Darkest Night

by Jenny O'Brien

  ‘I’m Nikki, Nicola Jones.’

  ‘Well, Miss Jones, welcome to Cambridge University and St Augusta’s College in particular.’ He walked around the circular lawn to the side of the campus and the building straight in front of them. ‘We’re tucked out of the way here, near the library,’ he said, pushing open the door and gesturing for her to go on ahead. ‘Mostly the rest of the college leave us to our own devices – something we’re very happy with.’ He led her down a long corridor only to pause outside a pair of wide-double doors. ‘This is where I take my leave, but I’ll see you inside shortly.’ He offered her another smile before turning on his heels and moving through the next door, which had ‘Private’ etched in gold letters.

  Nikki lifted her head, the round handle smooth under her fingertips, her thoughts in panic mode.

  Here goes nothing. The first day of the rest of my life.

  Chapter 7

  Gaby

  Sunday 10 May, 10 a.m. St Asaph Police Station

  There was something father-like in the tall, thin man in charge of the squad room. DCI Sherlock was an old-school copper with old-fashioned values and a way about him that had all his staff jumping over more fences than the average gymkhana. Gaby would do anything for him except perhaps willingly give up her long awaited first weekend off in three months.

  Despite being 10 a.m. on a Sunday morning, the incident room was busy, busier than a usual weekday. Gaby settled in her chair, smiling across at her friend, Amy Potter, who’d accompanied her when she’d left her job in Swansea and joined the North Wales MIT. She raised her eyebrows at the sight of her new hairstyle. Amy changed her look almost as often as her top and today her hair – which last week had been captured back off her face in a sleek ballerina bun – flowed down her back in a slick of honey-blonde. Of Owen Bates, there was no sign, his toddler having fallen foul of the norovirus rampaging through North Wales.

  ‘Thank you everyone for coming in on your weekend. We’ll try and make it up to you,’ DCI Sherlock said, picking a stray bit of fluff from his trousers before placing his hands in his pockets. ‘As most of you will now be aware, following the headlines in the evening newspaper, we have a murder to solve. DC Darin will be meeting with the next-of-kin straight after this briefing for a formal identification but we’re pretty certain that it’s thirty-year-old Nikki Jones. We also have a woman being held in the custodial suite helping us with our enquiries.’ He scanned the room, his gaze landing on each of them in turn. ‘On the face of it, it looks cut and dried but, as we know from other investigations, that may not be the case. Before I hand you over to DC Darin, please remember that we need this cleared up quickly – we could very well have a murderer on the loose.’

  Gaby stood and made her way to the front of the room, well aware that all eyes were following her progress. This was the first time she’d overseen a case, but she wasn’t scared, far from it. After all, this was what she’d been working towards, all those years pounding the beat in Liverpool. Even the disastrous couple of years in Cardiff and those months in Swansea hadn’t deterred her from her goal. Okay, so it didn’t look that exciting an investigation to cut her teeth on. Everyone, including her, believed the woman they were holding was as guilty as hell. But presumed guilt meant little. It was her responsibility to back up each theory with clear-cut facts and it was the responsibility of her colleagues, currently shuffling in their seats, to help.

  ‘Firstly, I’m well aware that this is Sunday so I’ll be brief. As you all know by now Nikki Jones was discovered dead in the bed of her flatmate, Christine de Bertrand, early yesterday. Owen and I interviewed de Bertrand in the presence of her solicitor before she transferred across to the custodial suite. She’s a thirty-year-old special needs teacher who suffers from profound hearing loss – she’s also denying all knowledge of how the victim ended up dead in her bed.’

  ‘It was probably a lovers’ tiff,’ DC Malachy Devine said with a sneer. ‘Not that I know anything about the inner workings of a lesbian’s mind.’

  ‘There’s always at least one insensitive jerk on any team – you’re it,’ interrupted DCI Sherlock, glaring at him from the other side of the room. ‘And it’s that kind of attitude that will have us up in front of the IOPC if we’re not careful. We’re going to have enough problems with the media as it is without our own work colleagues adding to the gossipmongers. You should know by now, Devine, that the sexual orientation of the parties involved is immaterial to anything except the actual investigation. Have you all got that?’ He folded his arms across his chest before firing a look at Gaby. ‘Carry on, Detective.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, her smile fading. She’d known as soon as she’d walked onto the crime scene how it looked – she was beginning to think that Sherlock hadn’t been doing her any favours in choosing her to act as lead.

  ‘We’re still waiting for Dr Mulholland to perform the autopsy but it looks like a single stab wound to the heart,’ she added, pressing her hand to the centre of her chest for effect. ‘De Bertrand was examined by the police doctor on arrival at the station and was found to be covered in blood from the back of her neck right down to her heels but, surprisingly, none on her front. There was also none visible on her hands, probably down to her washing them before the police were called to the scene. She even admits having done so in her statement. Either way, it’s unlikely that she’d have been able to remove all traces, if indeed there was any blood in the first place – her nail clippings will give us the definitive answer we need.’ She walked to the first in a line of whiteboards pinned to the wall, tapping the mugshot photo of Christine de Bertrand with her knuckles.

  ‘De Bertrand claims to have gone to bed with an unidentified man she met the night before, and that she has no idea how Nikki ended up between her sheets instead. So, on the face of it, we have a straightforward case of de Bertrand murdering her flatmate and somehow trumping up a story about a tall dark stranger. But as we all know appearances count for very little in our game. We need to dismantle her statement, lie by lie or, alternatively, find the man if he exists.’ She snapped her notebook shut before replacing it in the pocket of her jacket. ‘We have some outstanding issues, not least of which is the murder weapon: a blade of some sort. Hopefully, Dr Mulholland will be able to give us more details tomorrow so that we can narrow the search but it’s imperative that we find it. I have a couple of PCs trawling through the rubbish bins and hedges in the surrounding area as I speak. Another biggie, is the fact that Christine de Bertrand is adamant she went to bed with a man and woke up with a woman.’ She lifted her head, sliding her eyes over to DC Devine. ‘I have to say that I disbelieve her. It’s the kind of ridiculous, jumped up excuse that the guilty use to muddy the waters for us hard-working detectives. One of the first things we need to do is ascertain the truth of that statement,’ she said, keeping her expression unaltered at the sight of his fancy gold cufflinks peeking out from the sleeve of what looked to be another new suit.

  She felt far from easy about the detective, mainly because of the size of his disposable income. Bent coppers were a reality and one she would not tolerate. After what had happened in Cardiff and the way she’d been drummed out of the area for flagging her concerns about a team member on the take, she was probably being oversensitive. There could be a hundred and one honest reasons for Detective Devine’s apparently healthy bank balance – something she’d best remember.

  ‘Mal, de Bertrand claims to have been out drinking with a Kelly James. I have the address but not her telephone number, as de Bertrand’s mobile appears to be missing, but it should be easy enough to track down.’ She tore a sheet from the back of her notebook and handed it to him before turning to the woman seated on his left.

  Marie Morgan always seemed to put her at a disadvantage with her carefully styled blonde hair and model looks. Even today, on her weekend off, she’d still appeared in the office within twenty minutes of being called and without a hair out of place. It had only taken Gaby
a couple of days to realise that she was also a hard-working grassroots detective willing to put in the hours that the job demanded.

  ‘Marie, I’d like you to chase up what the CSI team found in the flat. Both girls had laptops for a start and then there’s all those birthday cards dotted about. I want every one of them traced back to the sender. I also need you to get cracking on all the CCTV cameras from Mostyn Street to the West Shore,’ she said, handing her a small 10x10 photo of Christine. ‘We may be lucky but, you know as well as I do that a good image from any one of these is as rare as hen’s teeth. To be honest, I’m more interested in any information about the man she’s meant to have taken home, if indeed he exists. All she can remember is that he was tall and had dark hair, which is little help.’

  Gaby moved back, resting her hip against the edge of the table. She’d made a comprehensive list in the front of her notebook of all the key points she wanted to say but she was determined not to refer to it for a second time. Having an orderly mind, she’d annotated each task as a numbered bullet point, and she knew which she’d yet to discuss.

  She turned her stare back on DC Devine, hoping against hope that he wasn’t going to be a thorn in her side during the investigation. She’d already given him one job. Now she was interested in seeing how he’d perform under pressure – there was no room for wasters in the department. ‘In addition to interviewing the friend, Mal, I need you to interview the occupants of the two other flats in de Bertrand’s building,’ she said, before switching her attention to DC Jax Williams. Jax was the newest member of the team, his keener than keen answering grin showing none of the disillusionment that Malachy and the older members of the group displayed. ‘I do hope you have a warm coat, Williams, and a liking for all things furry?’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘As we all know from the numerous complaints with regards to dog excrement, the West Shore is a haven for all things on four legs and a little birdie has tweeted in my ear that it’s the place to go for Saturday morning walkies,’ she said, struggling not to laugh at the sudden downward curve of his mouth. ‘I want it to be your number one priority to haunt that shore from 6 a.m. onwards so that we can catch up with as many of the dog owners as possible and see if they saw anything odd. Keeping on the birdie theme, we’ll be killing two of them off at once as I’m hopeful that a police presence will have a positive impact on the number of complaints.’ She picked up her mobile from where she’d placed it on the table in front of her and tucked it into her jacket pocket, her voice not showing any of the relief that was flowing through her veins.

  ‘We’ll reconvene here midday Monday following the autopsy.’

  Chapter 8

  Paul

  Sunday 10 May, 11.55 a.m. Oswestry

  Christine’s parents lived in Oswestry, a quaint market town on the English/Welsh border that was far enough away for the local media frenzy to pass them by but not too far for Paul to avoid breaking the news in person.

  Pulling up outside their house was an exercise in restraint – restraint because of the memories that threatened to breach the defences Paul had erected since their divorce. Divorce wasn’t easy at the best of times, but he’d liked Christine’s parents, not only because they were his in-laws. Their relationship had been far deeper than the usual and one he missed to this day. By contacting him, albeit through a police officer, his ex-wife had tasked him with breaking the very worst of news.

  He tried not to allow his mind to dwell on the glow of hope that burnt bright within his chest at the thought that she’d chosen him. While he wouldn’t admit it to anyone but himself, he’d always assumed there was another man waiting in the wings ready to step into his shoes. How was he now meant to behave in the knowledge that she’d dumped him for no other reason than she could? He’d always known he was too old and stuffy for her effervescent, bubbly personality, an opinion which was shared by the boys at the school. He’d have pulled them up on their comments about how old de Bertrand has managed to pull such a dolly bird if he hadn’t believed that, on some level, they were right.

  He opened the back door of the car, much to the excitement of Ruby who’d spent the last couple of hours cooped up on the back seat with only her rug for company. ‘Come on, girl, they always had a soft spot for you and hopefully it will help to break the ice somewhat.’ He ruffled her head before attaching her lead, watching in amusement as she headed for the nearest lamppost.

  The gate creaked when he pushed it, the paint peeling under his hand and, stepping back, he noted the changes to the property with a frown. The outside of the pebble dash family home had a general air of neglect with crooked gutters and missing tiles. In the old days, he’d have spent a week of his summer holidays pottering about, happy for once to get his hands dirty with the type of work he rarely had a chance to immerse himself in. The school was well-maintained by a small team of handymen and gardeners and he was barely allowed to prune a rose before someone or other interfered.

  The long ping of the doorbell was swiftly followed by the sound of a door closing and, after a couple of seconds, he found himself face-to-face with his ex-father-in-law for the first time in almost two years. Paul’s first thought was that he’d aged; his white wispy hair barely a memory, the skin on his face mottled and careworn. But, give him his due, Dennis, after a brief stare, recovered enough to draw him into a swift embrace.

  ‘Oh, my boy, it’s been too long, and Ruby,’ he said, dropping his hand for the dog to sniff. ‘Come on in, Hazel is just boiling the kettle.’ He gestured for him to follow. ‘You sit yourself down in the lounge and I’ll go and warn the missus.’ He paused on the threshold, his smile apologetic. ‘You know what she’s like – seeing you after so long, while welcome, is going to be a shock.’

  The lounge was as he remembered with the same cream-striped wallpaper and large three-piece suite that Hazel and Dennis had owned for as long as he’d known them. Even the TV was the same and with what could have been the same snooker match on the screen. If it wasn’t snooker it was either football or tennis, depending on the season and whichever one of them managed to snaffle the remote first. His mouth pulled into the semblance of a smile, his attention drawn to the mantelpiece and the display of family photos lined up between a pair of silver candlesticks and an old mahogany clock that always ran ten minutes fast no matter how many times they adjusted it. But he wasn’t thinking of either clocks or candlesticks at that precise moment, his gaze flowing from one photo to the next, each one displaying Christine in a variety of poses. A little black and white snap of her lying stretched out in her pram. Her first day at school, a toothy grin displaying a distinct absence of front teeth. At her prom, her glorious hair stacked up high, dangly earrings catching the light. And finally, a photo he hadn’t expected. A photo that stopped him in his tracks, a deep sadness swamping all sense, thought and feeling. Picking up the frame, he stared down at the couple captured for all time, the sight of their laughing faces almost too much to bear. Their wedding day. A day he’d never thought would come to him. He was years older than Christine, a good ten, and completely set in his ways but one look into those electric-blue eyes and it was like he’d been kicked in the stomach. He could almost imagine himself back in the sun-drenched courtyard, dappled late afternoon light filtering though the bougainvillea-filled trellises, the only noise the chink of champagne glasses, the only smell the slight echo of her scent – a scent he couldn’t bear to smell even now. Her face. Her beautiful face, framed with fiery red hair dripping in ringlets, the colour emphasised – if that was possible – by the pure white of her gown. He could almost feel the silky tresses running across his skin.

  Placing the frame down, he nudged it back in place with a fingertip, his frown reappearing. Where had that love disappeared to? It was the very last emotion radiating down his spine and causing his hands to ball into fists. Hate was the only word suitable to describe what he was feeling now. If he could, he’d wrap his hands around her lovely neck for what she’d
done to him. They said that love and hate were opposite sides of the same coin …

  The rattle of the inevitable tea tray dragged him back from the past, a deep blush splayed across his cheeks at the direction of his thoughts and, with a shake of his head, he strode across the room to take the tray from his ex-mother-in-law’s hands. She couldn’t quite return his smile, something that saddened him. He’d prided himself on the relationship he’d forged with her parents and, at the risk of sounding trite, he viewed them as friends more than anything – friends who now had difficulty meeting his eye.

  ‘Well, this is all very nice. On your way back to that school of yours?’ Dennis said with a cheerful grin. ‘We’ve missed your little visits, haven’t we, Hazel?’

  Hazel remained silent, all her energy taken up with pouring out cups of tea and passing round the sugar bowl.

  Paul gripped onto his drink, trying to pull his thoughts together; he’d obviously overestimated his ability to both start and end difficult conversations. As headmaster, challenging conversations were the norm and not the exception. He’d lost count of the number he’d had with both staff and parents, but it was the awkward discussions with pupils that hurt the most, especially those where the end result was always going to be either suspension or expulsion.

  Clearing his throat, he rested his cup back on the coffee table and gestured for them both to take a seat. ‘Dennis, Hazel … my dears. I have something to tell you, something you’re not going to like. Something that’s so far from the realms of normal, as to be nonsensical.’ He stopped speaking, taking the cowardly way out by staring down at Ruby’s head where she was snuffling in the middle of some rabbit-filled dream or other. ‘Christine has been involved in an altercation at her flat. She’s okay but … but the police seem to think that she might have been involved in the death of her flatmate. I know it’s ridiculous but until this mess is sorted, she’s being detained at St Asaph police station.’