The Night Book (31 page)

Mark could hear the solicitor’s sound bite on the radio now. ‘No wonder I couldn’t bloody sleep,’ he muttered as he poured milk into his mug of tea. ‘If I’ve
got this wrong that bastard’s going to chew me up and spit me out in pieces.’

He grabbed his car keys from their hook by the back door and went out into the drive. The stars were still out but there was a faint blush along the eastern horizon.

He reckoned the divers could start going down in an hour.

Seb was at the newsagent’s less than five minutes after it opened. The newspapers were still in their heavy bundles tied up with baling twine, and he helped the paper boy
cut them free and sort them into piles on the floor ready for delivery.

The headlines were predictable.

LADY OF THE LAKE ARRESTED
, was the
Daily Mirror
’s. The
Daily Mail
went with
MYSTERY AS MERIEL ACCUSED.
The
Daily Express
offered
MERIEL
QUIZZED ON HUSBAND’S DEATH
while the
Sun
had
COPS PUT THE CUFFS ON KIDD
.

When Seb was back in his flat he quickly scanned the stories beneath the banners. They were broadly the same. Meriel had gone voluntarily to the police station, she had co-operated during
questioning but had nevertheless been arrested on suspicion of withholding evidence. Her solicitor was saying it was a fit-up – although not in those words – and that heads would roll,
damages would be huge, and so on.

There was nothing about him; his name didn’t appear anywhere. The police had made no reference to his being questioned, and the rumours about him and Meriel were, for now, unreportable.
That would certainly change if and when it all came to court.

Seb was genuinely mystified that Meriel had been arrested so early in the inquiry. He couldn’t think why the police had done that, unless this Probus guy was right and it was an attempt to
intimidate her.

He wouldn’t get the chance to report on it, though – not that he had the faintest wish to – something that had been made clear to him by the station manager the previous
afternoon.

‘We’re not going to suspend you, Seb,’ Peter Cox had said during a formal meeting in his office. ‘We don’t think that’s necessary. But obviously you’re
off the story: you’re a witness in what could end up as a Crown Court trial.’

‘Of course. Thanks, Peter. For not suspending me. I—’

‘Hold on, Seb, I’m not done yet.’ His boss shifted uncomfortably in his chair before continuing.

‘Bob and I have talked this over and we both think you should come off-air for a while. The fact that you and Meriel had formed a relationship didn’t matter two hoots before this,
but it most certainly does now.

‘Sooner or later the fact you’ve been questioned is bound to leak. Then the gossip that’s been flying around about the two of you will get dragged into the story. When that
happens, every time listeners hear your voice all they’ll be able to think about is you and Meriel and murder – even if nothing against her is ever proved.’

Seb stared at him.

‘How long will I be off-air for? And what do I do with myself here at the station in the meantime?’

The station manager shrugged. ‘As to the first question, who knows? Until this thing goes away or until after any trial. By the way, if there
is
a trial, you’ll definitely
be sent on leave until it’s over. Then we can . . . take stock of the situation.’

Seb decided he didn’t like the sound of that last part.

‘As to what you’ll do here until then,’ his boss continued, ‘I’d like you to be a
de facto
deputy news editor, reporting to Bob. Help write scripts,
bulletins, news-gather . . . just not go behind a mic, I’m afraid.’

Seb let what he had been told sink in. Then he slowly stood up.

‘Thanks, Peter. I can see that you and Bob are bending over backwards to help me out here, and I’m grateful.’ He walked to the door, where he turned round, his face bleak.

‘But my career’s in the toilet, isn’t it?’

There were three divers and by the time Mark arrived at Howtown on Ullswater’s southern shore, they were fully suited up. The police launch was about to cast its moorings
and head out to the spot where Cameron Bruton had drowned.

Someone must have tipped off the press because there were a couple of photographers and several reporters hanging around the jetty. No TV he could see, but one woman with a microphone.
Radio.

As he got out of the car and walked across to the boat, the cameras clicked and the little gaggle of newsmen fell into step beside him.

‘DI Thompson, isn’t it?’ It was the man from the
Carlisle Evening News
. ‘What’s going on here this morning, sir? What will you be looking for out
there?’

‘No comment.’

‘Oh, come on, officer,’ another of them said. ‘Give us a break. We’ve been here since before dawn. You must be able to tell us something.’

‘No comment.’

Thank God he’d contrived to keep Meriel locked up. This was going to be on the wires in about thirty minutes, and probably on the next Lake District FM bulletin. She would have been
certain to find out and put two and two together.

Mark took the gap between jetty and boat in one leap. As he scrambled aboard the man in charge of the underwater unit gave him a friendly nod.

‘Come to see the fun, sir?’

‘Yes. I just hope I’m not sending your men on a wild-goose chase, Sergeant.’

The other man shrugged as the idling outboard motor suddenly burst into a throaty roar and the launch surged away from the jetty, leaving the frustrated press pack behind. ‘It won’t
bother my lads if they don’t find anything down there. Any excuse for a dive.’

‘Well, it’ll bloody bother me.’

The sergeant laughed. ‘Not to worry, Inspector. If there’s anything to be found, they’ll bring it up.’

It was still only seven o’clock and although the sun had risen forty-five minutes earlier, it had yet to clear the fells behind them to the east. The lake was glassy-smooth this
late-August morning, and with no direct sunlight on it, the water appeared almost black. Behind them, the wake of the boat curled away on both sides in perfectly symmetrical curving ridges that
were lightly foamed close to the boat.

‘Looks like we’re going through Guinness, doesn’t it, sir?’

Mark was distracted. ‘I suppose so . . . when will we get there?’

‘In about thirty seconds. Look – there’s the buoy, dead ahead.’

Sure enough, three hundred yards in front of them a small red marker was floating perfectly still in the tranquil water.

‘Who put that there?’

The sergeant was already throttling back the engine.

‘We did – yesterday. We got down here a couple of hours before dark so there was just time enough to do the triangulation and mark the spot. We based our calculations on what the
officers attending the original incident told us, and the witness statements from the civvies on the boat that was first on the scene. I reckon we’re accurate to a few yards.’

A few moments later the boat slowed even more and started to perform a lazy circle around the buoy. The sergeant reversed the engine and brought the launch to a full stop, before he cut the
gurgling outboard completely.

The divers adjusted their breathing apparatus in the sudden silence, and pulled masks down into position from the top of their heads. Two of them picked up hand-held underwater battery lamps
from the deck and switched them on. Even in daylight, they were dazzling. One by one the men perched on the side of the boat, their backs to the water, and gave the thumbs-up.

‘Right then, boys,’ the sergeant addressed them. ‘It’s about sixty feet to the bottom. It’s ruddy dark down there so stay close and in visual contact at all times.
You know what you’re looking for – a gold watch. But if you see anything else, anything else at all, bring that up too. Off you go.’

One by one the divers tumbled backwards over the side of the boat and within a few moments, they had disappeared from view.

The sergeant turned to the inspector.

‘And now, sir, we wait. Fancy a coffee? I’ve got some in a flask. It should still be hot.’

DI Thompson shook his head.

Suddenly, he was feeling rather nauseous.

Probus lay in bed while his wife prepared breakfast downstairs. He was confident he could get a judge to sign a writ of
habeas corpus
by midday at the latest. The
police had still not offered to share knowledge of what they claimed to have found on the Brutons’ boat, and he, Probus, was beginning to think it was an outrageous ruse. They must be mad.
What the devil did these blundering idiots think they were playing at?

Privately, he was delighted. The damages his client would assuredly be awarded in due course would naturally inform the fee he intended to charge her. Probus was hardly short of money but a
little more – in this case, a
lot
more – was always welcome.

He slid his hairless legs to the floor and went into the bathroom to shave. One’s toilet must always be impeccable when going before a judge. He would wear his new Turnbull and Asser shirt
– the one with the pink stripes – and that black woollen three-piece suit Diana had bought for him on her last trip to Harrods.

The lawyer sighed with satisfaction as hot water began to gush into the sink. He soaked his shaving brush under the tap before working up a lather in the little soap-dish.

This was going to be a
very
good day.

Probus started to hum to himself.

Mark looked disconsolately at the pile of rubbish that was steadily growing in size on the deck.

Three beer-bottle tops. What looked like the casing of a small penknife, minus the blades. A shard of green glass. A bent and twisted pair of sunglasses, both lenses missing.

No watch.

The water to the side of the boat began to boil and one of the divers surfaced again. He pulled the breathing tube from his mouth and pushed his mask up.

‘Sorry, Sarge, I’m nearly out of air,’ he called up to his boss. ‘Coming aboard. Tom and Dave might have a few more minutes left. We can repressurise and go back down,
but I reckon we’ve pretty much scoured the area. They’re just checking out the last quadrant.’

Mark and the sergeant helped the man back up on deck. The DI’s stomach was churning; he really thought he
was
going to be sick now. This was looking more and more like a full-on,
platinum-plated disaster.

Fuck
it
.
He’d been so
sure.

‘Sorry, sir,’ the sergeant said as he helped his man out of his diving gear. ‘If it was down there, I guarantee we’d have found it.’

Mark slumped down onto a bench at the stern of the boat.

‘Of course you would, Sergeant. Not to worry. Your men did their best. Clearly, my intelligence was faulty.’

The water next to the hull began bubbling and boiling again. Mark looked listlessly over the side.

He would never, ever forget what he saw next.

First, a gloved hand emerging from the water, four fingers clenched against the palm, but thumb extended vertically into the air.

Then a second hand, belonging to the third diver, rising into the slanting rays of the morning sun, shedding sparkling droplets of water.

And holding something between the forefinger and thumb.

A wristwatch.

A gold wristwatch.

A Rolex.

DI Thompson leaned over the back of the boat as far as he could, and threw up.

Probus was behind the wheel of his silver Jaguar XJ and about to pull out of the drive on his way to court when his wife opened their front door and called after him.

‘Max!
Max!
Stop!’

He wound his window down.

‘What? What is it, Diana?’

‘It’s the police, Max. On the phone. They say they have something they have to tell you about the Kidd case.’

Probus smiled. He bet they did. They must be falling over themselves to back down, now they knew he was applying for a judge’s order against them.

‘Tell them to wait. I’ll be there in a minute,’ he called, switching off the ignition.

His smile broadened.

This was going to be enjoyable. Most enjoyable.

Five minutes later Probus was on the phone to his office.

‘Justin? Call the clerk to the court . . . yes, the
Crown
Court! Tell them I’m suspending my application for
habeas corpus . . .
Yes, yes . . . indefinitely. No . .
. no, I don’t expect to reapply. What? Oh, just
do
it, Justin!’

He slammed the phone down.

What the fuck had Meriel Kidd been playing at? Why had she lied to him about the watch? What else was she lying about?

And
why
? What in the name of God had the woman done?

As Probus’s perfect day was collapsing around his ears, DI Thompson was at police headquarters conferring over a coffee with his superintendent.

‘Bloody well done, Mark,’ the senior man said. ‘An incredible result. You’ve caught her out in a whopper – she lied to the coroner, she lied to your principal
witness, and she lied to you here yesterday. It completely discredits the rest of her evidence. Put it together with her murderous diary and the testimony of a credible witness in Seb Richmond, and
I reckon we might get more than a sniff of a prosecution. I definitely think a jury deserves to hear what you’ve got.’

The superintendent sipped his coffee, thinking.

‘And you still reckon she doesn’t have a clue what’s coming down the tracks at her? About the watch, I mean?’

Mark shrugged. ‘It’s hard to know what goes on in that woman’s mind, but yeah, I think it’s going to be a complete blind-sider, a real body-blow. Yesterday I was
extremely careful not to press her on the business of the watch. I barely mentioned it and I didn’t ask her any supplementary questions about it. As I said to both you and the AC afterwards,
I wanted her to think that my focus is on the diary, the searches of the house and boat, and what Seb Richmond has told me. When I show her the Rolex a few minutes from now, I’m expecting to
see her defences crumble.’