Martin had a flash-forward; an image of herself in twenty years’ time; alone and childless, putting more and more make-up on to hide the lines, the flabby folds of skin under the chin. No, she thought. God, no.
Rain clattered against the window, the daylight now officially became dusk, as slate-grey clouds swirled creatively behind Antonia’s head. The Travelodge where the Family Liaison Officer had brought the family after their necessary departure from the Riverview B&B was typically plastic; primary-coloured swirls and zigzags splashed on to soft furnishings in an attempt to inject some personality into the mundane.
‘How the mighty have fallen.’ Antonia gestured at the marmalade-coloured bedspread and the white electric kettle with the tiny plug hanging down on the bedside table. She had the same remnants of the north-east in her accent as her sister, Martin noticed. Antonia moved to turn the light on over the bed. When it finally burst into life after a desolate hum, the room remained gloomy; a lone pinprick of a spotlight shining on the left-hand pillow.
Martin moved a chair out from behind a piece of furniture that could have been a table, a desk or a television stand, she couldn’t tell. She sat and indicated that Antonia should do likewise. Antonia perched on the bottom of the double bed, legs tucked together like a prim bird on a narrow branch.
‘Why are you seeing me here and not at the police station?’ Antonia asked.
She was bright, then, Martin thought. A spark pulsed in the air and Martin felt suddenly sure that Antonia would reveal something. Brassy, leathery, tart with a heart, cliché . . . a cliché hiding . . . what? A cliché designed to conceal. Was that Antonia? The storm seemed to reach inside the room then; a flare of lightning, illuminating Antonia’s face for a second, revealing the shadows under the make-up, the darkness of her eyes. In that moment, Martin saw that she was a drowning woman. Antonia’s mouth twitched involuntarily for a second on one side. Yes, something would emerge from this.
‘You will need to make a statement. But I wanted to see you first in more comfortable surroundings. I gather you were unwell earlier, at the B&B?’
Antonia’s eyes flashed before she reined her expression in. ‘I had too much to drink yesterday. Felt a bit worse for wear this morning.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Last night? Some pub in town, I don’t remember the name. And then – up a hill?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘A biker bar? There was a pool table.’
It sounded like the Angel, Martin thought. A dive popular with rough guys on the outskirts who rode into the city on Harleys and generally caused trouble. Someone would need to check it out. Antonia would have stood out a mile in a place like that.
‘Were you with anyone else, with friends?’
‘Just lil ’ol me,’ Antonia said, smiling, her white teeth dazzling from behind pink, mother-of-pearl lips.
‘Where did you sleep?’ Time to crack on, Martin thought.
Antonia crossed her legs and inspected one of her nails. ‘I made a friend.’
‘Does your friend have a name and address?’
Her eyes lingered on her cuticles. ‘Sadly, no.’ She looked up at Martin then, and gave a small laugh. ‘Friends come and go, though, don’t you think?’
‘What time did you get to the bar, and what time did you leave it?’ Martin asked with a patience she didn’t feel, itching to get uniformed officers round to question the bar staff with Antonia’s photograph.
‘I just can’t remember,’ Antonia said, smiling sadly at Martin. Her shirtsleeve dropped back, revealing an almond-shaped bruise on her wrist; purple round the edges, yellowish in the middle. Old contusion, Martin thought. Much like the one she had seen on Sera in her interview earlier. Why does everyone in this family seem to have bruises? Antonia carefully pulled the sleeve down, avoiding looking at Martin.
‘So you would have left the theatre after Tristan Snow finished rehearsing. You didn’t go to dinner with him and his family?’
Antonia’s eyes narrowed at that. ‘His family . . . sure.’
‘Did you go to dinner?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘You went straight to the bar you mentioned? Or you went to other places first? Look, Ms Simpson, it’s pretty simple. I just need an account of your whereabouts from when you left the theatre, around . . .?’
‘Seven p.m. Maybe?’
‘Right. 7 p.m. until 7 a.m. Twelve hours. That’s all.’
Antonia bent her head, squeezing her eyes shut. ‘I left the theatre . . . walked into that square in the middle of the city? There’s a pub in the middle of it. Some kind of tavern?’
The Market Tavern, Martin surmised, adding the name to the list of places to check.
‘That was where I met this guy. He’s some local journalist, I think. Wanted to talk about Tristan, once he found out I’m his sister-in-law. They always do.’ She gave a low laugh. ‘We had a few drinks then he suggested walking up a hill to another bar he knew. That was the biker place. We stayed there the rest of the night. Drinking, talking . . .’
‘What time did you leave? Can you remember?’
Antonia shook her head. ‘I can’t. Tequila, you know?’ She gave another little laugh. ‘Anyway, we left and ended up at his place. Wasn’t far from there from what I recall. We sat downstairs, drank some more . . .’ she sighed. ‘To be honest, I think I just crashed out on the sofa. He tried it on. Of course. Then he put on Easy Rider. I couldn’t concentrate on it, you know? Bloody Dennis Hopper. Can’t understand a word he says. He gave me a spliff . . .’ Her eyes widened as a thought occurred to her. ‘He had an Irish name . . . something Keagan? Logan? Anyway . . . two drags on that and I was out for the count. Woke up, he was gone.’ She shrugged. ‘Found my way back to the B&B. When I got there –’ she waved her hand at Martin ‘– I heard the news.’
‘Keagan? Logan? Is that his first name or surname?’
‘I don’t know, Inspector,’ Antonia replied, wearily.
‘So the upshot is – if we can’t find this man – that no one can . . .’
‘No one can verify my whereabouts, that’s true,’ she cut in. ‘But I didn’t kill the preacher.’ She snorted another laugh. ‘Sounds like a Dusty Springfield song!’
Martin didn’t smile. ‘Indeed.’
Antonia’s face straightened. ‘Seriously. I didn’t. Much as I would have liked the bastard dead. Sadly, I wasn’t the one to have the honour.’ The curse sounded odd coming from her lips. Dolly gone bad.
‘You didn’t get on with your brother-in-law?’
‘That’s an understatement.’ Antonia stood abruptly and went to the window, looking out and down on to the street. ‘We tolerated each other for Sera’s sake. And Violet’s.’ Her voice trailed away.
‘But?’
‘But . . . people aren’t what they appear sometimes. The man was a pig. A big fat pig.’ She traced her finger down the condensation gathering on the inside of the window, her reflection mirroring her actions in the spattered pane of glass. ‘He deserved to die. And I’m a Christian woman. Listen to me!’ Irony dripped from her in company with the droplets on the window.
‘Tell me about him,’ Martin said. ‘Why was he a pig? What did he do? From everything I’ve read so far, he seemed very respected.’ She breathed in, hooking the fly on the line. Would Antonia bite?
Antonia looked at Martin in pity. ‘Oh, that’s a shame.’
‘What is?’
‘I thought you would be intelligent.’
Martin waited. Too obvious. ‘People aren’t what they appear sometimes,’ she said at last.
Antonia raised an eyebrow. Taking a breath, she seemed to take a decision. ‘If you really want to know, Tristan was a mix. He could be very charming, very comforting, a great host. A man always ready to top up your glass, sit you down, focus on you, listen to you. That’s how he drew them in. The people who came. His voice, when he was on it. You could listen to him for hours. He would describe the world in colours that seemed . . . he gave you hope. An
d yet, at the same time . . . he stole it.’ Antonia’s voice dropped and she muttered something Martin couldn’t hear.
‘What was that?’
She turned to face Martin with a grim smile. ‘I said he stole hope. Hope is a cheap date, Inspector Martin.’
Martin swallowed. Here it comes: the reveal. Antonia had let something in her go, thoughts were hurtling through her, racing past stop signs.
‘He would lead you to a place where you would think you could achieve something, where you believed that you were actually worth something, not what you told yourself you actually were every day. He made you believe that you were good, that you could be whatever you wanted.’ She hesitated, tears in her eyes as the last dregs of the comfort of the alcohol finally seeped away. ‘He would tease you until you believed him, until you would relax, just a little bit. You would start to think it was true. Then, just when life was opening up and you would start to think that you weren’t so bad, he’d remind you that it was all bullshit.’ Tears began to fall down Antonia’s cheeks, soaking into the denim of her shirt, turning the material dark blue.
‘How would he do it?’ Martin asked.
Antonia lifted her hair up off the back of her neck and rested her head on the glass, closing her eyes. ‘In the cruellest way possible,’ she said. ‘He would belittle you.’
11
‘Snow was an abuser, I’d say,’ Martin said to Sam in his office. ‘Mental – maybe physical – wife and her sister have some bruising. If so, though, they’re being quiet as church mice about it.’
‘Alibis?’
‘Nope. Wife was in bed asleep, as was daughter. And the sister was out on the lash in a bar and then in some random bloke’s living room who we’re going to struggle to find based on the little she’s told us.’
‘Is she lying?’
‘Possibly . . .’ Martin sighed, looking at Sam, who had his head bent to the desk. ‘Uh, I’ve heard from Jim. He wants to have dinner.’
Sam lifted his eyes and stared silently at her for a moment before picking up a paperclip from his desk and passing it to and fro between the fingers of his right hand, as if playing a game. ‘Who with?’
‘Dealing with emotions as sport on the merry-go-round, I see?’ Martin’s tone was bitter.
‘Don’t quote Hardy at me, Martin.’ Sam exhaled loudly, tossing the paperclip to one side. ‘Jesus.’ He stood up, pushing his chair back, his hands in his pockets. ‘What’s the problem? Go and have dinner with him. He’s the one who left, Erica. I don’t see this as an issue.’
Why don’t you care? Martin thought, hating herself as she did so. Because isn’t that the issue: that he was the one who left?
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Do you want there to be a problem?’
‘I don’t want to have dinner with him. Or anyone, quite honestly. I’ve got enough going on.’
‘This is what I warned you . . .’ Sam said.
‘Don’t “I told you so” me,’ Martin snapped. ‘I just want to be able to do my job without a whole bunch of other shit.’
‘So do it,’ Sam replied, a frustrated edge to his tone. ‘Ignore Jim and get on with it. Come on, Erica. This is . . . I don’t know what it is. It’s like I’ve done something wrong. Like you’re wanting something from me. What is it?’
Martin started to roll her eyes but managed to control the impulse. What was she, fifteen? This wasn’t like her. She was pathetic. ‘I need more from Violet, the daughter, is my feeling,’ she said, her voice hard. ‘None of them have decent alibis, but all of them have some kind of motive, I’m sensing.’
Sam gave up, sat back heavily in his seat and picked up his pen. ‘Sure. Do what you need.’
‘Walsh is being slow. I’ll have to chase him after the press conference. The post-mortem’s booked for then. But I mean, how long does it take to determine that someone was hit on the head?’
‘Right.’
She waited, but nothing more came.
‘Okay then, thanks,’ she said as she left the room, closing the door behind her. She stood for a minute, breathing in and out quietly. Why was she behaving like this? She was pushing Sam away and that familiar cavern was opening up inside of her, pulling her down. She screwed her eyes shut and sent a bargaining chip up, past the plasterboard of the ceiling, into space and whatever resided there. Take it away, God or whoever. Take these feelings away and let me do my job. And I swear, I’ll do whatever you want. Please.
Eileen Quinn watched them from her bedroom window, where she had scurried after she had been let back into the B&B. Five policemen with black rain jackets over their uniforms, polythene bags over their shoes, pacing methodically in a steady line over the lawn in the garden. The storm had cleared and only a light drizzle remained, spitting down the backs of their collars, their bent heads sleek like seals, eyes trained on every blade of grass.
Idiots, Eileen thought, witheringly. She moved her head in contempt, feeling the reassuring click of her earrings as they swung. She bit her lip, fingering the cross around her neck. Ah well. Soon it would all come to pass. But then she remembered the letter. She needed them out of here before they found it.
She was just deciding to go and make tea for them all when a knock came at the door.
‘Mrs Quinn?’
It was the youngest one. He seemed to be about fifteen. Good-looking if you liked sticky-out ears and a weak chin. He was a beanpole; he had to bend his head under the door frame. This place was a dump really, Eileen sighed to herself. The ceilings were sinking along with the profits.
‘Wonder if I could have a word?’ the policeman persisted, pretending that Eileen wasn’t giving him the stink-eye. She lifted her chin. She came from better stock than this, after all. Her great-grandmother, Anastasia, had been on the Titanic. Second class, too. She herself had been on the London stage. She had been Eliante at The Latchmere. Ah, those days . . . How had she ended up here?
‘I’ll make us tea,’ she said, drawing herself up with something akin to a regal manner. Fielding swallowed. He had sampled Mrs Quinn’s rust-coloured liquid earlier. Three chocolate biscuits later and he still couldn’t get the acrid dairy taste out of his mouth.
Fifteen minutes later and they were sat at the kitchen table, china mugs in hand, a packet of chocolate Hobnobs standing sentry between them.
Eileen brushed crumbs off her ample lap. ‘Where’s the main woman? What’s her name? Sounds like a man?’
‘DI Martin, you mean?’ Fielding answered. ‘Oh. She might interview you later, but . . .’
‘Got to see if I’m worth her time, have you?’
‘Uh, no. Not like that.’ Fielding reddened. He reached for the tea to displace his awkwardness, rueing the decision as the flavour of curdled roof tiles hit his taste buds. He smiled, nodding, grabbing a biscuit, cramming it into his mouth to override the sensation.
‘Nice, them, aren’t they?’ Eileen nodded at the packet. ‘Had them on sale at Lidl.’ She put her head on one side and decided to give the young chap the benefit of the doubt. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to know my whereabouts.’ She gave a small tut. ‘Before you kicked me out of here this morning, of course. I couldn’t believe I was barred from my own home. Deary me.’
Fielding coughed a little so as to better swallow the mush in his mouth. ‘Sorry about that, Mrs Quinn. But obviously we needed to search Riverview thoroughly before anyone could be let back in.’
‘What’re you looking for in the garden, then?’
Fielding felt this interview slipping away from him. He seemed to be answering more questions than he asked. ‘Nothing, uh, now then, Mrs Quinn.’ Fielding sat up straighter in his chair. Focus. ‘Can you tell me about your movements last night, please?’
‘Certainly.’ Eileen folded her hands on the table. ‘I ate my tea at just gone six. Nice bit of gammon. Then I had a cuppa watching that Schofield man on that quiz show. I do like him, you know.’ She stared off into the distance as if reminiscing about a long-ago rom
ance.
‘And then?’ Fielding prompted. ‘What time did you turn in?’
‘About nine-thirty it must have been. I watched half that silly thing about the servants but couldn’t be bothered with it, if I’m honest. So I toddled up to bed. Lights out.’
Fielding looked at her carefully. Had there been a tell, then? A glint in her eye as she rocked back in her seat, hand to her throat? They would need to check the TV schedule, although of course anyone could look it up, pretending to have watched things they had never seen.
‘Do you lock the front door when you retire, Mrs Quinn?’
Eileen nodded approvingly. She liked the word retire. It was apt for someone of her stature. ‘I do,’ she answered primly. ‘My guests all have a key. They can let themselves in when they retire themselves.’
‘Do you have any sort of curfew?’
‘Midnight.’ She gave a silly sort of smile and another shake of her earrings. ‘The witching hour, no less.’
‘But you’d have no way of checking who’d returned and who hadn’t, I suppose?’
‘I’m up every morning at 5 a.m.’ Eileen looked at Fielding sternly. ‘I can’t be waiting up all night for every Tom, Dick and Harry to come in, can I? I’ve got to cook breakfast at the crack of dawn.’
‘So you would have heard Violet Snow come down this morning at seven, then?’
‘What’s that?’ Eileen narrowed her eyes.
‘Violet came down at seven to make her and her dad a cup of tea. Did you see her then?’
‘Uh, no. I must have popped upstairs to get something.’
‘What time would that have been?’
‘Well, I don’t really know.’ Eileen began to look flustered. ‘I don’t wear a watch.’
Fielding leaned forward, his voice friendly. ‘I understand, Mrs Quinn. But we need to establish what was going on in this house last night and this morning. Are you saying you didn’t see Violet this morning?’
The Taken: DI Erica Martin Book 2 (Erica Martin Thriller) Page 5