The Night Book (5 page)

‘The entire upper surface of these waters has now been superheated to a remarkable degree. The lack of any significant breeze has denied the possibility of any wind-chill effect and
nights have been exceptionally warm. Each successive day the sun’s rays strike the waters, for hours at a time, so the temperature inexorably rises a little further.

‘This produces a dangerously misleading effect for swimmers, because however far they venture out into the lake, they feel they are surrounded by pleasant, balmy water. As indeed they
are.

‘But, what they do
not
realise is that these conditions are what we might describe as skin-deep. Directly beneath the superheated layer lies a body of water that is almost as
cold as it is in mid-winter. In itself, that is not necessarily dangerous. Many hardy swimmers take to the lakes in winter and are invigorated by the experience. The danger comes in the absolute
contrast between moving from the unprecedented surface warmth to the freezing cold just beneath it.

‘It is the coroner’s belief – and I concur – that these deaths are occurring when strong, confident swimmers decide to dip down deeper below the surface and encounter
the intensely cold water that lies there. They may gasp in shock – hence the inhalation of water and subsequent drowning – or, in other cases, suffer a cardiac arrest.’

The second tape spooled out and Seb was speaking again.

‘The coroner acknowledged that swimmers, particularly strong ones, might still be tempted by the unprecedentedly warm waters to venture further into the lakes than is usual. He had
this message for them.’

He pointed towards Jess for the last time, and Timothy Young’s calm, clear tones returned.

‘It doesn’t matter how good a swimmer you may be: if you move from the upper warmth into the deadly cold immediately beneath, it could be the last thing you ever do; your body
will respond automatically to the shock. As coroner for Kendal, and all the beautiful Lakeland countryside that surrounds it, I have no wish to preside over one more of these immensely sad
incidents. I implore
all
swimmers – please, stay close to the shore.’

Seb was back at the mic.

‘This is SEB Richmond reporting live from Kendal for Lake District FM, and Network News.’

The red transmission light winked out and Jess grinned at him.

‘What did I tell you? Piece of piss.’

‘This is Seb Richmond reporting live from Kendal for Lake District FM, and Network News.’

Meriel switched the Mercedes’ radio off as she pulled into the railway station car park and nosed slowly around for a space. Seb Richmond. Yes, she was aware of him; the new boy in the
newsroom, having a bit of trouble settling in, apparently.

Not judging by what she’d just heard. She thought he had an attractive voice – in fact, it was rather sexy – and it had been an interesting piece.

Fascinating, in fact. She and Cameron had a two-berth motorboat moored on Ullswater and every other weekend in the summer they took it out on what was still one of the Lake District’s
quieter stretches of water.

Meriel had never learned to swim and always stayed on deck while Cameron clambered down the little chromed ladder at the back of the boat – he insisted on calling it ‘aft’
– and slowly paddled around in the lake, never moving far from the vessel. He wasn’t the strongest of swimmers, but he enjoyed these expeditions and so did Meriel. The waters seemed to
have a strangely pacifying, moderating effect on her husband. He invariably emerged from them in an improved mood and generally more cordial frame of mind towards her than was usual.

They always took a picnic lunch on board, and some wine in the boat’s cool-box. If it was a Sunday they’d browse through the newspapers on deck together, gossiping over the headlines
and articles. For Meriel, these were almost like the old times with Cameron. His genial mood sometimes continued all day. In fact, the last time they had made love was after just such a trip. But
that was back in the previous summer.

It had been more than a year now.

Meanwhile, after that last horrendous Christmas they’d spent together – one dreadful row chasing hard on the heels of another, and then Cameron getting completely drunk and trying to
force himself on her in the middle of the night – she’d moved into the largest of the guest bedrooms. They hadn’t shared a bed since.

But somehow, their weekends on the lake survived as unusual oases of compatibility. Listening to Seb Richmond’s report just now, Meriel had been reminded of Cameron’s delight in
recent weeks whenever he entered the water.

‘Christ, Meriel, it’s warm as a bloody bath in here again!’ he’d called up to her last Sunday, as he slowly circumnavigated the boat using his habitual breaststroke.
‘What a shame you can’t swim! You’d love it. We must find someone to teach you!’

She’d have to remember to tell him about the danger that lay beneath.

Then, recalling the way he’d spoken to her only that morning, when she’d reminded him of this trip to London to have dinner with her agent, she changed her mind. He could do with a
scare. Cameron never dived or swam under the surface so he wouldn’t be in any real danger, but he might encounter a pocket of icy water that would give him a nasty fright.

He’d been absolutely vile to her at breakfast when she’d come downstairs with her overnight case and her evening clothes neatly folded and zipped away in a smart black nylon clothes
bag.

‘Where the hell d’you think you’re off to, then?’

‘You know perfectly well, Cameron. I’m having dinner with David at Claridge’s this evening. I told you, he has a book idea he wants to talk to me about.’

He snorted. ‘That’ll be a new outfit you’ve got with you, then. I know you. Same formula every time: we’re buggering off to London, so let’s buy ourselves a new
frock. With my money. How much did that one cost?’

Meriel managed to keep her temper.

‘It’s not new. I got it last year. Anyway, I earn money too. Not as much as you, but I’m perfectly entitled to—’

He cut her off. ‘Liar. It’s new. I told you, I know you inside out. Well, not inside, not any more.’ He leered. ‘That’s David’s little treat tonight,
I’ll bet. In lieu of this month’s fifteen per cent, eh? Commission in kind?’

‘You’re completely disgusting.’

It was strange, she thought as she walked down the London platform towards the first-class carriages at the front of the train. Exchanges like that with Cameron used to leave her trembling with
fury. Now, she’d become almost indifferent to them. Was that because of her secret, fantasy diary? Had she stumbled across a therapy that really did channel her anger into a safe, neutral
place? Perhaps one day, when she had somehow found a way to escape this mess of her own making, she could incorporate it into her portfolio of advice to others.

As she found her seat and placed her bags on the overhead rack, her thoughts returned to the new reporter. What was he called? Sam . . . Seth . . . no, Seb, that was it. Meriel rarely went into
Lake District FM’s newsroom; she had a desk in the open-plan production office at the other end of the corridor where she spent two days a week, one preparing her programme with her
researcher and the next on the actual day of broadcast. The show was syndicated to most of the other commercial stations around the UK and as a result Meriel Kidd was becoming that most
contemporary of social oddities: a household name.

The only time she put her head around the newsroom door was when they wanted a quote from her on something; a new report on depression, or research into eating disorders, or the latest celebrity
infidelity.

But the other day she’d overheard some of the secretaries in her office discussing Seb. They seemed intrigued and concerned for him by turns.

‘He’s got a girlfriend in London and she came up to see him the other weekend. Philippa saw them in the String of Horses together. Phillie says she’s gorgeous – looks
like one of Charlie’s Angels, apparently. The blonde one.’

‘No, no, they’ve split up now, didn’t you hear? He’s ever so upset. Wants to go back to London to try and win her back.’

‘Really? She must be completely loopy. He’s lovely. Reminds me a bit of that bloke in
Upstairs Downstairs
, you know, the young lord or earl or whatever. Except he’s
fairer and he doesn’t have a stupid tash.’

‘Well, you’d better make your move on him soon, Denise. Everyone says he’s headed for the chop.’

Hmm. Unlikely, based on the report I just heard, Meriel thought now as her train pulled smoothly away from Carlisle station. He’s good. In fact, I must remember to find an excuse to drop
by the newsroom when this Seb is on the news-reading rota. See what all the fuss is about.

She was surprised to find herself blushing.

‘I don’t understand you, Meriel. I’ve worked really hard to make this happen and now you . . . well, you just chuck it back in my face. I honestly thought
you’d be biting my hand off, not my head. What on earth’s wrong?’

David Weir wasn’t the biggest media agent in town but he was getting there. Meriel Kidd wasn’t his biggest client either, but he had plans for her. Big plans. As far as he was
concerned, she was the complete package. Most agony aunts were knocking on a bit, or a lot, but at thirty-one Meriel stood out from the crowd, and not just because of her relative youth. She looked
a knockout, with long chestnut hair that tumbled past her shoulders, enormous brown eyes set in a flawless oval face, and a figure kept trim from regular walks among the Lake District’s
fells.

Put all that together with a honey-toned voice and a mind as sharp as a whip and you had – well, as he kept repeating to anyone who’d listen, you had the complete package. Especially
in broadcasting. David Weir had all kinds of plans to grow and develop Meriel into a TV star, but he was in no rush. He was a canny agent and he knew it was important to build clients a solid base
from which they could securely advance.

Which was why he was so pissed off now.

‘It’s a book deal, for Christ’s sake, Meriel! A
book
deal! I can think of five women – clients –
right this minute
who’d be fighting each
other off to sign up to something as good as this.’

‘I’m not going to work with my husband.’

‘But why not, Meriel? Look, maybe I put it across wrong. Let me try again. It’s ridiculously hot in here, you’re probably having trouble focusing.

‘The working title’s
Mrs . . . and Mr.
You and Cameron have the perfect marriage, but you’re a
modern
couple. He has his career, you have yours. He
doesn’t take any crap from you, and you don’t take any crap from him. It’s a marriage of equals.

‘Jesus, Meriel, you know all the balls married women have to put up with about daring to go out to work! You’re helping to change that. No one’s done more than you to champion
the cause of working women within marriage. So why not explain how it works from the inside?

‘I see it working as alternate chapters. Cameron has his – hell, you can write them for him, who cares? – and you have yours.
You
top and tail it with an introduction
and a postscript. Throw in some great photos of you and the old man at your rustic idyll and on the boat – Bailey will come up to Cumbria to shoot them, I’ve asked him already,
he’s a mate – and Bob’s your uncle. We can tie in a spread in one of the upmarket glossy magazines, too. It’s perfect.’

Meriel opened her mouth to speak, but Weir flapped his hands at her.

‘Wait. I haven’t got to the best part. I’ve got two publishers fighting like cats in a sack for this and they’re
both
prepared to fund a TV advertising campaign
to support publication. I’m not even going to tell you what the advances they’re offering are: I don’t want you fainting on me. Meriel,
please –
we get a book like
this away, and it’s next stop television. The book will give you the kind of credibility that money simply can’t buy. Meriel! Come on! What’s the big problem here?’

Oh, what the hell, thought Meriel, draining her fourth glass of sauvignon blanc. I might as well tell someone the sodding truth.

So she told him.

David Weir was a good listener. He gave his client his full attention as she unburdened herself of the dead weight of her dead marriage. He didn’t interrupt as Meriel
described the daily humiliations and accommodations she had to endure and contrive. He merely nodded occasionally, and waited for her to finish. When she finally ran out of words, he took her hand
and squeezed it gently.

‘Meriel . . . have you told anyone else about this? Does anyone else know how awful things are at home?’

Meriel gulped and shook her head. ‘No. You’re the first person I’ve confided in. God, David, I feel
so
much better for it. Thank you for listening. As far as divorce
goes, I suppose I—’

‘Shut up. Shut the fuck
up
, Meriel. I don’t want to hear any more – especially about divorce.’

Meriel stared at him in shock. ‘
What?
But I thought—’

‘Well, don’t. I’ll tell you what to think. Just be quiet. Give me a minute.’

A waiter arrived with coffee. The agent waved him away.

‘Right,’ he said at last. ‘Right.’ He spread his hands, palms down, on the table, before lifting his head to stare directly at her.

‘
Jesus
, Meriel! What the
hell
do you think you’re playing at? Do you want to lose
everything
we’ve built up together over the last five years? So
your marriage to Cameron is a sham, is it? Do you think you’re the only woman married to a shit? You need to get with the programme, honey, and in case you’ve forgotten what that is,
let me spell it out for you.’

The waiter hesitantly approached the table again with their coffees. ‘Forgive me, but I thought sir ordered—’

‘Fuck off.’

The man melted away.

Weir continued without missing a beat.