‘What having a newborn’s like?’ Jones said, with a grin. ‘Well, I’m no expert but me mam had three. Can be pretty chaotic.’
Martin saw Jones glance down at her engagement ring, which glinted in the dismal light of the cottage. She shook herself internally, annoyed at her awkwardness in this scene of domesticity. ‘Better get the kettle on, Jones. She could do with one, it looks like.’
‘Right you are,’ Jones said cheerily.
After a while, Mercy came down the stairs, a baby monitor in her hand. She still looked shocked by the news and seemed to sleepwalk to the sofa, where she sat down on a discarded dressing gown. She put the monitor on the coffee table; the heavy, sleepy breaths of a baby making the green lights flicker a little on the screen. She roused herself, saying, ‘She’s an angel, really. Just got a bit of reflux. Drive you crazy, they do, little buggers. But I wouldn’t send back my Paige for all the world.’
‘Is your husband at work, Vicky?’ Martin asked. ‘We heard you’d got married recently.’
She nodded. ‘Yeah, Colm works at the motorbike place down the road. A real petrolhead, he is.’ She managed a small smile before remembering what she’d heard. ‘I can’t believe it. About Violet. How did she die?’
Jones walked in, precariously holding three mugs of tea. ‘Here you go, love. I put a couple of sugars in it. Good for the shock.’
‘I’m sorry to say that Violet was murdered, Vicky,’ Martin said as she put her mug of tea down on the carpet.
Mercy stared at her, uncomprehending.
‘She was killed by her mother,’ Martin went on gently. ‘You remember her mother, Sera Snow? She’s not a well woman,’ she said.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Mercy said again. ‘I mean, I hadn’t seen her in years. Haven’t seen anyone from that place in years. Well, apart from Father Jonah once, but that was just for a moment.’ She shivered. ‘She was my friend,’ she said, looking wide-eyed at Martin. ‘She didn’t deserve that.’
‘No, she didn’t,’ Martin replied. ‘And that’s why we’re here, Vicky. We want you to help us find out what was going on in that place. In the Deucalion Church. We need to understand so we can get justice for Violet. For the children that were there. For you,’ she said, holding Mercy’s gaze.
Mercy lowered her head immediately, her shoulders stiff and hunched. The breathing of the sleeping baby came warm and calm into the room.
‘What happened, Vicky?’ Jones asked. ‘Can’t you tell us?’
Mercy was quiet, gnawing on her index fingernail, staring at the baby monitor. She closed her eyes for a brief moment before forcing herself to look at Martin. ‘I was very young when I first went to Deucalion,’ she said. ‘Mum took me at the start – I must have been about five. They were lovely there. Steve – that’s my dad – left us about then,’ she said without rancour. ‘Mum was lonely, I think. Wanted some help and support.’ She gave a small, bitter laugh then, jerking her chin upstairs to where the baby slept. ‘I can empathize now, right?’
She was bright, Martin thought. She observed things well, was sensitive.
‘We used to go quite regularly,’ Mercy continued in a nervous voice, but it had strength to it. She was going to face her demons until they were gone. ‘Then Mum got a job and didn’t have as much time. So she’d drop me off. I’d go to the Bible classes a lot. They had Kids School on a Sunday – all day it used to run.’
‘What would happen at Kids School?’ Martin asked.
‘It was fun. Most of the time.’ Mercy stared into space as if she were back there, watching herself at the church in an old home movie. ‘We’d play games in the loft. Listen to music.’
Something burned in Martin’s brain as Mercy talked. What had she just said that had caused it? She tried to think back, but Mercy was continuing, running a hand over her face.
‘It’s sad, when I think about it. How desperate we all were.’
‘Desperate for what?’ Martin queried, still trying to get what it was that was nagging at her.
Mercy looked openly back at Martin, her voice level. ‘Desperate for their love, for their attention.’ She coughed. ‘I think – looking back – that I wanted a father figure of sorts. You know?’
Martin nodded.
‘I needed someone in my life, someone who would love me.’
She paused then, as the baby gave a small cry. The women waited, listening hard, waiting for more. After a while, when no further sound came, Mercy carried on. ‘Violet and I were inseparable. And Sera . . . she was like a mother to me. They looked after me. Took me into their home, their family.’
Mercy stopped again, but this time her eyes were filled with tears.
Martin waited, her nails digging into her palms, out of sight of the girl. What was coming? It was like standing at the top of floodgates, waiting for them to burst.
‘Just before we went to Margate; that was when it started.’ She stared at them in misery. ‘The abuse.’
‘How old were you?’ Jones asked.
‘Ten,’ Mercy replied. ‘At first, I was confused. I didn’t know what to think. I liked him, looked up to him. Everyone did. He told me that I was special. That I was his special chosen one.’ Mercy spat out the words with vitriol.
‘How long did it go on for?’ Martin asked.
‘Until I left the church. When I was twelve, I changed schools. Went to a different one from Violet. I told my mum I didn’t want to go back to the church. She didn’t care by then. She’d got remarried. I went to a new school and when I left, I changed my name. Got married. Made sure I never saw any of them, ever again.’ Mercy sat back in her chair, grey with exhaustion.
‘You never went to the police?’ Jones questioned.
Mercy laughed as if tasting something sour, biting again at her fingernails. She didn’t answer.
‘Did you ever talk to Violet about it?’ Martin said.
‘No. How could I? I told a friend of mine at our school once. Caroline, I think it was. But I made her swear not to tell anyone. I was frightened. I thought no one would believe me. And I was right. They didn’t.’
Martin tensed at that. ‘They didn’t? Meaning you did tell someone? Someone who didn’t believe you?’
Mercy began to look about the room like a caged animal.
‘It’s all right, Mercy. Vicky, I mean,’ Martin said quickly, her palms facing down, trying to appease her. ‘Just take your time.’
‘I need a fag,’ Mercy said, with a grimace. ‘Gave up, didn’t I? When Paige came along. I’m gagging for one now, though.’
Martin and Jones looked helplessly at her, neither having any cigarettes.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Mercy said with a sigh.
‘Who did you tell?’ Martin asked quietly. ‘Who was it that didn’t believe you?’
Mercy looked at her, seeming to weigh it up. ‘He told me I had asked for it. That it was my fault. And then at Margate, he showed me. Showed me how unclean I was.’
‘Who showed you?’ Martin said, confused. ‘This was a different person from your abuser?’
Mercy nodded, her fingers red raw from where she had been biting. ‘The person I told? He started doing it as well. They were in on it together. Bastards.’ She began to cry openly, tears streaming down her cheeks.
‘Who was it?’ Martin repeated, stubborn. She wanted to hug the girl but she wanted the information more.
Mercy raised her head, wide-eyed. ‘Tristan Snow.’
Martin ran a hand through her hair, bewildered. ‘He was the one you told?’
‘Yes,’ Mercy said patiently, sniffing. She hugged her arms around herself as the baby began to mewl through the monitor again. ‘At Margate,’ she said, standing up to fetch her child.
‘But then who was it who first started the abuse?’ Martin asked desperately, wanting to get it before the girl went upstairs.
Mercy stopped midway across the carpet. She flung the name at Martin like a spear.
‘It was that fucker that worked
for him.’ She spat the name out with loathing, skewering his name with her tongue. ‘Fucking Fraser Mackenzie.’
65
They arrived at the church at dusk. The building was ordinary: a brown, prefabricated block with only the golden, up-lit glow of a cross above the front door to advertise its purpose. To one side of the door was a large poster displaying a smiling middle-aged man with white hair and broad shoulders. ‘The new big cheese. The King is dead, long live the King,’ Martin observed. ‘Are the Lancashire boys on their way?’
‘Yep,’ Jones said checking her phone.
‘Where to start, Jones? Eh?’ Martin said dismally, shuffling from foot to foot as they waited. This case could be the death of her, she felt. Physically she felt exhausted, and the whorls of this family and the people they had damaged seemed to swirl endlessly around her, pushing her down, down, to the bottom of a well.
‘We’ll get him, Boss. We’ve got Mercy’s testimony. Nina’s . . .’ Jones said brightly, trying to imbue Martin with enthusiasm.
‘Her word against his,’ Martin’s voice was flat.
‘Operation Awaken can interview every single member of the congregation. Someone will have seen something. He won’t get away with it.’
Martin shook her head, staring at the poster of the new Reverend. ‘And Tristan?’
Jones looked confused. ‘What about him?’
‘Where’s the justice for him?’
‘What do you mean? We’ve charged Sera.’
Martin frowned as a gust of damp wind rattled at their shoulders. ‘Think about it, Jones. What we’ve heard just now with Mercy. It’s always stuck in my throat that Sera was guilty of killing him. Why then, after all that time? Even after what she said, about taking them to Durham, it doesn’t make sense to me. I think she made a decision a long time ago to stick with Tristan, through good and bad.’ She shrugged, shoving her hands in her pockets. ‘Mainly bad, true. But she planted her flag when she denounced her dad, didn’t she? Everything she’s done, the terrible things she’s done . . . they’ve all been for Tristan in a messed up kind of way. For the love of him. And the children.’
‘What are you saying?’ Jones asked. ‘That she didn’t kill him?’ She waited, but Martin didn’t respond. ‘But what she said – about sending him back to the Lord? In the interview transcripts. That’s why they came to Durham in the first place.’
‘I’ve always said it. If Sera had killed Tristan, why would she want to plant the nightdress which effectively framed Violet for it? Why would she want to do that to the girl she loved, considered to be her daughter? It’s not logical. And,’ Martin pointed her finger at Jones as a few rogue drops of rain began to spit. ‘Whether Sera wanted them to come to Durham or not, she didn’t choose the B&B, did she? Why did the Snows end up there with Eileen Quinn? It was like inviting Tristan to a party where all the people who hated him were gathered.’ Martin jumped a little on her feet, impatient. ‘Come on Jones, let’s go in. They’re taking for ever with the back-up,’ she said, crossing over the road towards the church.
‘And remember what Mercy told us?’ she continued as Jones scuttled alongside her to keep up, worriedly looking down the road, hoping for the MIT team to arrive. ‘Something was bothering me when she was talking in her house and it just came into my head now,’ Martin said. ‘She told us that the kids were desperate for love. That they’d come to the kids’ Sunday School and play games and have fun in the loft . . . Jonah Simpson mentioned the loft, too.’ Martin halted in front of the church entrance and turned to Jones. ‘What lives in lofts, Jones?’
Jones looked at Martin in silence, comprehension spreading across her features. ‘Pigeons,’ she said eventually.
‘Pigeons,’ Martin replied, turning her face to the cross glinting above them in the blackening skies.
Martin pushed open the door and carried on into the body of the church, up the aisle where a small stained-glass window of Jesus smiled beatifically down on them both in the gloomy light.
‘Can I help you?’ a voice came from behind them.
‘We’re looking for Fraser Mackenzie,’ Martin said, as she and Jones held out their identification cards.
‘He’s out at a meeting,’ said an elderly woman with some papers in hand as she approached. ‘I’ve just been tidying up the orders of service for Sunday,’ she commented on seeing their photo ID, as if she’d been asked to account for herself. ‘He won’t be long. Why don’t you wait here? It’s cold outside.’
‘Thank you,’ Martin answered. ‘No chance of a cup of tea, is there?’
‘Yes! Of course, I’m sorry. I should have asked.’ The woman fumbled with her papers. ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Please.’ Martin smiled.
Their host exited in the opposite direction and, after a moment, they could hear the rattle of china in the kitchen to the side of the church entrance.
‘Shouldn’t we wait for the MIT? And you don’t take sugar . . .’ Jones said, as Martin turned back towards the altar.
‘I know I don’t. But I do want to have a look around before Mackenzie gets back.’ Martin walked briskly along the benches that served as pews and looked in a door positioned next to the lectern. ‘Choir changing rooms,’ she muttered, sniffing disagreeably at the aroma of socks and teenage hormones that emerged. As she carried on, around the church, she had a flash of what the space would be like filled with people. People with golden shining faces, their hands in the air, singing loudly to their God. Martin could picture Tristan, who once strode among them, placing his hand on their heads, giving them hope.
But it was false, she thought as she walked beside the pictures of the saints and the scrolls of the prayers. The hope that he gave came with a price: that he – Tristan – would be adored. Why wasn’t it possible to love God without a middle man? Martin wondered. Why did that message get so skewed? What made those very men subsume their faith for the desire of nothing more base than power?
She crossed past the pulpit and opened the other door. ‘Bingo,’ she said to Jones, and they entered a dark, enclosed space. Jones pulled the door closed behind and a hush enveloped them. Martin felt that prickle of adrenalin she always got when she went into a place where she shouldn’t be. It reminded her of childhood games, of hide-and-seek and playing sardines, creeping under beds and lying down on quiet carpets next to balls of dust.
They were in a small footwell at the bottom of some stairs; Martin moved quickly to climb them.
‘What is this?’ Jones asked, following. ‘What are you looking for?’
Martin didn’t answer but continued to climb and, within seconds, they had reached the top where a closed trapdoor lay above them in the ceiling.
‘I’m sure it’s not the time to mention that we don’t have a warrant,’ Jones said.
‘You’re right, it’s not,’ Martin said, pushing against the wooden door. She lifted it easily and carried on up, opening it on to twilight, a soft sound pulsating around them as they emerged into a chilly, damp dusk.
‘What is this place?’ Jones asked. ‘What’s that noise?’
They were standing underneath a wooden roof in the shape of an upturned boat. On the ground were big patches of old carpets covered in beanbags and behind them, a rickety wall made of bamboo. To one side of them was a makeshift wall made of MDF covered in posters and pictures drawn by children. Opposite was another unsecured wall, part of which leaned wide open, exposed to the cityscape. The final section of this lean-to structure consisted of rows of shelves and along each one, roosting and ruffling, were twenty or so zinc-coloured pigeons.
Martin and Jones stared at them in silence.
Martin saw it at once – where the beanbags were, Mercy and Violet, all the children scrabbling around, playing Monopoly up here: their own secret den. All under the gaze of the nesting pigeons. ‘The loft,’ she said, finally.
She went over to look at one: a fat bird, the colour of smoke. Around its wrinkled and gnarly ankle was a tiny white ta
g. ‘Well, that answers one question,’ she said. ‘Carrier pigeons. That’s how he got the pigeon to Durham before he broke its neck.’
‘But why would Mackenzie want to put one at the crime scene?’
‘Deucalion,’ Martin said. ‘He’s rubbing it in Tristan’s face. ‘It wasn’t Deucalion – Noah – who found the land, was it? That bit of the story always gets forgotten. It was actually the pigeon, the dove.
‘Tristan’s been lording it over them all for years. Mackenzie is shaming him with that pigeon. Belittling him for once.’
‘Risky move. It brings us right back to the church.’
‘Mackenzie is a risk taker. Look at the chances he’s taken with the church finances. Plus he couldn’t have known that Mercy – or Nina – would come forward.’
‘That’s always been a possibility, though.’
‘Enough time has passed when nobody’s said anything. And there’s no evidence of Mackenzie himself being involved. Everything leads to Tristan. Without Mercy’s evidence, we’d have nothing. Violet never spoke up, neither did Sera. And who told us Sera was dangerous in the first place?’
‘Mackenzie,’ Jones said.
‘He set us up. He wanted us to find out about the twins so that we’d focus on Sera as the obvious killer.’
‘So why plant Violet’s nightdress?’ Jones asked, the wind lifting her fringe off her face.
‘Same reason as he booked them all in to the Riverview B&B,’ Martin said. ‘He presented us with a whole raft of potential killers. So many, for a while, we couldn’t see the wood for the trees,’ she said, grimly.
The loft was silent apart from the sound of their breathing in the dim light of the dying day. But then a shaft of yellow light slammed into the space like a gunshot from below.
They heard the sound of footsteps.
‘Can I help you, Inspector Martin?’ Fraser Mackenzie climbed carefully up into the middle of where the two women stood. He stood in shadow from where he’d mounted through the trapdoor, his back against the lights which now burned brightly from the stairwell. He was wearing his ubiquitous well-cut suit, a tie hanging loosely from his neck. He smelt of whisky and a pungent aftershave.
The Taken: DI Erica Martin Book 2 (Erica Martin Thriller) Page 28