The Taken: DI Erica Martin Book 2 (Erica Martin Thriller)

by Alice Clark-Platts

  This bit will be hard, Antonia, if you didn’t know already. Then again, I think you did. You certainly knew some of it later, if not all of it. I wouldn’t have seen it myself if a bird hadn’t suddenly dived down to the empty polystyrene chip tray Tristan had dumped by his deckchair. I turned to see what the ruckus was, as the bird screeched loudly before flapping off with the tray in his beak. As I swung round, I saw him wrapping a towel around Mercy. And as he did, in a move so deft that later, I almost had to convince myself I hadn’t invented it, he rubbed his right hand between Mercy’s legs, his thumb slipping under the crotch of her swimming costume. Mercy turned away and Tristan looked right at me, his eyes sapphire-blue against the grey sky behind.

  ‘All right, sweetheart?’ He smiled at Violet. ‘Time we got back and got nice and dry.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Show’s starting in a few hours.’

  I’m sure Violet saw. But she said nothing, picking up her bundle of clothes and walking mechanically away from the surf up to the cluster of buildings that lined the seafront. I was stuck. Was I shocked? I don’t know any more. But I focused on putting one foot in front of the other and soon I reached the top of the beach. Mercy’s cheeks glowed red, but perhaps that was from the cold water.

  That was Margate, Antonia.

  That was what you missed.

  20

  ‘Mercy Fletcher is a childhood friend of Violet’s who she says was abused by Snow,’ Martin said to the team, pushing a sandwich away untouched on the desk in the incident room. ‘Violet says she doesn’t think Mercy moved away from Blackpool, so someone needs to work with Lancashire MIT and see about tracking her down.’ She stared at them all in turn. ‘There were loads of kids at the Deucalion Church, weren’t there? It was known for taking them in. Was it only Mercy he was abusing? Are there more of them? It’s possible this is going to spark a whole new investigation, and God help us if the press find out at this stage.

  ‘I’ll speak to Lancashire today. Get them prepped on a coordination.’ Martin shrugged. ‘But in terms of Snow’s murder, are we saying that there’s yet another suspect? Someone who hasn’t even been placed in Durham? Violet’s implicated by the nightdress, Mackenzie’s got no alibi. And if Mercy is involved, we’re still facing the problem of where she is in the city – if she’s here at all – or how she got into the B&B given it was locked up all night.’

  ‘What about Violet? She’s saying that Snow was an abuser,’ Jones pointed out. ‘What about her? Did he abuse his own daughter? It must be a possibility, right? Violet said she and Mercy were only ten years old on that trip to Margate.’

  ‘She said not in the interview and . . . I don’t know, I believe her. She seems so strong, if I’m honest,’ Martin answered, with her eyes closed, remembering the girl’s response. ‘She doesn’t strike me as a typical victim of abuse and, even if she’s lying, what can we do about it? He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘But if she was being abused, it gives her more of a motive, doesn’t it? To kill him. So it’s an incentive for her to keep quiet about it,’ Jones remarked.

  ‘True. But the statement about abuse is problematic in itself, isn’t it? I mean, it’s coming from Violet, who’s in a tricky situation at present. Arguably, she’s telling us this to take the heat off her.’ Martin rubbed her hand across her face. ‘It was Snow’s blood and hair on the cross, but there were no fingerprints on it. Blood spatter analysis shows he was definitely kneeling, so it looks as though he was deep in prayer when he was hit. Apart from that nightdress, nothing’s come up on any of the clothes we took for analysis from the people in the B&B. I mean . . . let’s say Violet’s not the killer . . .’

  Jones raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Whoever did it must have had to change their clothes after the murder. They would have been covered in blood.’

  ‘Hence the bloodstains on the nightdress,’ Jones said. ‘There’s no DNA on it apart from Violet’s.’

  Martin looked hard at the team. The fight with Sam last night had deprived her of sleep and the result was dark circles under her eyes, her skin pale. ‘Yep, she’s our major suspect. But I want to get Mackenzie in and look him in the face. And Sera’s still very much in the frame, with a huge motive.’

  ‘Although if she murdered him, why would she want to pin it on her daughter? Why would she have planted the nightdress?’

  ‘I agree. Still, if you look at the nightdress on its own, it’s fairly circumstantial. There’s none of Violet’s DNA on Tristan or the murder weapon.’

  ‘She was there. She found him,’ Jones said, exasperated. ‘She’s telling us about Mercy to shift the blame on to someone else.’

  ‘We can keep her in for another twelve hours but I think we’ll struggle with just this evidence with the Crown Prosecution Service. It’s not enough, particularly with all the other potentials. I don’t want to jump to a solution just because it seems the most obvious. Whoever killed Snow wants us to do that, is my feeling.’

  ‘Not that the simplest explanation is usually the right one?’ Jones asked.

  Martin gave her a swift smile. ‘Occam’s Razor, eh Jones? Well, perhaps. But right now, I think we should bail Violet and see where we get to with our other enquiries. Let’s get Mackenzie in for an interview, for starters. Antonia’s so-called alibi needs confirming.’ Martin’s mouth tightened. ‘I’ll follow that one up. And let’s track down Mercy Fletcher as soon as we can. Regarding Sera and Violet, we’ve put in a wire at the Travelodge, so that might yield something.’

  Jones bit her lip. Why was Martin so unwilling to see Violet as the perpetrator? Martin, sensing Jones’s disapproval, felt a surge of energy. She jumped down from the desk and prowled the incident room, her eyes narrowed, hurling glances at the team, willing a victim to present themselves.

  ‘Um, excuse me Ma’am . . .’ Fielding flushed red in the face as he spoke, and all eyes in the room focused on him. Martin seemed like an Amazon at the front, her red hair coming loose from its bun, green eyes piercing Kryptonite. This was his first posting with the Major Crime Team, and being wet behind the ears wasn’t the half of it. Fielding faltered.

  Martin saw him dig his nails into his palm. He was a baby, she thought. She took a breath. ‘What is it, Fielding?’ she asked. ‘If you’ve got a feeling about something or think something’s relevant, say it. This room is where we can say things to each other. Even if it sounds stupid.’

  ‘Mrs Quinn,’ he said. ‘I said so earlier to Sergeant Jones. There’s something about her that’s a bit . . .’ he searched for the word. ‘Strange?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, we had tea together but she kept looking at her sideboard. Like she was fixated on it. It was a tic. She could barely look me in the eye.’

  Tennant came into the room then, a baguette in his hand, crumbs on his tie.

  ‘Nice of you to turn up,’ Martin said.

  ‘Sorry, Boss.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Martin directed to Fielding.

  ‘Kind of,’ he answered. ‘I just felt like . . . like she was hiding something.’

  ‘Eileen Quinn?’ Tennant asked.

  Martin nodded, her eyes flicking down to the baguette, disapproval marking her face. ‘What about it?’

  Tennant grinned. ‘Mrs Quinn’s got a bit of form. Spate of shoplifting about ten years ago. Nothing much. Make-up. A blouse.’

  Martin raised her eyebrows. And?

  ‘So she’s on the system, like.’

  ‘This is like pulling teeth, Tennant. Can you spit it out, whatever it is?’

  ‘So I checked the CCTV of the front reception when that photo got delivered here – the one of Snow and his bit on the side. Nothing. Person had a hat on or something, got their back to the screen so you can’t make out anything. So I sent the envelope off to the lab. And got a fingerprint on it. Ran it through and what do you know?’

  ‘Eileen Quinn?’

  ‘Eileen Quinn,’ Tennant said, taking a bite of the baguette as a dollop of
mayonnaise landed squarely on his lapel.

  21

  Fraser Mackenzie was waiting for Martin by the front desk of the police station as she was leaving to head to the Riverview boarding house.

  ‘Ah, Mr Mackenzie, good,’ Martin said. ‘You’ve beaten me to it. I was going to come and find you today.’

  Mackenzie stood with a frown. ‘I need to know when we can leave Durham. I need to get back to the church, to my office. Sort out the mess we’re in.’

  ‘I understand,’ Martin answered. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come with me now, to somewhere more private?’

  They walked through the swing doors behind the desk to a small interview room along the corridor.

  ‘How’s Violet?’ Mackenzie asked. ‘Is she still here after you nabbed her in the middle of the night?’

  ‘She’s been bailed. I believe she’s gone back to the hotel.’

  ‘Are you thinking she’s to blame for Tristan’s death?’ he asked.

  Martin watched him sit in the chair opposite her, interested in his choice of phrase. He made it sound like Tristan had been hit with a car, not had his skull bashed in. ‘Ah,’ she replied with a smile, ‘I’m sure Violet can fill you in if you want to know the details.’ Martin sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. ‘So, when did you start working with Reverend Snow?’

  ‘Uh, I think it must have been the early nineties? I’d lost my job in London. Well, I was, uh . . .’ he shifted in his seat. ‘I was in a bit of a bad way. I knew Tristan from when we were teenagers. He’d lived up in Edinburgh for a short while; we went to school together, played in the school band. When he moved away, we used to write, you know? Stupid boy stuff. But we were pals. So when I needed a job, Tristan offered to have me come up to Blackpool. Work with him at the church.’

  ‘Are you a religious man, Mr Mackenzie?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Not especially,’ Mackenzie folded his arms. ‘But a job’s a job, and Tristan certainly knew how to put on a show. That’s more my line. Entertainment, you know. So, as I said outside, when can I leave? When can we get back to business?’

  ‘That’s going to be difficult, isn’t it?’ Martin said, looking up, an easy expression on her face. ‘Now that the cash cow’s been killed?’

  ‘That’s a punchy thing to say.’

  Martin smiled at him, meeting like with like. ‘I’m a punchy sort of person,’ she said.

  Mackenzie gave an angry cough. ‘The church still exists. It has a large congregation. The outpouring of grief has been extraordinary. I’ve got journalists wanting interviews, we’ve got this vigil tonight and then I need to head back. We need to handle the fall-out. Work out a strategy.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Martin said. She looked down at the papers in front of her, then glanced up to find Mackenzie’s sights on her, an expression of pure steel. She smiled again. ‘You and the Reverend were directors of the company formed out of the Deucalion Church, is that right?’

  ‘I still am.’

  ‘Is the church a registered charity?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So when people donate money to Deucalion, they’re giving it . . . for what?’

  ‘To help with its upkeep. To help run it.’

  ‘Including your salary?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You don’t find that to be, shall we say, somewhat unethical?’

  ‘No I don’t, Inspector Martin. What’s your point?’

  ‘Well, let’s say when I go to church, I’m looking for some spiritual guidance, a little help in life.’ Martin sat forward in earnest. ‘I probably get that from my time there. I feel enlivened, emboldened by what I’ve seen. I feel really grateful. So I want to give something back. What can I give? I think to myself. Well, I can give my time. Help out at the coffee mornings. Work in the shop. And . . .’

  Mackenzie continued to look calmly at her, his eyes hard under the bright fluorescent ceiling lights.

  ‘. . . perhaps a bit of cash? Perhaps I could sign up for a little . . . monthly Direct Debit?’ Martin tapped the papers. ‘Like we’ve got here. Church membership: one hundred pounds. Church maintenance fee to be paid monthly, direct into the church bank account: amounts ranging from fifty pounds to five hundred pounds. Special festivals and celebrations, perhaps a little light exorcism – fee to be arranged on request.’ Martin put her hands behind her neck, an expression of disdain floating across her face. ‘But nowhere does it say, in the information on the church website, that the money collected will not, in fact, go to the maintenance of the church. Nor will it actually help to run it, won’t be used to upkeep the building, no roof repairs. No. That money goes straight to you and, before his untimely death, Reverend Snow.’

  ‘Yes. And we pay for everything. We support all the staff. Contrary to your derogatory remarks, we do maintain the building. We fund the tours. The church is a business, Inspector Martin. It’s run like a business. You’re naive if you think we’re using the money to make jam to sell at the Christmas fair.’

  ‘But there’s no transparency. You’re using the idea of miracles – of hope – to trick people into giving them their money. Poor people. The people with the biggest need for hope and the least wherewithal to fund it.’

  ‘I find this conversation extremely offensive.’ Mackenzie made as if to stand up.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Mackenzie.’ It was Martin’s turn to fold her arms. ‘Have you heard of a company called Winterbourne?’

  Mackenzie lowered himself back gently on to his chair. His eyes flickered, shifting to the table for a second before meeting Martin’s again. He sighed loudly. ‘Yes. Yes, I have.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘As I’m sure you know, Winterbourne is a partnership that I’ve invested in. They fund creative enterprise in various places.’

  ‘With the idea of making a profit from those enterprises that you would eventually see the benefit of somewhere?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where would the profits go, once you had received them?’

  ‘They were apportioned to a company called Digby Limited.’

  ‘Of which you are a director?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Along with Reverend Snow?’

  Mackenzie’s face was bland. ‘No. Tristan wasn’t a director of Digby.’

  Martin raised her eyebrows, feigning surprise. She looked again at her papers. ‘But, hang on. It says here that you were both directors of the Deucalion Church Company?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But then you set up another company – Digby – to receive the profits from the partnership with Winterbourne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did Reverend Snow know about Digby?’

  ‘I don’t believe so, no. I don’t know,’ he said wearily.

  ‘But you were funding the Winterbourne partnership with monies realized from . . .?’

  ‘Deucalion,’ Mackenzie said, quietly.

  Martin grinned out of the blue. ‘Why’s it called Digby, out of interest?’

  Mackenzie rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. ‘Digby was my dog when I was a boy. A collie.’ He looked at Martin with a grudging respect. ‘He ran off after I’d had him three years. I searched everywhere for him. Was distraught. Spent hours roaming the streets, calling out for him.’ Mackenzie’s eyebrow lifted in irony at this idea of himself, so vulnerable, when now he was so guarded.

  ‘And did you find him?’

  ‘I did. He was living with another little boy about four streets away. The boy had been feeding him, caring for him.’ Mackenzie chewed his lip. ‘In the end, the dog preferred the other boy to me.’ He glanced at Martin. ‘How did you know? I mean, why I’d called the company after the dog?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ Martin paused. ‘But I was thinking . . . I thought that if I was going to betray my childhood friend, one who’d cared for me when I needed it most . . . Well, I’d want some reminder of why I was doing it.’

  ‘Which was?’
/>   ‘A time when you yourself had most been betrayed. When you learnt to protect yourself.’ Martin shrugged. ‘It was just a hunch. Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t . . .’ She tailed off, bending her head again to the papers. ‘So, Digby gets the siphoned-off profits from Winterbourne. But then,’ she looked up. ‘Judging by the state of the church’s accounts these days, I’m imagining Winterbourne started losing money.’

  Mackenzie sighed again and leaned forward. ‘Look, I’m going to level with you. You’ve clearly done your homework. Let’s not drag this out any longer. Even if Winterbourne made a loss, I could offset that loss against any tax revenue. So it was a win–win. But then HMRC got the measure of it. Shut it down. Demanded the back taxes.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Three mill.’

  Martin gave a low whistle. ‘Did Tristan know?’

  Mackenzie nodded. ‘We spoke about it just before coming up here. He wasn’t best pleased, shall we say.’

  ‘So the church is broke. Hence the less than top-notch accommodation, the desperate need to sell out the conference centre? How did Tristan take it? Hearing about this?’

  Mackenzie was silent, grim.

  ‘He wanted you gone, didn’t he? He told you to pack up and get out after the Durham shows.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘Where were you going at six in the morning on the day of Reverend Snow’s murder?’ Martin asked sharply.

  Mackenzie’s head whipped up. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You were seen walking along the hallway of the boarding house. Where were you going?’

  Mackenzie’s face turned ashen. ‘Would you believe me if I said I was just going to make some tea?’

  Martin put her head on one side.

  ‘The truth is just as shaky,’ Mackenzie said.

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘I went for a walk. I’d got in late but I couldn’t sleep. I’d slept to begin with but woke up about 5 a.m. I always do this when I’m stressed. Go off to sleep okay but then wake up in the middle of the night, and then that’s it. So I just gave up. Thought I’d get some fresh air, wander around. Clear my head.’