‘You mean . . .?’ Martin was tentative, processing what she had heard as she spoke. ‘Violet was responsible for the attack on you? Did you see her?’
Antonia gave a painful nod. ‘But I would never have said.’ Her eyes bored into Martin’s. ‘But now she’s dead, you must see . . .’ She fell into silence again, then managed to take another breath. ‘She takes all the children. All the children.’
Martin inhaled softly. ‘What do you mean, Antonia? Who does? Sera?’
‘Evil, evil, evil . . .’ Antonia began to cry, the tears dropping noiselessly on to the bandages on her face.
‘Sera takes all the children? The twins, too?’ Martin persisted.
‘She takes everything.’
The door opened with a gust of hospital aroma, of antiseptic and burnt toast, as the ward sister bustled into the room. ‘That’s enough now, Inspector. She’s had enough.’
‘What do you mean, Antonia? What did you mean about the children?’ Martin persevered, her gaze fixed on Antonia.
‘That’s it now. Let Ms Simpson rest.’
‘Please . . . just two more minutes . . . Antonia.’
Antonia turned her face away from Martin and stared resolutely out of the window, the expression in her eyes the only evidence that the conversation had ever taken place.
58
‘We’ve found her, but she doesn’t want to talk to us,’ Tennant said glumly, staring into his coffee at the large table in the briefing room. ‘Mercy Fletcher, that is. Although, as we know, that’s not what she calls herself now.’
Back from her visit to Antonia, Martin sat opposite him at the large table in the middle of the briefing room, next to Fielding – still a little green around the gills, just out of hospital himself. ‘Jonah was right then?’ she asked.
‘Yep. Vicky Sneddon she is these days.’ Tennant shrugged. ‘She does live in that house you went to, Fielding. She was out when you visited. Was working the day of Snow’s murder, and her best friend says she was round at her place the night he was killed. Lancashire MIT door-stopped her yesterday. But she doesn’t want to talk.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘Just got married. Got a brand new nipper. Wants to put it all behind her, she says.’
‘So she acknowledges that something happened?’
Tennant shrugged. ‘Said she didn’t want to hear his name ever again. Tristan Snow’s.’
Martin fiddled with her identification lanyard on the table, spinning it round into a circle one way, and then in the opposite direction. ‘Can’t force her to talk to us,’ she acknowledged. ‘She’s got an alibi for the murder, and there’s not much we can do in relation to the abuse allegations if she won’t speak.’
‘Subpoena her to give evidence against Sera?’ Tennant said.
‘Evidence for what? She’s not a witness to Violet’s murder. Or Snow’s for that matter,’ Martin replied. ‘Does she know about Violet’s death?’
‘Wouldn’t have thought so,’ Tennant answered. ‘I can check.’
Martin nodded, pushing her lanyard away with a tired air. ‘How’s Jones?’
‘Doing better. Think she’ll be discharged tomorrow.’
‘That’s good at least. And have we got any further in working out why Eileen Quinn was doing the poisoning? Why she stole Tristan Snow’s cross?’ Martin directed the question to Fielding.
‘The SOCOs got the teapot from her house and we sent it off for testing,’ Fielding explained, with a vague shudder. ‘It was crawling with solanine. She’s been chopping up potato tubers and shoving them in the pot for weeks. It’s a miracle more people weren’t sick. I must have a sensitive stomach,’ Fielding said, abashed, ‘given I got ill so quickly.’ He sat up straighter in his seat. ‘She gave different answers to why she stole the cross as opposed to the photo . . .’
Martin inclined her head.
‘Said she loved him at the time. Stole the photo off his dressing room mirror to remind her of him. When he came to Riverview, though, she stole the cross because by then she hated him. Was going to sell it on eBay . . .’ Fielding shook his head. ‘She came to the hospital, like. I thought she was going to attack me. But she wasn’t. She just wanted to check I was all right. Weird old bat . . .’
‘She gave the tea to everyone though, didn’t she? Was that just her peculiar insane thing? I mean, was she actually trying to kill Snow?’ Martin said. ‘Or just make him sick? Wanting to punish him for dumping her? Because that adds her back into the mix, doesn’t it? If she was doing that? Tried to poison him and then, when it wasn’t working quickly enough, she sneaks in his room and bashes him over the head.’
‘She’ll be interviewed again tomorrow,’ Tennant said. ‘She’s saying it wasn’t intent to kill. And, as you say, it wasn’t like she was just poisoning Snow, was it? She was giving it to everyone who drank the stuff. Look at Fielding . . . I reckon she was just doing it to entertain herself. Punishing the Reverend was just an added bonus.’ He shifted down in his seat. ‘Reckon she’s just an old bat with a few fries short of a Happy Meal, like.’
Martin flung him a look. ‘Does everything always need to be about food with you?’
Tennant coughed, moving on. ‘What was the result of the inquest, Boss?’ he asked. ‘Of the twins’ deaths? Sera Snow’s boys?’
‘It was open, but a narrative verdict of misadventure,’ Martin replied, standing up and moving to the window, missing Jones as she talked, missing her take on things. ‘But Mackenzie clearly wanted to bring it to our attention, so I wonder why . . . If Sera was the one to harm them, it’s evidence of Sera’s instability, of her being unhinged, right?’
‘Pretty harsh, if you accept it’s true. That you’d kill your kids to have revenge on your husband for playing away . . .’ Tennant said with a rare display of caution. ‘Who’d honestly think that was a good move? I mean . . .’ his voice trailed away, emphasizing what they all thought. That to murder your own children was beyond the pale.
Martin looked at him. ‘Notice how Sera changed the spelling of her name? Sarah to Seraphina? Jonah Simpson mentioned it, too. I think her life changed irrevocably after the twins’ death. I think she became a different person.’ She turned round from her spot at the window and gazed fiercely out on to the tree-lined road that bordered the MCT office. ‘What are we dealing with here, then?’ she asked. ‘A serial killer? Three counts of filicide . . .’ She shook her head, her face in an expression of bewilderment. ‘What kind of woman does this?’
‘And let’s not forget her husband,’ Fielding spoke up. ‘Surely she’s firmly in the frame for that after all of this. Especially after what we know about Violet not being her daughter, about what he was doing to Mercy and whoever else?’
‘Yep,’ Martin replied softly. ‘If she could murder her children, I can’t see it being much of a leap to move on to her husband. Jesus Christ. What a bunch of Jeremy Kyle rejects.’ She cleared her throat, pulling her seat out and taking it, turning a biro between her fingers. ‘So the years roll by, Snow’s getting his rocks off in the church and God knows where else with the kids who come to see him. And then his whole crew end up here. Under the roof of the Riverview boarding house.’ Martin placed the pen carefully on the desk. ‘Why there? Who booked them in?’
‘Sera,’ Tennant answered.
‘No, it was Mackenzie,’ Fielding said. ‘Mrs Quinn told me. He made the booking.’
‘We know they were struggling financially, which is why they were staying in a shithole. But why that one? Coincidence? Or did Mackenzie know that Quinn and Snow had history? He must have known, he was around then,’ Martin said, pinching her nose and grimacing where it still hurt – an image of Violet coming into her head as she remembered the girl hitting her.
‘He’s having money troubles, yeah? So he thinks he’ll put Sera face to face with one of Tristan’s girlfriends and she’ll snap and do him in. Problem solved,’ Tennant said.
‘Except Sera’s been traipsing all over God
knows where with Tristan’s bit on the side, Antonia, for the last twenty years and hasn’t snapped before,’ Martin observed. ‘And we still don’t know why that bloody pigeon was under the bed.’
‘And what about Antonia?’ A voice came from behind them. They turned to find Jones, pale in the face, her left arm in a sling but standing strong, rooted in the doorway. Martin smiled at her sergeant, relief washing over her at the sight.
‘All right, Jones?’ Tennant asked, with a quietly pleased expression. ‘What do you mean, Antonia? Did Antonia do it, do you mean?’
‘No,’ Jones said, shaking her head and coming to sit at a desk, resting her arm carefully on the arm of the chair. ‘I mean, who was it that painted the acid on to Antonia’s face?’
‘Ah,’ Tennant said.
‘Ah, indeed,’ Martin replied, continuing to look warmly at Jones. ‘Violet, right, Jones?’
Jones nodded, surprised. ‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘I suspected it after I read the transcript of the wire we put in Sera and Violet’s hotel room. They allude to it. But I’ve also just been to see Antonia, who confirmed it. Sera wouldn’t have done it to her sister. Whatever else, she was her blood. All these years, she’s never done anything to hurt her. Everything she’s done has been to hurt either Tristan or herself. I think Violet hated Antonia, hated her for how she had betrayed her mum. Because, of course,’ Martin remarked, ‘Violet didn’t know that Sera wasn’t actually her mother.’
‘It’s true. I remembered in the hospital. I should have said something but things were . . . they were hazy. But in the car,’ Jones continued, ‘Sera told Violet she knew what she’d done to Antonia, what she’d done to her face. She said she was proud of her.’
Martin raised her eyebrows. ‘Well that’s another thing to add to the list to put to her in interview,’ she said. ‘Nice to have you back, Jones.’
‘We got you a present actually,’ Tennant chipped in, passing Jones a multi-coloured bag, with a grin.
Jones, looking down at the bag, said, ‘Juggling balls . . .’ She looked up and punched Tennant lightly on the shoulder with her good arm.
Martin shook her head at Tennant as if indulging a child. ‘We’d better get back in the interview room with Sera, Tennant. You’ll watch on the CCTV, Jones?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ Jones replied.
59
Antonia steadied herself as she finally managed to sit upright. She brought a hand gingerly to her face, feeling the bandages swaddling her cheeks. Her eyes were still half-closed, puffy and swollen. She swallowed as she moved, mustering the courage to keep going despite the throbbing in her head.
She brought her feet to the floor with what seemed like a huge explosion of noise. She moved her head carefully to one side, the movement of an owl, searching through the glass pane in the door for any stirring at the nurses’ station. No one was there, for once. Antonia breathed again and put her hands to the side of her hips, pushing gently so that she made it up to standing. She crept forward towards the slim cupboard beside her bed in which her clothes were stored. Inside was the dress that the nice orderly had brought her this morning.
He was sweet. Done exactly as she’d asked; accepted her explanation that she was sick of wearing the hospital gown. It was more than anyone else had done for her in a long, long time. She had been left here alone, suffering these injuries, suffering her grief, all by herself. When her face had been flayed. And now, this news about Violet.
Antonia’s eyes swam with tears. She wouldn’t cry. No, not this time. She took another breath and slipped off her gown. The lights in the hospital corridors were soft at this time of night. The nurses carried on with their rounds, but at allotted times. It had been just a few minutes earlier when the sister had checked in on Antonia, so she calculated she had at least another forty minutes. Luckily they’d removed the drip that afternoon, so she was free to move around.
It was a wrap dress. That orderly was considerate, Antonia thought; he realized that getting clothes over her head would be difficult. He was odd-looking – bug-black eyes and scraggly white hair. But he had a big heart. Bless, Antonia thought with a smile that drained away as she remembered that no matter what the orderly looked like, she would no longer be of interest to the opposite sex. Not with this face.
She pushed that shard of truth out of her mind, turning her thoughts back to what that policewoman had told her. She wished she’d asked more questions, but it had been too shocking.
Sera had killed Violet.
That had to be what she’d meant when she said that Sera was implicated in Violet’s death. Had she been arrested, though? She must have been. What had she done to Violet? What had happened?
After the policewoman had gone, Antonia had stared into nothing for an hour. Then, she had put the news into the vault where she kept things she didn’t want to consider again. And then she had had two thoughts: first, that she needed – and quite frankly deserved – a drink; and, second, that the time had finally come to put an end to this.
She poked her head stiffly outside the door to her room but pulled it back in as quickly as she could muster, as a nurse rounded the corner at the end of the corridor. Antonia swallowed. Any sudden movements made her head seem three times its proper size. Eventually, the squeak of the nurse’s rubber-soled shoes faded and Antonia looked once again outside her room.
The corridor was empty. Taking her chance, she sidled out of her door and padded away from the room towards the emergency exit.
Sera sat in the cell at the bottom of Durham police station, with its white walls and its blocked-up window. The door was propped open with her own shoes. She gazed at them for a long while. They had no laces. The policewoman who had put her in here had been pleased with that. Presumably they were worried she would kill herself.
She remembered buying those shoes at some little shop away from the seafront. It wasn’t so long ago that she’d done it. A few months before they’d come here? Things were unravelling even then. Violet was older. She was asking too many questions.
Violet . . .
The death of Violet still seemed suspended, unresolved in the universe. The fact of it existed outside Sera; it hadn’t penetrated inside. What people didn’t understand was – people who had never killed – was how easy it was, killing.
It only resulted from actions, after all. A swipe of the hand, a push of a shoulder, a minute too late, too early. Life spun on these seconds and nobody ever realized it. Death was everywhere. You just had to invite it in.
It was funny how nobody ever got it. The force with which you could decide something irrevocable. The secret was that the decisions you thought were the big ones, the ones that would alter everything – those generally had the least impact. It was the insidious choices that were the dangerous ones, the ones you hardly gave a thought to: a turn of the wheel this way or that; a flip of a coin; a punt. Those were the times when you should be very, very careful.
Stop yourself and wait a breath.
Like, after her father had left the church, Sera had gone at once to Tristan. He had taken her into his arms; that familiar comfort, the smell of him, his strength. This was the old house, with the polished floors and the mahogany bed; wide window sills squaring off partitioned sash windows; fresh blue light; the yellow comfort of daffodils. He laid her on white sheets upstairs, held himself over her with a look of such tenderness that she was undone.
Then he pushed her over on to her stomach and entered her from behind, fast and hard, causing her to gasp. As if from above, she watched him move inside of her. She didn’t resist the violence; the pushing of him, whole and rigid, into her, jabbing at her core. He was searching for her: she could feel him probing, pushing her to the brink of herself. For a moment, it enabled her to forget, just to be. But then, as always, she retreated at the last, as if the truth were too hot to touch. Once again, at the closing up of her, he withdrew and released himself upon her indifferently.
She
watched this from above, quiet, unmoving. She watched him fall off her, on to his back, his hair flopping down over his forehead. She saw her wet thighs as she rolled over herself, to lie star-shaped next to him. She gave him everything she had, especially then, in the moments of violence. But afterwards, it was always palpable that actually, she had given him nothing of herself. She remained intact.
‘I feel sad,’ she had said at last, her eyes sliding over to him, pulling the sheet up to hide her naked chest.
Tristan lit a cigarette, leaning back on the pillows, exhaling the loud sigh of the world-weary wise. ‘About Jonah? Don’t. He’s gone, the stupid prick. It’s better this way.’
‘Still . . . because it was me. It would have hurt him.’ Sera prodded.
‘He couldn’t have cared less about you,’ he said. ‘Just liked the sound of his own voice.’
Sera moved her head towards the half-open window. The sweet chirrup of some bird skipped through it, accompanied by a soft breeze of a budding, green spring. She shivered a little. Perhaps she was afraid of him after all, she thought. Despite her deliberate goading.
Tristan turned on his side to face her. ‘Look at me.’ He took her firmly by the chin and pulled her face towards him. ‘Look.’
She moved her eyes to his, her pupils dilating at the closeness of him, the raw quality of his latent anger. To tempt him was to have him. ‘You know why you did it,’ he said, a menacing roughness in his throat. ‘Don’t you?’
The banishment of their father.
Yes, she knew. It was his punishment for failing their mother.
‘I know that you do,’ Tristan said. ‘So now, you have everything you need here,’ he said. ‘Me. The boys. Your sister.’
At the mention of Antonia, Sera stiffened involuntarily under the sheet.
‘All you need is right here.’ Tristan took his hand from her chin and swept it firmly and carefully across her cheekbone. ‘Say it.’
The Taken: DI Erica Martin Book 2 (Erica Martin Thriller) Page 25