The Night Book

by Richard Madeley

  Almost at once, all the elements he’d briefly succeeded in explaining away dropped back into their sinister, swirling pattern.

  Cameron drowning the very day Meriel told him she was leaving him – and barely minutes after he’d threatened her with a very public, hostile divorce.

  Meriel withholding any mention of that conversation when giving evidence to the coroner. And then lying to him about something else, something to do with the missing watch.

  Meriel composing sick fantasies about murdering her husband.

  The certainty of what the police response would be after reading those fantasies: an immediate search of boat and lake bed. What might they reveal?

  Seb’s mouth set in a grim line. He accelerated, and drove on towards Bassenthwaite.

  ‘You must understand, Mr Richmond, that I can’t discuss my thinking about this or any other case with you, other than to repeat what I have already said on the record.’

  Dr Young had led Seb into his study as soon as he had arrived; after bringing them both a glass of sherry, Miriam Young had quietly withdrawn and left them alone.

  ‘I completely understand that, sir. I was hoping, though, that we might have what the Americans call a deniable conversation; what we here know as off the record.’

  ‘Only up to a very limited point, I’m afraid,’ the coroner replied crisply. ‘We are not in America.’ Then, after a moment, he relaxed a little.

  ‘Look, I don’t wish to be difficult. How about this? Why don’t I listen to what it is you have to say to me not so much as coroner, but more, shall we say, as concerned citizen? Although I must warn you that if I hear anything I feel should be brought to the attention of the police, I shall do so without hesitation.’

  Seb nodded again. ‘That’s fair enough.’

  ‘Well then, where do you want to begin, Mr Richmond . . . Seb?’

  Seb sighed, searching for the right words.

  Oh, for Christ’s sake, come on. Just tell it like it is.

  He drained his sherry in a single gulp.

  ‘The truth, Dr Young, is that Meriel Kidd and I are involved. It’s no secret, all our colleagues know about it.’ He paused. ‘I sometimes stay with her at her house and this morning, after she had gone out, there was a power cut. I had to go looking for the fuse box.’

  He paused again.

  This was it.

  The point of no return.

  ‘Eventually I found it – the fuse box, I mean – in the cellar. And when I did . . . well, the thing is . . .’

  He swallowed.

  ‘I found something else, too.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Outwardly Timothy Young had remained impassive throughout Seb’s nervous, hesitant testimony.

  But his mind was racing. This was dynamite.

  Already he had mentally chalked up some crucial questions for the young man sitting opposite, but for now he kept his counsel, merely nodding from time to time in gentle encouragement as Seb’s story gradually emerged.

  Eventually, in an unconscious echo of Jess a few hours earlier, the coroner asked: ‘Can I take a look at it?’

  Wordlessly, Seb pulled the papers from their increasingly frayed tube and handed them over.

  ‘Thank you.’ Dr Young patted his jacket pockets, found his reading glasses, and perched them on the end of his nose. ‘Now then . . .’

  He read in absorbed silence, carefully placing each page on the side-table next to him once he’d finished it. At one point he quietly asked: ‘And we are quite certain this is Miss Kidd’s handwriting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The coroner unhurriedly continued. Unlike Jess earlier that day, he displayed no emotion.

  ‘I see she dates each entry,’ he remarked. ‘One every few months or so, starting in 1970.’

  He glanced up. ‘Typically, four or five pages apiece. Quite intense, one might say, all of them. This last one was written in spring of this year. Typical of the entire genre.’

  When he’d finished, he looked directly at Seb. His eyes were full of sympathy.

  ‘This must have been extraordinarily difficult for you, my boy. First, stumbling across these documents in the way you described, discovering their dreadful contents, and then making the decision to bring them to me. I assume,’ – he cleared his throat – ‘I assume you are in love with this woman?’

  Seb nodded. ‘I was. Now . . .’ he shrugged, helplessly.

  ‘Yes, most difficult, as I say,’ the coroner murmured. ‘But let me assure you, you have done absolutely the right thing. Absolutely. In fact, the only thing. Did you seek advice on the matter?’

  ‘Yes. I spoke to a friend. He said I should contact you. I didn’t want to go to the police.’

  The coroner inclined his head. ‘Yes, yes, I can quite see that . . . quite . . . but I’m afraid the police will now have to become involved. You appreciate that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I only wish I didn’t.’

  Timothy Young stood up, and his next question took Seb by surprise.

  ‘Would you like a cigarette? I’m going to have one.’

  Seb looked gratefully at him. ‘I gave up a couple of years ago but right now I’d bloody love one.’

  The coroner went to a round wooden box on the windowsill and removed two filter-tipped cigarettes and a silver lighter. ‘Here we are. Silk Cut, I’m afraid. Cheap and nasty. My secret vice.’

  When he had lit both Seb’s and his own, he returned to his armchair.

  ‘Now, I’d like to ask you a few questions if I may, Seb. Is that all right?’

  ‘Of course. Go ahead.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The coroner gestured to the loose pages. ‘These are obviously photocopies. Do you know where the originals might be?’

  Seb shook his head, and drew deeply on his cigarette. The unaccustomed nicotine made his head spin. ‘No idea, I’m afraid. They could be anywhere in Cathedral Crag. It’s a big place.’

  The coroner nodded. ‘Yes, well, doubtless the police will find them during their search of the property.’

  Seb raised his eyebrows. ‘They’ll search Cathedral Crag?’

  The older man looked slightly surprised. ‘Oh yes, they’re bound to,’ he said briskly. ‘Not just for the original manuscript, but anything else that might shed light on Miss Kidd’s relationship with her late husband.’

  He paused to allow Seb to absorb this. Then, speaking more gently, he continued: ‘On the question of the marriage . . . I presume Miss Kidd confided in you about that, as your relationship with her developed?’

  Seb shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, yes. They weren’t a happy couple, she said. He used to bully her, emotionally. Badly. A lot.’

  ‘So one can assume that they argued?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Frequently?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Seb realised what was coming next. He suddenly felt clammy.

  ‘Miss Kidd will doubtless have told you about events on the day of her husband’s drowning. Of their final minutes together.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she tell you if they had one of their arguments that afternoon? Out on the boat?’

  Seb thought furiously. He’d been so overwhelmed and preoccupied by his discovery of The Night Book that it had never occurred to him he might face questions like this. How incredibly naive and unthinking of him. What on earth was he to answer?

  The coroner waited patiently.

  Eventually, Seb cleared his throat and said: ‘That’s confidential information, Dr Young. I don’t feel happy going into that kind of detail with you. It would feel like I was betraying a source.’

  Timothy Young steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. When he spoke, a more formal note had entered his voice, although his eyes remained sympathetic.

  ‘Mr Richmond. Of course you don’t have to answer me, and you’ll have exactly that same right when the police question you. But—’

  Seb sat bolt upright. ‘The police? Question
me? Why?’

  The coroner carefully tapped his cigarette on the side of the ashtray between them before replying.

  ‘Why? Well, for several reasons. To begin with, they’ll want a formal statement from you on how you found those documents. That’s more procedural than anything else. But they’ll want to garner as much information as they can about Miss Kidd’s attitude towards her husband, and in particular her actions on the day he died.’

  He took a fresh drag on his cigarette. ‘Now, as I’m sure you’ll remember from the inquest, there were certain discrepancies in the widow’s testimony. She inexplicably failed to mention to the police anything about her final conversation with her husband – the one concerning the time of day – but she let it slip to me. You’ll also recall that she seemed distinctly uneasy about the matter of his missing watch.’

  He leaned forward towards Seb, speaking now with slow deliberation.

  ‘So, one wonders what else has Miss Kidd omitted from her formal account of what happened that afternoon. It’s plain to me she told you they had a row: your discomfort and your refusal to answer my question just now spoke for itself.’

  Seb looked hunted. ‘If you say so. But as you said, I don’t have to answer.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ the coroner agreed. ‘But what do you suppose a jury would make of such an evasion if you were called as a witness?’

  Seb was appalled. Things were going from bad to worse.

  ‘Me? A witness?’

  ‘Mr Richmond.’ The formality was back. ‘Let us be clear. This matter may go to criminal trial. If—’

  ‘I realise that,’ Seb interrupted. ‘I’d already accepted that possibility when I decided to come here. But why would I be called as a witness?’

  The coroner smiled faintly. ‘Let me explain. And I’m speaking now not as coroner, but as a former criminal barrister.

  ‘If I were prosecuting this case, and I read in the transcript of your police interview that you refused to say if Miss Kidd told you she’d argued with her husband on the day he drowned – well . . . I’d get you into the witness box as quickly as I could manage it. I’d want the jury to watch you prevaricate on the point when I pressed you on it. They’d naturally draw their own conclusions, even if the judge instructed them to disregard your refusal to answer.’

  Timothy Young allowed Seb to digest this information in silence before asking him: ‘Would you like another sherry?’

  Seb grimaced. ‘No thanks. I think I might be sick.’

  The older man leaned forward, sympathetic again. ‘Look, Seb. It’s clear to me that you are a highly intelligent and honourable man. A logical one too. You need to apply that logic now.

  ‘You suspect your girlfriend of foul play. Quite frankly, so do I. I was deeply uncomfortable with the whole tone of her testimony at the inquest. Now you’ve taken the courageous decision to hand over these incriminating documents. Consider why you’ve done that.

  ‘I would suggest it was because we’re talking about a possible murder. The very worst crime there is. Murder. Whatever your feelings and loyalties once were towards Miss Kidd, you clearly believe they are overridden by a higher purpose; that it is more important to see that justice is done. And you’re right. Therefore it makes no sense to refuse to answer these questions, does it? It doesn’t do much good, either, as I’ve explained.’

  Seb shook his head miserably.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So let’s try again. Remember why you’re here. To help establish the truth of a man’s death. Now. Did Meriel Kidd tell you that she’d argued with her husband before he drowned?’

  Seb took a long, shivering breath. ‘Yes. Yes, she did.’

  ‘And did she say what the row was about?’

  ‘Yes. It was about their divorce. She told him she was leaving him. That very evening.’

  ‘And what was her husband’s reaction to that?’

  Seb had already crossed the Rubicon; now he deliberately walked away from the riverbank.

  ‘He was furious. He threatened her. He said if she walked out on him he would divorce her in the most public way he possibly could. He told her he would destroy her career. And then . . . then he got into the water for his swim.’

  The coroner carefully considered his next question.

  ‘What effect did those threats have on Miss Kidd?’

  Seb closed his eyes.

  ‘Meriel told me that she hated him. She told me she absolutely hated him.’

  ‘Seb? Is that you?’

  Meriel laid her book down and looked at her watch. Not yet eight o’clock in the evening; he should still be at the station, putting the next day’s breakfast show together.

  She heard the front door close followed by a sound she was already learning to recognise, Seb’s footsteps crossing the hall. Next moment he was in the room.

  ‘Darling! I thought I wasn’t going to see you until tomorrow. Has something happened?’

  He stopped a few feet into the lounge, staring at her with an expression on his face she’d never seen before. He looked terrible.

  ‘Seb?’ Meriel stood up. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Meriel . . .’ His voice sounded thick and strange and when he passed a hand across his forehead, she could see it was trembling.

  ‘Seb! Oh Seb, what is it? Tell me!’ She crossed the room and reached for his hands. ‘You’re shaking! What on earth’s happened?’

  ‘Meriel . . .’ he said again, in the same peculiar, throaty tone. ‘There’s something I need to tell you. Something we need to talk about.’ He gestured to her chair. ‘Please . . . sit down.’

  ‘No! Tell me, Seb. Tell me straight away. Now!’

  ‘I will. I need a second. Just give me a second.’ Seb pulled his hands free of hers and walked over to the drinks table that stood in the bay window facing Derwent Water. Dusk was falling and below the house the lake had turned a dull pewter.

  He filled two crystal tumblers with whisky before turning round again, a brimming glass in each hand.

  She hadn’t moved, and was staring at him with enormous eyes.

  ‘I wish you’d sit down, Meriel. Please.’

  She stamped her foot in frustration. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Seb! What in God’s name is this about?’

  His answer, when it came, turned her blood to water.

  ‘I found your diary.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Once the first shock had passed, Meriel found herself beginning to feel increasingly calm, even fatalistic.

  She realised that she had been subconsciously trying to bury her anxiety about where Cameron had hidden the photocopies. Presumably there were others secreted somewhere in the house, but that didn’t matter. One set coming to light was enough. And now that had happened, she was experiencing a wholly unexpected sensation of relief.

  By contrast, her feelings for Seb, until a few minutes before so warm and vibrant, had now been almost instantaneously deep-frozen. His betrayal was so complete, its likely consequences for her so devastating, that she was experiencing an extraordinarily rapid, spreading numbness in her heart.

  She looked with a new dispassion and detachment at her lover. Her former lover, she supposed she should think of him now. He had yet to sit down; Seb had remained standing in the alcove overlooking the lake throughout his . . . what? Confession? Accusation? Apology? He was in a dreadful state, trembling and, at one point, shedding tears.

  She hadn’t uttered a sound, not since he’d told her what he had found, and what he’d done. She’d just sat with her hands folded in her lap, gazing steadily at him as he tumbled through his words.

  When it was clear that he was at last done and had no more to say, she spoke in a low, gentle tone that was only slightly tinged with regret.

  ‘I wonder why you felt you couldn’t come to me first . . . give me a chance to explain. I could have explained, you know, Seb. If you’d let me. Afterwards, if you’d decided to go to the authorities anyway, I wouldn’t hav
e tried to stop you.’

  Seb wasn’t prepared for this. He’d expected anger, tears, searing recrimination. Not this serene, almost detached response.

  ‘Meriel . . . look . . . I didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t only what you’d written about wanting to kill Cameron . . . in all that vile, horrible detail . . . it was that I could see, straight away, how that connected with everything else. The way you were at the inquest. How you spoke to me that same night, here at the house.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Seb ran both hands through his hair.

  ‘Oh, come on, Meriel . . . you’ve been lying about something! I just told you that the coroner thinks so, too, and he doesn’t even know you! Everyone on the press bench that day felt that either you were lying or hiding something, which amounts to the same thing.’

  She looked levelly at him. ‘But you always knew that, didn’t you? I only ever told you that Cameron and I argued on the boat that day. You knew perfectly well I was never going to share that with anyone else, let alone the coroner. You even agreed with me that I shouldn’t. So why are you now—’

  ‘That’s not what I’m talking about!’

  She flinched. ‘Please don’t shout at me, Seb. I had a lifetime of that with Cameron.’

  He passed a hand over his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry. But you know that’s not what I’m talking about. Look, Meriel. Perhaps I should have said this on the night of the inquest. But I just wanted it all to go away, for us to be happy. So I pretended to believe you.’

  ‘Pretended to believe me about what?’

  ‘About the watch, the Rolex. That business of forgetting to tell the police – and even me – about Cameron asking you the time just before he drowned. The two things are linked in some way, and not in a good way, Meriel. I know it.’

  She smoothed her skirt with both palms.

  ‘You can’t possibly know anything of the kind, Seb. To begin with, I’m not lying. I have no idea where the watch is. And I genuinely forgot to tell the police about that last conversation about the stupid time. I was in shock, Seb, for God’s sake. And even if I were hiding something – and I’m NOT – you weren’t there. No one was. I’m the only person who knows the truth and I’ve told the truth. And I’ll keep telling it. It looks as if I’ll have to, after what you’ve done today.’