Darkest Night

by Jenny O'Brien

  ‘No milk. I ended up stopping for fish and chips on the way back from Manchester last night so I’m having to be extra careful today.’

  ‘You and your diets! I’ll just bet you skipped breakfast,’ he added, putting his hand in his pocket and pulling out a cereal bar. ‘It’s all right, it’s the low-calorie sort you always buy. I can’t have you fainting from hunger like last time.’

  ‘No thanks,’ she said, pushing it away with a brush of her arm.

  ‘The chief’s bought doughnuts, the chocolate-covered ones you like.’ He held the bar on the palm of his hand, a broad grin on his face.

  She flicked him a look before snatching the packet and tearing it open, her attention now on the rest of the team piling through the door. Instead of the briefing, she really wanted to pull him aside and pick his brains about Rusty. The only thing holding her back was a sneaky suspicion that Owen and Amy might be in cahoots over her love life, or lack of. She balled the wrapper in her fist and aimed it at the wastepaper bin. She’d think about what she was going to do later.

  ‘Come on, let’s get this over with, and after I’ll treat you to lunch. How does a cheese and tomato sandwich grab you?’

  ‘It doesn’t but if it’s all that’s on offer … So, what’s this about Manchester then?’

  ‘I managed to catch up with the victim’s mother before she flew back to Spain.’

  ‘That was a bit foolish to agree to act as her chauffeur. Couldn’t you have dropped her off at Llandudno Junction? There’s a Manchester train on the hour.’

  ‘Ha ha – very funny, not! After all, what choice did I have? I couldn’t very well detain her. She runs an animal sanctuary of some sort and apparently there’s no one to cover. I have enough on my conscience already without adding animal welfare into the mix.’

  She watched as he shook his head in disbelief. ‘For all your brash exterior, you really are the proverbial soft touch, that is if you don’t mind me saying, ma’am.’

  She aimed a playful punch on his arm. ‘I do mind and lower your voice or everyone will hear. It’s taken a good three months to get this lot to see my worth.’

  Within minutes the squad room was heaving. Gaby couldn’t quite decide whether it was because of the presence of doughnuts or because of the case but, whatever the reason, she was pleased at the support from the team, despite the reams of cases they were all trying to juggle. Even Chief Inspector Sherlock had popped his head around the door briefly before heading for a meeting with the chief superintendent.

  After the preliminaries were out of the way, Gaby got right down to business.

  ‘I’ve just returned from the post-mortem. Although we won’t have all the findings until tomorrow, Rusty has thrown us a few curveballs.’ She rested her hip against the side of the table. ‘But, first, let’s catch up with what everyone’s been up to,’ she continued, waiting for Malachy to swallow what remained of his doughnut. ‘What about the friend she was out drinking with – Kelly something or other? Did you manage to catch up with her?’

  ‘Kelly James, ma’am,’ he said, glancing down at his notepad briefly before lifting his head. ‘She popped into the station first thing. Quite distraught over everything especially as her memory of the evening is pretty sketchy to say the least. One of them, she can’t remember which, devised a new drinking game with regards to men guessing the correct spelling of de Bertrand’s name – for each wrong answer they both got bought another drink. I think there were quite a lot of wrong answers offered.’

  ‘I’ll bet there were,’ Gaby said, her expression as grim as her voice. ‘What else?’

  ‘She remembers there was this bloke but all she could give me was tall, dark and handsome, so that’s pretty much half of Llandudno, me included,’ Malachy said, a smile breaking. ‘After chuck-out, she said that Christine accompanied her to the taxi rank, before starting on the short walk up Gloddaeth Avenue to the West Shore. Her last memory is watching her cross the road by the traffic lights at the roundabout.’

  ‘Good work,’ Gaby said, throwing him a smile before continuing. ‘And any news from the CSI team?’

  ‘Not much. The laptops are with the IT bods and, as you know, that can take a while. The flat has also been searched to within an inch of its life but it hasn’t turned up anything startling. We’re delving into both of their finances to see if there’s anything strange on that front, but it looks as if Jones had an informal arrangement whereby she transferred three hundred pounds on the first of each month into de Bertrand’s account from her waitressing job.’ He folded his arms and rested back in his chair. ‘I haven’t yet had the time to check on her life before moving to Llandudno to work in a café but I’m working on it.’

  ‘Is it me or does the idea of someone with a Cambridge degree working as a waitress seem a bit of a tragedy?’

  ‘What degree?’

  Gaby frowned, his answer not the one she’d been expecting. ‘I thought someone said that she’d obtained one from Cambridge?’

  ‘Nope. I contacted them. No record of her obtaining a degree. They said she never submitted all of the coursework,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t had time to follow that up yet, but I will and as for the birthday cards … We’re going to run them by de Bertrand next time she’s interviewed but there’s one that strikes me as unusual.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘De Bertrand was big on recycling and thank God for that. It took seconds to work through the envelopes and then compare handwriting and it looks as if the card sent from the husband was hand-delivered.’

  ‘Was it now? I wonder how many exes are on good enough terms to send each other cards let alone take the trouble to hand-deliver them. Good work, Mal. It’s certainly not something she mentioned at interview.’ She withdrew her notebook and scribbled something onto the first blank page before turning to face the rest of the team. ‘Anyone know whether we’ve had any luck on the knife front?’ Her gaze wandered over the six or so faces staring back.

  ‘Not so far,’ Marie Morgan said, with a shake of her head. ‘But they’re still at it. I’ve started looking at some of the CCTV footage like you asked but nothing yet. Maybe when we know for definite which pubs she drank in we’ll have more luck.’

  ‘Okay. What about the other occupants of the house, Mal?’

  ‘It’s a bit patchy.’

  ‘That’s not what I want to hear.’

  ‘Well, it’s what you’re going to get.’ His grin lessened the impact of his words. ‘The couple in the flat below would have been the ones to hear anything and they were away for the weekend. They’re still away but I’ll try and catch up with them on their return tomorrow. The ground-floor flat is of more interest though. It’s inhabited by a Mrs Ellis, who used to own the whole building before poor investments and rising inflation meant that she had to subdivide into flats. She’s lived there for nigh on fifty years and, from the amount she could tell me, seems to spend most of her time staring out of the window.’ He put his elbows on the table, cradling his stubbly chin in his hands. ‘She didn’t know Christine de Bertrand that well. She said she kept herself to herself. Most mornings she’d see her, from her lounge window, heading across the road to the beach for a stroll before work. She struck her as a lonely figure – apart from a couple of girlfriends she never had visitors to speak of. She was always polite when they met in the hallway but never one to stay chatting for longer than the passing of pleasantries.’ He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing around in his neck. ‘She seems to remember one occasion when a man called looking for her. He’d rung her doorbell by mistake. She couldn’t give me a description, but she did say that he had a dog with him.’

  ‘That would have been the husband,’ Gaby interrupted. ‘What did she have to say about the night before the murder? Dr Mulholland estimates that it happened around six a.m.’

  ‘Didn’t hear a thing! She normally spends the evening watching telly before turning in at about eleven. She’s adamant that she’d have heard the door i
f they’d arrived home before then, but she takes a sleeping pill every night and she’s usually dead to the world until morning.’

  Gaby raised a finely arched brow at his unfortunate choice of words but all she said was, ‘Did she have anything to say about Nikki Jones?’

  ‘Not a huge amount. Another woman who liked to keep herself to herself,’ he said, with a little shake of his head. ‘She saw even less of her than she did de Bertrand. A few times in the hall where she appeared to struggle to keep eye contact and as for a conversation … I got the distinct impression that she thought her a bit of an oddball. Once she’d come in from work, she wouldn’t see or hear from her again until morning.’

  ‘What about weekends?’

  ‘Again, she rarely saw her. De Bertrand was always popping in and out, but she saw very little of Nikki Jones. She called her the little ghost woman because of the way she used to flit in and out of the building.’

  Gaby picked up her pen and jotted a note down on her pad. She was beginning to build up a picture of the victim, a picture that would expand over time. But time was the one thing they didn’t have. Sherlock had been adamant that it was a crime of passion but now she wasn’t so sure. Suddenly she wished that DI Stewart Tipping wasn’t off sick. He’d know what to do.

  She heaved a sigh as she walked over to the wall of whiteboards that stretched to fill the space between the window and door. If it came to it, she could always phone him. He’d made that clear the day he’d come in to deliver his sick note. She wondered if he’d known then about DCI Sherlock’s plan to let her head up a case. If he had, he hadn’t said anything other than to press his hand on her shoulder in a fatherly fashion and remind her to keep in touch. If the paucity of clues continued, she might very well have to take him up on it.

  She examined the two headshots in front of her. Neither of the photos did their owners justice but Christine looked a darned sight better than the post-mortem one of Nikki. She’d have liked another photo, one taken when she was still alive but, unusually, none had been found in her room and she hadn’t thought to ask the mother when she’d dropped her off at the airport.

  Both women were attractive, one with glossy red ringlets, the other with straight brown hair splayed out against the pillow. Two women, one dead, one alive and, if Sherlock had his way, about to be banged up for a very long time. But she had an inkling that she wasn’t seeing the full picture. There was something about Christine and that husband of hers that didn’t ring true. They could even have masterminded it together …

  She turned back to the room, the sound of shuffling feet reminding her that she’d been silent too long. She’d think later when, hopefully, there’d be more facts to play with.

  ‘So, who else hasn’t fed back then?’ she said, her eyes landing on Jax who was making a good attempt at trying to appear invisible. ‘Any luck with the dog walking?’

  ‘Actually, I borrowed my m-m-mum’s Chihuahua,’ he stuttered, flushing bright red at the sound of loud guffaws echoing round the room. Even Gaby couldn’t quite hide her amusement at the thought of the six-foot plus blond officer being dragged around the West Shore with something no bigger than his size thirteens on the end of a lead. ‘You may jest but it worked a treat.’

  ‘I’m sure. So, what, if anything, did you find out?’

  ‘Well, not a lot actually but I will.’ He ran his finger under his collar before continuing. ‘I spoke to a Miss Watson, who was in possession of a Cairn terrier. She always walks along the West Shore on weekdays. She’s told me about a couple of people to try. There’s only one problem,’ he said, now staring at his feet.

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘I think it might be a couple of days. She only knows them by their d-d-dogs’ names. So, if anyone knows of a poodle called Shirley and a Great Dane called—’

  ‘Okay, the fun’s over,’ Gaby said, raising her hand to still the laughter ringing out through the room. ‘While there’s nothing wrong with humour and God only knows we’re all in need of a little light relief with the job we do, there’s a time and a place for everything and now isn’t it. Right then. It’s my turn. Dr Mulholland is waiting for the rest of the toxicology reports before completing his report, however, I managed to catch up with him earlier and he’s run through the salient points. The whereabouts of the murder weapon is paramount. One of the most important things in the case along with the lack of physical evidence on de Bertrand. Miss Jones was killed by a single stab wound to the chest by someone with an in-depth knowledge of anatomy. Dr Mulholland is adamant that no layperson could have managed to target the right ventricle of the heart so exactly. So the question is, would de Bertrand, a special needs teacher with a classics degree, have the relevant specialist knowledge? And if she had, where would she have hidden the knife?’ She stopped to stare across at Marie before walking to the whiteboard and picking up a blue marker. ‘As you know, I’m no artist but it was double-edged – one serrated, the other, smooth. Marie, I want the search extended – we have to find it.’

  She replaced the cap on the marker and set it on the table. ‘There are also a few additional unanswered questions to work through, for one, Miss Jones’s background. She has extensive scarring on her forearms that indicate a long history of self-harming.’ She focused on her shoes, navy patent and pinching like a bitch but she’d worry about the state of her feet later. Now her mind buzzed with instructions. ‘So, we need to find both the knife, and this supposed man/lover – whatever – Christine took home. We also still need to track down any witnesses and interview both de Bertrand’s and Jones’s colleagues for background. With regards to Ms de Bertrand, we’ll leave her to stew for another few hours before re-interviewing and, perhaps by then, we’ll have come up with a clearer picture and know exactly what questions to ask.’ She lifted her head, her lips stretched into a smile though she felt far from smiling. ‘Enjoy your lunch, everyone. I’m on my mobile if you need me.’

  Chapter 16

  Gaby

  Monday 11 May, 2 p.m. St Asaph Police Station

  ‘Take a seat, Detective. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  Gaby forced herself to sit right back in her chair instead of perching on the edge. With her hands folded in her lap, she looked the quintessential interview candidate, apart from her frilly blouse, which was the only discordant note, her thoughts again on the pile of washing waiting by the machine. She didn’t fidget. She barely blinked as she continued focusing on the top of DCI Sherlock’s head as he bent over the open file in front of him. This wasn’t the first time she’d applied for promotion up to detective sergeant but the last interview was something she preferred to forget; her mind was reluctant to settle on the fallow period she’d spent in Cardiff. She’d known at the time that it was pointless, the only thing driving her onwards the near-perfect exam results she’d achieved. While she was far from the tallest, strongest or fittest detective, she had other attributes – hopefully they were attributes that would count.

  ‘Right then, sorry about that.’ Henry Sherlock raised his head to look at her. There was no smile on his lips or indeed any expression on his face. She no more knew what he was thinking than she did Dr Mulholland – her heart shrunk at the thought. Was she yet again to be disappointed despite the long hours and lost weekends she’d spent behind her desk? If she was, she might as well jack it in except that she’d committed now, the image of her little cottage appearing before her. She’d been too eager. Too determined to make a new life in North Wales – to settle down with …

  ‘I’ve been looking through your file, Gaby,’ DCI Sherlock said, his words dragging her back to the interview with a force that made her blink. ‘You’ve applied before, I believe – any idea why you were turned down? I see you took your sergeant exams at the start of last year and came away with a highly commended so it can’t be your brain.’

  Was it a good thing that he called her Gaby? She didn’t know and cared far too much to dwell on it – she might come up with the
wrong answer. Reining her thoughts back to the question, she struggled to come up with the kind of answer he’d like. Wasn’t that the whole point of interviews? Trying to please the interviewer.

  ‘I had some difficulty settling into the team, sir.’

  ‘As you did in Swansea?’ he parried. ‘I do know your history, Gaby. You might remember that I employed you on the personal recommendation of DCI Brazil-North. She felt you deserved a chance after what happened in St David’s.’

  ‘Yes, well. It was an unusual case.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He arranged the papers back in the file, his hands resting on top before continuing. ‘I need detectives I can trust. Detectives that are both hard-working and clever. DC Bates is a good man and clear sergeant material of the future but the rest of the team need strong guidance particularly in instances of murder. I need someone in the job that won’t be swayed by an attempt to distort the truth such as in the case you’re currently working.’

  Gaby only just prevented her jaw from dropping and her feet from propelling her body out of the room. If he was telling her what she suspected, she might as well put the house on the market and step away from the force altogether. She’d been told there wouldn’t be a third chance. But if that was his attitude, she didn’t want the job. Christine de Bertrand was either guilty or innocent. Gaby had no idea which but she was determined to strive for that gold standard amongst all coppers – an open mind. At work, she was very happy to play whichever game he wanted her to but not at the expense of ignoring the rules.

  ‘I’ll do everything necessary in this case as with any other to ensure that the right person pays for their crimes, sir, if that’s the question you’re asking?’

  ‘Harrumph.’ He rested back in his black swivel chair, his hands now on the arms. ‘Tell me why I should give you the job?’ he continued, with the swift change of topic he was known for.

  She let the air seep through her teeth. A question she could answer – one she’d prepared for if only she could remember the words.