Bitter Fruits: DI Erica Martin Book 1 (Erica Martin Thriller) (6 page)

‘Nick Oliver’s at a lecture at the moment,’ Jones said. ‘Should we see him there so publicly?’

‘We’re not arresting him, just having a bit of a chat. Anyway, a bit of police publicity around the student population never did us any harm. Let’s see how he reacts to a little spotlight on him.’

Martin and Jones rounded the corridor to face the station exit which lead on to the street. ‘Bugger …’ Martin exclaimed as they saw that the pavement was filled with half a dozen people, lounging on the brick walls of the building, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. ‘Bloody press. They’ve got wind of this quickly. We’d better take the other door.’

They turned on their heels and headed in the opposite direction. Pushing through the back exit, Martin eyed benign clouds as they got outside. ‘Thank God it’s a nice day for once. I could do with some refreshing after what we’ve just seen online.’

Jones assented.

The police station was almost opposite the university lecture theatres on the main street of the city, New Elvet. This was the newer part of Durham, the River Wear twisting along its boundary, circling around the medieval heart of the city, creating a peninsula. This had the effect of creating a separate land mass, linked to the bulk of the city by bridges bisecting the river. As she walked, Martin thought of this as symbolic, the further emphasis of the ancient and the great entrenched together through time.

‘The town kids must hate these students lording it up with their money and privilege,’ she remarked as they got within sight of the lecture theatre. ‘So much more opportunity for the kids from out of town. This is your home and you’re stifled by it.’

‘Not always,’ Jones mumbled.

Martin shot her a look. ‘Ah, I didn’t mean that, Jones.’ She flushed a little. ‘I’m from round here myself. Just up the coast, in Seaham.’ She took a breath and looked about her. ‘I certainly felt stifled enough where I came from. It’s just
different,
you know? What’s that Plath line – you know, about trying to die after they buried you? Not exactly on point, but you get my drift?’

Jones looked at Martin, startled. She had no idea what Martin was talking about.

‘Nah, what I mean is,’ Martin shook her head and
carried on, ‘cities like this, have a lot of emotions bubbling away under the surface. You know, Jones?’

Jones made a noise which could have been an agreement, or may have not, depending on how you heard it.

‘Lots of people trying to fit into something they’re not anyway,’ Martin finished her treatise, looking up and squinting into the burgeoning sunlight.

They weaved past the students milling about in the road, leaving and entering the main lecture building. When they finally made their way inside, Jones looked at a piece of paper in her hand. ‘Second level, lecture theatre F5, apparently. He should be in there for another hour.’

‘What do we know about Nick?’ Martin asked as they walked up the stairs, students giving them looks through the white balustrade, curious as to these adults in their midst.

‘Calls himself a hockey-playing legend on his Twitter feed and Facebook page,’ Jones answered wryly, shrugging. ‘What information is there to get from these things? I dunno. His favourite film is
The Shawshank Redemption
. Doesn’t appear to have ever read a book.’

They reached the double doors of the lecture theatre.

‘That’s the one with Morgan Freeman, isn’t it?’
Martin said. ‘I quite liked that.’ She pushed the doors open into a muted, dark space. Images on a large screen at the front flashed in the darkness. The sound of a microphoned voice droned, as the women walked down the stairs to the stage at the bottom.

‘Sorry, what’s going on?’ A suited man behind the lectern at the front asked immediately, breaking his exposition on the finer aspects of equity law.

Martin showed her ID and turned to face the students.

‘Is there a Nick Oliver here? Please raise your hand.’

The students murmured, turning heads to find someone out. A hand rose vertically, nervously.

‘Here,’ the boy said uncertainly.

‘DI Martin and DS Jones from the Major Crime Unit in Durham. We’d like you to come with us now, please, Nick.’

Whispers rippled around the auditorium as Nick got to his feet and shrugged his rucksack on to one shoulder. He shifted, red-faced, past the others in his row to the end of it, where Martin and Jones waited for him. They bookended him either side, walking back up the stairs to the doors out of the lecture theatre. Once outside, Martin turned to face him. As she did, the boy stood taller, as if remembering where he came from.

‘Is this about Emily? Why have you dragged me out of my lecture in front of everyone?’ he asked, the
force of his embarrassment shunting his words out. He appeared fractious, not as a friend in mourning, Martin observed. She smiled and gestured towards a wooden bench which sat opposite the doors to the lecture room. ‘Shall we? Let’s just have a chat.’

Nick stared at her and then made up his mind. He went and slumped down on the bench, put his rucksack between his legs, dangling between his fingers. He had an insouciant charm about him, a tan from some recent holiday. Martin had seen his type a million times before. Brown eyes, confident hair, headed to the City with eyes faced forwards at all times. His hands were strong, she noted, big and rough, probably from hours spent outside throwing a ball to his teammates. He would be good at sports, Martin surmised. He would drink lager on the whole, perhaps Guinness on Sundays, Flaming Sambuca shots on a Friday night in the student nightclub Sixes.

‘This is about Emily, right?’ Nick said again, pre-empting Martin.

‘What do you know about Emily?’ Martin asked, sitting down next to him. Until Emily’s parents got to Durham and formally identified her body, there would be no official announcement about her death.

‘Well, she’s, uh, dead, isn’t she? Everyone knows.’ Nick swallowed. ‘I thought everyone knew.’

Martin sat straighter on the bench. ‘How do you
know, Nick? Where have you got that information from?’

Jones sat down on the other side of Nick, flanking him. Nick moved his head between the women, a mild panic in his eyes. He licked his lips, trying to assemble his thoughts. ‘Uh … well. Someone called me this morning. Said there were police down by the weir. Police in Emily’s room.’

‘Who called you?’
Would he grass
, Martin wondered, throwing a mental coin up in the air.
Tails, he does.

‘Annabel. Annabel Smith.’

Tails.

‘Annabel Smith called you this morning to inform you that Emily was dead, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Annabel Smith is … ?’ Martin asked, knowing the answer. All of Emily’s known acquaintances were being preliminarily interviewed to establish the closeness of their relations with Emily and garner their whereabouts in the last forty-eight hours. Martin then would assess who she needed to speak to personally.

‘Emily’s friend,’ Nick muttered.

‘And you’d be happy for us to ask Annabel this, maybe check your phone records?’

‘Uh, I don’t know. Yes, I suppose.’

‘You were also friends with Emily?’ Jones asked.

‘Yes,’ Nick replied, clearing his throat now that he was on surer ground. ‘She was part of a crowd of us
at college.’ He looked at them both, dipping his eyes. ‘It’s a tragedy. We’re all pretty shaken up by it.’

Martin waited, wondering if he would expand on his grief. When he failed to do so, she continued, leaning forwards with her hands clasped together. ‘How well did you know Emily? Was she a girlfriend of yours?’

Nick ran his hand through his hair, shifted on the bench. ‘Well, I wouldn’t call her a girlfriend exactly. She was a friend.’ He couldn’t help the dimple which appeared in his left cheek. ‘A good friend.’

‘Were you sleeping with her?’ asked Jones.

Nick coughed, sheepish. He wanted to laugh, Martin could tell.
These kids
, she thought. Experimenting with life decisions like a Collie plays with a ball on the beach.

‘Um, well, I suppose I
have
done. I’m not sure you’d call it
sleeping
as in the present continuous – it was more of an occasional thing, you know?’

Martin sighed, ‘Yes, Nick, I do sadly. How did Emily feel about that relationship?’

‘Was she cool about it, do you mean?’ He paused. ‘Yes, I think so. She never told me she wasn’t.’

‘When did you last see her?’ Jones asked.

‘Before she died?’

‘Yes, before she died,’ Jones answered patiently.

‘It would have been at the Regatta. Down at the boathouse.’ He shifted imperceptibly. ‘I barely saw
her though. I saw her a few days before as well. There was a big hockey tournament on the Thursday down at Maiden Castle. A few of my mates were playing, Emily was playing. We went down about three in the afternoon and, when the tournament finished, ended up having a few beers in the bar.’

Martin looked over at Jones.

‘The one which overlooks the sports field?’ Jones asked.

‘Yeah. Emily was there, I’m pretty sure. Had a few cheeky ones and then headed home. Quite early. I’ve got a nine a.m. every Friday morning, which is a pain.’ He seemed to wilt then, rubbing his hand over his face.

‘Are you okay, Nick?’ Jones asked softly.

‘Yeah. I mean, no. It’s a bit of a shock I suppose.’ His hands were trembling, Martin noticed. ‘You didn’t speak to Emily then, at Maiden Castle?’ she persisted gently. ‘Just saw her there with others?’

‘I think so. Might have said hello or something.’ He directed this at Jones, seeming to prefer her easier audience. ‘Loads of people there to see, you know?’

‘At the Regatta, do you remember who Emily might have been with? Who were her friends?’ Jones asked.

‘Um, Annabel was there, I think. Emily didn’t live with anyone, though, you know, like in a house share. So, she was friends with lots of different people. I
don’t know them all.’ Nick rubbed his knees and gave a loud sigh. ‘Look, is this going to take much longer? If I’m missing this lecture, I at least want to make hockey practice at lunchtime.’

Martin looked at him. A boy who had heard about the death of his sometime girlfriend only this morning and yet came to his lecture anyway, played hockey at lunchtime as if it were a normal day. A boy who said he’d heard about the death before anyone else, before any official announcement had been made. Another poker chip of possibility spun into the pile, resting in a corner of Martin’s mind.

‘Where were you, Nick? On Sunday night?’

Nick looked at the women. ‘Seriously?’

Martin nodded.

‘I was there. At the Regatta. Ask anyone. Loads of people saw me. I left about 7.30 p.m. and walked down the river back to the college bar. Had a drink and had an early night.’

‘You walked along the river? Which way did you go?’ Martin asked.

‘Down to Prebends and then turned left up to Joyce.’ Nick’s voice cracked in the middle of this sentence. He nodded as if to convince himself.

‘You didn’t see Emily on your way home?’

‘No.’

‘Sure about that?’

Nick met her eyes with his. ‘Yes.’

‘Is there anything you want to tell us, Nick? Anything at all, anything out of the ordinary?’

There was the smallest of hesitations before the boy shook his head. ‘No, nothing,’ he said.

‘Do you know Simon Rush?’

Nick looked startled. ‘Yes. He’s the college president. Why?’

‘Was he friends with Emily, do you know?’

He shrugged. ‘Not especially. He’s a third year. Has his own crowd.’ He looked at them intently. ‘Is he involved in this? Do you think he’s involved?’

‘Do you have a Facebook account?’ Martin asked, ignoring the question.

Nick looked puzzled for a moment. ‘Yes, of course,’ he answered as if Martin had asked him if the sky was blue.

‘Twitter? The Durham Media account?’

Nick nodded. ‘Yes and yes.’

‘Anything you want to tell us about that? About Emily’s Facebook account, for example?’

Martin noticed a scarlet tinge begin to creep across the boy’s face.

‘No,’ he said, less certainly.

‘Sure? No photographs of you and Emily you think might be in any way relevant to this case?’

There was silence. Martin could suddenly see the stress Nick was under, the pulse point on the line of his jawbone jumping like a bean. He gave a nervous
laugh. ‘Well, there’s no point denying it, is there? You must have seen it.’

‘Seen what, Nick?’ Martin asked quietly.

‘The photo Shorty put online. The one I took of Emily at the Christmas Ball.’

‘Shorty?’

‘Uh, Chris Wells is his name. Mate of mine.’

‘Tell me about the photo, Nick.’

Nick was chewing his lip, staring at his hands. ‘It was just a joke, right? For the lads. Emily was cool about it. Everyone does it. Everyone knows. You send texts, you email things. It’s just a
joke
.’

Martin said nothing. She waited.

Nick stood up all of a sudden. ‘Look, I’ve had enough of this. If you want to ask me anything else, I want a lawyer.’ He paused. ‘And my father.’

Martin looked into Nick’s eyes for a moment, then seemed to weigh something up. ‘I think we’re done then, Nick. Don’t leave town, though,’ she said.

‘Are you kidding?’

‘Not in the slightest. We may well need to talk to you again in the coming days.’

Nick got to his feet and hoisted his backpack on to his shoulder. ‘Right. Well, no plans to escape at the moment. Keep me posted.’

Martin nodded as if to dismiss him, and he walked off towards the staircase without a backwards glance.

‘What do you think?’ Jones said quietly in the empty corridor as Nick disappeared down the stairs.

‘I think I want to get in the interview room with Rush,’ Martin said abruptly. She looked over at Jones, who met her gaze calmly. She took a breath. ‘Nick’s scared. He doesn’t know how much we know.’ She exhaled loudly. ‘Not that we know a huge amount right now.’ She paused, thinking. ‘Presumably he doesn’t know about the photos Emily had of him hidden in her bedroom cupboard.’