Bitter Fruits: DI Erica Martin Book 1 (Erica Martin Thriller) (11 page)

She leaned forwards, speaking in a gentle voice. ‘Simon, I’ve got the statement that you made to DS Jones when you arrived here and which you’ve signed …’

‘We’ll be arguing that that statement is wholly inadmissible, DI Martin,’ Mervyn Rush interjected. ‘Why you thought it wise to get it without a lawyer present is beyond me.’ He finished with a nasty smile.

‘Let’s not pretend we’re in court now, Mr Rush. As you well know, we needed something in writing after an oral statement was made of such significance, so that admissibility isn’t in fact an issue. Your client now has the opportunity to deal with the substance of the confession and my questions, with his lawyer in the room – who will undoubtedly provide the best advice.’ Martin smiled back and continued. ‘I’m going to turn on the tape so that this interview is recorded. It’s now 6.23 p.m. on the twenty-second of May and I’m going to re-caution you. You do not have to say anything during this interview. But it may harm your defence if
you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ She tried to make eye contact. ‘Is that clear? Do you understand?’

Simon refused to look at her but nodded.

Martin smiled at him. ‘Mr Rush has nodded, for the benefit of the tape.’ She paused. ‘Quite a speech you gave this morning in Phillip Mason’s office. Quite a claim.’

Simon skimmed a quick look at his father, who remained silent, then moved his eyes back to the table.

‘Big words, Simon,’ Martin continued. ‘Hard to take back once they’re made.’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘I just want to be sure. I want
you
to be sure that what you’ve said is entirely accurate.’

There was another bout of silence. Mervyn Rush narrowed his eyes, the nib of his pen millimetres above his pad. He had, as yet, written nothing.

‘Maybe the best thing is to go through your statement, Simon. Might be easier to get things rolling that way. Let’s see …’ Martin picked up a sheaf of papers from the table, scanned their contents. ‘So it says here that you met Emily on the first day of this academic year. Is that right?’

Simon cleared his throat. He gave another sidelong look to his father, who nodded briefly. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘She’d got the train up from London I
remember. She’d been staying with friends.’ His voice was hoarse, his throat dry. Martin poured him a glass of water from the jug on the table and passed it to him. Simon took the glass, looking for the first time at Martin as he did so. His eyes flashed wild for a second, and then the shutters came down again.

‘You’re a third year, though – that’s right, isn’t it? Emily must’ve been impressed to meet you.’ Martin smiled. ‘I know when I was a Fresher, third years were like gods.’

Simon’s lips twitched at that but he said nothing. Martin sighed and spread her hands on the table between them as a kind of entreaty. ‘Listen to me, Simon, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. You’ve admitted to doing a terrible thing. We need to sort it out, see if we can make things right. You want to do that, don’t you?’

Nothing. Martin tried another tack. ‘Did you like Emily? Did you fancy her? She was a pretty girl.’ She looked down again at the statement. ‘You said to Sergeant Jones,
before your dad arrived
,’ she looked up at Mervyn then, to see him smirking – the emphasis wasn’t lost on him. ‘You said that you had a good friendship with Emily. That she was different from your other friends. Tell me about that. What was different about her?’

Simon let out a long, soft breath and folded his arms across his chest. His sleeves were rolled up, and
Martin could see the strength in his forearms. Seeing her glance, he widened his eyes and looked at her directly. ‘I loved her,’ he said with a small smile.

Mervyn at once scribbled something on his pad. Simon noticed and jerked back slightly, as if he had made a mistake. Martin threw another glance at the CCTV camera. This was like getting blood out of a stone. At this rate, they would have Simon’s statement made without legal representation and nothing else. She felt the pressure rising. It had become hot in the small room.

‘So let’s talk about the night of the Regatta. Sunday night. You were down at the boathouse. Who else was there?’

Mervyn seemed to nod again, and so Simon spoke. ‘Everyone from college. All the Freshers, Emily and her friends.’

‘You say in your statement that you followed Emily when she left the boathouse. Can you tell me why? Did you want to see her alone?’

Rush gave a lethargic blink and moved his tongue across his teeth. He spoke like an automaton. ‘I followed Emily from the Regatta. I walked behind her all along the riverbank. All the way down to the bridge.’

‘Which bridge was that?’

‘Prebends.’

‘And?’

‘We spoke for a while.’

‘What about?’

Simon gave a short laugh before putting his hand over his mouth as if to stuff it back in. ‘Things. How she’d ignored me down at the boathouse. She’d been drinking again.’ He pulled the lapels of his black coat up around his neck as if wanting to hunker down, to try to be invisible.

‘Did Emily know about your feelings for her?’ Martin asked, going for a punt. ‘Was she aware of how you felt?’

‘I don’t know. She should’ve been. I made it pretty plain,’ Simon mumbled, speaking into his chest. Mervyn shifted in his chair, put his pen carefully down on the desk. He flexed his fingers while staring, bug-eyed, at Martin.

‘I can’t hear you, Simon. You’ll have to speak up. Look at me, please.’

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Mervyn spoke up angrily, jabbing his finger at Martin. ‘You have the confession. Simon isn’t required to answer these questions. He’s clearly been coerced. This whole business is absolute bullshit.’

Martin remained silent.

‘Do you have a prima facie case to charge him or not?’ Mervyn continued in the same vein before stopping and taking a breath to control himself. Martin watched him unclench his fingers from the
tight ball in which they had been curled, paste a disdainful look on to his face. He gave a nauseating smile before speaking, calmer now, quietly, with the poise of an arching, venomous snake. ‘If you need a motive then you should find one. You know,’ he sneered, ‘investigate.’

Martin smiled at him, unperturbed. Moving her eyes back to Simon, she continued to address him directly, ignoring his father. ‘Simon?’ She waited for a second. ‘I think you want to tell me. I think you want to tell me how it was. Let’s go back a bit. How often would you see Emily? Every day? Once a week?’

Simon closed his eyes. He sank even further down into his chair, his arms a barrier across his chest. ‘All the time,’ he said, shaking his head at the memory of it.

‘And would you always see her in person? Or did you email each other? Chat on Facebook, that sort of thing?’

Simon became very still.

‘We’ve seen the photographs, Simon.’ Martin continued, noticing his stillness. ‘We’ve seen what was happening to Emily. How she was being bullied. It was awful, what was happening to her, wasn’t it? Really terrible for Emily.’

Simon had begun to visibly sweat.
Come on
, Martin thought,
come to me, Simon.
‘Did you comment on Emily’s Facebook page, Simon? The names attached
to the comments aren’t real, are they? They’re made-up identities, pseudonyms. What was yours?’

Simon sat up an inch and began to flick his index fingers with his thumbs on both hands in a rapid manner.

‘So awful for Emily, what was happening to her. Why would anyone want to treat another human being like that? Say those sorts of despicable things to her? I can’t understand it. I really can’t. Especially not to a
friend
. What kind of friend would do something like that?’

The breeze-blocked walls in the room seemed very close to Martin then, pushing in on the three of them, squeezing all of their thoughts and strategies up into a jumbled cloud near the ceiling. She could feel a trickle of sweat make its way down the centre of her back.
Come to me, Simon. Come on.

‘I can’t say,’ Simon said after a pause, finally unfolding, extending his hands out over the desk between them. He slid his eyes back to his father. ‘I can’t say exactly why.’

‘What do you mean? Explain it to me.’

Simon reached about him with his fingers. ‘It’s a feeling, you know. An expression or a – a
quality …
’

Martin felt the hot air in the room pulse. She waited, she would get it.
No coward soul is mine.

Simon looked at her then, his eyes bulging in earnest. ‘The quality Emily had. What I mean is …’ He
swallowed, still searching for the words. ‘I’ve been under a lot of pressure.’

‘Is this part of your confession, Simon? Something to get you out of the mess you’re in?’ Martin banged her hand on to the table unexpectedly, and his head snapped up. ‘Tell me!’

Simon shut his eyes. ‘I was sending Emily messages. I admit it.’

‘What kind of messages?’

‘Nasty ones. Ones about the photos she put up.’

‘
She
put up?’

He shrugged. ‘Whatever.’ He shook his head. ‘She wanted it. Look at the photos. Anyone who acts like that. Poses like that. They want it.’

‘What do they want, Simon?’

He leaned forwards, over his splayed hands on the table, and said calmly. ‘They want to be fucked.’

A silence filled the room. Her cheeks hot, Martin swallowed to gain control of herself after the violence of this remark. She looked down at her notes, her mind spinning, annoyed at herself for reacting. Feeling his eyes upon her, Martin looked up to meet Mervyn’s cool gaze. They faced each other, gunslingers over the table. A knock interrupted the tableau. Martin walked to the door to find Jones outside.

‘You’re wanted, boss,’ Jones said quietly. ‘It’s urgent.’

Martin stared at her, amazed. Jones nodded, flicked
her head towards the corridor, and they stepped outside, closing the door behind them.

‘What the fuck, Jones?’

‘It’s Principal Mason,’ Jones said. ‘He’s downstairs with Tennant. He says he was with Simon the night Emily was murdered. That he can’t have killed her.’

Martin rubbed her hands over her face.

‘Shit,’ she looked at the metal of the door in disbelief. ‘He’s given him an alibi.’

Martin re-entered the interview room with Jones close behind.

‘What’s going on?’ Mervyn Rush said loudly. ‘Who’s she? Are you going to charge Simon or what?’ he asked, talking across his son.

‘Daddy?’ Simon whimpered.

‘I’m sorry about the interruption,’ Martin said calmly. ‘We need to take a short break. Won’t take long. Simon, you’ll be taken back to your cell.’

‘This is out of order,’ Mervyn protested.

‘I’m sorry,’ Martin replied, ‘but it can’t be avoided.’

Simon made a small moan. Martin looked at him. He seemed to be at the beginnings of a panic attack. He breathed heavily, gulping down air; his hands clawing at his knees as he began to rock his head from side to side.

‘Son, are you all right?’ Mervyn asked, finally deigning to look at his son, taking one of his hands. Simon
pulled it away roughly. He began to move his upper body backwards and forwards in a rhythmic fashion, groaning at the same time.

‘Do you need a doctor, Simon?’ Jones asked.

‘Daddy,’ Simon moaned again, his hands now tearing at his hair, his mouth curled downwards, his eyes vacant. Without warning, he stopped still. His eyes were rheumy, unfocused; his mouth hung open.

Mervyn leaned towards his son. ‘Simon, talk to me. Are you okay? What’s going on?’

Simon’s face crumpled as he looked at his father and he began to cry. ‘It’s not good enough,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s just not good enough.’ He sat quietly sobbing for a few seconds, shaking his head in disbelief. He lurched his head up without warning and banged his fist on the table. ‘It’s not fucking good enough, is it?’ he screamed at his father.

Mervyn Rush stared in bewilderment for a moment before pulling himself together and speaking with authority. ‘This interview needs to be terminated. My son is clearly in no fit state to be questioned. He needs medical attention right away.’

Martin stared hard at Simon as Jones muttered into the tape machine hastily before turning it off. She glanced at Martin, who nodded imperceptibly. ‘Yep, okay, interview suspended. We’ll call the Force Medical Examiner to come and see Simon in his cell.’

Martin gathered up her papers, still looking at
Simon, as Jones opened the door to leave. Simon began a high-pitched giggle. ‘Cornetto, please, Mum. The one with the strawberry sauce. Wait!’ Moving to the door, Martin turned back to find Simon’s eyes locked wide on her in a stare. A feeling of sudden coldness stole through her; his eyes were like ice. ‘Don’t leave me … please. Mum! Please don’t go,’ he yelled. Martin closed the door behind them as Jones jogged down the corridor to get the Custody Officer. Standing outside, Martin felt the thump of her heart in her throat, hearing Simon’s cries morphing into the keening of an abandoned child.

What had just happened there? What was Principal Mason doing giving Simon an alibi when the boy had confessed? Martin walked slowly away from the room, away from the cries resounding in the hallways, bouncing off the dark-grey ceilings of the police station. She shivered involuntarily, remembering the stare Simon had given her in the room, which pulled against the weight of the alibi, now stuck to the case like a limpet on the underside of a hull.

There was something in that stare. Something wrong about it. But the truth remained that if the alibi was good, then who had been the one on the riverbank that night? Who had been the one to strangle Emily Brabents?