Darkest Night Read online

  She sat back in the chair and crossed her legs. In fact, she couldn’t involve her at all. At the first whiff of bad news, she’d be put on suspension or maybe even sacked. The school already took a dim view of parking offences – she didn’t dare think about what their reaction would be to a murder accusation. She groaned, plucking a tissue from the new box the PC had conveniently dropped beside her elbow. The only person she could think of was probably the last person in the world she’d ever dream of phoning under normal circumstances. But being suspected of murder was far from normal.

  The sight of the door opening had her uncrossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. She’d deliberately ignored the chair facing the barred window and little patch of blue sky, instead choosing the one opposite the door for obvious reasons. While profoundly deaf, she still managed to hear some sound with the assistance of her high-pitched hearing aids but that didn’t alter the fact that the click of a door being pushed open was something she probably wouldn’t hear on a good day and, as days went, she’d had better.

  ‘Hello again, you might remember I’m DC Gaby Darin and this is my partner, DC Owen Bates,’ the short stocky woman said, joining her at the table. ‘We’ve managed to assign a solicitor – this is Mr Andy Parrish.’ She waved a hand towards the bespectacled middle-aged man following them into the room, an old leather briefcase clutched under his arm. ‘For the record, Ms de Bertrand, the conversation with be recorded.’ She flicked a switch on the microphone set into the wall at the side of the table.

  The solicitor, with a brief smile, went to take the chair beside her only to stop at the sound of her voice.

  ‘No. You need to sit opposite.’

  ‘Opposite? I don’t understand?’ he said, a puzzled expression on his face as he looked at the empty chair to her right.

  Christine let out a loud sigh. ‘Mr Parrish, I suffer from a hearing impairment. So, despite the hearing aids—’ she raised her hand to her hair, pushing it behind her left ear for emphasis ‘—for me to be able to understand you, I do need to see your lips, unless any of you can sign?’ She allowed her eyes to drift to each of them in turn, the sight of their quickly lowered heads confirmation enough. ‘Just as I thought.’

  She’d been taking a huge risk that none of them knew sign language. While deaf in her left ear since a riding accident when a child, her current state of near total silence was something that had crept up on her over the last couple of years. Yes, she was learning to sign but she was far from fluent. She was also only a beginner at lip-reading – but they weren’t to know that. She knew instinctively that telling them she could hear, albeit slightly, was to her advantage.

  ‘If you’d prefer to have a sign-language interpreter present, I’m happy to halt the interview until one can be arranged?’ Gaby said, her look frank and with no trace of the embarrassment Christine was used to.

  She shook her head briefly.

  ‘For the record, Ms Christine de Bertrand has declined the services of an interpreter at this time.’ Gaby flipped open her notebook to a new page and jotted down the date and time. ‘Now, please can you tell us, in your own words, exactly what happened in the lead up to this morning’s—’

  ‘Before you start questioning the witness perhaps you should caution her in my presence,’ Mr Parrish interrupted, pointing a finger at the microphone. ‘And I’d like it noted for the record that anything Ms de Bertrand has said to you, or any of your officers, up to this point is inadmissible as evidence.’

  ‘Understood, loud and clear, Mr Parrish,’ Gaby said, a smile frozen on her face. ‘DC Bates, if you could do the honours, please.’

  Both hands on the table, Christine glanced down at what was left of her nails and the chipped dark red nail varnish, taking little notice of the barely audible words the bearded man was reading from a piece of white card that he’d pulled out from his pocket. She’d always prided herself on her hands, and her rainbow selection of varnishes, which she renewed daily, were a source of both discussion and amusement for her pupils. She’d never wear red again. She raised her head back to Gaby.

  ‘Now to repeat my question,’ Gaby said, only to be interrupted.

  ‘Don’t bother! Which part would you like? The part where I went to bed with a bloke or the one where I discovered my flatmate dead under my duvet?’ Christine replied, staring back.

  ‘How about from the beginning. Let’s say, when you returned home from work. I take it you do work?’

  ‘Yes. I’m a teacher at St Francis’s, at least I was. Innocent until proven guilty won’t hold much water with members of the school board.’

  ‘Let’s skip the school part and talk about arriving home from work,’ Gaby said, rolling her pen between her thumb and forefinger.

  ‘I usually leave at five o’clock on a Friday and, after a quick dash to Asda, I showered and changed before heading out to meet up with a friend for a few drinks – yesterday was my birthday.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ DC Bates said, without even the glimmer of a smile. ‘So, your friend and the bar staff would be able to confirm that, would they?’

  She shifted her head, a frown appearing. ‘Sorry, can you repeat that please? It would be helpful if I know when someone else is speaking …’ She spread her hands.

  ‘Of course,’ Gaby said, shooting the other officer a quelling look. ‘My colleague asked whether your friend and the bar staff would be able to confirm that?’

  ‘Kelly certainly could – not sure about the bar staff but probably,’ she said, swallowing hard. The problem wasn’t with their memory … She wasn’t even sure which pubs she’d been in.

  Her mind seemed stuck in a loop. Over the course of the morning she’d managed to dredge up a hazy recollection of the new drinking game Kelly had started, which involved copious amounts of Mojitos. But her inability to recall most of the subsequent events, including the lead up to her one-night stand, was a first, and more than scary – bloody terrifying.

  Lifting her hands, she cradled her forehead and silently condemned last night’s excesses. They were usually much more restrained in their drinking habits but celebrating her milestone birthday by getting smashed had seemed a good idea at the time.

  ‘You said that you went to bed with a man,’ Gaby said, flicking a look at Christine’s ring-less hands. ‘Your boyfriend, partner, husband—?’

  ‘I’m not married, not anymore.’ She pushed her hair away from her face, annoyed that she hadn’t had the foresight to bring a scrunchie. ‘The thing is we had too much to drink, way too much—’

  ‘A couple of girls out on the lash in Llandudno on a Friday night isn’t that uncommon,’ Gaby interrupted with a smile. ‘Safety in numbers and all that.’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t really remember much after meeting up with Kelly,’ she said, her gaze resting on her solicitor who was busy tapping away on his laptop, a sheaf of papers pushed to one side. ‘I can’t really remember much more apart from what I’ve told you already. The next thing after the drinking contest was waking up this morning.’

  ‘Can you at least tell us something about him?’

  ‘There’s nothing, no memory of what happened between us, if indeed anything did,’ she said, wiping her fingers over her face before dropping her hands back to her lap. ‘Dark hair; short, dark hair,’ she continued, almost to herself, struggling to search through her mind for even a glimmer of something else but it was useless.

  Gaby lifted her head from where she’d been writing in her notebook. ‘So, fast-tracking to this morning, can you tell us exactly what happened from when you woke up?’

  ‘There’s not a lot to tell. I felt a bit disorientated – too much alcohol.’ She pulled a face. ‘I certainly wasn’t in the mood to deal with having to face some random bloke over my bowl of cornflakes.’ She paused, trying to see it from their point of view and suddenly not liking the impression she was giving. ‘You’re probably thinking that I’m a bit of a slapper but that’s not the case. Hooking up isn’t som
ething I do now. Yes, when I was younger, but I can’t remember when I last took a stranger home to my bed – it must be years. I felt awkward, uncomfortable even. I have a nice flat, somewhere I feel comfortable and, to be honest, when I woke up, I couldn’t believe what I’d done. He could have been anyone …’ Her voice cracked, willing them to understand. ‘I needed to get away from the reality of the situation, so I left and went into the kitchen – coffee was called for, in large amounts.’

  DC Bates lifted his hand. ‘Leaving a stranger asleep in your bed? Why didn’t you wake him?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I wasn’t thinking straight. It was like there was a fog … Everything was hazy, and my head was banging. I put the coffee on and headed into the bathroom for a pee and paracetamol.’ She put her hand up to her hair and tugged at a corkscrew curl. ‘You think I always go about looking like someone’s plugged me into the mains? This is usually blow-dried before being ironed into submission.’

  Mr Parrish gained her attention by tapping his index finger on the side of his laptop before speaking. ‘Are you sure you’re happy to continue the interview, Ms de Bertrand? If you’re not feeling up to it, we can always postpone until later.’

  She managed a smile out of relief that he had a tongue in his head. She’d been starting to get seriously worried about who they’d dumped her with. ‘No, let’s carry on. The sooner it’s over, the sooner I can leave.’

  Christine caught the tail-end of a look passing between the three of them and felt her stomach fall to her knees. Gripping her hands together to stop them shaking, she dropped her head a moment, trying to understand what was going on. It wasn’t some awful mistake. It wasn’t some nightmare dream that she was going to wake up from with a sigh of relief. The reality was that her flatmate had been found dead in her bed and she was the number one suspect.

  ‘So, I take it I’m not going to be allowed home any time soon? What about bail or something?’

  ‘Currently, you’re helping us with our enquiries into what is a complex and very serious case, so I’m afraid bail doesn’t come into it,’ DC Darin said, glancing up from where she was busily scribbling in her notebook.

  ‘But I’m still a suspect, is that right? The only suspect?’ Christine said, her gaze fixed on the detective’s face. ‘So, how long are you going to keep me here – in case I need to feed my dog or something?’

  ‘Do you have a dog, Ms de Bertrand?’ Her voice was sharp.

  ‘No, not anymore but you weren’t to know that,’ she said, not quite believing how her life had derailed so quickly. Her parents had led her to believe that the good guys always came out on top – but they’d lied. She was stuck here without even a toothbrush or a clean pair of knickers for however long they decided to keep her – years if they charged her and she was found guilty. But despite all that, she was a lot better off than Nikki. Her mind, as if on a puppeteer’s string, pulled her back to the image of her death-cold body bathed in all that blood. She felt her throat tighten with the threat of tears but managed to swallow them. Now wasn’t the time for tears. Tears wouldn’t help her and they certainly wouldn’t help Nikki.

  ‘So, presumably, reading between the lines, I’m the main suspect in a murder and, never having been in this position before, I’d like to know what happens next?’ she asked, her arms now folded across her chest. ‘How long am I to be kept here without being formally charged?’

  ‘Not long. You’ll be taken into custody but, as they don’t have the facilities in the Llandudno branch, you’ll be transferred over to St Asaph’s station and to their custodial suite.’

  ‘But that’s miles away. How do you think—?’

  ‘This isn’t a holiday,’ DC Bates interrupted with a wave of his hand. ‘Someone has died in your bed and, until we can ascertain what exactly happened, we need to ensure we know where you are. Now we still have some more questions,’ he said, his look pointed. ‘You’ve told us up to leaving the stranger in your bed and going to the bathroom. What happened next?’

  He was making it sound as if in some way she was at fault and, hugging her arms across her suddenly trembling body, she probably was. But if there was a rule book to follow under the current set of circumstances, she was yet to find it.

  ‘I went back into my room … I’d made him a coffee.’ Her words were a mere thread of sound. ‘I wanted him gone, you see, and I thought that was the best way, kinder than showing him the door. I called out something, I can’t remember what, but there was no answer. After a moment I pulled back the duvet and—’ The image of Nikki’s body seemed to have leeched from her thoughts to behind her eyes, causing her cheeks to pale. ‘There was blood everywhere, so much blood. I ran then. I had to get away. I only made it to the loo in time.’

  ‘And what can you tell us about your relationship with Nikki Jones?’

  Christine shifted her head in the direction of the bearded detective, scowling at the way he’d clicked his fingers almost under her nose to regain her attention. ‘Not a huge amount. I knew her from university but we’d lost touch. I bumped into her again and offered to put her up for a bit. She seemed … well, she seemed to have fallen on hard times. If you want the truth, I felt sorry for her, not that I’d ever have told her. She wasn’t the type to accept charity.’

  The tiny bit of energy, flowing through her veins and muscles, was fast diminishing. With her hand on her forehead, she now asked. ‘How long am I to be kept at the station?

  ‘A few days at most.’

  Mr Parrish lifted his briefcase and popped it open, placing his laptop and papers inside. ‘The maximum length they can detain you without a formal charge is seventy-two hours.’

  ‘But that’s three days, what am I going to—?’ All colour drained from her face, not that there’d been much to start with. They thought she was a murderer, all three of them, even the solicitor who now couldn’t quite meet her eye. Oh God, what the hell was she going to do. She could tell the interview was over by the way they spoke directly into the microphone before switching it off and standing to their feet.

  ‘It shouldn’t be long, Christine, if I may call you that?’ DC Darin said, now standing by the door. ‘I’ll send an officer in with some tea while we arrange for your transfer.’

  ‘Wait.’ Christine hugged her arms more tightly across her chest, trying to retrieve both her courage and her pride from where they were hiding. She couldn’t do this alone, not now. She needed help but would he be the right one to ask after everything she’d done to him? She was about to find out, one way or the other.

  ‘You said you’d inform someone about what’s happening to me. I’d like that person to be Paul de Bertrand, my ex-husband.’

  Chapter 4

  Paul

  Saturday 9 May, 5 p.m. St Gildas Independent Boarding School

  Beddgelert

  The school bell rang at the same time each evening at St Gildas, one of the oldest independent boarding schools in Great Britain. Within seconds the corridors were filled with the echo from six hundred pairs of boys’ shoes racing into the refectory in time for supper. Like most boarding schools, life at St Gildas was governed by rules and regulations and no child wanted to be late in case they missed out on the Saturday treat of toad in the hole and chips.

  The teaching staff followed at a more leisurely pace, tucking a copy of the evening paper under their arms as they passed the long mahogany table that filled one corner of the Jacobean-styled main entrance. These housemasters and mistresses had every reason to feel smug at their place amongst one of the top ten boarding schools in the country. Cocooned within their ivory tower, two miles south-west of the village of Beddgelert, the outside world rarely had the audacity to interrupt their orderly existence and any unsavoury intrusions were swiftly brushed under the antique Persian rug that took pride of place in the headmaster’s office.

  The headmaster, Paul de Bertrand, was a lucky and relatively recent addition to the school, an addition the board was pleased to embrace with his
prior experience both as an educationalist and university lecturer. The only fly in the ointment was when his wife had upped and divorced him within months of taking up his tenure because, of course, a married headmaster was so much more desirable than a divorced one. But, over the last couple of years they’d muddled along, occasionally partnering him with a suitably well-bred woman, at one of the many dinner parties he had to attend, with a view to her slipping into his erstwhile ex-wife’s shoes. So far it hadn’t worked.

  Arriving at the table at the head of the room, Paul inspected the sea of boys, a wry smile on his face. Life was as good as it could be under the circumstances – circumstances he couldn’t spend too much time thinking about or he’d go mad. The divorce rankled. He thought about Christine’s desertion first thing in the morning and last thing at night, without fail, and it was as much of a mystery then as it was now. The thing about having the ideal marriage was that he had no idea when or even how it had started to crumble. Up to the day he’d found her gone, a crappy note left propped up on the mantelpiece, he’d thought their life perfect. Now he had no expectations or ambitions. Now he had work and Ruby, their five-year-old miniature schnauzer – that was all.

  He pulled the newspaper out from under his arm for something to do while he waited for his meal to be served. With a couple of staff due to go on maternity leave, there were still supply teachers to find and references to plough through. Afterwards he’d sit in his private lounge with a glass of port by his side and a book on his lap …

  It took one glance at the headline glaring out from the front of the paper for him to unfold it, the cold hand of fear tracing its way up his spine.