The Serpentine Road by Paul Mendelson Read Free Book Online Page B

corner seat on the banquette. They face each other across the table; Don February stands a few paces away. The venue is small; De Vries speaks in a hushed voice and, even then, imagines his words bounce and echo around the room beneath its low stone arches and alcoves.
    ‘You haven’t told your musician friends?’
    Martin pouts, shakes his head.
    ‘How long had you and Taryn Holt been together?’
    Martin hesitates.
    ‘Maybe five years, but it’s not how you think.’
    ‘In what way?’
    ‘This is why I don’t talk about it . . .’ He looks past De Vries to the stage. ‘Who cares now? It doesn’t matter.’ He shrugs. ‘Taryn didn’t do relationships. We went out when it suited us. We behaved like a couple when that’s what we wanted. Other times, we didn’t see each other for weeks . . .’
    ‘When did you last see Miss Holt?’
    ‘Tuesday night. Night before her exhibition opening.’
    ‘You didn’t go?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘She ever come here?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did Miss Holt discuss with you about being afraid, being threatened?’
    ‘I don’t think Taryn ever felt threatened.’
    De Vries ponders what Martin means, wonders whether this is a broader description of her character than merely the answer to his question.
    ‘Where were you last night? Between 10 p.m. and 4 a.m.?’
    Lee Martin looks down.
    ‘At home. I practised until one of my housemates came in, maybe midnight, then I went to bed.’
    ‘He, or she, see you?’
    ‘We spoke, yeah.’
    ‘And you didn’t leave your house?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You have a car?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did Taryn Holt have any other male friends?’
    Martin smiles thinly.
    ‘You mean lovers? Of course. That was the point. She didn’t see any need to limit herself. When you are someone like her, with such potential and the energy to make it happen, why confine yourself? Why, even, get serious? Anyway, how was she ever to know who wanted her and who just wanted her money?’
    ‘Did you want her money?’
    Martin looks disgusted.
    ‘That’s a fucking nasty question.’
    De Vries says nothing, does not break his stare.
    ‘No, I didn’t want her money. I loved Taryn for who she was, how she made me feel. I live in a crummy house in Woodstock with three other mates, drive a scooter ten years old. I’ve been with Taryn five years: you think if I wanted money, I wouldn’t be doing a bit better than I am now?’
    ‘She leave you anything in her will?’
    ‘I’ve no idea.’
    ‘Did you know the identity of these other boyfriends?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘It bother you?’
    ‘If it did, I didn’t have to stay . . .’ Martin subsides, nodding gently. ‘You took Taryn on her terms. She didn’t want a full-time relationship; she didn’t believe in monogamy. We were both free to do what we wanted, and we both knew that we had each other when the time came.’
    ‘Every few weeks . . . ?’
    ‘Sometimes. Sometimes every day for a week. That’s what it was like.’
    ‘No one you can think of who might wish her harm?’
    ‘No.’
    De Vries waits, but Martin says nothing.
    ‘Speak to my Warrant Officer for a few moments, Mr Martin. He’ll want the name of your house-mate who you spoke with, some other details. I hope we won’t bother you again.’
    Lee Martin stands shakily, holds out his hand. De Vries shakes it.
    De Vries walks away towards the stage while Don asks his official questions. The two musicians have left and the venue seems deserted. He finds bars and clubs depressing in the daytime: none of the magic of lighting and music to transform the atmosphere from a gloomy lower ground floor room, hung with blue velvet curtains and painted a purple-ish black. He turns, leans against the back of a chair, observes Lee Martin from afar. He is not whom he expected Taryn Holt might go out with, even though he scarcely knows either of them. Martin is sickly pale, thin tattooed arms protruding from the short sleeves of a Fred Perry polo shirt, his jeans like drainpipes.