She vividly remembered one of the early warning signs. She’d been sitting at her dressing table, making herself up prior to joining Cameron at a large business supper, when he approached her from behind in his dinner suit and placed his hands lightly on her bare shoulders. He stared at her in the mirror for several long seconds before she laughed, a little nervously.
‘What is it, Cameron? Why are you looking at me like that?’
He squeezed her a little harder. ‘I was just thinking . . . you’re so beautiful . . . Sometimes I want to hurt you.’
She couldn’t say he hadn’t warned her.
Ten years on, Cameron was not ageing well. There was that potbelly, which she hated, and it seemed his hair was becoming sparser by the week. But worst of all was the way his face had changed. ‘Character will out,’ her mother used to say, and Cameron’s was now written plainly across his features. His mouth was habitually turned down in a sardonic twist, and his eyes seemed to have become sunken and narrowed in a kind of permanently suspicious, hostile stare.
She had come to realise, early in the marriage, that he had few friends. His business contacts gave him a spurious cloak of sociability – Cameron brokered many a deal on the golf course – but there was no warmth between him and his fellow man. Two Christmases ago Lake District FM had serialised a reading of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol and Meriel, listening to the opening chapter as she drove home from the studios, found herself muttering aloud: ‘My God, I’ve married bloody Ebenezer Scrooge.’
But she wasn’t thinking about her husband now. She was thinking about Seb. As she did so she began to realise that when she told her agent that she had lost any interest in sex, she’d been deceiving herself as well as him.
Because she was thinking about it. She was imagining Seb holding her in his arms, kissing her, that dirty-blond fringe brushing against her forehead. She pictured herself running her fingers through his hair, and pressing herself against him as she kissed him back.
She closed her eyes and squirmed slightly. She hadn’t felt like this in years. What was happening to her?
Suddenly she opened her eyes again and sat upright. This had to stop. Now. An affair with a work colleague? It was a ridiculous, stupid idea. If they got caught out – and everyone got caught out, didn’t they, in the end; how often had she told her listeners and readers that? – the scandal would be huge. Meriel Kidd, the happily married agony aunt, screwing a young – make that younger – radio reporter.
It didn’t bear thinking about.
She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Romans called them the dog-days, those weeks from early July to mid-August when the so-called dog star Sirius rises and sets almost as one with the sun. The ancients believed that earthly dogs could be driven mad by the intense heat. Perhaps they were, on the Mediterranean’s sultry southern shores.
But not in Britain. Not, at least, until this year. August remained a furnace of heat and searing light and even after Sirius had begun to slowly draw apart from his fiery master, the maddening, sweltering fever burned on with no respite.
In the Lakes, the Kirkstone Pass was closed to traffic. This normally only happened in winter when a heavy fall of snow blocked its passage. Now, the road surface itself was melting; sticky black tar that sucked at tyres and brought cars to a straining, squelching stop, trapping them like bluebottles on flypaper.
Reservoir levels were steadily falling because of heat evaporation, zero rainfall, and the daily draining away of what remained of the rains of winter and spring. Homes and factories were fast guzzling the vast rocky basins dry.
Talk turned to hosepipe bans, water-rationing and standpipes in the streets. The cabinet discussed creating a new government position: Minister for Drought.
In the Lakes, the unthinkable was being discussed.
‘Yes, that’s right, sir. A complete ban on swimming. In the lot of them – no exceptions.’
The county’s environment chief looked around the table. Heads were shaking doubtfully from side to side. He pressed on.
‘Obviously Windermere, Derwent Water, Ullswater, Bassenthwaite – but all the smaller ones too. From midnight tomorrow until further notice.’
The chief constable grunted. ‘That’d take us to bloody Halloween, the way things are going. Absolutely no sign of a change in the weather, according to the Met Office boys. A massive belt of high pressure from here down to the Azores and halfway up to Iceland. It’s just not moving.’
He drummed his fingers quietly on the file in front of him before continuing.
‘I’m sorry, Terry’ – he looked directly at the council man – ‘but my boys couldn’t possibly police the ban you’re proposing. I just don’t have enough boots on the ground. And anyway, I simply can’t see how we’d enforce it. Are we banning paddling in the shallows, too? If so, what d’you define as shallows? How far out can folk go? Can they swim if they stay in their depth? And what if they need to go in after their dogs?’
The environment officer shrugged. ‘I was just answering the question we’re all trying to square away, Chief Constable – how to guarantee no more drownings. I’m simply telling you that an outright swimming ban’s the only way.’
‘And I’m explaining why it’s unenforceable. We’re having a heatwave, for God’s sake. It’s human instinct to want to cool off in the water.’ The police chief sighed. ‘Anyone else have any ideas?’
‘More boat patrols.’ It was the region’s head of tourism. ‘The RNLI have said they can spare us some men and inflatables. And I’m sure we could rustle up a few retired folk with boats of their own. A sort of Dad’s Navy.’
There was a general laugh. ‘Good idea,’ nodded the chief constable. ‘No shortage of Captain Mainwarings around these parts, that’s for sure. Anyone else?’
The chief press officer for Cumbria raised her hand. ‘We’ve just got the Carlisle Evening News to agree to put a warning against swimming on every edition’s front page. All the weeklies are doing the same. Lake District FM have started broadcasting alerts after every news bulletin, and the poster campaign rolls out across the national park from tomorrow.’ She shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t think there’s much more any of us can do.’
The policeman nodded. ‘I agree. Obviously my men have stepped up foot patrols along the shorelines, offering advice to people who look like they’re going into the water. It seems to be meeting with a generally positive response.’ He looked down the table towards the coroner. ‘Timothy? What’s your verdict? Sorry, no pun intended.’
Timothy Young smiled. ‘Not to worry, it’s not the first time.’ He nodded towards the PR woman. ‘I agree with Janet. It’s hard to see what else we can realistically do. I must tell you all that I think there will be further fatalities but with any luck the frequency will continue to fall, albeit slowly. It’s pretty much the best we can hope for.’
The chief constable gathered up his papers, a signal that the meeting was at an end.
‘Well, let’s hope you’re right.’ The rest of the room stood to leave.
‘In the meantime, may I suggest that we all say our prayers at bedtime and ask the Good Lord to conjure up a cold front for us, straight in from the Arctic? Old-fashioned divine intervention would be awfully welcome, wouldn’t it?’ He turned to his secretary.
‘I told you we should’ve invited the bishop.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The post-programme lunch date had not materialised. Meriel went down with a strep throat on Tuesday. Two days later she had developed a mild fever and, much more inconveniently, almost completely lost her voice. Her show had to be presented by a stand-in, the programme’s producer, Glenda Pile. Glenda was a nice enough woman but Seb, peering at her through the studio glass, was disinclined to ask her out for a drink. She was twice Meriel’s age and approximately three times her weight.
He was idly wondering whether to buy Meriel a get-well-soon card on his way home when the statio
n manager stuck his head into the newsroom.
Peter Cox was a genial ex-Radio 4 news producer who’d grabbed the chance to exchange foggy, smoggy London for the intoxicating beauty of the Lakes and a new career (and double the salary) in commercial radio. Former BBC colleagues from the capital who visited him and his ex-model wife marvelled at their stunning Georgian mansion, River House, perched on the banks of the River Eden.
‘Cost us half what our place in Chiswick went for,’ Cox never tired of telling them. ‘We swapped five bedrooms for nine, and a shitty little garden for six acres of parkland with the occasional herd of deer wandering through. Must have been mad to stick around in London for so long.’
Now he brandished a fistful of invitations printed on cream-coloured cartridge paper.
‘It’s Sandra’s and my annual summer garden party on Saturday,’ he announced, walking from desk to desk and handing out the cards as he went. ‘I was checking the guest list this morning and realised I’d clean forgot to ask you newshounds. Dreadfully sorry for the lapse. Do come if you can. At least it won’t be a bloody washout like last year. Champers and sunscreen on the lawn, guaranteed.’
He paused directly in front of Seb.
‘Ah, Sebastian. Sandra will be most disappointed if you don’t grace us with your presence. She says she’s fallen in love with your voice.’ He winked. ‘Obviously, I just want her to see what an ugly bugger you actually are.’
In the pub after they’d finished their shift, Seb drained his beer and nodded to the senior newsman.
‘Another?’
Merryman shook his head.
‘Nah. I have to be at a barbeque with the kids in half an hour. Now then, remember I’m off tomorrow and you’re acting news editor. First time. Still OK with that?’
Seb nodded. ‘Of course. I’ll try not to screw up.’
‘Balls to that; I’m not worried. You’ve found your feet.’ Merryman finished the last of his own beer. ‘You coming to Peter’s garden party the day after?’ he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It’s quite a place, I can tell you. Front cover of Country Life, that sort of thing.’
Seb shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know . . . I quite like Peter but there’s more than a whiff of BBC bullshit still hanging around the bloke. I reckon a party at his country estate might be pretty heavy going.’ He rose to leave.
‘Your decision, old boy.’ The news editor got up, scooping car keys. He shot Seb a sly glance as he did so. ‘You realise that, assuming she’s thrown off that bug of hers, Meriel Kidd will be there?’
Seb stared at him innocently.
‘Why would that interest me?’
Merryman laughed.
‘Oh, do me a favour.’
The morning of the station manager’s garden party began unpromisingly; the sky was masked by an unbroken grey haze and there was a definite coolness in the air. Was this the day the heatwave was finally destined to break?
It was not. By eleven the gloom had been burned away and strong August sunshine was once again beating down on River House’s vast lawn, one of the few that remained green that summer, thanks to sophisticated and expensive sprinkler systems.
The grass sloped down to the river where a twenty-foot twin-engined motor launch was tied up at a private jetty. Two wooden rowing boats alongside it gently rocked and bumped against each other in the sluggish current.
River House looked as if it might have once been on a visit to the Lakes from its home in the Cotswolds, and had decided to stay. The building was uncharacteristic of the area. It had been built in the late 1700s from blocks of honey-coloured limestone, brought up by wagon from distant Gloucestershire quarries.
The original owners had planted twin lines of elms along the long drive that led to the house from the Penrith road. Today, those same trees looked exhausted by the endless heat, branches drooping slightly, their parched leaves whispering unhappily to each other whenever a sudden gust of hot air disturbed them.
By one o’clock more than thirty cars had turned into the shady avenue, re-emerging into the brilliant sunshine of River House’s gravel forecourt where two attendants were supervising parking. When Seb arrived he was one of the last guests to do so and there was almost no room left. He was told to leave his open-topped Triumph on the grass, tucked down one side of the house. He couldn’t help wondering if they’d have assigned him the spot whatever time he’d arrived: his had to be the crappiest-looking car there. It definitely lowered the tone.
As he climbed out of the driver’s battered bucket seat and peered around him, Seb had to admit that Merryman had a point. This place was classy, all right. It reminded him of a country house hotel near Stow-on-the-Wold he’d taken Sarah to last year for a long weekend together.
He sighed. He still missed her.
River House’s double front doors had been thrown wide open under what he guessed was probably a Corinthian arch, and Seb made his way into the cool semi-darkness inside. Once his eyes had adjusted he could see that the windows in the high-ceilinged entrance hall were fitted with ancient but elegant wooden shutters, all of them tightly closed against the sunlight. The effect was almost continental. ‘More like siesta time than party time,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Where the hell is everyone?’
The place seemed deserted. Perhaps he should go back outside and walk all the way around the house to what he supposed would be the garden at the rear. But as he was about to retrace his steps, a door on his left opened suddenly and he heard the sound of a toilet flushing.
Bob Merryman stepped into the hall, fiddling with his belt. He glanced across at Seb.
‘Loo,’ he said unnecessarily, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder. ‘For God’s sake, don’t use the temporary one our hosts have rigged up out there in the garden. It’s a bloody shipping container – no windows, hotter than Hades and, trust me, you don’t even want to know about the smell.’ He finished with his belt and pointed across the hall.
‘Come on, it’s that way. What kept you?’
Seb clicked his tongue as he followed Merryman through another door and down a long panelled corridor.
‘I got a phone call at home just after breakfast. A police contact over in Ambleside. I stood him a few drinks when I was down there covering the last drowning – you know, that one in Rydal Water, the nurse – and he repaid the favour. Said he wasn’t sure, but he’d heard rumours of another one over in Keswick, well, Derwent Water, early this morning. I called it in but, as you know, we’ve only got one bloke in the newsroom today on weekend cover – everyone else is here – so I thought I’d better check it out myself.’
Merryman glanced back at him as they entered what seemed to be a pantry towards the rear of the house.
‘Blimey. And on your day off, too. Devotion above and beyond, young Seb. I’ll memo you an official herogram on Monday. False alarm, I assume, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’
‘Yup. It was someone’s bloody dog, would you believe. An old Labrador that’d gone in after a duck or something. The tale must’ve got tangled in the telling. Still, it’s only about twenty miles from Keswick to here so no real harm done. What’ve I missed?’
They rounded a corner into a wide conservatory, and suddenly the whole of the rear of the house opened up before them. A series of French windows were thrown open onto a wide, paved terrace, with gardens and the shining river beyond.
A big marquee had been set up in the middle of the lawn, and clusters of white-painted wrought-iron tables and chairs were dotted around it. Some were shaded under parasols but others had been left unprotected, presumably for the benefit of sun-worshippers.
Seb stared at the guests as they drifted from table to table, sipping what looked to be a choice of either Pimm’s or champagne. Some of the older men were in brightly striped boating blazers and all the women wore summer frocks and sandals. Seb smiled and turned to his boss.
‘I thought when I arrived just now that this place felt more continental than Cumbr
ian. Not any more, I don’t. That’s a perfect snapshot of England in summertime, isn’t it? I’m glad I came. Looks like everyone’s here.’
Merryman fingered his collar a little uneasily.
‘Well . . . up to a point, Seb. Sorry to disappoint, but it seems I was wrong about Meriel.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘She’s a no-show, I’m afraid. Still, probably for the best, right? I’ve been thinking that I shouldn’t really keep pulling your chain about her. You don’t want to get involved with a woman like her.’
Seb, struggling to conceal his disappointment, affected indifference.
‘Who said that I do? Want to get involved, that is? For Christ’s sake, Bob, I’ve only spoken to her once. And what do you mean, “a woman like her”?’
Merryman appeared faintly irritated.
‘Come on, chum, don’t play the innocent with me. You know exactly what I mean. Meriel’s a married woman. A happily married woman.’
As a despondent Seb moved out onto the lawn to join the party, Meriel was driving hard towards River House. She knew the way – she and Cameron had been there at least twice for dinner with Peter and Sandra – but today, for the first time, she was on her own.
She’d just had another god-awful row with Cameron. God-awful. Her insides were churning and her heart was beating so hard she wondered whether she should pull over for a few minutes to give herself time to calm down. She couldn’t arrive at the party like this. Her hands were trembling so much from rage and revulsion that she’d probably spill her drink all over herself or, worse, someone else.
In the end she found a layby just outside the pretty village of Lazonby, less than two miles from River House, and stopped there.
The Night Book Page 6