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

by Alice Clark-Platts

  62

  After getting off the train from Durham, Jonah shuffled along the street where he lived, head down, eyes half-closed against the daylight. He was nearly at his house. He felt so tired, so weary from it all. The death of Tristan had taken something from him. At first, he’d thought it was a weight that had been lifted. But now . . . now, he couldn’t place it. He was suddenly hungry. Hungry like he hadn’t been for years. He was ravenous.

  Mentally, he went through the cupboards in the kitchen, visualizing their contents. Some rice. Some beans. But he needed more than that. He needed something to fill the cavernous hole that yawned inside him all of a sudden.

  He had asked to see Sera before he left. Perhaps there was a chance that she would see him. Explain her hatred to him. Why she had done what she’d done to them all. But she had refused. No letter or note or message, the custody officer had said. She had merely turned her face to the wall.

  Jonah lifted his head and saw the corner shop at the end of the street. He hurried along, the sun warm on his back. He felt the pinch of the studs in his waist but he ignored them. Let them bleed.

  He was in the shop before he could think about it any more. He filled a basket with bread and jam and digestive biscuits. And then he turned to the back of the shop and picked up a six-pack of Tennent’s Super. He took the basket to the counter, without meeting the eyes of the elderly man serving him. As it was all rung through on the cash register, Jonah made a sudden turn back to the shelves; the impulse searing through him like rocket fuel.

  Nothing he’d done had ever been right. That policewoman hadn’t understood. Hadn’t got why he’d had to try to humiliate Tristan, show him up for the liar that he was. Now they all knew, now they saw what he was like. He was no man of God.

  Jonah’s fingers whispered over the top of the bottle of whisky; moved down, stroking the thick glass filled with amber. From outside the shop, a shaft of sunlight poured in and on to his shoulders. He had been betrayed by them all. All of them except God. And now it seemed as though God were approving his choice. Take it, He was saying with his golden light. Take the bottle and drink. This is my blood and my body.

  Jonah put three bottles of whisky into his basket and shambled back to the till. He watched through his lashes as his things were put into a thin blue plastic bag and he grabbed the handles of it as if he were grabbing at salvation.

  And then he walked out into the sunlight. Alone.

  The wind blew Antonia’s hair into a halo around her head. She could barely see ten feet in front of her, the rain was so heavy. The sky was dark, forbidding, but it seemed right that it should be so; it suited her. She took a sip from the Evian bottle, filled to the brim with neat vodka. She stumbled a little, causing her to grab hold of the concrete balustrade to right herself. It wouldn’t do to go too early. She had to think things through first.

  Antonia felt her face with the tips of her fingers. It was wet from the rain but also swollen and puffy. She drank more vodka, swallowing deeply. The wind had begun to howl; inscrutable moans. It was only after a moment that Antonia realized that some cries were coming from inside her. It brought her back to childbirth, to that guttural keening that was so much a part of her but also something entirely separate. Where did you end and the pain begin? Or was it all part of the same thing? Pain and happiness; often they seemed to come from the same core, deep inside you, where the truth of everything was hidden.

  She had held Violet for only a few moments before she had been taken from her. How was that fair? she thought. She’d had to watch Violet grow up from the sidelines. Watched her child run to her sister when she was happy or in pain, watched her throw her arms around someone else, give Sera the secret smile that only connects those so close it’s impossible to divide. As she grew, Violet even seemed to despise her. She resented her for the relationship with Tristan – as if Antonia had any choice in that, after a while. She would have done anything to have ended it after Violet was born. She would have given anything, said anything, paid anything . . . just to hold her daughter close to her chest and know that she would remain there.

  But the church had to be protected at all costs. Antonia had forced herself to observe the convenience of the lie with the detachment of a stranger. Tristan wanted to protect himself, not the church. Everything was done for Tristan – for him and because of him. And so, when he took her roughly into the room at the back of the hall; and held the back of her head against a wall and pushed into her, knocking her again and again against the cool concrete, until he moaned and jerked himself inside of her: she would say to herself over and over that if he was happy, she could stay near Violet; if he was happy, she could stay near Violet. Once he had finished, wiped himself clean and zipped himself up, Antonia would pull down her skirt and lean for a moment longer against the wall, planning how to get out of there without her sister seeing.

  After all of that, who could blame her for a little drink now and again? Antonia dribbled some vodka as she laughed out loud. Yes, the affair with Tristan had begun as far back as his wedding to Sera . . . but after the twins, Antonia thought, wiping her chin, if it hadn’t been for her begging, Tristan would never have had Sera back in the house. Sera always had to control things. She always told the story of their mother leaving them as if it had only happened to her. It made Antonia sick. What about her? What about Antonia?

  So fuck you, Sera! Antonia cried into the wind. Get your ghosts out of me! Leave me alone!

  She bent her head to the balustrade, her body trembling with sobs.

  It was nearly time.

  Violet was gone. It was time to go and join her. Together at last.

  Antonia drained the bottle and grimaced slightly before tossing it on to the ground. She smoothed back her wet hair and tried to dry her eyes as best as she could in the pouring rain.

  She heard the sound of a faraway click and took a breath, gazing down at herself. Apart from her face, she was looking all right. Still skinny, despite the booze, and her hair was good. She would look okay in the morgue, she thought with some satisfaction.

  She took a photo out of her jeans pocket and looked down at Violet as a baby. She had been such a pretty child.

  As the train rounded the bend, Antonia pushed herself off the balustrade and let herself run freely down the bank. And for that last moment she was free, thinking only of her daughter, as she stepped on to the track and turned to face the hissing, squealing cacophony of the train as the driver tried to brake, before smacking into Antonia and sending her into dark and blissful peace.

  63

  They had been inside the interview room now for nearly two hours.

  For a moment, nothing was said. The only sound was their breathing against the mechanical hum of the recording equipment.

  ‘Tell me why you came to Durham, Sera? Why did you want to come here with Tristan?’ Martin said at last. ‘Tell me what happened to him. Please Sera. Please . . . just talk to me.’

  Sera met Martin’s eyes with her own. Something passed between them: a darkening or a lightening, it wavered on the edge of the room and then seemed to settle inwards, a feather dancing down to the flat of the table.

  ‘They closed the Durham branch of the church about a year ago,’ Sera said quietly. ‘I deal with a lot of the emails, the admin. I saw it was closing. They hadn’t been getting any funds from headquarters for some time. It wasn’t financially viable any more. Thinking about this place, here. So near to home. It brought back memories. I . . . I don’t know why I didn’t tell anyone.’

  ‘You didn’t tell Tristan or Fraser that the Durham branch had closed?’

  ‘No. Then, not long after that, Tristan and I had a fight. He took me into a church near where we live – where we don’t know anyone else. He wanted me alone, you see. He wanted me vulnerable.

  ‘He said horrendous things. I’d been getting upset about the affairs, the constant . . . it was just so constant. Never any respite. But he wouldn’t accept what I said. We
had a terrible row. He threatened me with taking Violet away. Brought up what had happened to the twins. For the first time, I thought then that . . .’ Sera looked up at the ceiling. ‘That life would be better without him.’

  Martin held her breath, feeling Tennant stiffen beside her.

  ‘We were arranging the tour. I suggested Durham. Made out like I was in touch with the coordinator up there . . . I didn’t really know what I was going to do, but I thought sometimes that it might be right. It was a game I played with myself. A fantasy. That maybe, by God’s grace, he should be removed here. Where I had grown up.’

  ‘When you say removed, you mean . . .?’

  ‘Killed. Sent back to the Lord.’

  Martin breathed in, her pulse quickening. Was this the confession? She felt, rather than saw, Tennant’s scrawling of that reply on his notepad. ‘Did you choose the bed and breakfast? The Riverview?’

  Sera shook her head. ‘Fraser found it. Normally we’d stay in better places, but . . .’ She fell silent again for a moment, considering the space in front of her as if she were watching a film playing in the particles of air. ‘Later – when Violet and I were in that hotel you put us in, she said she’d had enough. That she wanted to leave. I couldn’t bear it.’ Sera began to cry, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I couldn’t let her go. My baby. I wanted her with me for ever,’ she sobbed. ‘That’s why I took her. That’s why. And then, when you turned up,’ Sera snarled at Martin, ‘we had to run. I didn’t know where to go . . . I could only think of one place. The place where everything had started. Where all the unhappiness began . . .’

  ‘Peterlee,’ Martin finished for her.

  Sera’s head dropped to her chest. Her shoulders shook with the sobs that racked her small frame. ‘I loved her. My Violet. I really loved her.’

  Martin watched her, wondering how things had grown so twisted in Sera’s mind. How she could perceive the world in such a dangerous and hate-filled way. Sera might not believe it to be true but, like many victims of bullying, she, too, had become a bully. She didn’t love Violet: she only loved herself.

  Martin shook her head, passing an empty polystyrene cup between her hands for a moment. ‘I think we’ve said all we can say about Violet’s death, Sera. You’ve been charged with her murder and you will have to answer that charge in court. As I said before, I want to speak to you about Tristan. But perhaps you’d like to take a break now?’

  Sera looked confused. ‘I don’t understand . . . What more is there to talk about?’

  ‘The murder of your husband, Mrs Snow,’ Tennant said patiently, as if to a child.

  ‘But . . .’ Sera frowned, pursing her lips. ‘I didn’t do that . . . I didn’t kill Tristan. I thought about it, yes. But I didn’t do it. When he died, everything changed. Don’t you see? That’s why I needed to do something. To keep her with me.’

  Something rankled with Martin – something Sera had just said. She glanced at Tennant but his head was back down, focused on his notes. ‘Perhaps,’ Martin carried on. ‘But it seems fairly straightforward that you had good reason to want Tristan dead, Sera. Like I said at the beginning of the interview, who cares, right? The man was a violent bully. Just like your father. I don’t blame you for wanting to smash his head in.’

  ‘No, no,’ Sera answered, alarmed. ‘You’ve got it wrong. I didn’t kill him.’ She shuddered in her seat, sinking into herself, her eyelids lowered. She had fastened herself up inside again. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, putting her hand over her mouth as if to stop herself screaming. ‘I don’t know anything. Please let me go now. I don’t want to talk any more.’

  PART FOUR

  * * *

  Not too little, not too much: there safety lies . . .

  Euripides, ‘Medea’

  64

  Martin was at her desk, staring into space and sipping at a peppermint tea, when Jones hustled into the room, her arm free of the sling. ‘I’ve had a call, Boss – on the Snow case – from Operation Awaken in Blackpool – their dedicated task force for looking into child sexual exploitation. They’ve been given the brief to investigate the Deucalion Church.’ Jones grimaced at the idea of being landed with this assignment. ‘I spoke to a good lad across there, Dave Crowther. Talking to him, I think it would be worth going over, seeing what they’re doing. Seeing if we can help with anything . . . Share some intel about Tristan Snow.’

  Martin continued to look at the screen, saying nothing.

  ‘Boss? What d’you think? Worth a trip or not?’

  Martin shook her head a little, bringing herself out of the trance. ‘Sera Snow’s on remand for the murders, under psychiatric watch until her trial. If anything transpires from a trip to Blackpool, we can re-interview her.’ She pushed her chair back and stood up, a dogged expression on her face. ‘Tennant checked with Lancashire CID. Mercy Fletcher – or Vicky Sneddon – hasn’t been told about Violet’s death. Least not by them. Maybe if we talk to her, tell her about her friend, what’s been going on, it might change her mind about speaking to us. We can drive across to Blackpool tomorrow if the team there are agreeable.’

  ‘Well if Mercy will talk, it will help. They’re between a rock and a hard place, frankly. Only one other girl has come forward after Nina.’ Jones glanced ruefully towards Martin. ‘Crowther says he’s sure there are more, but they’re nervous about coming forward. At least the press have shut up about it a bit for now. But that’s put a lot of them off talking to anyone.’

  ‘It’s not good enough,’ Martin said fiercely, glowering at the sky. ‘People must have known about Tristan. They’re just not saying. Nobody ever bloody says anything about him. But it must go deeper than that. Fraser Mackenzie pimped Nina Forster to Snow. He must know something, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Difficult though, isn’t it? If no one will talk . . .’

  ‘Mercy has to talk. I need to try with her anyway.’ Martin scooped her hair up away from her neck and exhaled loudly. ‘Shall we get lunch, Jones?’ She turned to exit the office, talking as she went. ‘When I think about it. Teaching all those children those untruths,’ Martin glared down the corridor as if at some invisible manifestation of all that was wrong with the world. ‘Some of the YouTube videos I’ve seen: creationism, calling abortion murder, having them hold ten-day-old plastic foetuses in their hands. They talk to them about going into politics, curing the country of its diseases,’ she continued in disgust, as they walked towards the lifts. ‘If that isn’t abuse – brainwashing small kids, kids as young as four or five – I don’t know what is.’

  Jones was silent, turning her engagement ring around on her finger. ‘Yep. But that’s freedom of speech for you,’ she said at last.

  Martin exhaled loudly. ‘That it is, Jones. That it is.’

  They reached Blackpool after a Burger King on the way, in a drizzly early autumn rain. They decided to try to see Mercy before going to speak to Operation Awaken in the hope they would then have some information to impart once they met the team. Jones had put Mercy’s address into the GPS and they were guided through the Blackpool suburbs by the grating American accent of the satnav’s disembodied voice.

  Martin pulled up shortly afterwards in front of a meanly proportioned terraced house, lace curtains concealing its interior. The women stared at the frontage, where the front door sat squarely on the pavement, unprotected by any boundary or garden.

  ‘Not much money,’ Martin observed, getting out of the car. She rapped on the door and waited. Inside the house a baby screamed, followed by some yelling. After a moment, the door was flung open to reveal a red-faced woman wearing pink velour jogging bottoms and a Fruit of the Loom T-shirt. She had a muslin square over her shoulder and dark circles under her eyes.

  ‘What d’you want?’ Mercy asked, in an exasperated voice. ‘I’m trying to get the baby down and she’s just sicked her milk up all over the carpet.’

  ‘Vicky Sneddon?’ Martin said. The girl nodded. ‘We’d really like to talk to you, if you’v
e got just a couple of minutes.’ Martin and Jones showed her their identification and Mercy looked daggers at them. ‘I know you don’t want to speak,’ Martin cut in, before the girl could tell them to piss off. ‘But it’s really important. It’s about Violet,’ she said, her eyes calm, wide in their appeal. ‘You remember Violet Snow, don’t you Vicky? She was your friend, wasn’t she? Your best friend.’

  ‘What about her?’ Mercy said, her body half-turned back inside the house. Martin could smell laundry detergent and boiled vegetables. The front door led directly on to the minuscule front room where Martin could see that the television was on, some daytime soap in which a blonde woman was dying dramatically in a hospital bed. Upstairs, the baby continued to cry aggrieved and hiccupping sobs.

  ‘Violet is dead, Vicky. I’m sorry,’ Martin said gently.

  The girl’s face turned pale and she swayed a little on her feet.

  ‘Come on love,’ Jones said, stepping forward and steering Mercy by the elbow. She led her into the house and sat her down on the sofa.

  ‘Dead?’ Mercy asked over the racket. ‘How?’

  Martin sat on the armchair next to her and leaned forward in earnest. ‘We need to have a chat, Vicky. About everything. How about we make you a cuppa, eh? While you see to the little one. And then we can have a chat.’

  Mercy nodded and gave a little sniff. She moved her head in the direction of the ceiling, where the baby’s cries had now turned into a noise Martin couldn’t even place, a visceral and wild bellowing. Mercy looked bone tired, exhausted beyond anything Martin could imagine. She pulled herself up and stomped up the stairs slowly. Gradually the howling diminished and eventually stilled.

  The women looked around the room. A sofa and chair faced a television in the corner. Every available space was covered in soft toys, empty baby bottles, white muslins, mugs of half-drunk tea and baby wipes – some used, some still in their packets. ‘Is this . . .’ Martin started, waving her hand around, ‘. . . is this . . .?’