Darkest Night

by Jenny O'Brien

  ‘And what about early this morning from, let’s say about 2 a.m. until 7?’

  ‘In bed asleep and, before you ask, no, there were no witnesses.’

  She stared at him, trying to make her mind up what to ask next. There was something in the way he’d shifted in his seat at that last question. Guilt possibly, but she wouldn’t bet on it.

  ‘Where exactly is bed currently if you’ve moved out of St Gildas?

  Was that slight reddening of his cheeks due to a blush or temper? She didn’t know him well enough to tell but, reaching for her pen, she added a note at the top of the page. The transcript from the interview would be typed up by one of the police secretaries but the one thing it wouldn’t include was changes in body language, vital to any interview.

  ‘If you must know, Christine’s parents are putting me up for a couple of days until I can sort myself out with somewhere that’s willing to take animals.’

  ‘That must be cosy as I believe she’s staying there too?’

  ‘As I said, it won’t be for long and, until then Christine is staying with Kelly.’

  Gaby tapped her fingers on the table, her gaze resting on de Bertrand’s bland expression. While not exactly a hostile witness, he wasn’t prepared to give anything away, which left her in the dark as to what questions to ask and, without Rusty’s report on the second murder, she had no actual evidence that they were linked.

  ‘Tell me about your relationship with Nikki Jones.’

  His eyes widened briefly. ‘Tell you about my relationship with …? There wasn’t any relationship or, at least, not in the context I think you’re insinuating,’ he said, his hand moving to his lap but not before she spotted the whitening of his knuckles.

  ‘I think you know what I mean, sir. I want to know everything I can about Miss Jones and, as her former tutor, you’re an obvious choice.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say about her,’ he said, running his hand across his jaw.

  ‘Start at the beginning. What was she like? What were your first impressions? And take it from there.’

  ‘Truthfully? I thought she was completely barking. A social misfit. As clever as you like but unable to harness that potential into any constructive direction.’

  Gaby sat back in her chair. ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s not a lot more to tell.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not right. Why, for instance, didn’t she finish her degree? Something must have happened for her to get so far only to fall at the last hurdle?’

  He took a deep sigh. ‘Look Officer, you of all people will know that some people aren’t as kind as they should be. I said Nikki was different but, the truth is, she stood out like a sore thumb. She kept to herself, never attending any of the social events. The other students viewed her as a hole in the ground sapping all their energy and rumour quickly spread through the other degree courses that she was someone to avoid. Being socially isolated in somewhere as large as a university campus is quite a feat, I can tell you. I tried to help only to have it thrown back in my face.’

  ‘In what way did you try?’

  ‘Just the normal way. Being kind. Trying to talk to her after class and helping perhaps more than I should in our one-to-one tutor sessions. If I’d realised how damaged she was, believe me, I would have thought twice about trying to befriend her. No one, least of all me, could have foreseen what would happen the last time we met.’

  ‘And what did happen, Dr?’

  Chapter 33

  Nikki

  2011

  Cambridge

  Nikki switched off her mobile and tucked it into the top of her bag. Phones were strictly forbidden in the library, a rule she was heartily in agreement with, particularly in light of the unfinished 5,000-word essay on the use of symbolism in Virgil’s Aeneid. Pulling out her pen and sheaf of paper, she tried to concentrate on writing up the bibliography, the last action before summarising her work and checking for typos and punctuation, but for once her thoughts wouldn’t be stilled.

  Sitting back in her chair, she glanced around at the other people sharing the long table that split the room in two. She was the only one not working but there was a reason for that, her mind trying and failing not to think about tonight’s ball, the culmination of three years at one of the most illustrious of universities. It seemed as if her life was a series of baby-steps forward, swiftly followed by giant leaps backward – all of them converging to this point. When her mother had informed her that she was leaving her second husband and moving to Spain, Nikki couldn’t have been happier. She’d even managed to make a fleeting visit home to Barnsley to help pack up the house, putting all her mementos from her childhood into storage, not that there were many. A few photos of her and her dad before he left. A wooden bowl that had belonged to her nan. Basically, two boxes were the sum total of the life she’d lived before moving to Cambridge. Her life started and ended at the college steps – only that.

  She dragged her hair off her neck, resisting the temptation to secure it with the hair bobble that was a permanent feature on her wrist. The new hairstyle had cost her more than she could afford so the very least she could do was leave it alone in the hope it would last until tonight but that was easier said than done. She’d worn her hair tied back for as long as she could remember and the weight dripping down her back was as unfamiliar as it was unwelcome.

  The sound of a chair scraping against the floor forced her thoughts back to the pile of books littering her desk. She only had until tomorrow to finish the essay and, if she didn’t concentrate, she’d never have the time to get ready. The long black dress and matching elbow-length gloves were hanging up in her wardrobe. But it was all the other things that couldn’t be rushed like make-up, something she didn’t know the first thing about. It was probably inconceivable for most people to feel frightened at the sight of the boxes and pots still in their cellophane wrappers – she felt like Cinderella trying to fulfil her destiny but with no fairy godmother to help.

  She twisted her hands, the soft white skin on her wrists now faded to almost invisible silvery lines. She’d managed to conquer one fixation only to replace it with another. Paul de Bertrand.

  The black dress was all she could have hoped for. Long and slinky, it emphasised her recent weight loss without showing too much bare flesh. For someone used to covering up from head to toe, the feel of cool air on her shoulders was both an embarrassment as well as a lesson in discomfort but, for once, she wasn’t dressing for herself. She was dressing for him. Grabbing her wrap, she secured it across her shoulders before picking up her bag and keys, shutting the door behind her with a gentle click. With a sigh of relief, she realised that she’d timed her late exit to perfection. The halls were empty, the rooms on either side silent. The only noise the little tip tap from her four-inch stilettoes, which seemed to mirror the echo of her heart.

  Nikki only stopped when she reached the double doors to the sixteenth-century dining hall, the first seeds of doubt taking breath from her lungs and courage from her heart. She could do this. She must do this. Being different wasn’t a crime and she had just as much right to be here as any of the rest of them. She remembered his words and, at the memory, planted a smile on her blood-red lips before twisting the door handle, her fiery red locks catching the flickering light from the wall sconces above.

  Chapter 34

  Gaby

  Wednesday 13 May, 4.40 p.m. St Asaph Police Station

  ‘Well, what do you make of that then, Owen?’

  ‘I can’t really say. It does put a whole different slant on things though.’

  They were sitting in DI Tipping’s office, Gaby’s office for the time being, comparing notes. Gaby and Owen were friends as well as colleagues and, even though they’d only been working together a few months, she’d grown reliant on his solid matter-of-fact opinions and basic common sense, something she always thought should be a pre-requisite for anyone applying for a job in the force.

  ‘You can say that ag
ain. Nikki must have been devastated at the response she got. The laughter. The insults. The ridicule. It would have been enough to push a normal person over the edge but with her unique set of issues …’ She shook her head, feeling a stab of deep sorrow for the girl that Nikki was. A girl not so dissimilar to her in many ways. The only difference being that she had strong parents that had been there to support her every step of the way.

  ‘Totally misguided, if you ask me,’ Owen said, checking his phone for messages. ‘To think that de Bertrand or indeed any man would fall in love with her just because she changed her hair colour and tried to dress like Christine.’

  ‘She was young, remember, and without the support of close family members. Her father deserted her before she’d even reached her teens and as for her mother …’

  ‘True.’ He leant forward in his chair. ‘I think the question we need to ask ourselves is why she’d have then decided to move in with Christine, even if she was desperate? Surely Nikki must have hated her with a passion,’ he added, now on a roll. ‘Here’s the woman who stole the man she loved from right under her nose only to discard him like an old shoe. But not only that. She would have also blamed her for not finishing her degree. Christine de Bertrand, the cause of everything that was wrong with her life. Most normal people would have avoided her. They’d have felt embarrassed, ashamed even about their shared history. I don’t think Nikki felt either of those emotions. I don’t think she could, taking into account the baggage she must have carried around since childhood.’

  Gaby raised both eyebrows, the pieces of the puzzle forming in her mind, still not fitting into place – but Owen was onto something. She picked up her mug, running her finger around the rim. When the team of detectives had ganged up on her in Cardiff, when they’d tried to shame her into leaving, she’d just gritted her teeth and got on with the job, a red-hot anger building. But she’d been sensible enough to put that anger into solving cases – Nikki wouldn’t have had any such outlet. Her anger would have seethed and festered like a boil, with no hope of release.

  ‘You know what, Owen. Nikki’s murder doesn’t make sense and that’s the problem. Now, if it had been Nikki doing the murdering and Christine the victim …’

  ‘What, you’re thinking of an accomplice?’

  ‘No.’ She smoothed her hand over her hair, tucking in a couple of escaped wisps. ‘I’m not thinking anything other than random thoughts and that’s the problem.’ She sighed. ‘What would you say to taking the lead instead of me?’ She almost laughed out loud at the firm shake of his head. ‘You’re a coward, Owen. A big fat coward. After all it’s not all that complex. We already know from the saliva Rusty found that there was another person in Christine’s bed, presumably the same man that picked her up for sex – that is if she’s to be believed and I’m beginning to come around to that idea. He probably liked it kinky or unconscious or whatever. A rummage in her bathroom cabinet would have sorted that out.’ She frowned, her voice lowering. ‘Now all we need to find out is what he had against Nikki.’

  She pulled a face before looking down at her phone, disappointed not to find a reply to the text she’d sent Rusty. It hadn’t said much, hardly anything at all but hopefully the brevity of her apology wouldn’t be held against her. The problem was that she needed his expertise to move the case forward. They’d had to let Paul de Bertrand go because, just like his ex-wife, there wasn’t a shred of evidence against him that wasn’t circumstantial. If she had any more strands to follow, she’d seriously have to think about taking up tapestry!

  ‘Right then. In ten minutes, we have to face the rest of them – what the hell can we tell them that isn’t either speculation or guesswork?’ She watched as he shook his head a second time, his mouth pulled down at the corners. ‘That’s what I thought.’ She propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her cupped hands. ‘I still think that both cases are linked but until our esteemed doctor gets back to us, it’s all—’

  ‘Conjecture?’ Owen said, taking the word from her mouth.

  ‘Exactly. It might have something to do with red hair but that trail isn’t going anywhere. What we really need is for Jason to find a full set of prints on the knife. We also need to discover why Tracy Price’s body was left at that school. We know de Bertrand has an alibi for when she went missing but … any ideas?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure in his job, he’s come across some rum individuals in his time,’ Owen said, rubbing his neck. ‘Teachers not pulling their weight in addition to dysfunctional students. He might even have been knocking off one of the teachers and their husband got to hear about it.’

  ‘Ha, I very much doubt that. I reckon Paul de Bertrand is still pining for the love of his life. I have to say I’d like to be a fly on the wall at her parents’.’

  He threw back his head and laughed. ‘You really do have a wicked side to you for a copper.’

  ‘Moi?’ She grinned, taking in the designer beard and twinkling brown eyes. He was a good man and that’s what she needed by her side. Her mind flipped to Rusty. Why he couldn’t be more like Owen Bates was beyond her. Working as a detective was one of the most difficult jobs, made all the more difficult if she had to watch every sentence that came out of her mouth. She wouldn’t mind if he treated everyone the same, but he didn’t. He was charm personified to the likes of Marie and Amy. It was only her he singled out for his irascible behaviour. It was her turn to shake her head because of course his behaviour was partly her fault.

  ‘So, let’s have a recap,’ she said, standing and heading for the whiteboard that took up one wall. Picking up the duster, she scrubbed it clean and started drawing a spider diagram.

  ‘Christine de Bertrand, out celebrating her birthday, meets a man, possibly one of the many tall, dark and handsome men roaming our streets.’ She wrote Christine’s name on the board. ‘The next morning, she finds herself beside the body of her flatmate.’ Adding Nikki’s name, she continued. ‘Nikki Jones, former fellow student at St Augusta’s, has a difficult relationship with everybody, including her mother. The only person she felt in anyway close to was Paul de Bertrand, lecturer at the same college, now ex-headteacher of St Gildas and former husband of Christine.’ She added Paul’s name, drawing thick red lines between all three. ‘She liked him so much as to put herself in a position of public embarrassment by impersonating Christine, right down to the red hair. She left the following day, walking away from three years of study at one of the world’s most prestigious universities.’

  She turned back towards Owen, angling her head towards the board. ‘Anything I’ve forgotten?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘No, I don’t think so. There’s a mystery as to why Christine and Paul split but I can’t see that it would have had anything to do with Nikki. She only came back on the scene around Christmas, didn’t she?’

  ‘Mmm, good point and, when we asked him, he neatly avoided the question.’

  She faced the board again, her pen raised. ‘Okay, two days later, redheaded Tracy Price goes missing, only to turn up in the middle of the sports shed at St Gildas, her hair chopped and torn from her scalp.’ She drew another line, this time in green, between the names Tracy and Paul. ‘There’s some thought that the marriage wasn’t perfect. Barry, the husband, admitted as much on interview. There’s also a rumour that she might have been pregnant, something that’s unconfirmed but she did have a doctor’s appointment: an appointment she didn’t keep.’

  She stepped back from the board, recapping the green marker and placing it beside the red and the black. ‘There’s something staring me in the face, yet I can’t seem to see it,’ she said, thinking out loud. ‘We have a red-haired victim and witness in addition to a wannabe redhead in Nikki but, when she died, she was brunette. With regards to Paul de Bertrand – while it might make sense for him to be involved in Nikki’s murder, surely Christine would have recognised sleeping with her own husband? There’s also the fact that the afternoon of Tracy’s disappearance he was in p
lain sight, unless he had an accomplice … No. That’s too messy a scenario.’ She turned to Owen. ‘What do you think? Anything to add?’

  ‘I think I’m getting a headache, Gabs.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why,’ she said, again picking up her phone only to have it ring in her hand, Rusty’s name flashing across the screen. With a swish of her finger she answered in loudspeaker mode before resting it back on the table.

  ‘Hello Dr. I have Owen with me. What have you got for us?’

  The line went quiet but only for a second. ‘Not a full autopsy report. I’m not a miracle worker. I’m working on it now but I thought you’d like to know I can confirm that both victims were killed by an almost identical single thrust, which ripped the heart muscle almost in two. I haven’t worked out the maths yet behind the force, depth and precise angle but, putting my neck on the line, I reckon we’re looking at the same person for both murders. I know you want more, but it will take a while for the lab to process the second knife and even then, I don’t think it will reveal anything. There’s very little evidence on the body so I can’t for a minute believe that our murderer would make a mistake with the murder weapon. We’ll find it’s been cleaned to within an inch of its life.’

  ‘Thanks for that. Owen, do you have anything to ask Rusty? What about chopping her hair, surely an unusual thing to do?’

  ‘Not really, if trophies are your thing,’ Rusty said. ‘With two murders under his belt, perhaps he’s deciding to start a little collection.’

  ‘You say he? I take it that’s not a slip of the tongue?’

  ‘Now, Detective, when have you ever known me to not say what I mean?’ Rusty carried on, not waiting for an answer. ‘There was evidence of intense sexual activity before the murder so, unless you’re thinking of a female accomplice, I’m pretty confident we’re talking about a male.’