The Night Book Page 21

  Silence fell. It was Meriel who broke it, saying in a small voice: ‘I thought you loved me, Seb. I really did. I thought you trusted me, too.’

  ‘I did,’ he almost groaned. ‘I do . . . or at least I . . . oh Meriel, why did you write such terrible things? Such awful, sadistic things? Why did you make copies? And where are the originals?’

  She threw her head back and laughed.

  He stared at her in astonishment.

  ‘What could possibly be funny, at a time like this?’

  After a few moments, she brought herself under control.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it is funny, in a way; Cameron still jerking my chain from beyond the grave like this. Jerking yours, too. Maybe it’s his ghost’s revenge.’

  ‘Meriel, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  She smiled faintly. What the hell.

  ‘I didn’t make those copies. Cameron did. He somehow found where I kept the original manuscript. He was always secretly going through my things, looking for God knows what. When I made up my mind to leave him, I burned it – every single page. But it was too late. He’d already secretly made photocopies and hidden them. I searched everywhere for them but I never thought to look in the bloody fuse box.’

  A light began to flicker and brighten in Seb’s mind.

  ‘That’s what you were arguing about on the boat, isn’t it?’ he asked slowly. ‘He told you what he’d done. That’s what he meant when he said if he sued you for divorce, he could make things very messy for you. He was going to produce The Night Book as evidence of unreasonable behaviour. That’s why he said he could destroy your career.’

  She gave another, shorter laugh. For the first time her voice was edged with bitterness.

  ‘Oh, I think you achieved that today, Seb. But do you really think I’m going to confirm any of this to you? So you can go running to your new friend, the coroner? You’ve already shared with him things that I told you in the deepest confidence. Things I thought I was telling to the man I loved, the man I was going to marry and have children with. Things which, for your information, I shall deny I ever said. It’ll be your word against mine.’

  Seb stared at her, appalled.

  ‘Oh Christ, Meriel, has it come to this? Has it really come to this? Just look at us.’

  ‘No, you look at me, Seb. Look very carefully. You’ve turned me into a Miss Havisham. Can’t you see? You’ve betrayed me, and now I must harden my heart. I have no other choice. You made yours, and now I’m making mine.’

  She stood up.

  ‘From what you told me about your cosy little chat with the coroner, I can expect the police to turn up here at some point tomorrow. So I have a great deal to do this evening, not least calling my solicitor at home. I’d like you to get your things and go, please. Right away.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Of course. Of course I’ll go. But, Meriel . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I had to do it. You must understand. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I’d just shrugged the whole thing off, decided it was none of my business. And I’m sorry . . . I wouldn’t have been able to live with you. We’re talking about a man’s death, for heaven’s sake. And it’s a suspicious death, whatever you may say.’

  He looked almost appealingly at her.

  ‘You still haven’t told me, you still haven’t explained about the diary. What did it all mean, Meriel?’

  She sighed. ‘It didn’t mean anything. They were the outpourings of a very unhappy, very troubled woman. An outlet, that’s all. I wasn’t proud of any of it. And then, when I thought you had arrived to save me, I burned them. I was ashamed of them. I could have explained all that, if you’d given me the chance. Now I’ll have to do that to the police instead. Thank you, Seb.’

  ‘But Meriel . . . what about the other things . . . the missing watch . . . that last conversation.’ He licked his lips. ‘Fuck it. I’m just going to ask you outright.’

  ‘Ask me what? Did I kill him?’

  ‘Yes. Did you kill him, Meriel?’

  ‘Get out.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Detective Inspector Mark Thompson was profoundly pissed off.

  He had twice been forced to postpone his summer leave this year because of staff shortages. His wife had given him a very hard time about it, and he didn’t blame her.

  Now, literally as they were packing their bags for a fortnight in Faro – literally – the phone downstairs had rung. Clementine answered it and he could hear the ominous lilt to her voice as she called up to him: ‘Mark. It’s for you. It’s your boss.’

  She was coming up the stairs as he made his way down and as they passed each other she hissed at him: ‘Don’t you dare let them do this again, Mark, otherwise I promise you I’m going to Portugal on my own. I don’t care if it’s actually hotter here than it is there. I mean it. I want a holiday. Enough’s enough.’

  A few moments later he was putting the receiver to his ear.

  ‘DI Thompson.’

  ‘Mark, it’s me, Gil. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this, but I’m going to have to call you in.’

  ‘Tell me this is a joke, Gil.’

  ‘I wish. It’s a biggie, Mark, otherwise I wouldn’t ask. I need my best man. In fact, it isn’t even my decision. I’ve just put the phone down on the assistant commissioner. He won’t hear of anyone but you heading this one up.’

  ‘Just hang on, Gil, while I bang my head against the wall.’

  The superintendent heard several muffled thuds before his DI’s voice came back on the line.

  ‘Why can’t Harry handle it, whatever it is? He’s a chief inspector now, isn’t he? He outranks me.’

  His boss coughed in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, Mark, but Harry’s . . . well, Harry’s on holiday in the States with his family just now. Road trip. Uncontactable.’

  ‘Oh great. Lucky bloody Harry, eh? Three more hours and I would’ve been on a plane myself, to Portugal.’

  ‘And I would have called you straight back the moment you’d landed, I’m afraid.’

  Mark drew a heavy sigh.

  ‘All right, Gil. I suppose there’s no point me arguing the toss about this, although fuck knows what I’m going to tell Clemmie. What’s the case?’

  The superintendent managed to stifle his own sigh of relief.

  ‘It’s going to be very high-profile when it gets out,’ he warned. ‘Very. You know that Meriel Kidd woman?’

  ‘Not personally but I’ve heard of her, obviously. The glam radio presenter. Her husband drowned. Coroner ruled it as misadventure, right?’

  ‘Correct. But hang on to your hat, Marky boy, it turns out that just might have been the wrong verdict. Seems we could be looking at murder. With the wife as killer.’

  ‘Holy moley. Why?’

  ‘New evidence. Circumstantial at the moment but it may lead to other stuff. Get your backside in here asap and I’ll brief you. Then you’ll have to get over to Derwent Water and make an arrest, bring our Miss Kidd in for questioning.’

  The DI nodded. ‘OK. Give me half an hour. Oh, and you’d better have a crash medical team standing by.’

  ‘Uh? What for?’

  ‘I may need some broken bones setting. My wife’s about to try to kill me.’

  Tim Young knew the assistant commissioner personally and had phoned him at his desk first thing on Monday morning. By ten o’clock he was driving through the gates of Cumbria police headquarters at Carleton Hall in Penrith, the photocopies of Meriel’s notebook safely locked inside his briefcase.

  By eleven, the AC had briefed his superintendent and shortly after midday DI Thompson was sitting opposite his boss reading the increasingly dog-eared pages with growing incredulity.

  ‘Meriel Kidd wrote this shit? The famous agony aunt, the one with the face that launched a thousand ships? Are we sure?’

  The superintendent nodded. ‘The boyfriend who gave it to Tim Young says it’s her handwriting
for definite, although obviously we’ll need to get some samples to compare it with. You can do that when you go to the house.’

  ‘OK. How do we know she’ll be there?’

  ‘I sent the local uniform over a couple of hours ago. She’s at home all right, and the constable told her politely but firmly to stay there until CID arrive. That’s you. He’s standing watch outside to make sure she doesn’t go anywhere. But that’s probably unnecessary; apparently she’s got her solicitor with her. She seems to have been expecting us. I reckon her boyfriend tipped her off as to what he’d done. I’d have liked to have been a fly on the wall during that conversation. Anyway, what’s the battle plan, Mark?’

  The DI pushed his chair back and stretched his legs out in front of him, deliberating.

  ‘I don’t think I need to formally arrest her, do you? Not yet, anyway. I’ll just bring her in to help us with our inquiries for now.’

  ‘OK. That’s your call.’

  ‘As for the boyfriend, this Seb Richmond guy, he must have had serious motive for doing this. Handing her poisonous scribblings over to the coroner, I mean. Quite a betrayal, wouldn’t you agree? What did Tim Young say about that?’

  Gil Tremayne held up a forefinger.

  ‘Now. That’s where things get even more interesting. Apparently Meriel confided in Seb Richmond that she and Bruton argued that afternoon on the boat, big time. She told her husband she was going to leave him and he went nuts, threatened her with a great big messy divorce, said he’d screw up her career, all of that. Then a few minutes later the man’s bobbing up and down in the water, drowned. Doesn’t look too good, does it?’

  ‘Not for her, no. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes indeed. Some murky stuff about a missing watch – Bruton’s, a Rolex – that came out at the inquest. Young reckons there’s something fishy about it, but you’ll need to speak to him yourself, I couldn’t quite follow his line on that. Anyway, back to today’s action plan. Continue.’

  Mark had been scribbling a few notes on his police-issue pad while his boss was talking. Glancing at them, he said: ‘It’s pretty straightforward, really. As I say, first I’ll go to Derwent Water and pick Meriel up, bring her back here, and let her cool her heels for a while in one of the interview rooms. I want extra copies of this ordure left in there for her to look at while she’s on her own. Concentrate her mind. Meanwhile I’ll be talking to lover boy. Do we have a hook on him?’

  Superintendent Tremayne nodded. ‘Yup. He’s at work at Lake District FM up in Carlisle. A reporter there. Covered Cameron Bruton’s inquest for them, in fact.’

  ‘Really? While he was screwing the widow?’

  The other man shrugged. ‘Seems like it.’

  ‘OK. Well, let’s send a car for him now and bring him in. Again, no need for the cuffs. He’s just a witness at this stage.’

  ‘What about forensics?’

  Mark Thompson considered the question.

  ‘Obviously, we need to go through the house at Derwent Water with a fine-tooth comb. Start this afternoon if possible. See if our black widow had any other plans for her late husband. We’ll search the boat, too. Where is it now?’

  Tremayne consulted a slim file on the desk in front of him.

  ‘A place just outside Keswick. It’s in dry dock.’

  ‘Then let’s get forensics to give it a dry clean. Now, what about this missing Rolex?’

  The superintendent shrugged. ‘As I say, you need to speak to the coroner about that. It sounds complicated.’ He pushed a white card across the table to the DI. ‘That’s his number.’

  ‘I’ll call him now. Can I use your phone?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Ten minutes later DI Thompson thoughtfully replaced the receiver on its cradle.

  ‘Well?’ his boss asked.

  The detective drummed his fingers on the table for a few moments.

  ‘I’m not exactly sure,’ he said slowly. ‘But, as you say, there seems to be some fog around this. Seemingly Miss Kidd obfuscated in both her statement to us – the one she made on the day her husband drowned – and then later in her evidence to the inquest. Nothing to really get a handle on, but it revolves around her very last conversation with the deceased. Something to do with what time it was, and his watch which subsequently disappeared. Tim Young thinks it could be significant.’

  The DI fell silent again, and Tremayne watched his best detective thinking the thing through. He could practically hear the man’s brain humming. This was why the AC had been right to cancel the poor bastard’s holiday. DI Thompson was a bloody natural.

  ‘Right,’ the man opposite him said at last. ‘I’ll need to see a transcript of the inquest, that exchange between Young and Kidd about the Rolex. Tell the stenographers it’s on either side of the mid-morning adjournment. But whatever, I reckon we’ll definitely need divers. I want an exact triangulation made of the spot Bruton’s boat was in when he drowned. Then we can get down to the lake bed and see what might be there. Can you organise that for me?’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  ‘And you’ll bring Seb Richmond in, and make sure those copies of the . . . what does she call it?’ He peered at the pages in front of him. ‘Yeah, The Night Book . . . Jesus . . . you’ll get them put on the table in the interview room where Kidd can see them?’

  ‘It’ll all be taken care of.’

  ‘Good. In that case, I’ll get myself down the A66 to this Cathedral Crag place. I just hope her sodding lawyer hasn’t advised her to remain silent during questioning. I need this woman to talk. I have to trip her up.’

  Maxwell Probus had often idly wondered if his surname hadn’t in some way predicated his choice of career in the law. Obviously its Latin derivation was significant in itself, but the various English translations – which included ‘honourable’, ‘upright’, ‘veracious’ and (less pleasingly) ‘bully’ – seemed ideal for someone who had decided to become a solicitor.

  He’d spent most of his career in London, specialising in criminal defence work. Probus cut his teeth in the infamous Ruth Ellis trial of 1955 – Ellis was the last woman to be hanged in England – and later acted for two of the men accused of the Great Train Robbery of 1963. But in recent years he had semi-retired to the Lake District, and these days mostly represented drink-drivers, people accused of common assault, and sundry minor malefactors.

  Meriel had engaged him three years earlier when she was accused of driving at almost 90mph on the M6 between Carlisle and Penrith. She had stood to lose her licence, which already carried maximum penalty points for previous offences.

  Probus had mounted an ingenious defence on her behalf which even she hadn’t fully comprehended. Neither had the magistrates, who fined her but were nervous of imposing a ban, such was Probus’s Augustan bearing in their court.

  Now he was sitting in Meriel’s lounge, sipping the repulsive instant coffee she had made him and considering everything she had told him over the last half-hour.

  ‘Very well, Mrs Bruton,’ he began, but Meriel held one hand up.

  ‘Please, Mr Probus. I would prefer it if you call me Meriel, or Miss Kidd.’

  He bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘Then the latter it shall be. Now then, Miss Kidd . . . the facts of this case seem plain enough, as you have described them to me.’

  He carefully put his coffee cup on the little table beside him. He couldn’t bear to touch another drop of the stuff.

  ‘Your late husband died in a most unfortunate accident. But an accident it was. The coroner’s verdict is indisputable. Misadventure.

  ‘These . . . shall we say, diaries, that you have so frankly informed me you have composed, copies of which are now in the hands of the police . . . setting aside questions of – forgive me – taste and decency . . . they are works of pure fantasy, are they not? Private works, never intended for the eyes of others, still less publication of any description?’

  ‘Yes. I only ever wrote them for myself.’

 
; ‘Precisely. They may well contain detailed descriptions of Mr Bruton’s death at your hands, Miss Kidd, but they are as inconsequential in law as . . . well, as are dreams. Private fantasies that simply have no bearing on the circumstances of your late husband’s death.’

  Meriel swallowed. ‘Yes, but they could have a very damaging effect on my reputation and career, Mr Probus, if they were to be made public. I’ve been very . . . straightforward with you this morning. The descriptions in this book are extremely . . . violent.’

  The lawyer spread his hands.

  ‘But if you are not charged with any offence – and I cannot see grounds for that, based, as I say, on what you have told me – the diaries must be returned to you and the police will have no business in making a single word of them public. And I shall make certain that they do not.’

  Probus considered his next words carefully, and when he spoke it was with some delicacy.

  ‘However . . . if they were so misguided as to bring a charge or charges against you, based on the pages you wrote, then yes, they would be entitled to present them in open court. That would lead to unfortunate publicity, I’m afraid. But to be frank with you, Miss Kidd, that would be the least of your concerns in such circumstances.’

  Meriel nodded. ‘And how do you advise me to respond when the police question me later today?’

  Probus smiled broadly.

  ‘Let us cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we, dear lady?’

  Meriel winced. She supposed she’d have to put up with this crass patronage.

  ‘I will be with you at all times, rest assured,’ Probus continued, oblivious. ‘If I feel you are being dragooned or unduly coerced, I shall intervene. I am very experienced in these matters, Miss Kidd. You are in good hands, I assure you.’

  At that moment there was a heavy knock on the front door and Meriel crossed to the window that looked out on the drive.

  ‘There’s a police car. They’re here.’

  The lawyer beamed at her.