The Night Book (17 page)

Seb gathered himself to reply but before he could speak Jess’s voice murmured in his ears.

‘Careful.’

Seb slowly exhaled and managed to bring his emotions back under control.

‘Yes,’
he replied, in a dangerously quiet tone.
‘I suppose it is.’

Satisfied that he’d re-established dominance, the host moved swiftly to wrap the item.

‘Seb Richmond, reporting for us from the shores of Ullswater in the Lake District, thank you.’

Jess cut the link before Seb could say anything else.

In the radio car five minutes later, the engineer poured them both coffee from a steaming Thermos.

‘You almost lost it there, matey,’ he said, handing Seb his mug. ‘I thought your career might be over before it’d begun.’

Seb took the drink in hands that were slightly shaking.

‘Yeah, well . . . with a shallow bastard like that . . . anyway, thanks for giving me a jog, Jess. Appreciated. Although I reckon the listeners would have quite enjoyed hearing me losing
it and calling that little git a tosser.’

Jess sipped his own coffee. ‘Never mind, Sebastian. They heard you
think
it.’

She heard the entire broadcast as she sat naked and motionless on the end of her bed.

It was one of the most surreal experiences of her life. Seb Richmond – her lover, the man who just over twenty-four hours earlier she had decided she was going to leave Cameron for –
was asking questions about her at a national police press conference. A press conference about her dead husband. The whole country was listening.

Meriel wondered if others had noticed the concern in his voice when he asked the chief constable: ‘Is she all right?’ She thought Seb’s anxiety was palpable.

She had gone cold when another reporter began asking questions as to exactly why Cameron had dipped beneath the surface of the lake, but she forced herself to remain calm. She must always be
absolutely resolute about this:
she simply didn’t know.
He was there, and then he wasn’t there. That was all she could say. She must never, ever embellish or deviate one degree
from her account.

Now, an hour later, Meriel had no idea that as the police car chauffeured her through Ambleside on their way from Cathedral Crag to Kendal, Seb was some five miles in front of her, negotiating
Windermere’s holiday traffic. He’d be in the county town at least fifteen minutes before her, parked up outside the pathology lab that doubled as a mortuary.

As Seb left the bustling lakeside town behind him, he reflected that this was probably the most unsettling day of his life, and certainly the most challenging of his career. He
was still in mild shock after learning that Cameron Bruton was the drowned man. Now he’d been sent to interview his widow. The last time he’d seen her they’d been in bed
together.

It was all taking quite a lot of adjustment.

Seb was certain of his feelings for Meriel, and, as far as he could tell, she felt the same about him.

But now her husband was dead.

He tried to think. When Meriel had secretly phoned him yesterday morning from Cathedral Crag she’d sounded calm and determined. Optimistic, even, that Cameron might be receptive to the
suggestion of a trial separation. So what on earth had happened just a few hours later out on the water? Had there been some sort of argument? A struggle, even?

Seb hadn’t bought Meriel’s description of a newly contrite and conciliatory Cameron. He’d never met the bastard but from everything she’d told him about the man, he
sounded about as capable of remorse as a rattlesnake.

Bruton had, patently, been up to something. But what? And why, whatever it was, had it ended in his drowning? Could it really have been a random accident, as the police were obviously inclined
to think?

He sucked his teeth as he took a left turn towards Kendal.

Accident, my Aunt Fanny. Seb didn’t believe in coincidences. If Cameron Bruton’s death really was down to misadventure, on the very afternoon his wife was planning on leaving him,
then everything Seb knew about the way the world worked was wrong.

Which brought him back to precisely where he’d started.

What the
fuck
had gone on out there on the lake?

His news editor had been cool with him earlier and theirs had quickly deteriorated into an uncharacteristically ill-tempered exchange.

‘Not exactly your finest hour, Richmond,’ Merryman observed crisply down the phone. ‘You were doing OK until the Brutons entered the picture, and then you went to bloody
pieces. The network’s not impressed and, frankly, neither am I.’

Seb never took his beatings lying down.

‘Then you can all piss off, actually,’ he’d snapped back. ‘It was a real shock when I heard who’d drowned. Of course I was thrown off balance. Anyone would’ve
been. I—’

‘Why? If Meriel Kidd was the latest floating corpse I’d understand. A colleague, the girl you’ve got the hots for, all of that. Fine. But her husband? You didn’t even
know him. Face it – it was a
bloody
good story, it fell plumb into your lap and you dropped the ball.’

‘Crap. I was first in with a question, wasn’t I?’

Merryman snorted. ‘Yeah, and you sounded like a fucking teenage girl with a crush. “Ooh, ooh, is she all right?” That won’t win any Pulitzer Prizes. Graham Elms, the
extremely
capable news anchor you were so snotty to, tried to help you get back on track with his question about the whole celebrity angle and you threw it right back in his
face.’

‘And I was right to! He was being a—’

‘
He was being a good journalist!
Of
course
this is a celebrity story! You’ve got a beautiful, famous brunette and her millionaire husband – make that her
dead
millionaire husband. Where’s your fucking news sense, Seb? Did you leave it by the river at Peter Cox’s party on Saturday? Oh, and on that point, what was going on there
between you and Meriel? When I left, the two of you were completely wrapped up in your own little world. Everything looked very cosy to me, down there by the water.’

Seb had been expecting this and had his answer ready.

‘Nothing was going on, other than a little harmless flirting. Anyway, we left soon after you did. Separately, as a matter of fact.’

Merryman snorted again. ‘That old trick. Well, it’s none of my business. But my advice to you is to be extremely careful over the next few days and weeks. The press are going to cast
Meriel Kidd as the tragic, ravishing widow. Just make sure they don’t cast you as the ravisher. That won’t play well for either of you, trust me.’

Seb was silent. Merryman let the warning hang in the air for a few moments before he continued.

‘Right. I make it just gone eight-thirty. I’m going to give you a chance to get back on the horse you so spectacularly fell from half an hour ago – not that the network will
thank me, so don’t bloody well let me down again. Get yourself from Glenridding to Kendal – take the Kirkstone Pass, they’ve sorted all that melted tar out now – and find
the mortuary. Meriel should arrive there at around ten. See if you can persuade her to say a few words on tape.’

Seb was appalled.

‘
What?
You have to be joking! She’s going there to identify her husband’s dead body, Bob! Jesus, I can’t doorstep the woman at a time like that!’

Merryman sighed.

‘You’ll be doing her a favour, you idiot. The world and his wife are going to be there with microphones and flashing cameras and flapping notebooks. It’ll be a total scrum. So
if she talks to anyone, it’s going to be you. Which means you have the opportunity to protect her – get her away from the baying rabble and give her a bit of privacy.

‘Explain to her that if she says something on the record to you, we can tell the rest of the media it’s a shut-out; an exclusive. But we’ll
also
tell them that they
can have it half an hour before we broadcast it. On condition, of course, that they leave her alone.

‘Come on, Seb, you know this makes sense. You’ll be helping her.’

Seb knew that most postmortems were usually carried out by a consultant pathologist in the local hospital, so when he got to Kendal he followed the signs to the Westmorland
General. It was down towards the south of the old market town, across the River Kent.

Seb knew he’d made the right call as he approached the building; he could see a gaggle of men and one or two women hanging around the entrance.

Reporters. You could spot them a mile off.

He parked his Triumph around a corner and walked back to the loitering press pack.

‘Morning, all. She here yet?’

They looked at him without interest. Eventually someone replied.

‘No. Who are you?’ It was one of the women, a red-head in a tank-top and Bowie-style stack heels.

‘Seb Richmond. Lake District FM.’ He patted the portable tape recorder hanging from his shoulder.

There was a faint titter and the redhead smirked at him.

‘Well, well, how about that? We were just talking about you, Sebby. You were the big sulk on the breakfast show this morning, weren’t you? Mr “Oh, please, I don’t do
tacky celebrity stories”. So why are you here now, Sebby, slumming it with the likes of us?’

Another titter, louder this time.

Seb smiled at them.

‘I’m not. As in, slumming it. I’m here for an exclusive. So be nice, and I might just toss you a bone.’

Without waiting for their reaction he pushed past them and through the swing doors that opened into the hospital reception area.

Once inside and hidden from their hostile stares, his shoulders sagged.

What the hell was he going to do now?

‘Can I help you, sir? If you’re press, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait outside.’

Seb turned around. One of two women sitting behind the hospital’s reception desk was addressing him. This one was middle-aged and tightly permed and she was staring with undisguised
suspicion.

Seb thought on his feet.

‘I’m not exactly press, no.’ He fished inside his wallet for his radio station identity card and showed it to her.

‘My name’s Seb Richmond, Lake District FM. I’ve been sent down here to personally assist my colleague, Meriel Kidd. She’ll be here shortly to identify the body of her
late husband, Cameron Bruton. Mr Bruton drowned yester—’

The woman nodded, her expression beginning to soften a little. ‘Yes, we’re expecting her. I heard you on the wireless this morning, Mr Richmond. I thought you sounded rather upset,
if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘Well . . . it came as something of a shock. None of us at the station had any idea until that moment. That’s why they’ve sent me straight on here from the news conference, to
see if there’s anything we can do to help.’

Yeah, to help ourselves to a scoop, he thought cynically to himself. Although, if he was honest, the prospect of seeing Meriel again under any circumstances was lifting his heart.

The receptionist was smiling at him. ‘Of course, I quite understand. Now, let me see. My colleague here will be escorting your friend and the police to the . . . well, the room where the
identification will take place. Obviously that comes first. Then I can bring her to you. Come this way, please. I’m sure you’ll both appreciate some privacy.’

A few moments later Seb found himself in what he supposed was a consulting room. It was furnished with a plain wooden table, chairs placed on either side and a small green sofa in the
corner.

He sat down to wait.

Outside, Meriel stepped from the police car to a cacophony of shouts and a blizzard of flashing cameras.

‘Miss Kidd! Mrs Bruton! Can you tell us anything about what happened yesterday? How are you feeling now? Will you be making some kind of statement? Miss Kidd!’

One of the two policemen with her took her by the elbow and guided her firmly through the throng while his colleague spoke above the clamour.

‘Come on now, boys, let us through! Miss Kidd has nothing to say at the moment. She has some very difficult business to get through here, you all know that. Come on now. That’ll do.
Let the lady pass.’

Reluctantly the scrum parted and Meriel and her minders pushed their way through the hospital doors and into the hall behind.

‘Sorry about that, Mrs Bruton,’ the officer said to her. ‘We’ll see if we can find a back way out of here so you don’t have to go through that again. Must be very
distressing for you at a time like this.’

Meriel looked gratefully at him. ‘Thank you, I would appreciate that. They’re just doing their job, I suppose.’

‘Hmm. Not much of a job if you ask me. Bloody vultures . . . I
do
beg your pardon, ma’am – forgive my language.’

‘Not at all.’ Meriel looked around her. ‘Where do we go now?’

The receptionist who had spoken to Seb joined them.

‘Mrs Bruton, I’m very sorry for your loss. We all are. A terrible business. We’ll make this as easy as possible for you.’ She beckoned her younger colleague over.

‘This is Bridget. She’s going to take you to where your husband is. Afterwards, you can have a nice cup of tea with your colleague. I’ve put him in a private room so you can
both have some privacy.’

Meriel looked blankly at the woman.

‘My colleague? I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.’

The receptionist smiled kindly at her. ‘He told us that your radio station sent him down here to see if there’s anything they can do for you at this time.’

Meriel nodded her understanding. ‘Ah, I see. That’s very thoughtful of them. Did this person give you his name?’

‘Oh yes. Richmond. Seb Richmond. I assume you know him?’

Cameron looked a damn sight better this morning than the last time she’d seen him, Meriel thought to herself.

An attendant had gently folded back the white cotton sheet covering her late husband’s face. It was pale – ‘deathly pale’ she found herself thinking – but serene.
The expression of agony that had been imprinted on it in death yesterday was gone now, thankfully. As was the revolting green foam that had covered his mouth, chin and throat.