Bitter Fruits: DI Erica Martin Book 1 (Erica Martin Thriller)

by Clark-Platts, Alice

  Something inside me slithered and twisted, a snake of disgust. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Carrie someone. She does English Lit actually, do you know her? She’s in the third year.’

  I did know her. Of her anyway – she was well known in the department. She was predicted to get a first. I shook my head as the snake coiled down in me to rest.

  ‘It’s not long till Easter, Emily.’ Five long weeks of holiday when I would be without her.

  Emily nodded sadly. ‘Nick’s planning a trip to Africa over the break.’ This was typical of Nick and his ilk. They journeyed to exotic destinations as if taking a weekend trip to a Butlin’s holiday camp.

  ‘Hmmm.’ I let it pass. ‘Well, you’re going to the Formal together, right?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘So there’s nothing to worry about, is there? Trust me. After this, he’ll be unable to resist.’

  I’m ashamed to say, I was getting a bit turned on, thinking about all of this. This is what happens, you see, when you live in the lion’s lair. I shifted on the bed and adjusted myself. I thought of my mother, and the moment passed. ‘Well, we’ll talk about that some more, later. In the meantime, the best thing is to concentrate on the Epiphany Formal. Can you do that?’

  Emily nodded, seemingly reassured, although, really, I couldn’t think why.

  ‘Thank you. I know you’re only thinking of me.’

  I smiled at her. ‘No worries. Shall we go down to town now and get a coffee?’

  We walked down through the cold streets together. It was the fourth afternoon in a row I had spent alone with her.

  That night I drank too much on my own in The Marlowe. I couldn’t turn off that thing which had clicked in my brain when I had been sitting in Emily’s room. It buzzed inside, a frayed electric wire, shooting a current through me that I could only hope to deaden with alcohol. Why was she doing what I said? Was I really that persuasive?

  ‘It’s what she wants,’ I kept telling myself. ‘It’s what she wants, and so she’ll have it, and I’ll be there to pick up the pieces.’ I’d laughed a hard laugh then, and a few people had looked over at me. I shook my head and tried to think about something else.

  An older version of me seemed to sit at another table in the pub. My eyes were finding it difficult to focus, and I could see my shape, watching me, out of the corner of my eye. I kept snapping my head around, as if to catch me, but I would always be gone by the time I looked round. The old me seemed to get up at one point, just before the landlord turfed me out on to the street. It’s not even last orders, I remember slurring at him as he bundled us out of the door. But, just before that, the old me had said something which I remember very clearly when I made it back to my room.

  Zack was out. I stood at the sink in our room and despite the white toothpaste crusts trickling down the mirror, I could see my reflection. I mouthed what my old self had said to me as if I couldn’t say it out loud, as if doing so would crack a thunderbolt in the sky, a pinprick of evil, spotted in a drooling mouth, yawning open, revealing jagged and sharpened teeth. I was on this trajectory now, and that was that. My education from Greene had taught me that at least.

  I said it out loud at last and afterwards I vowed that I would never think of it or the old me again. I ripped the picture of Beckett off the wall by my desk and tossed it into the bin by the door. I’d stuck it up there days ago to taunt me almost. Make me feel what it was he was trying to teach. But it was too late now. I knew, I knew, I knew, so fuck you, Beckett. The words I mouthed were these:

  Emily doesn’t want it. Emily only thinks she’s fuckable because of people like you.

  I stared into my eyes.

  Me. People like me. I was just like them. The Nicks and the Shortys. I had vaulted myself to lofty heights, I was the ironic observer. But the truth? I saw my mouth form the words. As soon as I was sexually excited by her, I was just like them.

  I was just like them.

  41

  Wednesday 24 May, 8.30 p.m.

  Stephanie sat in a turquoise sari in the small reception of the Durham police station, curled into herself, an injured tropical bird, shrunken by the drab and grey which surrounded her. Martin had come straight from the evidence room once she had been told the counsellor had turned up, wanting to see her. She looked at her through the glass in the door before going through. What secrets did this woman know?

  ‘Ms Suleiman?’ she said, moving to stand in front of her.

  Stephanie looked up and smiled. ‘Ah,’ she said softly. ‘You have dashed to see me.’

  Martin shifted on her feet, confused. ‘I was told you wanted to see me,’ she said.

  Stephanie nodded. ‘Yes, but you came fast. You know I may have something to say.’ Martin gestured for Stephanie to follow her, vaguely irritated by the woman’s mysterious circus act routine. They walked into the cheerless interview room off the main reception area, and Martin offered Stephanie a seat.

  ‘Actually, Ms Suleiman, you’ve saved me a trip, as I had wanted to ask you something quickly.’

  Stephanie nodded. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’ve been told that you had been seeing Simon Rush for some sessions, earlier in the year. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. I saw him for about four months of last year and then at the beginning of this one.’

  ‘And why did those sessions stop?’

  Stephanie shrugged. ‘He just stopped coming. I can’t force students to come.’

  Martin looked at her. ‘Did you try and persuade him to come back?’

  ‘I think I sent him an email, but he never replied.’

  ‘Ah,’ Martin said, thinking this through, ‘and what was your impression of Simon? Why had he come to see you in the first place?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m at liberty to discuss that with you, Inspector Martin,’ Stephanie answered. ‘He is not on trial, is he?’

  Martin nodded. ‘Sure.’ She paused. ‘But you can tell me your professional opinion, right? Was Simon suffering from any apparent disorders?’

  Stephanie sighed and folded her arms. ‘Simon was under some pressure, yes. But I don’t think you would call it a disorder as such, though, no.’

  Martin was quiet for a moment, digesting this. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’

  Stephanie reached into her handbag and pushed a tape across the table towards Martin, who picked it up and studied it.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A tape of my interviews with Emily leading up to just before we broke up for the Easter holidays.’

  Martin looked at Stephanie’s face closely. Her lips trembled slightly. ‘A tape? Of Emily speaking?’ Stephanie nodded her head. ‘Talking to you about what was going on in her life literally weeks before she was murdered?’ Martin continued, her words hanging in the air in the clouds of a glowering storm. She swallowed, trying to control herself. Why hadn’t this woman given them this before now? Clenching her fists open and shut, she spoke carefully.

  ‘Can you explain to me, Ms Suleiman, why you have concealed this evidence until now?’

  Stephanie shook her head sadly. ‘It is something outside myself.’ She shrugged. ‘I cannot explain it.’

  Martin bit her lip. ‘Has anyone else heard what’s on the tape?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You didn’t think this might be crucial evidence perhaps? Something which the police would like to hear?’

  Stephanie looked down at her hands. ‘Yes, I did. But …’ She paused, gathering her thoughts. ‘I wanted to get things straight in my head. I wanted to think things through.’

  ‘What did you need to think through?’

  Stephanie looked at Martin, clear-eyed. ‘This is only half of the story.’

  ‘What is?’

  Stephanie patted the table. ‘This tape. What Emily says.’

  Martin waited a moment before speaking. ‘Who has the other half of the story?’ She put her head on one side, thinking, looking at the counsel
lor. ‘Nick?’

  Stephanie smiled. ‘I told you before, we cannot know everything.’ She was silent for a second. They faced each other. Martin could hear the other woman’s slow breath, the sparkle of the unsaid words on her tongue like water running over stones, the dazzle of them, what they would bring. Come to me, she thought for the first time since the interview with Rush. Make the puzzle fit.

  ‘Emily did not tell me everything. On this tape, there is merely her version of events. What she felt, what happened to her.’

  ‘That’s the key, Ms Suleiman,’ Martin said slowly. ‘That is it. What we’re looking for. Emily’s version of events.’

  ‘There is another version. Something further which may help you. I have been wrong to hide it …’

  Martin waited, her nerves tingling, knowing the words before they even left the counsellor’s mouth. She almost spoke them with her.

  ‘Daniel Shepherd,’ Stephanie said, her eyes drifting to the wall, unable to look at Martin, who nodded once. ‘Yes, the other version is Daniel Shepherd’s.’

  42

  I woke up the morning afterwards with a hangover but a fresh mind. I put the thoughts I’d been having before to one side. I was going to win Emily. I would fix it so that everything she loved about Nick would come crashing down on her like the concertina of a collapsing skyscraper, leaving her scrabbling on her back in the dust. The Epiphany Formal dinner was just around the corner, the Easter holidays looming like some awful cut-off point when I would be separated from Emily. I had to win her before then.

  Emily had told me Nick had more photos of the two of them, that she was scared he would be showing them around. I didn’t think he had done anything with them yet but I wanted him to. That would show Emily one last time the kind of person he was. If she was going to come to me, to be mine, everyone had to see them.

  They called it liquor sometimes at Durham. That sluttishness. It was the label of being desired. Guys would stare at particular girls and say she gave good liquor. It conjured up images of sweets and candy, skirts like belts, rolling tongues and perfumed necks. That was what Emily had thought she wanted, what she had pretended to be with Nick, and I was going to give it to her. She didn’t realize that, by becoming that girl, she would lose something of herself. The boys might love her, but only for a fuck, a masturbation aid. She did know, though, that the girls would hate her, and that was why she was now afraid about the photos Nick had. Emily wasn’t half as strong as she gave out.

  I knew the real Emily – the wholesome girl I’d met on the train. The one who reflected that part of me that I liked, that I knew I could be. Once I’d broken the wild horse of the liquor, I’d have her back, begging to be with me. I was her Rasputin. She would come to me for everything: advice, counsel, succour. It would seem as innocuous as friendship, but it was more than that. By the time I had finished with my plan, she would be able to do nothing without me.

  I followed Nick one afternoon. I happened to see him walking across Elvet Bridge and seized the opportunity to shadow him, tailing him all the way up to the library. I must admit to being surprised that he would go there of all places but I figured, if he was going to land the inevitable job in a law firm, he would need at least passable grades in the upcoming exams. I waited outside for him. He wasn’t in there long.

  I sipped from a lukewarm coffee and leaned over the balustrade where I had seen Shorty with the first photo of Emily. I thought back to that time and how innocent I was about it all then. Something tugged in my brain about all this research I was doing. It was sullying me. The more I read and the more images I saw, the more indelibly I felt their influence on the way I looked at the world. When I saw girls walking along these days, I immediately graded them into ‘Hot or Not’. I couldn’t help myself.

  I would find myself gazing at their behinds, absently wondering whether they were wearing thongs or panties. I would notice their cleavage, give it a mark out of ten for bigness, for pertness, without thinking about it. I had stopped looking at women’s faces, I noticed only their bodies, undulating hills of invitation. As I stood there, with my coffee in hand, the aroma reminding me of my reading in coffee shops, the simple pleasure of a good book and a comfy chair, I felt disgusted with myself. I felt, not turned on, but as if I had been turned.

  These thoughts snapped shut like switching off a television set as soon as I saw Nick emerge, however. He walked out of the entrance doors and shifted his shoulders somewhat, as if releasing a burden. Or shaking off the dust of the analytical interior from which he had come. I straightened at my post at the balustrade and fell in with him as he jogged down the stone steps.

  ‘Hi, Nick,’ I said casually, as if it were only mere chance that I had seen him there.

  He looked to his side, recognized me and then looked straight ahead again. I was about his height but I used to feel smaller when I was in his vicinity. Now I towered above him, my power transcending his physical stature. He had said nothing in reply to my greeting.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you,’ I persisted. ‘I need to talk to you about Emily.’

  He looked at me at that. ‘Emily?’ he asked, bemused, as if I should have anything to do with her. Foolish. ‘What about her?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you what you were going to do with the photos.’

  Nick stopped then and turned to face me. ‘What are you talking about?’

  I looked him direct in the face. We were like titans. Sea-gods crouching in swirling under-waters, seaweed dripping off our crowns. Or lions, perhaps, on the savannah, hind legs curled, ready to pounce.

  ‘I know about the new photos, Nick.’

  He folded his arms, a gesture designed to deflect attention from the surprise which skimmed across his face. God forbid he should ever be anything other than cool. He laughed faintly. ‘You do?’ he said, disbelieving. I nodded, smiling.

  ‘I do. So …’

  ‘So, what?’

  ‘So – what are you going to do with them? You can’t keep them to yourself.’

  Nick shifted. I almost felt sorry for him. He didn’t have a clue how to deal with this.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ I continued. ‘They’re hot, right?’

  He couldn’t help himself, he smirked.

  ‘So you should do the civilized thing and post them. Let everyone get a look. Emily won’t mind.’

  Some sort of decency flitted across Nick’s brain, I could tell. For a moment at least. ‘Hang on, dude. Let me get this straight. You’re telling me you know about the latest photos? How?’

  ‘Emily told me,’ I said. ‘She tells me everything.’

  Nick bit his lip. ‘And now you’re saying Emily won’t mind if I spread them around? Show them to people? Everyone?’

  I nodded again. ‘Think about it, Nick. Think of the kudos. Everyone will fucking love it.’ I saw this, too, skip across his thoughts. The slaps on the back, the hilarity in Joyce bar, how awesome everyone would think he was. He was still confused, though. Maybe he wasn’t such a dickhead as I’d thought.

  ‘If I do it, though, are you sure she won’t get angry? I still want a shag at the Formal.’ He grinned at me like a retard.

  Maybe not. Dickhead central.

  I shook my head, put my index finger to my lips.

  ‘She’s all yours, dude, you know it.’ I wanted to puke as the words left my mouth. ‘She’ll still go with you to the Formal, she can’t resist you. Parade her around. Show everyone what a nice piece of pussy you’ve got for yourself.’

  Nick smiled, almost to himself. His eyes glazed a little as he dreamed the whole scenario. He held out his hand, and I shook it. We both had dry palms, calm as we were in our machinations.

  ‘Nice one, dude. Good stuff.’ He strode off without looking back. I stood there just beyond the library stairs, watching him walk away. A lump burned in my throat as I thought about what this meant. What it meant for Emily. How she didn’t understand that I was doing this all for her own good. I swallowed hard, down into
the darkness of my gut. I would not cry. Crying was for losers.

  43

  Wednesday 24 May, 9.11 p.m.

  Having moved Stephanie into an interview room after she had arranged care of her daughter, Martin had informed Michael Brabents’ lawyer that Emily’s father would be spending a night in the cells while they collated more evidence.

  She turned off the tape of Emily speaking as Stephanie Suleiman looked at her across the table. The interview tape, on the other hand, kept rolling. ‘So the night of the Epiphany Formal back in March was when Emily started self-harming? Because more photos were passed around of her with Nick then?’

  Stephanie nodded. ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘What did you think about it? What Emily had said? Didn’t it concern you?’

  Stephanie sat straighter in her chair. She looked around the room. ‘May I have some water?’

  Martin got to her feet and opened the door, asking the custody officer to bring some. She returned to her seat and gestured towards Stephanie. ‘Please …’

  ‘The thing is, Detective Martin –’

  ‘Detective Inspector.’

  ‘I was frustrated with Emily. I felt that …’ She paused, incessantly twirling her long plait around her wrist. ‘I felt that she wasn’t making as much progress as I would have liked.’

  The counsellor paused as a knock came at the door and Jones walked in carrying a jug of water and two plastic glasses. She placed them on the table in between the women, and Martin poured some into a glass before passing it across to Stephanie.

  Jones sat herself down at the table, next to Martin. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Jones, I work with the DI,’ she introduced herself.

  Stephanie sipped at her water. ‘Less than I had hoped, I mean. Look, let me be plain.’