‘Mr Mackenzie,’ Martin brazened, ‘glad you’re back. We wanted to talk.’
‘And to look, from what I can see,’ Mackenzie said with a cock-eyed smile, taking in the pigeons and the loft. ‘Got a warrant, have you?’
Martin shifted on her feet with a proprietary air. ‘Oh no, we don’t need a warrant in this case,’ she said, folding her arms.
‘What case is that?’ Mackenzie walked over to a beanbag and budged it a little with his foot.
Martin could barely see him, it had turned so dark. She could just see the outline of his face in the square of light coming from the open trapdoor. ‘We’ve just been in town, catching up with someone. Thought we’d stop in and see you while we’re here. I’ve just got a couple more questions to run past you, if I can?’
Mackenzie inclined his head with a smirk.
‘Just a small point,’ Martin said, ‘but why did you book Tristan Snow into the Riverview boarding house?’
He shrugged. ‘Picked a name out of a hat.’ Pigeons cooed as he talked, as if welcoming a friend.
Martin nodded, that familiar roil of excitement bubbling up in her. ‘I see. Just picked somewhere nice and cheap? Wasn’t to do with planting Snow in a place with an old girlfriend? Make him feel a little insecure, on the back foot?’
Mackenzie laughed as his shadow moved about the loft. ‘No. How would I know that? Who was the old girlfriend?’
‘Eileen Quinn.’
Martin could sense Mackenzie’s studied repulsion even with the lack of light. ‘Not your type?’ she asked.
‘Not really.’
‘I expect you like them a little bit younger, don’t you?’
Mackenzie turned his face and, for a moment, it caught the light. Like a hawk on a hunt, Martin noticed his cheek twitch, and she smiled.
She’d got him.
‘And there’s one other thing I don’t know,’ Martin said.
Mackenzie transferred his weight to his other foot as Jones moved imperceptibly around to flank Martin.
‘What did you do with whatever it was you wore when you killed him? Or did you wear something over yourself, you know, to protect your clothes?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector Martin,’ Mackenzie said wearily. ‘Please. Unless you have anything useful to impart, can we go downstairs? It’s cold and I’ve got work to do.’
Martin reached for her torch in her jacket pocket. ‘Do you mind? Can’t see a thing up here.’ She flicked it on, sweeping the beam over Mackenzie’s face. ‘I’m sure you have got work to do: settling in the new pastor. Making sure things run on as before. Wouldn’t want anyone to ruin this little set-up you’ve got, would you? Need to sort out that little Winterbourne fiasco for a start, right?’
Martin leaned in closer to Mackenzie as he held a hand up to block the glare of the torch. ‘I reckon you dumped your clothes in some other bin, far away from Riverview. Just as you did with the exorcism cross which you’d helpfully wrapped in Violet Snow’s nightdress to try and pin the blame on her. An eighteen-year-old.’ Martin’s voice dripped with scorn.
‘The thing is,’ she continued, turning round and running her hand along the shelves where the pigeons sat, flicking the light from one to another; they stirred with unease at the approach of a stranger. ‘You might be a nasty paedophile. All these years, helping your mate Tristan get a little action from the kids that come here. From the young fans that trusted him. But you’re not only that, are you? You’re a greedy, nasty paedophile. Tristan found out about your financial fuck-up and that was it for you. You were out. So you threatened him with a little show-and-tell. Let’s tell the world what Tristan Snow is really like. Not the clever, charismatic entertainer he comes across as on TV. But a grubby little pervert.
‘But he throws it right back at you. You were both in that sordid little mess together. If one of you told the public about what you’d been up to, the other was in the same amount of trouble. And it would have been a great deal of trouble.
‘You were stuck. So you planned it all very carefully. You knew Sera would be the obvious suspect. Wounded, embittered wife that she was. We’d all probably have some sympathy for her. But, just in case that didn’t work, you thought you’d drag in a few other options. Violet. Eileen. Even Antonia.’
‘What do you mean, Antonia? I didn’t pour acid on her face,’ Mackenzie exclaimed. ‘This whole barrage is farcical. All of it.’
‘No,’ Martin said quietly. ‘Violet put acid on Antonia’s face. Because when you opened this little can of worms, snakes came out instead. Fat, writhing, hot and angry snakes with years and years of unhappiness and fear and nastiness. All the time, you’ve been there in the background, whispering in ears, playing with them all. All of those poor, messed-up people. All fucked up because of you.’
‘What else, Martin? Anything else you’d like to throw in with the kitchen sink? Lord Lucan perhaps? JFK? Surely you can come up with a few more salubrious crimes to put to my name?’
‘No. Just Reverend Snow’s murder. And the years of child abuse you’ll also be charged with.’
‘Oh please, I haven’t abused anybody,’ Mackenzie sneered. ‘What about Tristan? What about what he did? Why don’t you look into that instead of pointing your finger at innocent people?’
‘We have looked into that. We’re investigating all the current allegations of abuse. And we’ll look into any more of them that are made in the future. All of them, every single one.’
‘He’s dead, Martin,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Who cares any more? He got what he deserved.’
‘I care,’ Martin said. ‘I care very much.’
‘I don’t believe it, Martin. You don’t care about Tristan – another paedo off the streets. And nobody cares about those kids either. They were left here. No one wanted them. People couldn’t have been bothered less. We looked after them.’ Mackenzie’s eyes dipped to beyond where Martin stood, and the scream of the torch light, to the edge of the loft where the city gleamed. The pigeons rustled again, their wings chafing against each other. They seemed to be gathering in closer, coagulating as one blackened ball of feathers.
‘We’ve spoken to Mercy, Mr Mackenzie,’ Martin said. ‘She’s told us about the abuse. What you and Tristan did to children here, right here in this place.’
‘It’s not true,’ Mackenzie said in a suddenly strangled voice, his face sweaty and flushed in the harsh white glare. He continued to look past Martin, to the skyline where the wind whipped and rolled.
‘With vulnerable children,’ Martin carried on, relentless. ‘Kids whose parents weren’t around, kids who came here, to a church, looking for love, for comfort. And instead . . . they got you and Tristan subjecting them to horrific acts. All in the name of God . . . You make me sick, Mackenzie. You’re the vile little boy who never grew up. Even your dog didn’t like you. And that’s why you like little girls isn’t it? Easy to reel them in. Better to do the deceiving than to ever be the one betrayed.’
‘You can never prove it,’ he said. ‘It’s her word against mine.’
‘There are others, Fraser,’ she answered. ‘It’s over. It’s time to face it.’ She edged in closer, her hand in the air, reaching for Mackenzie. Her fingers seemed ghostly in the light of the torch, searching, trying to grapple with what lay beneath the man.
He wouldn’t do it, she realized. He wouldn’t allow it to end like this.
Mackenzie seemed to freeze, as if the decision were made. Martin saw where his eyes led, saw his intake of breath, the energy coil up in him.
‘Don’t do it,’ she warned. ‘Don’t do something you’ll regret.’
His head rocked from side to side, his pupils dilated, his knuckles white as his hands curled into fists.
‘It’s over,’ Martin repeated. ‘It’s time to come with us.’
He gave a violent cry, pushing past her, hurtling towards the edge of the roof. Jones stepped out to grab him, his shirtsleeves tearing through her fingers as he
shoved her too, out of the way.
Martin, though, stayed rooted as she watched him run out towards the city and throw himself off the edge, spinning forwards in the air as he fell. She moved at last to kneel at the side, bending over, seeing his face as he tumbled for the last time, down to the hard, cold ground, his eyes shut tight for the whole of the journey.
She let him go.
66
Three Months Later
The restaurant was filled with chattering and the clank and bustle of cutlery and glasses chinking. Martin opened the door and walked in past the Christmas tree, the warmth of the room enveloping her as she entered. She saw Jones at the head table, dressed in a long white dress, cream silk roses in her hair above her blow-dried fringe. Her brand new husband sat next to her looking like he’d won the lottery.
Martin moved to where Sam sat at one of the tables with Tennant and his wife, and Fielding next to his partner, Dom. ‘Sorry, I had to duck out. The solicitor’s about to go on maternity leave so she had to see me today,’ she said sitting down. ‘The ceremony was lovely though, wasn’t it?’ She caught the eye of Jones across the room, sparkling and flushed from too much champagne. Martin gave her a grin, which Jones returned, and she felt a rush of affection for her sergeant.
‘How did it go?’ Sam asked lightly, as he poured her some champagne.
‘I’m a free woman,’ Martin answered, letting the bubbles fizz over her tongue, letting her shoulders relax. The papers had been signed and, as of an hour ago, she and Jim were no longer married.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Starving,’ Martin said, holding his gaze. ‘Have I missed the lunch?’
‘Don’t worry, Boss,’ Tennant said, from the opposite side of the table. ‘Only the starter. Smoked salmon. Was all right,’ he sniffed. ‘Fillet steak and Yorkshires for main, though,’ he beamed.
Martin shook her head with a smile, sitting back in her chair as Rob stood to toast his bride. She thought about Sera Snow for a moment, who now sat in the high-security wing of Rampton psychiatric hospital having been found unfit to stand trial. As Christmas songs played through the speakers in the restaurant, she thought about Sera’s loyalty to her husband, despite his evil, despite his maltreatment of her. Thank God she wasn’t her, Martin thought. Thank God that she was a million miles away from where Sera Snow was.
Despite being surrounded by work colleagues, Martin suddenly didn’t care if people knew she was with Sam. She picked up his hand and held it in her own. ‘It’s going to be a good Christmas, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Peace and joy to all mankind I expect,’ Sam replied, putting her hand to his lips.
Martin nodded, drinking some more champagne, the image of Violet Snow floating into her head for a millisecond before it vanished, leaving only the babble and bonhomie of the wedding around her.
‘It’s going to be perfect,’ she said.
Epilogue
I had a dream last night, Antonia. I’ve often had it. The dream has sat on my shoulder for many years, tormenting me with fear.
I was in the room at the top of Rapunzel’s tower. High walls, cream-rendered cement, stretching up to a curved ceiling, ridged with time. The window was barred.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.
He sometimes whispered that as he pushed into me from behind. He’d wrap my hair around his wrist, the ends of it split and rough like horsehair. As he rode me.
I sat up in my room, sharp, awake. Butting my head against the glass pane of memories, splintering it until the images exploded into shards raining down on to the bed. My right hand clawed at the woollen blanket.
Today, the porter is coming to take me for a walk in the garden. He brings me my paper. He lets me sharpen my own pencils.
They have told me that you are dead.
I watch the leaves turn and fall, summer into autumn. So many people gone. I am the only one who lives. The only one that matters.
Now I know that you cease to live, Antonia, I wonder if I will continue writing to you? I like writing to you. You understand me beyond anyone else. You understood it all really, didn’t you? You pretended not to, but I know you did.
I think I will carry on writing to you, beyond your death. My thoughts. The way I think about the world. There should be a record of it. It’s important.
I like the porter. He talks to me about his life. He has a step-daughter. She is the same age as Violet would have been. He promised me he would bring her to visit me. He has other children, too.
Children are so important, aren’t they, Antonia? They are the future.
Last Thursday, when he came, he kissed me all the way up my arm.
Nobody saw.
I think there are opportunities to take here.
There always are.
THE END
THE BEGINNING
Let the conversation begin . . .
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PENGUIN BOOKS
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published 2016
Copyright © Alice Clark-Platts, 2016
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover photos © Irene Lamprakou/Trevillion Images and © Susan Fox/Trevillion Images
ISBN: 978-0-718-18111-6
The Taken: DI Erica Martin Book 2 (Erica Martin Thriller) Page 29