‘Your room is . . .?’ Martin asked.
‘Next door to Dad’s. In between his and Mum’s, on the same floor.’
‘They don’t share a room?’
Violet shrugged but said nothing more. She put her hands on the table and looked at her fingers as she continued. ‘I lay there for a while but couldn’t get back to sleep, so I got up in the end. I went downstairs to the kitchen. The landlady – Mrs Quinn? She sets out the breakfast things in there. So I made two cups of that rancid tea she gives us, for me and Dad, and took them upstairs.’
None for the mother, Martin observed.
‘I left mine outside my door on the carpet and came back along the corridor to where Dad was sleeping.’ Violet swallowed, and paused.
Martin said nothing.
‘I knocked quietly, but there was no answer. I looked at my watch and saw that it was just seven. Dad, well, he likes to be woken up at the same time every day. He likes a routine.’
Martin noticed, finally, a reaction in the girl to the warmth of the room. A faint patina of sweat now lay on her forehead as she gave a thousand-yard stare to the back wall, clearly bringing to her mind the events of the morning.
‘I opened the door,’ Violet continued in a small voice. ‘And there he was. Bent over in the middle of the floor.’ She looked up at Martin. ‘I dropped the tea on the ground and ran to get Mum. I mean I could tell. I could see . . .’
‘I know this is hard, Violet.’
The girl moved her head from side to side, an animal in distress. ‘It doesn’t seem real. That he’s gone. He was always . . . there, you know?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Martin inclined her head, waited a fraction. ‘Did you hear anything odd last night? What time did you go to bed?’
‘As soon as we got home from dinner. I said good night to Mum and Dad and read for a while in my room. I turned my light out about 11 p.m. I didn’t hear anything.’
‘And Antonia, your aunt? Did she have dinner with you?’
A shadow passed across Violet’s face as she shook her head. ‘No. I don’t know where she was. Out somewhere else.’
Martin hesitated for a moment before continuing. ‘What was it like?’ she asked. ‘Seeing your dad on TV? Watching him do those shows? I don’t know,’ she said, ‘it must be odd having a parent in the public eye like that.’
Violet stared at Martin. ‘Everyone loved him.’
Was there something there? Martin wondered. The merest suggestion of bitterness? ‘Were you a believer? Did you believe in the things your father said and did?’ Again, Martin waited, let the silence roam through the heat of the room.
After a moment, Violet exhaled impatiently. ‘Look, Inspector Martin,’ she said. ‘Everything you need to see, you can find on the internet. Dad has a YouTube channel. You can see his website, the Deucalion Church. It’s all there for you to see,’ she repeated.
Martin weighed this statement up. Violet had dodged the question. What did she intend Martin to find on the internet? Violet was a child, she could tell, in spite of appearances. Her energy betrayed her, showing her not quite at the full maturity of adulthood where things could be fully hidden or battened down. She had tried, when they had met – she had attempted to be as indifferent as her mother – but she had dropped her guard. The act might be that of a child, Martin thought, but the ruthless reality was that she would not be considered one in the eyes of the law. ‘I absolutely will, Violet. And how did you get on with your dad?’ she asked lightly.
At once, the shutters came down. Martin could see Violet’s eyes change as if she had closed them. One minute, they were soft, easily meeting hers. The next, the blank look was back, her lips together, hands in her lap. Martin had lost her.
‘He was my father,’ Violet answered, a brittle tone to her voice.
Martin cocked her head to one side. Yes.
Violet shrugged. ‘What more do you want me to say?’
She could push her. Try to break behind the steel shutters, prod and tease information out about their relationship. But then she would make an enemy of her.
Martin called it.
‘Okay, Violet. Thank you for talking to me. I’ll speak to your mother once she’s finished with her prayers. In the meantime, you’re free to leave.’
Martin left the room, checking her watch. If Sera Snow was still praying or doing whatever it was she did, she had time to get an update from the team before she interviewed her. She would take a different approach with Sera: a wife in the same house where her husband had been murdered was a prime suspect.
She wouldn’t try to make friends with Snow’s wife as she’d done with Violet. Instinctively, Martin felt that Sera was not a woman you’d befriend easily in any event. Something in her reigned cold and sharp. The thought flashed into Martin’s head that this quality would be invaluable to a man so exposed to the world as Tristan Snow had been. But was that hardness what Sera had used to defend her husband against the spotlight? Or was it, in fact, what had driven her to kill him?
6
‘If someone doesn’t tell me what the fuck is going on, I swear to God, I’m going to have to crack some skulls!’
Despite the soundproofing required of a venue as large as the theatre auditorium, Jones and Tennant could hear the blistering voice coming from within as they stood outside the entrance doors to the stalls. The front-of-house staff had said that that Tristan Snow’s business manager was on stage. The crew were in place; the choir were in their dressing rooms, waiting to start the technical rehearsal for tonight’s service. But Snow hadn’t arrived as scheduled, and Fraser Mackenzie was steadily working himself up into a rage.
Jones opened one of the doors at the top of the auditorium, and she and Tennant began to descend the long set of steps which led to the stage.
‘I’ve been waiting here for over an hour. Nobody’s answering my calls. I’m standing here like a fucking lemon. Where is he?!’
A soft murmuring from a speaker on the stage seemed to be trying to answer the inferno of words, to no avail. The angry man was centre-stage, whirling this way and that, as if looking for a target. The set-up for a band was behind him, the silver of the drum kit gleaming, defiantly silent. Choir stalls rose up on either side of the stage. They, too, were ghostly. The man was alone on the stage, bathed in the glare of a spotlight focused on him, his balding pate shiny with sweat.
‘It’s not fucking good enough . . .’
His voice halted as the shapes of Jones and Tennant appeared at the edge of the stage. He was a short, middle-aged man in an expensive-looking navy blue suit. His hair was cut close to his scalp in a semicircle – an attempt, Jones surmised, to disguise his hair loss. Although he’d stemmed the angry flow of words, the man’s mouth remained fixed in a snarl, his lips curled in a sarcastic wave. His eyes were a pale blue, and appraised the figures of Jones and Tennant quickly. As the fact of their presence registered in his brain, the man took a visible breath.
‘Shit . . .’ he muttered to himself. He licked his lips and straightened. He turned to face them head on, hands in his pockets and shoulders squared. Jones was brought to mind of the image of a man facing a firing squad.
Jones showed him her identification. ‘Would you like to come with us, Mr Mackenzie? Somewhere where we can sit down.’
‘Whatever you’ve got to say, you can say it here,’ Mackenzie said.
Jones paused before deciding. ‘Okay then. I’m afraid we have some bad news. This morning, the body of a man was found in the Riverview boarding house.’
Mackenzie’s nostrils flared, his eyes locked on Jones.
‘It seems clear that the body is that of Reverend Tristan Snow,’ Jones said, detecting some kind of odour from Mackenzie as he swayed a little on his feet. What was it? Fear?
‘Body?’ he muttered, out of one side of his mouth. ‘He’s dead?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Jones hesitated. ‘Are you all right, Mr Mackenzie? Would you like to sit down?’
/> Mackenzie moved his head to one side as if trying to shift the liquid of the knowledge to another part of his brain that could better understand. ‘How? I mean,’ he took his hands from his pockets and folded his arms, ‘how did he die?’
‘We’re looking into that at the moment, Mr Mackenzie,’ Tennant said. ‘Right now, we’re wanting to talk to anyone who might have seen Reverend Snow last night or this morning.’ He paused. ‘Can I ask where you were, Mr Mackenzie? At those times?’
Mackenzie shifted his sights on to Tennant and narrowed his eyes. ‘Is this a formal interview, officer?’
‘Nothing formal as yet, Sir,’ Jones answered him, easily. ‘Just making our enquiries. As you would expect.’
Mackenzie exhaled silently, his chest deflating underneath his crisp white shirt. The effort to bring himself under control was clear as the lights under which he stood. ‘Sure, sure,’ he said, giving a forced smile. ‘Anything I can do to help, of course.’ He tilted his head. ‘How are the girls?’
Jones met his gaze impassively. ‘I’m certain they’ll be wanting to see you, Sir. Terrible thing for them, as you can imagine.’
Mackenzie released his arms from their locked position and seemed to relax somewhat.
‘Have you had an injury of late, Sir?’ Jones asked, suddenly identifying the aroma emanating from Mackenzie.
‘Uh, yes, actually.’ Mackenzie looked surprised. ‘My shoulder. I hurt it playing squash. How do you know?’
‘Recognize the smell,’ Jones answered. ‘Deep Heat. Remember it from my netball playing days.’ She studied his face carefully. ‘So, where were you last night, Mr Mackenzie?’
‘I was here.’ His face crumpled. ‘I can’t believe it. Tristan’s dead?’ He rubbed his hand over his head, sniffing, before looking up and coming to focus on his surroundings. ‘Tonight. What are we going to do? We’ve got five hundred people with tickets.’ His eyes darted from side to side as thoughts clanged into his head one after another.
‘Mr Mackenzie,’ Jones said, putting a hand on his arm, ‘let’s take a seat. Come on. It’s obviously a shock for you.’
She led him down off the stage to the first row of seats in the black and red auditorium. Mackenzie sat next to Jones, concentrating on her. He ignored Tennant on his other side.
‘You say you were here last night?’ Jones asked, gently. ‘What time did you leave the theatre?’
‘Um, about 1 a.m., I’d say. Tonight’s the first night, and we only had the get-in yesterday. Had to wait for some folk singers to get their kit out before we could set up.’ Mackenzie’s face was the picture of disdain.
‘And was Reverend Snow here with you until then, as well?’
Mackenzie shook his head. ‘No. He had been here from about 7 p.m., but all he needed to do was go through his sermon and walk through his marks on the stage. You know,’ he said, looking at Jones, ‘to work out where to stand for the lighting cues.’ He sighed. ‘So he did all that, and everything was great. And then he went to go and get dinner with Sera and Violet. Although he’d been a bit sick earlier, so in the end I think they just went home. Must’ve been about ten that he left.’
‘But other people were here with you until 1 a.m.?’ Tennant asked.
Mackenzie didn’t turn to face him. ‘Do I have an alibi, do you mean?’ His tone was scathing. ‘Yes. Other people were here. The lighting techs, the band and most of the choir.’
‘You went straight home after the rehearsal?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And you didn’t check in on Reverend Snow this morning? What time did you get up and leave the boarding house?’
‘No, I didn’t see him. I don’t know, I must have left just before 7 a.m.?’
‘And you came directly here, to the theatre?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Mackenzie’s eyes flitted from one place to another.
‘Is the theatre open that early?’ Jones asked. ‘Brutal start for you, Sir, if you were in bed so late last night.’
‘I’m used to it.’ Mackenzie’s voice was curt. ‘The venue always gives me entry via the stage door so I can come and go as I please.’ He gestured behind him. ‘I’ve got my laptop set up backstage. I treat the theatre like my office when we’re on tour. Need to sort out logistics of the next few locations when we’re on the move like this.’
‘Sure, of course,’ Jones replied. ‘And when did you arrive in Durham?’
‘Three days ago. We got here on Friday. We’re supposed to do shows for three nights and leave on Thursday morning.’
Jones leaned forward on her knees, looking out towards the stage. ‘It was going to be a big show, was it? Tonight and the rest of the week?’
Mackenzie shrugged. ‘He’s had bigger, but yes. Five hundred people tonight. Same again tomorrow. Wednesday’s quieter, but we were hopeful we’d drum up some business in the meantime. Tristan has a lot of followers in the north-east.’ His face fell again. ‘Had a lot of followers, I mean . . .’
‘And in the show, what happens?’ Jones asked. ‘Reverend Snow would give a sermon. Is that it?’
Mackenzie gave a withering smile. ‘You’ve never been to a healing service, then?’ Jones said nothing, her answer obvious. He stood up and stretched his arms above his head. ‘Gah! I’m going to have to get busy and sort all this. Fuck!’ Some of Mackenzie’s old spirit seemed to have returned; he had colour in his cheeks again.
‘What happens in the services?’ Jones repeated, as she stood with him. ‘Why do so many people want to come?’
Mackenzie gave a laugh. ‘Why?’ He opened his palms to the heavens. ‘Why wouldn’t anyone want to come? Miracles, Sergeant Jones. That’s what would’ve happened in here. Miracles.’ He turned to face her, to send her a bullet with the nub of the case written on it. ‘Tristan would’ve performed miracles here. He would have healed the sick and raised the dead. Who wouldn’t want to buy a ticket to see that?’
7
The air was humid and clammy: pregnant clouds hung ominously outside the incident room windows, obscuring the midday sun. Martin positioned herself on the desk, which faced the large, square table in the middle of the room, around which the team sat settling themselves, passing takeaway cups of coffee and assorted biscuits to each other.
This investigation into Snow’s murder – Operation Malta – had been allocated the larger of the rooms at the MCT. It was bright, if the sun ever battled its way through the inclement north-east weather, and its pale cream walls were empty except for leftover globs of Blu-tack and edges of Sellotape, reminders of previous investigations, the ghosts of which rambled through the room. After the interview with Violet, Martin felt back in the fray, more focused. She took a breath and a sip of sweetened tea, and allowed herself to enjoy being back. This was what she did.
The room turned dark as a crack of thunder boomed. Strip lighting flickered into action as Martin’s phone vibrated next to her mug. She lifted it up to look at the caller identity and, frowning, put it face down again on the desk. Behind her head was a whiteboard covered with a large Venn diagram of concentric circles. As she gathered her thoughts to address the quietening room, one word shone in her head; the last word she had written on the board.
Motive.
‘Tristan Snow. Found in the Riverview B&B with the back of his head smashed in. In the absence of anything at the moment from the allocated pathologist Dr Walsh, I think it’s safe to say this is a homicide.’
Martin pushed her hands underneath her thighs and looked around the room at her team. Jones, as always, eager like a fox prickling on her haunches at the front of the table. Tennant next to her, one leg crossed over the other, relaxed yet alert. The others were gathered like troops; silent soldiers on whom this burden lay. Who killed Tristan Snow?
‘Snow called himself a reverend although the church he set up doesn’t appear to be affiliated with any of the big boys, religion-wise,’ Martin said. ‘His church – the Deucalion – was founded about thirty years ago, in Blackpoo
l. From what I can tell from the information available, he was fairly end-of-the-pier when he started, performing shows down on the front and around other seaside resorts. Things stepped up a gear in the 1990s when his manager, a Fraser Mackenzie, got involved. Snow changed his act, became more of your Mystic Meg sort; seems to have cultivated a pretty lucrative career in the self-help vein.
‘He was a TV personality for a while. Hung around as part of the light entertainment crowd it seems, the Barrymores . . . the Tarbucks. He’s even written a book.’ Martin held up a hardback book with Tristan’s picture on the front. ‘Pure as Snow,’ she said with a bemused air. ‘Part autobiography, part self-help. What any of this has to do with religion is anyone’s guess.
‘The main line of enquiry’, she continued, ‘will obviously centre on those who were in the B&B the night before Snow was found, given there’s no sign of forced entry.’ Martin turned to the board behind her and tapped one of the circles. ‘Violet Snow,’ she said, ‘the victim’s daughter. She discovered the body. She’s a spiky little thing.’ She paused, thinking. ‘I’m not sure about her. And the mother, Sera, is hard to read.’ She leaned against the table, folding her arms. ‘If I’m honest, neither of them seem overly bereft.
‘Then there’s the manager, Mackenzie. We need to check out his timings. Likewise, we need details on Antonia Simpson – Sera Snow’s sister – she was staying with them. And then there’s the B&B landlady, Eileen Quinn.’
Martin looked at her team. ‘We found a dead pigeon under Snow’s bed. Clearly, we’re waiting for forensics, but I want someone looking into things right off the bat, no pun intended. Did it just fly in through the window? The one in Snow’s room was open a little, but the gap is too small in my opinion. It needs looking at to see if that’s possible. If it did manage to come in of its own accord, before the window was shut, for example, is it just a coincidence that it flew into the room where a murder was about to or had already taken place?’ Martin narrowed her eyes. ‘I’m not a massive fan of coincidences, so why did it decide to wind up dead in Snow’s room? Was it, in fact, put there deliberately – or had it flown in days before and Eileen Quinn is just shoddy at her spring-cleaning? Walsh is good, but I’m not sure he can work out the time of death of a pigeon.
The Taken: DI Erica Martin Book 2 (Erica Martin Thriller) Page 3