The Night Book (16 page)

‘Yeah, I thought they would. That’s why I’m calling you, so you can tell them yes, it’s definitely worth their while taking us live. But listen, Bob, that isn’t the
only reason I phoned. There’s something
bloody
funny going on down here.’

Merryman took a quick draw on his cigarette. ‘Meaning?’

‘I don’t know yet – not exactly. But it’s something specifically to do with the identity of the guy that drowned yesterday. About ten minutes ago the police press officer
buttonholed me. I know him – we were on the same journalism course at college. He said he wanted to do me a favour. As an old mate. Took me aside from the rest of the pack and told me I
should be prepared for a twist in the tale.’

‘Uh? What sort of twist?’

‘He wouldn’t elaborate. Said he couldn’t pre-empt the Chief Constable’s statement at eight.’

The news editor stared at the receiver.

‘What the fuck’s he talking about?’

‘That’s exactly what I was going to ask you,’ Seb replied. ‘Have you heard anything?’

‘Of course I haven’t! I would have tipped you off straight away if I had.’

‘So what did he mean?’

Merryman rubbed his chin, considering.

‘I’ve no idea,’ he said at last. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah, actually. The cops have set up a little trestle table for us to put our mics on; already three or four of them are sitting behind it ready for the press conference. And they all
keep shooting me these weird looks.’

The news editor finished his cigarette and dropped the stub into his half-empty cup of coffee.

‘Well, forewarned is forearmed,’ he said at last. ‘I’d better tip off the network. Meanwhile if I hear anything between now and eight o’clock I’ll tell Jess
over the radio car link so he can pass it to you in your earphones. You’re fully rigged for outside broadcast, right? The network might want to do a live two-way with you right off the back
of your piece.’

‘Yup. Locked and loaded. Well . . . this’ll be an interesting one. I wish I knew what was coming. I’ll do my best, Bob.’

‘You’ll do great. I’ll talk to you straight after transmission. Hey . . . I wonder exactly what we’ll be saying to each other about this then, eh?’

‘Christ knows. But I’m starting to get the damnedest feeling.’

‘. . . take you now to the shores of Ullswater in the Lake District, and our reporter Seb Richmond. Seb?’

Seb was extremely tense. This was only his third live network broadcast, and it was going to be the trickiest by far.

The first, at the start of this month, had been mostly pre-recorded, consisting largely of edited sound bites from the press conference that Jess had helped him lash together. All he’d
really had to do was link from one clip to the next with short pieces of scripted commentary.

The second had been even simpler: a straightforward ad-libbed conversation with the programme host.

But this was turning into a sodding minefield. The chief constable, who was chairing the press call, had only just sat down and had yet to begin speaking. Seb would have to ‘fill’
until he did, and then judge when to come in quietly with his own commentary, all the while trying to keep one ear open to what the policeman was continuing to say in case he needed to cut straight
back to it.

Then there was the press officer’s warning of a ‘twist in the tale’. Whatever that was, he’d have to deal with it on the hoof.

Yup. A sodding minefield.

Seb licked his lips and settled himself into the plastic chair he had been allocated in the front row of the outdoor press call. The media had been assembled on a sun-browned patch of grass that
stretched straight down to the lake itself, as if the lawn was reaching out to it, desperate to drink. Parched mountain tops encircled them and even this early in the day, the sun was already
hot.

Here goes nothing, Seb thought grimly as he heard his simultaneous cue from Carlisle and London.

‘Thank you. You find me on the sunlit banks of one of the most beautiful stretches of water in Lakeland, as police are poised to reveal the identity of the latest victim in this
summer’s unprecedented litany of drownings. The question many here are asking this morning is . . .’

Meriel felt strangely light-headed as she stepped from the shower.

She had managed to get to sleep sometime after one, but she had snapped awake again less than two hours later, and from then until dawn she had been unable to stop herself endlessly replaying
events of the previous day.

She scarcely thought about Seb. Their night together, their plans, seemed utterly eclipsed and irrelevant now, even surreal. She had enough insight to know that was probably the consequence of
shock, but there was nothing she could do about it. Her mind was flooded with insistent, crystal-clear images from yesterday.

A glittering timepiece twisting and spinning lazily through space.

Sparkling droplets fanning up and out as the Rolex splashed into the water and vanished.

Kicking white feet fading from view.

Froth and foam, thrashing limbs, terrible, animal cries.

The stillness of death.

Meriel shook water from her hair as she reached for a towel. She looked up at the brass ship’s clock, jauntily mounted above the lintel of the bathroom door. Eight o’clock. The
police would be here in an hour to take her to the mortuary.

She moved back into the bedroom and switched on her bedside radio. It was her habit to listen to the breakfast show’s main news as she dressed.

Seb’s voice filled the room.

Seb wasn’t sure how much longer he could fill before he started to repeat himself. Others must have been having the same thought because he heard Jess’s voice
suddenly crackle in his earphones.

‘Network says if the conference doesn’t start in thirty seconds, hand back to studio.’

Unwittingly, Seb nodded as he continued to talk into his lip mic. He felt a little embarrassed by lip mics; they were more usually associated with sheepskin-jacketed football commentators.

‘So there it is. A grim record, in this summer of broken records. Eleven drownings, averaging almost two a week. Perhaps an absolute ban on going into the water is indeed now on the
cards here in Lakeland – just a moment. I think we’re about to begin. Yes, the Chief Constable, Tom Harris, is ready to make his statement.’

There was a small portable mixing desk in front of Seb. He quickly closed the fader controlling his own mic and opened the one connected to the chief constable’s. The policeman had already
begun speaking.

‘. . . to you all for coming this morning. Let me immediately confirm the identity of the latest drowning victim here in the lakes. Yesterday, the body of Mr Cameron Bruton was
recovered from Ullswater, at a point approximately a mile to the north of where we are currently . . .’

Seb jolted back in his seat as if he’d been shot. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He almost dropped the microphone. Meriel’s husband!
Holy Christ!
The picnic on
the boat. Her plan to tell him she wanted a separation. What in the name of God had happened out there yesterday?

He had to force himself to focus on what the policeman was saying now.

‘. . . will of course be known to many as one of the UK’s leading entrepreneurs. He was also a prominent local figure, living as he did above the neighbouring lake of Derwent
Water.

‘The exact circumstances of Mr Bruton’s death are still under investigation but at this point all the indications suggest accidental drowning. He and his wife, the broadcaster
Meriel Kidd, were on board their motor launch – a regular Sunday outing for the couple, I understand – and had hove-to so Mr Bruton could enjoy a swim around the vessel. Again, this was
his custom. His wife states that her husband suddenly vanished beneath the surface of the lake and when he reappeared he was in a state of great distress. She attempted to throw him a lifebelt but
he was unable to respond and, shortly after, he ceased breathing. A passing hire boat offered assistance, but the occupants were unable to revive Mr Bruton. Neither were the officers who arrived by
police launch shortly afterwards.

‘Mr Bruton was declared dead by a local GP, who happened to be sailing nearby, at 3.17 p.m. yesterday, Sunday. A postmortem will be performed later today in Kendal after formal
identification by his widow.

‘That concludes my statement, ladies and gentlemen. I shall now be happy to take questions.’

Seb’s mind was reeling. He felt as though he had been struck violently in the face, but his was the first hand in the air. The chief constable nodded towards him.
‘Yes, there on
the front row.’

Seb stood up unsteadily.
‘Seb Richmond, Lake District FM. Mr Harris, can you tell us—’

Jess’s calm voice immediately came through his earphones. ‘Open your fader, Seb. We can’t hear you.’

Shit.
He slid the control downwards and began again.

‘I’m sorry about that . . . Seb Richmond, Lake District FM. Mr Harris, can you tell us any more about Miss Kidd? As you may know, she’s a regular broadcaster on the radio
network that I represent. This news will come as a considerable shock to her listeners, and indeed her colleagues . . . as it has to me. Did she enter the water herself during the incident? Is she
. . .’
he hesitated.
‘Is she all right?’

The policeman nodded, although he looked curiously at his questioner.

‘Mrs Bruton was obviously deeply traumatised by witnessing her husband’s death, but she has demonstrated remarkable composure in the hours since. She was able to make a detailed
statement to my officers before returning home last night.’
He glanced at his watch.
‘She is due in Kendal in a little over an hour to make, as I say, formal
identification.

‘Concerning the sad events of yesterday, I am advised that Mrs Bruton did not at any stage enter the water. As I understand it, she is unable to swim. She did manage to throw one of
the boat’s lifebelts to her husband, as I believe I have said, but unfortunately he was unable to avail himself of it.’

Seb would have asked another question but other hands were waving in the air. The chief constable pointed to his right.
‘Yes,
Carlisle Evening News.
Morning,
Harry.’

‘Morning, sir. As you know there has been extensive publicity about the risks of swimming in the lakes during this unprecedented heatwave, and in particular the specific danger of
going beneath the surface. Is there any suggestion as to why Mr Bruton should have done just that – gone under, that is – and if it contributed to his death? And – I’m
sorry, just one more, please – shouldn’t the authorities now impose a complete ban on swimming while these uniquely treacherous conditions persist?’

The policeman shook his head.

‘It’s a “no” to the first part of your question, Harry. We have absolutely no evidence at all to suggest why Mr Bruton should have swum below the surface of the lake.
Indeed we don’t even know if it was a conscious action or an involuntary one. Mrs Bruton has only been able to tell us that one moment her husband appeared to be swimming perfectly normally,
and the next he had disappeared from view.

‘As to the precise cause or causes of death, we may know more after today’s postmortem. Meanwhile a decision on banning all swimming in the national park is under continuous
review. Next question, please.’

The following query was procedural, concerned with the postmortem, and Seb knew this was the moment he should fade the chief constable down and deliver some commentary of his own. But he was
entirely incapable of it. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. All he could think about was Meriel, what she must have gone through yesterday and what she was about to go through today
in the morgue.

Jess’s voice again in his earphones.

‘Come on, Seb, give us some bloody colour. The network’s going ape.’

With a tremendous effort he closed the policeman’s mic and boosted his own. For a moment he genuinely thought he wouldn’t be able to speak, but, haltingly at first, words began to
flow.

‘So . . . ah . . . for those of you who are just joining us, the, ah, shock news here on Ullswater is that yesterday’s drowning victim has just been revealed as, ah, one of this
country’s most successful businessmen, Cameron Bruton. His wife, Meriel Kidd, well known to many in her role as radio and newspaper agony aunt, was with him. But during what have just been
described as profoundly traumatic scenes, it seems she was unable to save her husband.’

He came to a complete full stop again. But before it became obvious to anyone that he had dried, Seb was relieved to hear the confident voice of the programme host fill his earphones.

‘So this is very much a breaking story and one that’s turning out to be something of a high-profile tragedy, isn’t it, Seb? Perhaps even a celebrity one. As you say,
Cameron Bruton was no stranger to the business columns of the newspapers and his glamorous wife has a fast-growing public profile, with all the attendant media interest. Is Meriel Kidd expected to
make some kind of public statement to her fans later today?’

Seb thought it a prurient question and he felt his anger quicken.

‘I simply don’t know the answer to that, Graham, I’m afraid. I should imagine her first priority will be to get the extremely stressful business of formal identification
over with. I very much doubt she sees this in the terms you’ve just described – as some sort of celebrity-driven story. She’s just lost a husband, and in deeply shocking
circumstances.’

Seb swallowed, and couldn’t help adding:
‘This is a personal tragedy, Graham, not a showbiz sensation.’

He could immediately tell by the presenter’s acid response that he’d piqued him.

‘Yes, well, of course we must keep in mind that Miss Kidd is a colleague of yours. This must be quite a difficult story for you to cover, on a personal level.’