The Night Book (33 page)

He glanced back at Meriel as he scooped the glittering Rolex back up from the table.

‘You should consider yourself lucky we don’t hang killers any more in this country, Meriel.’

He moved towards the door.

‘Not much more than ten years ago, you might have swung for this.’

A few minutes after DI Thompson had left the accused and her lawyer in the interview room, a grey-haired middle-aged constable returned with a tray of tea and biscuits.

‘The inspector suggests you could do with this while you come to your decision,’ he told them, not unkindly. ‘I’m to tell you that he would appreciate knowing what that
decision is by nine p.m. at the latest.’ He quietly withdrew.

Probus had spent the last ten minutes trying to persuade Meriel to talk to him, without success. She sat hugging her knees and staring into space.

Now he poured her some tea. ‘Do you take milk, my dear? Or sugar?’

She shook her head. That’s better, thought Probus, at least a reaction of sorts. He pushed the steaming black cup over to her.

‘Do take care, my dear. It is very hot.’

Meriel nodded, and sipped a little of the tea.

‘Thank you, Mr Probus.’

At last. She speaks once more.

The solicitor placed his hands deliberately on both pudgy pinstriped knees, spreading his fingers.

‘Miss Kidd . . . Meriel . . . you must not be in the least concerned or embarrassed that you have been untruthful with me about certain matters. I assure you it is the commonest thing in
the world for clients to be . . . economical with the
vérité
, shall we say. I am quite accustomed to it and I assure you I have never taken it personally, and certainly do
not do so now.’

He paused. ‘And I can quite understand why you chose not to mention the matter of the watch. By the way, I assume the inspector’s theory concerning that is well founded?’

Meriel spoke for a second time.

‘To all intents and purposes, yes, it is.’

‘Ah.’ Probus sat thinking for a while. Meriel slowly sipped more of her tea.

‘Well, that being the case,’ he eventually continued, ‘I can think of one or more strategems and defences that may be helpful to us. Firstly—’

‘No.’ Meriel’s voice was recovering some of its strength.

‘But I assure you—’

‘I said
no
, Mr Probus. I am not going to wriggle like the worm on the proverbial hook. I want this whole business over with as quickly and simply as possible. I’ve had more
than enough of it. I intend to plead guilty to manslaughter.’

Her lawyer hesitated.

‘But Miss Kidd, although I can offer no guarantees on the outcome of a criminal trial before jury, I am of the opinion, given the circumstantial nature of the evidence, that a good
Queen’s Counsel for the defence may well be able to—’

‘Mr Probus, with respect, you were of the opinion that you would have me out of this police station by lunchtime today.’

If the solicitor was offended he gave no sign of it and his tone remained polite, even understanding.

‘Yes, but also with respect, that was before I knew you were concealing evidence, wasn’t it? Forgive me for saying so, but you were perfectly aware where the watch was all
along.’

Meriel released her knees and allowed her feet to sink back to the floor.

‘You’re quite right, Mr Probus. I apologise. I’m being unfair. I know you’re only trying to do your best on my behalf, so please listen closely to what I am now going to
say to you. I’ve been thinking very hard for these last few minutes.’

She took a few moments to compose herself before continuing.

‘I
did
drown my husband. Not with my bare hands, but by my actions. I truly didn’t plan to – the idea to throw his watch into the lake only occurred to me about three
seconds before I did it – but I knew perfectly well he’d try and save it. I also knew that would be extremely dangerous given the conditions. And yes, when he eventually surfaced he was
in a dreadful state and I did nothing to help him. Nothing at all. I was glad he was drowning. The inspector got one thing wrong, though – I didn’t stand and watch Cameron’s death
throes. I couldn’t bear to. I crossed to the other side of the boat and waited there. I could hear him, though. My God, Mr Probus, I could hear him.’

The lawyer was staring at her, his eyes wide.

‘And when it was over, when he was quiet at last, and only then, I went back and threw the lifebelt in. Of course, I knew that it was pointless. I was simply covering my back.’

Probus said nothing.

After a heavy silence, Meriel took a long, shivering sigh.

‘And do you know what, Mr Probus?
I’m glad.
I’m glad I did it. I’m
glad
he’s dead. I’m glad he suffered. He was an utter bastard and he got
what was coming to him. I spent years putting up with the most disgusting mental abuse and humiliation, pretty much on a daily basis. Why on earth do you think I wrote
The Night Book
?
I’m not mad; I’m not mentally ill, or psychotic. I
know
I’m not. It was my way of letting off steam, and when I thought I’d found a way out in the shape of Seb
Richmond, I really
did
burn my pages. I was ashamed of them. And I had no use for them any more.

‘And then Cameron tried to blackmail me with the copies he’d secretly made. It wasn’t just that he used them to try and stop me leaving him. He said I’d have to . . . let
him do things to me. Repellent things. Things in the bedroom. It was disgusting. He wanted to twist my sick imaginings into an even sicker reality – against me. I was terrified.’

She brushed a tear impatiently away from one eye. ‘I realise how cynical it sounds, describing Seb as my way out. But honestly, I’d fallen in love, probably for the first time in my
life. I think I am still in love, actually, despite what’s happened. Although much good it’ll do me now. I’ll probably never see Seb again. I threw him out when he told me what
he’d done, and . . . What are you
doing
, Mr Probus?’

He had quietly taken a slim pad from his jacket while she was talking, and was making notes in it. He glanced up at her; she could see his eyes had begun to shine.

‘Miss Kidd. I am not, to adopt the language of your profession, an “agony uncle”. I am afraid I see the world in an almost purely legal light. So I am afraid I have little in
the way of emotional comfort to offer you.’

He glanced down at his notes.

‘However. As your lawyer, I think I can safely say that you have just outlined the case we are going to make for both motive and mitigation. Having heard it from your lips, unprompted by
me, I have to say I find it most compelling.’

Meriel stared at him. ‘So you agree with me? I should confess to manslaughter?’

Probus nodded emphatically. ‘Oh yes. Now I do. Most certainly. Firstly, it is obviously the lesser of the two possible charges, although in any case it is perfectly clear that this case
really is one of manslaughter, and not murder. There was absolutely no malice aforethought.

‘Secondly, a confession always results in a lighter sentence than if charges are contested and a guilty verdict then follows.

‘And thirdly, as I have just said, there are strong mitigating factors here. You suffered a decade of mental cruelty at this unpleasant man’s hands. I shall require details, of
course, a list of incidents that stand out in your memory.’

Meriel gave a grim laugh. ‘That won’t be difficult. But I’m not sure what evidence I can produce. That’s the thing about mental cruelty, isn’t it? No bones are
broken or scars left behind. Not visible ones, anyway.’

‘Leave that to me. We shall commission and present detailed psychiatric reports.’ Probus hesitated. ‘However, I must warn you, you will almost certainly be remanded in custody,
at least at first.’

Meriel swallowed. ‘Will I have to wait long for my trial?’

For the first time that afternoon, the lawyer smiled.

‘Oh, there won’t be any trial, not now that we are going to make a full confession. No jury, either, nothing like that. There’ll simply be a form of hearing where a judge
decides what to do with you, taking mitigation into account. And any time you’ve spent on remand will be brought into consideration, too. But that won’t be long – confessions are
a fast track to justice. In any event, I certainly don’t anticipate that you will receive a long sentence.’

He leaned forward and squeezed her shoulder.

‘You didn’t plan to do what you did, my dear. You just snapped. Countless women will understand that. They’ll even sympathise.’

Meriel shook her head despondently.

‘Not when they read what I wrote about killing Cameron, they won’t.’

‘No, no! Only the judge and one or two court officials will ever see your diary, my dear. Your confession means there’s no requirement to present detailed evidence in public. Those
copies of
The Night Book
will simply remain on file, gathering dust.’

‘Really?
Really?
That would be
such
a relief!’

He regarded her shrewdly. ‘In fact, given the tide of popular sympathy I anticipate, and frankly intend to orchestrate, I’d say that when this is all behind you, you may even be able
to resume your career. Perhaps write a book about it all. Go on lecture tours, that sort of thing. You could become a feminist icon for our times; carry a torch for mentally abused women
everywhere.’

Meriel looked at him in near-disbelief. ‘Mr Probus, I am about to go to jail.’

‘But not for long. And in any case, think what a chapter
that
would make!’

He sucked his pen, considering. To her astonishment, he began to hum.

‘What is it? Why are you humming like that?’

He stopped abruptly, looking a little sheepish.

‘I’m so sorry, my dear. An unfortunate habit of mine. But I was just thinking to myself that with a little luck and a following wind, we might even be fortunate enough to get a woman
judge.’

The story was too late to make the early editions. There was nothing about it on the front pages of the national papers that were unloaded off the night train to Carlisle, just
headlines screeching that Meriel continued to be interrogated. The
Sun
’s –
KIDD KEPT IN CLINK: THE AGONY GOES ON
– was typical.

But the news had broken in plenty of time for breakfast radio. Seb’s wireless alarm switched itself on automatically just before six o’clock and a minute later he was sitting up in
bed, staring blearily at the little loudspeaker.

‘In fast-developing news overnight, Cumbria Police have confirmed that Lake District FM’s Meriel Kidd has confessed to the manslaughter of her husband, millionaire businessman
Cameron Bruton. Shortly before midnight Miss Kidd’s solicitor emerged from police headquarters in Penrith, where his client has been held for two days, to make this brief
statement.’

The calm, measured tones of Maxwell Probus followed. Seb thought the man sounded as if he were reading from the telephone directory.

‘This evening my client, Miss Meriel Kidd, accepted responsibility for her husband’s drowning in Ullswater earlier this summer. Specifically, she has agreed to plead guilty to a
charge of manslaughter, as the police accept that death occurred without malice aforethought. I emphasise, therefore, that this is NOT an admission of murder and neither are the police treating the
case as such. Furthermore I believe there are clear and abundant mitigating factors involved, which will emerge in due course. Meanwhile I expect my client to be remanded in custody until
sentencing. That is all I have to say at this time.’

The newsreader’s voice was back, but the rest was pure background to the story. Seb switched the radio off and lit a cigarette – that damned coroner had got him started on the bloody
things again – and tried to think.

Unless Meriel had had some sort of breakdown under questioning, the police must have made a breakthrough.

And they’d clearly offered her a trade-off – a lesser charge in return for a confession and quick conviction. Case closed.

Seb rolled out of bed and into his clothes. He was due in the office at seven for news-gathering duties, but he’d be free by two and then he planned to drive straight down to Penrith. He
was going to see DI Thompson; he’d wait all afternoon if he had to.

And then he would try to talk to Meriel, if she’d let him. They’d have to allow her visiting rights, wherever she was being held.

He was unable to think of any women’s prisons in Cumbria. Seb had the depressing feeling that Meriel would turn out to be locked up somewhere a very long way from the Lake District.

The instant Seb stepped outside his flat, he felt it: the change. He came to an abrupt halt, disoriented and confused. What the hell was different?

It took several moments for him to realise exactly what had happened.

The sun had gone. Not half-hidden, glowing palely silver behind an early-morning heat-haze that it would quickly scorch into nothingness, but comprehensively banished by thick, gun-metal-grey
cloud that hung heavy and almost motionless across the sky.

It was the first morning in months that he could remember where no dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves of the trees onto the pavements beneath. No sharply defined black shadows of
chimneys or lampposts slanted obliquely across the road. Everything appeared colourless and drab, a faded black-and-white world compared to the seemingly endless sun-painted days that had, of
course, ended, as they were always going to end, slipping away faithlessly in the night to some other land.

It remained hot, but it was no longer the dry heat of yesterday and the hundred days before it. Now the atmosphere was humid and heavy; almost sub-tropical. It reminded Seb of his newspaper days
when he was in Ghana, on assignment with the local regiment.

He sniffed at the air. It had an electric tang to it; the unmistakable promise of thunder later.

Even with a sky so dark and threatening, Seb found it almost impossible to consider the prospect of rain, the actual reality of it. As he pulled away in his Spitfire, he realised he’d
almost forgotten what rain felt like.