‘The SOCOs are obviously still at the crime scene, but in the meantime, if you dig up anything of use, don’t be shy. What’s the symbolism of a dead pigeon, if any?’
‘It’s the church,’ Tennant interrupted, with a start.
Martin looked at him. ‘What is?’
‘The symbol of the church. The Deucalion . . .’ Tennant’s tongue tripped over the word. He pushed a piece of paper towards Martin. ‘Look. It’s on their website, all of their stuff.’
Martin grabbed the paper and stared at it. At the top of the page was a circle with a blue bird inside, the name of the church curving around its wings. ‘Is that a pigeon?’ she asked.
‘It could be,’ Jones put in. ‘Deucalion . . . we looked it up.’ She glanced at Tennant. ‘He’s Noah. Another name for Noah. He had the Ark. Sent the dove or the pigeon, or whatever, to find land.’ She swallowed, gathering her thoughts. ‘The church was massively popular. Was known for helping kids. He was . . . Snow, I mean. Kids who were abandoned, had nowhere else to go. People loved it, loved him. Which explains why they’d managed to sell out most of three consecutive nights of shows at the Gala. And, um . . .’
‘What?’ Martin asked.
‘Well.’ Jones shrugged. ‘Looks like Snow wasn’t only into healing at his shows. He used to do, you know, miracles and things.’
Martin lifted her chin, her eyebrows drawn together.
‘Exorcisms of the Devil,’ Jones carried on, uncomfortably aware of her boss’s growing antipathy. ‘He’d do it at the shows. Films of it are on the net. And – on his website – you can buy videos of how to do a bit of DIY.’
‘DIY?’ Martin repeated.
‘That’s where it got dodgy.’ Jones’s voice changed, her cheery features darkening. ‘How to train your child. How to remove the Devil from children.’
Martin bit her lip. ‘This is online? You can view it?’ She thought back to Violet Snow’s assertion that everything could be seen, that nothing was hidden.
Jones nodded. ‘We’ve already accessed the church’s Twitter feed, other social media. His fans – if you want to call them that – are all devastated. Conspiracy theories abound already. They’re calling for a statement from the church.’ She grimaced. ‘Want to hold some kind of simultaneous candlelit ceremony here and in Blackpool.’
Martin frowned as a few hard drops of rain began to rap against the window and a telephone rang on a desk near Tennant. ‘Sera Snow said the press would be interested. Given Snow was some kind of celeb, we’ll need to make a statement on that as well as the homicide. Violet Snow mentioned a YouTube channel, too, so that’s obviously an area where we need to put our foot on the ball. See what Snow was up to in the church that might have caused an issue with anyone. And what was their family life like? Violet seems pretty anti her father. Why? I’m going to interview Sera Snow shortly, so we’ll get more information then, hopefully. Particularly what she was up to last night, and whether she bashed him over the head.’ Martin paused. ‘Have we managed to track down the sister? Antonia?’
‘Yup,’ Tennant answered, putting back the receiver. ‘She rolled back to the B&B this morning after you’d left – when the SOCO team were still there. Looked much the worse for wear. Pissed up, you know. She’s sobering up at the new hotel with the rest of the family apart from Sera, who’s ready for you now, Boss.’
‘Also, can someone check whether Snow was wearing a cross when he was moved to the mortuary? Violet Snow says it’s missing. If he wasn’t wearing it when he was shifted, where is it? And if he was, for God’s sake, someone find it,’ Martin said, raising her voice over the increasing battery of rain outside. ‘Jones, you come with me to interview Mrs Snow before I head to the hotel and see Antonia. Then we need to chase up Walsh’s pathology report and coordinate the statements of Mackenzie and Eileen Quinn.’
‘Will do.’
‘That’s it then, folks. Can’t say I’ve heard of him, but if Tristan Snow was as popular as everyone’s saying, the media will be all over us. Professionalism, diligence and respect as always, please.’
Martin eyed a dustbin in the corridor and tossed her empty cup into it as her team filed out. And then she remembered the message she’d received on her phone at the beginning of the briefing and her stomach sank. Despite the rush of the past few hours, it seemed she was still destined to deal with the present – and the fact that her soon-to-be-ex-husband wanted to take her out for dinner, and he had no idea that she was seeing somebody else.
8
‘Mrs Snow, can I ask for your full name?’
Martin sat opposite Sera in an interview room with Jones to one side of her, taking notes. The space was windowless, down in the bowels of Durham police station. Brown, sound-proofing carpet tiles lined the walls, the low chipboard ceiling adding to the claustrophobia Martin always felt when she was in there. She often wondered how it would feel to be sat on that bucket seat if you were guilty of a serious crime. How could you maintain a poker face throughout the dance you would do with the police officers, not knowing for sure how much they knew, how much they were bluffing?
‘Seraphina Abigail Snow,’ Sera answered evenly. She sat serene, her eyes wide and fixed on Martin. She reminded Martin of illustrations she’d seen of the witch in the fairy tale Hansel and Gretel, with her hooked nose, long bony fingers creeping out of a gingerbread house. What would she look like, Martin considered, if her jewellery were removed and she was devoid of the colours that glinted from her, gave her that eccentric air, that aura of being someone important, someone of note? What would she be, if the blues and greens and silvers disappeared to nothing? Just an old woman with a wispy knotted bun.
Before Martin could continue, Sera whispered something, as if to herself, which Martin didn’t catch.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said he was fearless. He had no fear. Tristan was a man with no limits.’
Why had she said that, apropos of nothing? Martin studied her face. It was peaky; it had a nervous energy about it. As Sera moved her head, Martin noticed the yellowish-green of a fading bruise on her temple. She filed the memory of it for later.
‘You liked that about him?’ Martin asked, using her familiar instinct to find the right question.
Sera hesitated before speaking. ‘I lived with it,’ she answered, finally.
Martin waited, but nothing else came. She shifted in her seat, turning to the task, mentally running through her interview prep. ‘We’d like you take us through the events of last night please, Mrs Snow, so we can establish what happened at the boarding house in the last twenty-four hours.’
Sera sucked in a breath and made a soft mewling sound, her eyes closing in despair. ‘I just want this over with. Life seems . . . It seems in a stutter at the moment.’
Martin knew what she meant. A murder smashed into lives in a way that meant everything stopped; the moment seemed stuck on repeat, until the questions were answered and justice was fought and won for the victim. Then life could once again continue its bumpy journey, with the murderer locked up safely behind bars. But something about the statement didn’t ring true. Sera Snow seemed too composed, too smooth. ‘I understand, Mrs Snow. This must be very hard.’
Martin paused for a beat, waiting for the momentum in the room to shift: that elusive swing in the rhythm of things when her questions could mutate from easy and comfortable to precise and acute. ‘Tell me what happened yesterday, Sera, if you will. The daytime, evening and then this morning.’
‘Yesterday, we were all at the theatre rehearsing. Nothing more. It had gone well. We’d had some lunch. Prayed. We carried on late into the evening. Tristan felt sick though. He’d not been right all day.’
‘Sick?’ Martin asked. ‘In what way?’
Sera shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t eat at lunchtime, and normally he’s a big eater. Likes to take out the crew at least once before the run of the show begins. They enjoy it. He tells stories, anecdotes, buys everyone a drink.’
; Martin could imagine. The emperor and his entourage, sitting around him, fawning over his tales of the D-list celebs he’d met in the past.
‘But this time he was, well, sick. He couldn’t eat, as I say. He managed to get through the rehearsal, but we must have left about nine-thirty or ten, and Tristan headed straight to bed once we got back to the boarding house.’
‘You don’t share a bedroom with your husband?’ Martin asked.
‘Tristan would have told you, that’s the secret to a happy marriage.’ Sera blushed a little at the attempt at a joke, snatching a glance at Jones. It felt uncomfortable, leaden in the airless room.
‘So, after you said goodnight, did you see Tristan again that evening?’ Martin asked, moving on.
Sera shook her head. ‘No. I went to bed, too, and read for a while. I must have turned my light off about eleven.’
‘And Violet?’
‘She was in bed, too. The house was dark.’ Sera looked down at that, circling her thumbs on her lap.
Martin studied Sera, thinking back to her earlier interview with Violet. The daughter resembled her father more, Martin considered. Her face was rounder, more symmetrical. She didn’t have the sharp edges of her mother. Circles and triangles, she thought suddenly. People’s faces could always be split into those two shapes. Their personalities, too, on the whole. ‘She’s your only child?’
‘Yes . . .’ Sera appeared to hesitate.
Martin looked at her enquiringly.
‘We . . . uh, we had two boys. Twins,’ Sera said quietly. ‘They died over twenty years ago.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Martin said, storing the information. ‘And this morning? What happened when you woke up?’
Sera closed her eyes briefly. ‘Violet woke me. She rushed into my room, crying, saying that Daddy was dead. So I ran to see,’ she said, her voice rising. ‘I tried to get in but Violet shut the door, she wouldn’t let me past. She was sobbing, saying it was too late. That we had to call the police.’
Martin pressed her lips together, thinking. The beat of the interview had slowed. She felt Jones breathing calmly beside her. Sera was silent; the blank look on her face had returned.
Martin shifted gear. ‘Perhaps you could tell me a little about yourself. Where are you from originally?’
Sera raised her eyes. ‘Actually, I’m from near here. I was born in Peterlee.’
Martin knew it. It was a town some ten miles away from Durham. That was what had sounded familiar to Martin when Sera spoke. The accent had flattened and become indistinct over time, but the lilt of the north-east remained present in her voice.
‘My father was also a pastor,’ Sera continued. ‘In my twenties, we moved to Blackpool.’
‘And that’s where you met your husband?’
‘It was a Tuesday afternoon. That day I entered the church and met Tristan. I’ve stayed there ever since.’
‘When were you married?’
‘We’ve been married for thirty years.’
Martin sat back in her chair as Jones’s hand hovered above her notes. ‘So, tell me about the Deucalion Church. It’s hugely popular, so it would seem?’
Sera nodded.
‘Particularly with children?’
‘Well, we welcome everyone at Deucalion, young and old. But there are many children, Inspector, who need somewhere to call their home. Where their own homes have . . . failed them. We offer them that at the church.’
‘And you came to Durham on some kind of tour?’ Martin asked, glancing down at her lap. ‘Why does your sister Antonia come with you?’ She noticed something dark flit across Sera’s face at that; a cold, hollow spasm.
‘She’s part of the church’s family. She’s a great support to me and Tristan. Always has been. And there’s also Fraser, Tristan’s best friend. We’ve known him for years. He’s part of the family, too.’
‘Ah yes, Mr Mackenzie,’ Martin said, looking down at her notes. ‘Was he at the boarding house with you, when you went to bed?’
‘No, he must have come in later,’ Sera answered. ‘He had to stay at the theatre and finish up.’
Martin threw a look at Jones, who gave a brief nod, confirming that that was what Fraser had said.
‘And so, after you turned out the light, you slept until you were woken up by Violet? Is that right, Mrs Snow?’ Something rippled over the woman’s face then, catching Martin’s attention, causing her to lean forward, feeling the cadence of the interview change at last. ‘What was it, Sera?’ she asked, her tone triggering Jones to look up from her note taking. ‘Did you wake up earlier than that? Did you hear something?’
‘Ah, well, I don’t know. I can’t be sure.’ Sera paused, her eyes half-closed, remembering. She shook her head a little, as if distilling the memory. ‘Maybe, yes. A noise.’
‘What kind of noise? A door? Someone’s voice?’
‘No. Not that. More . . . a fluttering. Deep down, in the dream . . .’ Sera’s eyes were completely closed, her lips moving as if in prayer. ‘A fluttering of wings. Wings against something.’ She opened her eyes fully, as if startled by the memory. ‘Yes,’ she said with certainty. ‘It was the beating of wings against glass.’
9
Antonia hadn’t reached it yet, but sobriety beckoned to her over the next hill. She still felt braver than normal, a kamikaze nugget of gold glittered in her stomach; her eyes had a wildness behind wet, blackened lashes. Her skin felt thick and itchy, caked on, like the make-up she had plastered herself with last night.
Last night. God, how long ago that seemed. Before this news. Before life without Tristan in it. Memories – no, she couldn’t even call them that. Flashes of recall, still photographs of rolling events; that’s how the fragments of last night appeared to her now. The rosy glow of the booze sinking down into her at first. The . . . the happiness of it. That was the good bit. Always. The good bit was always the start.
Then the bar or wherever would grow dark, like a blanket you wanted to crawl under. It would be nice in there to begin with. The lights pockmarking the walls, picking out bits of life you chose to look at. Not those bits that slammed into your face when you were least expecting them. It gave you control. That’s what drinking did. Because even if at the end of the night you ended up flat on your back, with your legs in the air with everyone seeing your cunt while you screamed at them to just fuck off . . . Well, at least you were the one that had got you there. You couldn’t blame it on anyone else. You had done it. You weren’t a victim.
The shower water mixed with soap de-clumped the mascara; the conditioner untangled the bird’s nest of hair at the back of her scalp; the black coffee led her into the house next door to sobriety; the iced water quenched the daytime thirst. Breathing in the smell of jojoba and coconut, Antonia could pretend it hadn’t happened. Just another hotel. Another show tonight. Same old uniform. Jeans on, boots zipped, concealer under the eyes. Just like nothing had ever happened.
She stood at the window, looking down on the pavement below. Rain drifted across the cityscape through holes in the sky, an archetypal summer storm. Thunder blared, making Antonia jump as a knock came at the door. She turned to face it. Say what you like about her. While it was easier to pretend, in the end, she always did face up to things.
In the hotel room next door, where she had returned after the interview with Martin, Sera was on the bed in semi-darkness, the pale yellow curtains drawn against the continuing clash of the storm outside. Dreamily, she heard Martin’s knock on Antonia’s door as she lay on top of the covers, fully clothed, drifting down into deep yet disturbed sleep. As she sank into unconsciousness, she moved her head from side to side, sweat pricking at her upper lip.
In the dream, she was in the room at the top of Rapunzel’s tower. High walls, cream-covered cement, stretching up to a curved ceiling, ridged with time. The window was barred. She smiled at that.
Of course.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.
He had sometimes whispered this
as he pushed into her from behind. Her hair wrapped around his wrist, the ends of it split and rough like horsehair. As he rode her.
She sat up in the cell, sharply. Butting her head against the glass pane of memories, splintering it until the images exploded into shards raining down on to the bed. She noticed that her right hand clawed at the woollen blanket.
In another sudden and relentless movement, as if the earlier memory were now flattened on the road, mulched detritus under the heft of life’s momentum, two uniformed men banged the door of the cell open. The harsh light in the corridor outside mingled with the insistent light of the cell, turning them into one and the same, an all-consuming whiteness. To her left, a door she had never noticed revealed itself. As it gaped open, she saw beyond it the masked man; the hangman she had dreamt of. But the reality was different. He did not have Tristan’s face. His features were hidden under the cloth of his disguise; only his eyes glittered blackly from within.
But after all her dreams about him, he was not actually her focus. When she had imagined it, she had thought of staring into those eyes, seducing them, a conversation of pleas and bargains, communicated solely through her own blue gaze. As it was, she could only fix on the gnarly hewn-bramble beige of the rope, curled round, foetus-like: the circle of death.
There she would swing. Tied up with string.
10
If this was what it meant to be a single woman in middle age in the twenty-first century, then you could stick it, Martin thought. She studied Antonia Simpson, standing by the window in her cowboy boots, her dyed blonde hair curled to her shoulders, Dolly Parton eyelashes glancing off her cheekbones as she blinked vacantly back. Her breasts were fulsome, straining at her buttoned-down shirt, her teeth pearly white. Radiating around her, in an aromatic halo, was the unmistakeably sweet smell of stale booze, overlaid with a musky perfume, but there all the same.
The Taken: DI Erica Martin Book 2 (Erica Martin Thriller) Page 4