’t is, well, of course, it’s the law. But it’s also because we’d expect a person with an interest in a criminal to lie for them. It’s sort of boring, you know?’ She gave a short laugh. ‘Never ask a mother or a wife to testify against their son or husband. They’ll only say he’s either holier than thou or covered in shit.’ She waited. ‘Do you see?’

  Mason wrinkled his nose. ‘What is your point, Martin?’

  ‘My point is that Simon is still very much in our sights as a person of interest in Emily’s murder. Alibi or not.’

  Mason sighed and leaned back in his chair, placing his hands on his knees. ‘You said there was something you didn’t understand, Martin. Can we get to the point? I’ve got a lot on today.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Emily’s memorial. I’ll see you there,’ Martin smiled at him. ‘What I don’t understand is a comment you made at the police station the other day. You said you’d seen the photos of Emily and you’d laughed at them. You said you’d been shown them by the boys.’ Martin waited a second. ‘Who were the boys, sir? I’d like you to help me with the names of those boys.’

  Mason creaked his chair back further and put his hands behind his head. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Mmmmm. Okay. But I wonder if you will remember when you’re asked in court about it by a barrister and in front of a judge. Court cases are funny things, Principal Mason. They’re like a big, fat salacious book that falls open in front of everyone – the community, the parents, the press … Whoever is tried for the murder of Emily – and that will happen – whatever’s taken place prior to her death is going to be looked at in minute detail. So that we can figure out why this has happened. Do you understand?’

  Martin looked at him squarely as the sound of the rake scraping along the flagstones in the garden outside continued. ‘By the end of this process, we will know everything. Believe me. So it’s up to you. Tell me now, and we can try and help with some damage limitation.’ She shrugged. ‘Leave it until the last possible moment, and I can’t help you.’

  Mason looked at her, surreptitiously running his tongue along his dry lips. He gave a quick nod. ‘Okay,’ he said eventually. ‘Okay.’

  The shadow of the cathedral loomed large over the lawn which bordered it. Black-suited mourners gathered in pockets across the grass, huddling in patches of sunlight which escaped through gaps in the building. Martin walked slowly around the lawn on a concrete path, squinting whenever the sun managed to find her face. She scanned the crowd, looking at the people gathered there. Would the mysterious Daniel Shepherd pitch up, she wondered.

  Michael Brabents was near the cathedral entrance. Martin stared at him, thinking of the hidden photos. He looked done in, as though he were being physically supported by the tall thin boy, in his twenties, who stood next to him. Martin surmised that this must be Emily’s older brother, Kit. In another puddle of people, some obvious Durham students stood, dragging their toes into the grass. Despite their height and bulk, they looked like schoolboys, an identical expression of earnest seriousness on their faces: crinkled eyebrows, chewing gum. Martin could see Annabel near to them. She was tapping something on her mobile phone. What was she doing? Checking her presence at the funeral in on Facebook perhaps? Martin wondered, cringing inwardly at the thought.

  Martin watched the great and the good of Durham band together. The gold-chained mayor, the university principals, all with furrowed brows, none of them under sixty, most of them male. What did they have to do with Emily, Martin thought. They were supposed to have been her guardians but they hadn’t been: they had let her down. The dean of the cathedral had given special permission to the Brabents family to hold Emily’s memorial service here, so Butterworth had told her. In the absence of a funeral, this was the only place Emily’s family and friends could project their grief and loss. Maybe it was because of the grandeur of the cathedral, Martin thought, but it all seemed so removed from who Emily was. She felt chilled by it; it just seemed meaningless.

  The bell in the cathedral tower chimed, and the throng began to move in slowly through the great oak doors of the entrance. Martin stayed where she was, watching the crowd filter in, looking for a loner, a boy on his own. A cloud passed over the sun, putting them all in shade for a moment. She saw Jones jogging over the grass to meet her, and they walked together to the cathedral entrance doors.

  ‘How did it go with Mason?’ Jones asked quietly.

  ‘I’ve got a list of names of boys that Rush used to hang out with.’

  ‘Is Shepherd on it?’

  Martin shook her head.

  They entered the cathedral to the sound of some music Martin didn’t know. She and Jones sat at the back. Bowed heads multiplied before them, a few hushed voices which silenced as a choirboy stood in the stalls and Emily’s family began their procession down the aisle. Martin thought of the wedding Emily would never have now and a burn started in her chest. So fucking unfair, this life. She kneaded her hands together as the clear notes of ‘Pie Jesu’ reached the height of the stone arches buttressing the nave. Martin did know this tune, her mother being the world’s biggest Lloyd Webber fan.

  An enlarged photograph of Emily’s face, now so familiar to Martin, stood on a stand in front of the altar. She was frozen in time, her head turned to one side, the black velvet hairband holding her blonde hair away from her head. The smile she gave haunted Martin at every minute of the day. A smile of someone who knew she had her whole life ahead of her. Martin forced herself to keep looking at the crowd as she remembered that Kit Brabents would also be going to his mother’s funeral before the month was out.

  The service progressed slowly. Emily’s father sat with his head in his hands for much of it. Martin kept her eyes straight ahead. The college principals were bunched in a line together towards the front, the mayor in the middle of them as if the centrepiece of a bouquet. Soon she would have to take part in the bit of her work that she dreaded – walking outside and going to commiserate with the family. This job was a nightmare, really, Martin thought to herself. She looked over at Jones, standing next to her, unsuccessfully mouthing the words to the hymn they were supposed to be singing. Peace, perfect peace, by thronging duties pressed. Indeed, Martin thought, as Kit Brabents stood and walked to the lectern to give the eulogy as the last bars of the hymn were played. Death shadowing us and ours.

  Kit began to speak of his sister. As he did so, a shaft of light hit his face from the door opening at one side of the cathedral. Martin snapped her head around and saw a shadow in the doorway, the merest impression of the dark of a negative. She stood quickly and sidled her way out of the pew. Trying not to draw attention to herself, she half jogged, half walked towards the cathedral doors. As she exited, she whipped her head round to the right and saw a figure disappearing around the back of the cathedral. Following quickly, she found herself in the small graveyard attached to the back of the building, unused in recent times now the need for greater space saw bodies shuttled off to a cemetery outside the city. She weaved in and out of the headstones, trying to catch up with whoever it was. Why had they come to the cathedral and then run away? Was this Daniel Shepherd?

  ‘Hey!’ Martin called after the shape. ‘Stop! Why are you running?’ She chased after him, but the figure went too quickly for her. It was a boy, she was sure of it.
‘Hey. Daniel? I just want to speak to you. Come back!’ Worn down by her own unfitness, Martin slowed to a halt, watching the back of the boy disappear, running expertly over the wet leaves of the undergrowth, down the winding path to where the bank met the swirling waters of the weir.

  THE DURHAM CHRONICLE NEWS WEBSITE ‘PURPLE PROSE’: THE SOCIAL COMMENT COLUMN BY SEAN EGAN WEDNESDAY 24 MAY

  A sad day for the city today, as friends and family gathered on Palace Green to say goodbye to Emily Brabents. It was a moving and fitting tribute to the girl who seemed to have it all: a boyfriend in the university hockey team, rich parents who met her every whim and friends in all the right places.

  Perhaps it was this good fortune that drove her killer to attack?

  Yesterday came the shocking news of more unbelievable tragedy to strike the Brabents family with the untimely death of Emily’s mother, Rebecca Brabents.

  As usual, we have been given no further information on this from the police other than to express their condolences … (:-0)

  One thing certain in this mire of confusion is that Durham’s own Detective Inspector Erica Martin is failing to answer the hard questions posed by this case. Described as a rising star in the police force, she seems to be floundering in this humble column’s opinion. When is she going to get to grips with it?

  My little birds are tweeting again that the university will soon be clamping down on her conduct in this matter. Too junior, they say. And where is DCI Butterworth? Why isn’t he Senior Investigating Officer on one of the biggest murder inquiries to occur of late in the city?

  Tut, tut, DI Martin. Scurry on, now. The people of the city are waiting to feel safe in our beds. And the family of Emily Brabents demands justice for their little girl.

  Any comments on the above, tweet or email me at @seganjourno or segan@durhamchronicle.co.uk.

  33

  Wednesday 24 May, 2.36 p.m.

  Sam Butterworth looked as if he could do with a drink. Martin had refused a seat and stood before his desk, wanting some kind of stature to deal with Butterworth’s take on things, how he thought that this case appeared to be unravelling.

  ‘It’s only Wednesday,’ Martin had reasoned.

  ‘It may as well be Christmas,’ Butterworth barked, as usual unable to meet her eye when he bollocked her. ‘You entered Brabents’ property illegally, Martin. I mean, what the …’ He waved his hands at her in despair.

  ‘It won’t make the photos inadmissible, you know that as well as I do. The evidence is too important to the case.’

  ‘You’re not a fucking lawyer, Martin. You’re an inspector.’ He glared at her. ‘Act like one.’ He exhaled, sitting back in his chair as if defeated.

  ‘It’s a massive lead,’ Martin said. ‘You know it. We’ve got to get him in and ask him about the photos.’ She waited a beat. ‘We got the forensics back from the crime scene. Nothing. Traces of skin on Emily’s neck, but they were from her own fingers where she tried to prise the assailant off.’ Martin paused, letting that sink in. ‘Otherwise nothing. No DNA, some fibres on her clothes but they could be from anyone. She’d been rolling around in the grass at the boathouse all day.’ Martin leaned forwards, putting her hands on the desk. ‘We need something, Sam. We need something to break,’ she said in earnest.

  Butterworth sighed and rubbed his eyes, his elbows on the desk. ‘I’ve put my neck on the fucking line for you, Martin. The fucking line.’

  Martin dropped down into the chair opposite him. ‘I know,’ she said softly.

  ‘These bloody articles aren’t helping.’ He gestured at his computer screen. ‘This idiot journalist has got you in his sights. It’s adding to the pressure. You must see that.’

  Martin shook her head, wanting to dispel the memory of the latest article by Egan. He was still digging into the principal of Joyce and the relationship he had with his students but he’d also got Mason quoted as being concerned that the police investigation wasn’t quite up to scratch. Martin had been named and shamed.

  ‘He’s pissed off because I avoided him the other day.’ Martin sighed before giving a wan smile. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s only my reputation he’s damaging.’

  Butterworth put his hands behind his head and leaned back, looking at Martin, anger dissipating from him in a long exhale. ‘Have dinner with me,’ he said.

  Martin breathed in, her stomach lurching. She looked down at her fingers, her wedding ring bold as brass glinting up at her. ‘That’s the last thing we need,’ she said eventually. She lifted her head to meet Butterworth’s eyes. ‘But I will solve this case for you, Sam.’ She nodded. ‘I swear it.’

  Butterworth hesitated before giving a rueful smile. ‘Ah, you swear it. Well then …’

  ‘Let me bring in Brabents. We’ve still got the report to come in from Emily’s MacBook. The medical report on Rush is due back this afternoon. If he’s fit, we’ll get him back in too.’ She stood up. ‘This case is far from over. Quite the opposite, in fact.’

  She walked to the door before turning back to him. His eyes were harder now. He and she had lost something in the moment, both of them.

  ‘Get on with it, then,’ Butterworth said at last. ‘But you’ve not got long.’

  Martin was heading back from Sam’s office to the incident room when her phone beeped with a message. Glancing at it, she saw the same number come up which had appeared in the garden of the house in Great Whittington. Cum and c me, the message said. Im outsde frnt of station. Martin felt a pulse of adrenaline. Was this finally Daniel Shepherd ready to reveal himself? She turned on her heel and jogged down the stairs to the ground floor.

  34

  I sat in the back row of the Student Union theatre, on the end of it, my feet planted across the black steps leading down to the stage. I love the smell of theatres. The carpentry dust, the fear. The production was doing its best to recreate sounds and sweet airs and had lodged Miranda centre-stage with an apricot spotlight bolting down on to her. I sighed, waiting for the ubiquitously turquoise Ariel to swoop in from somewhere above us. I closed my eyes. This wasn’t working. I couldn’t concentrate. I still couldn’t trust my recollection of what had taken place last night. It had been so upsetting that I had stayed in bed the whole day – only emerging, vampire-like, once the sun began its descent and I could scurry here to secrete myself amidst a throng of theatregoers.

  The evening in question had started well. Emily and I had gone to her choice of a small Italian restaurant under the railway bridge near the station. I pushed the thought out of my mind that she’d picked a place where no one would see us. Despite the length of the menu, we had been conservative in our tastes. I had ordered a Hawaiian pizza and Emily had chosen a carbonara. We shared a bottle of the house white wine. We didn’t talk much. Emily seemed distracted. I kept looking over at her and smiling. She would look back, twirl her spaghetti around her fork, nibble at it daintily before sighing somewhat, putting her fork down and sipping at her wine. She drank more than me.

  The owner of the restaurant bumbled over once we had finished our food. The place wasn’t even half full so, deprived of a bigger audience, he was clearly keen to demonstrate his largesse. He produced a dusty bottle of lemon grappa with a flourish and poured us both thimble-sized glasses. I smiled at him while frowning, indicating that he should buzz off. But Emily downed her shot quickly and then looked up at him with playful eyes, wanting more. Luigi, for that was his name, it transpired, obliged her, and she tipped the thick yellow liquid down her throat like medicine.

  ‘Your girlfriend likes the grappa, no?’ Luigi said to me with a laugh.

  I was about to nod and acquiesce when Emily interrupted, ‘I’m not his girlfriend. We’re just friends.’

  And that was when the evening started to go awry.

  After the meal we wandered out into yet another cold night. There are times when winter murders you with its relentlessness. I pulled my coat further in around me, and then Emily took my arm. She was stumbling a little due t
o the grappa I noticed.

  ‘Shall we go to Joyce for a drink?’ she asked.

  I looked down at her. She was an eager puppy now that some alcohol sloshed inside of her. She seemed to have forgotten our decision the other day to start afresh, be together and forget everyone at Joyce.

  ‘Oh, let’s not, Emily,’ I said casually. ‘It’s pretty boring there. Tell you what,’ I said, my mind racing with options. ‘How about we go to The Sun? Come on. My treat. I’ll get a bottle of sparkling wine. We can pretend we’re celebrating.’

  ‘Celebrating what?’ Emily said, unsure, although she was tempted by the wine and the venue, I knew. I could feel her thoughts pulsating through the chilly air. I am shark-like, sometimes, in my ability to sense the waves of other people’s meditations. Emily didn’t want to go with me but she couldn’t resist the opportunity to tell her idiotic friends that she had been to The Sun and had drunk champagne – so she would tell the story. Of course, she wouldn’t admit she had been there with me. But she could brush that off – a drink with a mysterious stranger. I could see it all now, racing through her brain like a movie. Nick would be intrigued, he would question her, then get bored of the questioning, but the curiosity would have been piqued, and he would follow her on to the dance floor at Sixes. He would have been caught.

  Before I knew it, we were tramping through the streets, past Joyce and round the bend to where the lights of The Sun gleamed brightly. I was reminded of that evening last term when I had followed Emily here on the night of the hockey social. It seemed a millennium ago. And look at me now. Here with her. Alone.

  I opened the door for her and she walked in ahead of me. As we entered, I saw immediately it had been a mistake. Nick and Shorty and two other girls were sitting at a table in the middle of the dining room. The boys were wearing chinos and ties, their sports jackets on the back of their chairs. The girls wore pastel-coloured dresses, a single line of pearls dangling across their throats. They looked identical. Emily stood stock-still, a frightened rabbit. She gripped my arm. ‘Let’s go,’ she murmured. ‘Now.’