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

by Alice Clark-Platts

  As the first clap of thunder snapped, breaking the storm, I knew that I had come to the right place.

  ‘This is my church,’ he said, as he took my hand in his.

  We had escaped. And our escape led me to my love.

  To Tristan.

  31

  Martin was running fast, her lungs screaming with the effort. She ran along a narrow corridor where the brown carpet zigzagged into infinity. The walls were encroaching; she had to use her hands to propel herself along them, her palms damp and clammy with sweat. At the end of the corridor, light from a window cut like a scythe on to the dark floor and she saw she was racing towards a life-size cardboard cut-out of a photograph. She slowed herself, breathing hard.

  The photo looked like one of those carnival cut-outs they have at the end of the pier, where a head is stuck through for a photo atop a fat woman’s body in a red striped bathing costume. But here, the faces remained uncut. And the figures were her and Jim. She was in his arms, one leg kicked back gaily, a look of love on her face so pure it made her sob. She leaned in closer, her fingers outstretched, wanting to go back, be in the photograph again, just for a second.

  With a start, she realized her mistake.

  The man in the image wasn’t Jim. It was Tristan Snow and his arms around her were iron and the smile on her face was contorted, fixed in place. Martin snapped back her hand and then she heard someone calling her name.

  Mercy.

  She knew it was her, in her bones she knew it. Mercy kept shouting for her, screaming for Martin’s help. But Martin was stuck, trapped in Snow’s arms, and she couldn’t break free of them . . .

  The noise of the phone crashed into the dark of Martin’s comatose sleep, bringing her to its surface without apology. She flung herself over to the other side of the bed, her mouth dry with the taste of stale whisky, her hand scrabbling on the bedside table to stop the ringing.

  ‘Hello?’ she mumbled, pushing herself up on to her elbows.

  ‘Detective Inspector Martin?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s DC Allen. I’m calling from the surveillance team on the mother and daughter at the Travelodge.’

  Martin sat up immediately, calming her thoughts from the rattle of the abrupt awakening. ‘What’s happened? What’s the time?’

  ‘It’s just gone 1 a.m., Ma’am. They had an argument a few hours ago. Nothing major, just a barney. It went quiet so we left it, thinking they were asleep. But . . .’

  Martin switched on the light next to her bed, swinging her legs round, wide awake now. She eyed her clothes bunched on the floor, her head pounding. Bloody Egan, she thought, ignoring her own culpability in her hangover. ‘But what, Allen? They’re still there, right?’ She gave a short laugh.

  ‘They’re not, Ma’am. Their room is empty. We’ve checked CCTV at all entrances and exits to the hotel and they’ve been seen getting into a car.’

  ‘Can you track them in the car?’

  ‘We’ve got footage of it leaving, as I said. We’ve traced it on the PNC to a hire car company.’

  ‘Is there a wire on it?’

  ‘We were instructed to put a wire in their room, Ma’am. Which we did. If we had been instructed to put an officer outside their door, we would have done that. I’m afraid we didn’t know to put a wire on a car that we had not been informed the suspect had in the first place.’

  ‘All right Allen. Stop with the attitude,’ Martin said, pulling on her trousers with the phone balanced under her chin. ‘So we’ve lost them?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s the case, Ma’am.’

  Martin looked at her reflection in the mirror on the wall opposite her bed, her pupils dilating, her lips dry.

  Where have you gone, Sera? What have you done?

  Martin stared at the empty hotel room. It was in semi-darkness, the lights of the night-time city sprawling across the vacant bedlinen. ‘What is the point of surveillance? Tell me that.’ She hit the wall with her hand. ‘Shit!’

  ‘Where is she?’ a voice said from the hotel room doorway.

  Martin whirled round to find Mackenzie standing there. His face was crumpled from sleep, although he was dressed.

  ‘Christ, Mackenzie, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ he shrugged. ‘I told you before, I’m an insomniac. Went for a wander and saw Sera’s door was open. Where is she?’ he said again.

  Martin whirled back to the empty room. ‘I don’t know. Not here.’

  ‘And Violet?’ Mackenzie’s voice was tense.

  ‘She’s gone too. As you can see.’

  Mackenzie licked his lips as Martin strode to the window, looking down on to the street. She turned back to him in the murk of the unoccupied room. ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘This isn’t good. I’m worried,’ he answered.

  ‘Why are you worried?’ Martin queried. ‘I mean . . . worried for who?’

  ‘I’m concerned that she’s taken her,’ he said. ‘Sera, I mean. Taken Violet.’

  Martin stared at Mackenzie. ‘I don’t understand. You think Violet’s been taken against her will?’

  ‘They’re gone, aren’t they? Both of them. Nothing else makes sense. Look at what happened to Antonia.’

  ‘What are you saying? Do you know something about the attack on Antonia? Was it Sera?’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly. But I’m worried for Violet.’ Mackenzie was breathing rapidly, the noise of it stuffy through his nose. In the dim light of the room, Martin suddenly saw how unattractive he was. His mouth hung open a little, pasty folds of dry skin around his neck. His eyes were concerned, but they had the look of someone with another agenda. Under the worry, a crocodile lurked.

  ‘What do you think has happened, Mr Mackenzie?’ Martin asked.

  Mackenzie was silent for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts.

  ‘Mackenzie? What is it?’

  ‘It’s happened before,’ he said, reluctantly. ‘Going off.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Seraphina. She ran off a number of years ago.’

  ‘And, what?’

  ‘When she came back . . . well. She’d not been in a good state. She’d . . .’ his voice dropped low. ‘Done things.’

  ‘What do you mean? What things? What are you talking about, man?’

  ‘Look, I’m concerned about Violet. About the wee girl. Alone with Sera in this state. Last time . . .’ his voice trailed away, his lips trembling.

  ‘Spit it out, Mackenzie. You’ve got my full attention.’

  Mackenzie lifted his head to meet Martin’s gaze. The room was quiet, the whirr of a far-off helicopter the only sound. ‘Don’t you understand?’ he said. ‘This is what I’m trying to tell you. Seraphina is dangerous. She is a very dangerous woman.’

  32

  Do you remember? How they used to come in, out of the rain? Shaking their umbrellas, wiping droplets of water from their brows? Blessed are the meek, I used to think, watching them file along the wooden benches. They would never change their positions in the congregation, would they? They were too afraid – of someone challenging them, asking them to move out of their seat. They were all so frightened. Fearful of life.

  Dad was there, serving with Tristan. It was easy, wasn’t it, once I’d met my husband, for you all to follow me. The Deucalion was so much better for us. And for Dad. Tristan was like a son to him.

  Do you remember how they would wait in the small room behind the altar; bowed heads, a last minute of silence before Tristan would stride into the foreground, emerging like a Bethlehem star on to his stage?

  The night Dad had to leave the church. I can see it so clearly. It must have been Christmas because there were poinsettias. I was at the front. I don’t remember where you were. Probably having it off with the choirmaster.

  I’m joking.

  But that night. It was important, wasn’t it? It was when Tristan finally showed his metal. He finally became the true master of the church. Of us all.<
br />
  I helped him, of course.

  I remember singing that hymn I always liked. We sang as one, Jesus shining a light, filling the land with his hope and glory. At least, I tried to sing it. I moved my lips, but often in those days my voice would vanish. Just for a few moments. Looking back, I think I understand now why it happened. I don’t think you ever learnt this lesson; you would carry on talking right until the end of the tequila bottle.

  But I . . . I controlled myself. I knew what Tristan needed. I knew my place. On the rare occasion I would speak my own mind, trouble always arrived on his chariot. So it seemed as though that effort – to shut my words in – meant I lost the right to choose. I would only talk at his beckoning. I had become his.

  That night, the choir emerged as always, from the door to the left of the altar, singing along with the congregation. Tristan and Dad were the last to appear, stern and serious looks on their faces: the work of God is no laughing matter, after all.

  It was the eighth month of my pregnancy and the babies were kicking me. I was uncomfortable. I hadn’t wanted to come. Tristan had insisted. Later on, I understood why.

  I considered both men as they stood side by side. So different in so many ways. Tristan’s sense of purpose went deeper than Dad’s. His was an underground cavern dripping with a thousand stalactites of seemingly neverending resource.

  Things took place as normal. Dad moved behind the altar to break the loaf of bread. He held it aloft and tore it from the middle, crumbs dripping down on to the white tablecloth that covered the altar. Then he filled up the clay mugs with wine. People began to process up to him, to receive the spirit, the body of Christ.

  Then I saw that Tristan had moved to the lectern. This was unusual. Dad had provided the sacrament; he should give the sermon. But then Tristan began.

  ‘Faithful are the wounds of a friend.’ His voice was low; the candlelight danced behind him, reinforcing his stillness. ‘St Paul tells us in Corinthians about the power of truth. The truth we know about ourselves. And . . .’ He paused. ‘. . . the truth we know about each other. Here, in this room.’

  The babies inside me stopped their squirming as if they knew what was about to happen. I realized then. He was going to do it. He was going to bring down our father before the congregation.

  ‘The truth is hard. It is a wall of rock that looms over us sometimes. It bears down on us, overshadowing our lives. It takes over our lives, prevents us from living like good Christians. But yet, how much easier to live like that . . . like that,’ Tristan continued, ‘than to climb that wall of rock, to overcome it and put it in its place.’

  Remember how he spoke that night? He needed no notes; the words flowed out of him in a gush, a waterfall of power and belief, sweeping us all along by his force, by his conviction. He spoke of Paul again, his voice rising to the ceiling, his arms bringing us in closer, teaching us, loving us, if only we would do as he said: he spoke of the Pauline conversion which meant that nothing else mattered; nothing except our relationship with God. And with the church, of course. He smiled at us. The truth hurts . . . Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and no regret . . . And again: faithful are the wounds of a friend.

  Now – ha! Now, the cold night was forgotten, now the room was hot with faith. Tristan was magnificent, Antonia. You must have thought so, too: his hair falling down across his brow, his eyes burning into ours; he seemed to soar above us. The love in the room was palpable.

  Except – it’s true – for the cold, dark corner where our father sat. He was steeped in a dank pool, slick with the oily sheen of rainbow-coloured rage. He sat on his hands. I wondered: would he fight back?

  ‘Remember,’ Tristan said, ‘remember the awful time when witches were burnt at the stake, when Senator McCarthy accused innocent people of being traitors to their country?’ He put his hands to his chest and nodded his head. ‘We are not like that. No. But –’ and here he crooked a finger ‘– we have a duty to our church to set forth before us all a carpet of truth. A tapestry of words that we can release into the open. So that nothing will be hidden from us again. So that our church can move forward with dignity, and in a spirit of love, knowing that nothing is more sacred than forgiveness.’ I remember him leaping down from the lectern and pacing across the dais. ‘Let us begin. Come forward.’

  I realized, then, what he meant for me to do.

  He smiled at me. ‘Come forward, little hen. Take my hand. Come and stand with me before our children.’

  I was nervous, my mouth suddenly dry, my belly tight and awkward.

  ‘Now tell us, little hen. My Seraphina. You begin us. We will take our lead from you, our mother. What do we need to know? What is there hiding like Lucifer, like a rat in the shadows here tonight?’

  I closed my eyes. What he was asking me . . . he was asking me to denounce my father. And I was to do it here, in front of everything I held most dear.

  You remember that, don’t you?

  While you hid in the back, lounging on your own inadequacy, I did it.

  I stepped forward, taking my place alongside my husband.

  ‘I know things about Brother Jonah,’ I said. ‘I remain true to God’s name. I will tell of them now.’

  And then I began to speak.

  33

  Violet knew something was wrong.

  Several things occurred to her at the same time. From sleep, her senses had become suddenly bombarded with sensation. A metallic taste: thick lips, heavy eyes and . . . pain? Was that what it was? Pain in her stomach, at her right temple. And then again, was it actually sleep that she had emerged from? She felt she was still sucked half into it, groggy and stupid. That wasn’t normal, was it?

  She thought she had better sit up. But that was strange, too. As her stomach muscles contracted into the movement, something held her back. She tried again and the same thing happened. That was when she realized she wasn’t just in the dark of her bedroom in the early morning. The blackness was pitch: a coal black heavy on her face.

  That was when she realized that she couldn’t move her hands.

  That was when she realized she was blindfolded.

  ‘Talk to me.’ Martin gestured to the bed in the hotel room for Mackenzie to sit. She’d turned the lights on in the room, and the electric hum combined with the drab colours of the carpet and walls gave her the feeling of being back in the nightmare she’d just had, one from which she would never wake up.

  Mackenzie sat heavily, his mouth petulant.

  ‘We don’t have much time. If you’re as worried about Violet as you say you are, you need to get busy telling me what’s going on.’ As Martin spoke, her brain was crashing around, sorting out thoughts and ideas that hurtled through it like a shower of meteors. They’d done background checks on the Snow family. None of them had criminal records, their slates were clean. Not even so much as a parking ticket.

  ‘But did you check her medical records?’ Mackenzie asked, as if reading Martin’s mind.

  Martin looked at him, waiting.

  ‘It was a long time ago, right? Tristan and Seraphina . . . they – well, they were going through a bad patch.’

  ‘What kind of bad patch?’

  ‘Tristan was . . . well, let’s just say he wasn’t always the most faithful of husbands.’ Mackenzie exhaled loudly. ‘He had a lot of attention, you know? Especially after he was on TV. Women, honestly, they – they threw themselves at him. And then there was the congregation, they all fawned on him. When he stood up there, he was kind of . . .’ he gave an almost proud smile ‘. . . well, powerful.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And so, he enjoyed it. Took a little present now and again.’

  ‘He was sleeping with these women,’ Martin confirmed, an edge to her voice.

  ‘Said it was for the pressure. That he had to be strong for them all. If that meant getting a bit of release, with a bit of a . . . well, so be it.’

  ‘And Sera knew about it, obviously . . .’

/>   ‘Would’ve been hard not to. Especially in the early days, we were a small community. We lived on top of each other. So to speak.’

  Martin listened, her pulse racing. She wanted to be out on the search for Sera. Sitting here, waiting for Mackenzie to slowly spill facts was, for her, like torture. ‘Tell me,’ she said, burying her impatience. ‘Tell me what you mean. Why is Sera dangerous?’

  Mackenzie met her gaze, leaning his elbows on his knees. Something about the ease of his pose unsettled Martin. A truck rattled by outside, a reminder of the world beyond this place where time seemed to be standing still.

  ‘What?’ Martin barked, frustration pulsing through her.

  ‘Look, I don’t know, Inspector. A lot of things happened in the past. Sera was crazy for a while. Mad with jealousy. She turned against everyone. She was like, I don’t know, like fury personified.’

  Weird choice of word, Martin thought, but chose not to remark on it. ‘But why do you say she’s dangerous?’

  Mackenzie stood up, his hands curled into fists in his pockets. ‘Nothing was ever proved. I’m not accusing anyone of anything.’

  ‘Mackenzie, what are you talking about?’ Martin got to her feet as well, impatience etched on her face. ‘Have you got anything to tell me, or are you just wasting my time?’

  ‘The twins, Inspector Martin. Look back and see what happened to Sera and Tristan’s boys. Now just find her, though. Find her before anyone else gets hurt.’

  34

  THE DURHAM CHRONICLE ONLINE

  THURSDAY 11 AUGUST, 2016

  REVEREND TRISTAN SNOW ACCUSED OF SEXUAL ABUSE

  It emerged today that Tristan Snow MBE has been accused of sexually abusing underage teenage girls by a fellow pastor at the Deucalion Church in Blackpool, where Snow worked throughout his career.

  Snow was never charged with any abuse offences during his lifetime.