Darkest Night

by Jenny O'Brien

  Barry had been reluctant to open the door at first and when he did it was clear, from the bleary look on his face, that they’d woken him.

  ‘You should be out looking for her and not haranguing me,’ was the first thing Barry said on opening the hall door. He turned away, not seeming to care if they followed or not, his bare feet poking out of a pair of grubby paint-splattered jeans.

  It was the sight of those feet that had Gaby pause, her gaze seeking that of Amy’s. There was something almost pathetic about the way he retreated down the hall, the sound of his footsteps muffled by rag rugs strewn across the wooden floorboards, and she felt a pang of deep sympathy for what he must be going through. Oh, that didn’t mean to say that he wasn’t on the very top of her list of suspects. He was so far up that list as to nearly be off the top of the page. But under Gaby’s stern exterior beat a heart of gold, a heart that despite all the knocks it had suffered, both in and outside of work, still hoped for the best in people. Was she about to be disappointed? It wouldn’t be the first time.

  They’d followed him into the lounge. There was no social etiquette in this room. No shaking of hands or waiting until they’d been seated. He stretched out the length of the sofa, his head on one armrest, his feet on the other. The television was on, some mindless daytime drivel that she no more knew the name of than the channel which hosted it, and it was on this that he was fixed to the exclusion of all else. The room was dark, stale even, the glass-topped coffee table littered with dirty plates and mugs. The rugs were sprinkled with crumbs and, despite only the passage of a couple of days, a fine filament of dust marred the sheen of the polished, dark-wood furniture.

  ‘Mr Price,’ Amy said, starting the conversation off. ‘I’m afraid we have some bad news for you. We’ve found a body that matches the—’

  ‘No! No you haven’t. My wife isn’t …’

  ‘Mr Price, we need to discuss this.’

  ‘No! No, we don’t. My wife … Tracy isn’t—’ He raised both hands to his face, scrubbing his fists into his eyes like a child.

  ‘Mr P … Barry. Just because you might wish for something doesn’t make it true,’ Amy continued, her voice soft.

  Instead of a copper now, she was a parent, a parent speaking to her child. Soothing. Enticing, Comforting. ‘We can’t begin to tell you how upset we all are that this had to happen but now we have a murderer to find and the longer we leave it, the more time there is for the trail to go cold.’

  He sat up, his shuddering breath loud in the unnaturally quiet room and lowered his hands to his lap, fisting them into tight balls. The bereaved were unpredictable and Gaby was well aware that they’d have a difficult job on their hands if he decided to turn ugly. No. An impossible one. Despite their supposed extensive training, the reality was a mandatory course on conflict resolution and breakaway techniques, which would be little use against a man of his physique if he decided to turn nasty. While sympathy bled from her veins, she still didn’t like him. There was just something about him, although the sight of his bloodshot eyes and tremoring hands that no fist could completely hide was making her revise that thought.

  She opened her mouth to ask him as to his exact whereabouts on Monday only to find she was closing it with a snap, his words flowing through her and changing the whole course of the conversation.

  ‘All I want to know is that she didn’t suffer. I couldn’t bear it if—’ His jaw hardened. ‘You can ask me any questions you like but the one thing you’ll never get me to admit to is the murder of my wife. You can lock me up and throw away the key. I don’t care anymore.’ He ran his hands over his hair, the greasy unwashed strands gathering in clumps. ‘We weren’t perfect, her and me, but I’d never have harmed her.’ He dropped his eyes to the rug and that’s where his attention remained, his voice so soft they had to lean forward to hear. ‘That’s not true, of course it’s not. I’ve hurt her more times than I can remember, something that’s bound to come out, especially if you go speaking to my delightful mother-in-law.’ Gaby watched him trying and failing to blink back the tears even as she pushed a tissue into his hand. ‘Oh God, how the hell am I going to tell the boys? They adored their mum. She was everything, absolutely everything to them.’

  The whole course of the conversation had changed with those few little words.

  All I want to know is that she didn’t suffer.

  How many times during an interview had she heard almost that exact phrase? The mouths might be different. Parents. Children. Siblings. Partners. Lovers. Friends. But the words remained the same. If you loved someone all you wanted to know was that they hadn’t suffered from whatever hand that had been dealt. She still didn’t trust him but, somewhere under that cynical chest of hers, gleamed a glimmer of optimism for the couple of boys that had lost their mum. She’d been led astray before in her career but, with those words, Barry Price had managed to loosen the stranglehold around his neck just long enough to let an alternative scenario creep into Gaby’s mind.

  The only link between the two murders was Paul de Bertrand: Christine’s ex-husband and headmaster of St Gildas. But she’d interviewed him and the one thing he wasn’t was stupid. He’d have known where his position was on the suspects list straight away. Unless someone was out for revenge? In the same way that a dog marks his territory, the scent of another trail was starting to streak across her consciousness.

  Gaby left him in the capable hands of Amy Potter, her friend’s FLO hat firmly clamped in place, the most sympathetic and understanding expression imaginable on her face. Gaby wondered for the millionth time how Amy managed to remain upbeat and in control. There wasn’t a trace of the irate friend that had berated her on the doorstep less than half an hour before. Gaby couldn’t think of a worse job with so little appreciation or gratitude. Time passed, emotions were glossed over, the day-to-day minutiae of life shrouded everything with new memories, leaving less and less room for the old. Family liaison officers were forgotten. They got tucked into the back of that dark cavernous mind, never to see the light of day and yet, their role was one of the most valuable to any police force. She counted herself lucky to have Amy still on her team even as she wondered what she’d made of the interview.

  She walked across the road to her car. She had no idea how long Amy would stay but, if it was anything like the last time, it could be a very long time. Leaning against the door, she pulled out her phone and, scrolling down her list of contacts, picked out Susan Sullivan’s number. She’d thought her job difficult – breaking bad news had to be up there with one of the worst jobs – but it had nothing on what Barry was about to do. She was determined that he’d have all the support available. Saul and Solomon’s futures were about to change forever and all due to the despicable act of one person; someone she was going to catch if it was the very last thing she did.

  Ending the call, her gaze shifted from the Prices’ house to the house next door and the curtain she’d seen twitching out of the corner of her eye. The one thing coppers liked more than anything was nosy neighbours, the nosier the better as far as she was concerned. Neighbours always knew more than they let on, maybe even more than they thought they knew themselves. Retracing her footsteps, she tried to recall who lived on the other side. Malachy had said something about a retired teacher. Taking the time to re-interview witnesses wasn’t something the force could usually afford in terms of manpower unless they were viewed as key to the investigation. But if Gaby had learnt anything about people over the last few years, it was that being a young male officer was a huge disadvantage when dealing with elderly women.

  The green door was opened after one ring. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have guessed the tall angular woman with salt and pepper hair had been hiding out in the hall waiting for a summons. Surely not, but there she was like that proverbial genie out of the bottle, eager to escort Gaby inside for a good old chin wag.

  The lounge had seen better days, the carpet threadbare, strategically placed mats only drawing attent
ion to the bald patches. The furniture was heavy and obviously inherited. The curtains were faded. But the tea was hot and strong, just the way Gaby liked it, and beautifully presented in dainty bone china cups, similar to the tea-set her Italian grandmother insisted on using. Settling back in the red tapestry armchair, she resisted the temptation to look at her watch. The woman in front of her, who had introduced herself as Mrs Miles, had information she needed and any hint of rushing on her part, would have her closing up tighter than any clam.

  She placed the cup back in its saucer, promising herself a visit to one of the little antique shops, dotted around Craig-y-Don, on her next pay day. There were some things in life that weren’t worth skimping on and sipping tea out of a proper cup was one of them.

  ‘Thank you for the tea,’ Gaby said, noting Mrs Miles’s paper-thin skin and blue eyes, faded with age but still alert. There was no sign of a TV in the room, only a radio sitting on top of the bookcase and a pile of knitting on the sofa beside her. This woman had nothing to do and all the time in the world in which to do it.

  Leaning forward in her chair, Gaby started to speak. ‘I’m afraid I do have some dreadful news about your neighbour. I’m sure you understand that I can’t divulge the ins and outs of an ongoing investigation, but I can say that Barry, Mr Price, is going to need all the support he can get over the coming weeks.’

  ‘Of course, anything I can do. That poor man and those lovely boys.’ Her face coloured, the cheeks bright, the mouth slightly open and Gaby was hard pushed not to pull a smile.

  As much as she despised the human race for their morbid fascination with all things macabre, Mrs Miles was an intelligent woman and most likely kind. If all that came out of this interview was Barry being inundated with home-bakes and offerings of childcare, then her visit wouldn’t be in vain. But she was seriously hoping that this woman was about to give up a whole lot more than overt signs of her sympathy.

  Gaby nestled back against a tapestry cushion, choosing her words carefully. The one thing she mustn’t do was let her know how much she depended on her answers.

  ‘While I’m here I was wondering if you knew anything about the Prices’ routine?’ She nodded in the direction of the immaculate lawn where no weed would have ever dared show its head. ‘You obviously spend a lot of time in your garden, which by the way is beautiful and—’

  Mrs Miles coughed into her hand. ‘I’m not sure whether I should—’

  ‘Anything at all, even the most insignificant of things, could turn out to be a great help.’

  Gaby carried on sipping from her cup as if time wasn’t the most important thing. But this couldn’t be rushed. She was waiting for Mrs Miles to finish the argument in her mind, hopeful that the urge to gossip would win over any misplaced neighbourly loyalty.

  ‘Well, I don’t think they got on too well. She kicked him out at one point.’

  ‘Can you be more specific? Did you hear—’

  ‘Oh, more than that. I saw everything – by accident, you understand.’ She glanced away but only briefly. ‘I was pruning my roses, let’s see, so that would have been around March time last year – I always follow that nice man’s instructions on that gardening programme on the Beeb. Anyway, she was shouting and screaming at him, flinging his clothes out of the bedroom window. At one point I thought about phoning the police.’

  ‘We can’t get into domestics unless there’s an actual threat of violence?’

  ‘Oh? No. Nothing like that. She took him back, more fool her. But I don’t think it was quite the same.’ She picked up her cup, cradling it between her fingers.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. I got the impression he’d learnt his lesson that last time for what it’s worth. Flowers after work. More effort with the kids.’ She placed her cup back down on its saucer, her lips pursed, a small frown creasing her brow into a myriad of wrinkles. ‘It was her. She used to be chatty, speaking to me over the fence about this and that. It was as if someone had squeezed all the fun out of her, leaving an empty shell. I used to be able to set my watch by her routine,’ she continued, ticking off each item on her fingers. ‘School run. Back to the house to hang out the washing. A couple of hours out and about with that little business of hers before returning for a quick lunch and then picking up the kids in the afternoon. Then …’ She clapped her hands. ‘It all changed. I don’t know where she went after work, but it certainly wasn’t back to the house.’

  ‘And when was this? After she kicked him out?’

  ‘No, much later than that.’ Her frown deepened. ‘If I’d have to guess, I’d say around Christmas. Yes, that’s right. When the schools broke up. I remember thinking that the added strain of that time of year must have brought home to her just what kind of a man she’d married.’ She stood up, starting to gather the crockery together on a tin tray. ‘If that’s everything? I really must get on.’

  And so must I, Gaby thought, passing over her cup and saucer, her thoughts heading in a direction that was long overdue. Rusty Mulholland and the patch-up text she needed to send him.

  Chapter 32

  Gaby

  Wednesday 13 May, 4 p.m. St Asaph Police Station

  Paul de Bertrand had visibly aged in the course of the investigation, an investigation that had only spanned five days. Gaby too had a reason for looking like something the cat had dragged in. In fact, it was probably a very good thing that the closest she ever came to animals were late night confrontations with next door’s moggy. If she didn’t have time to feed herself properly, she certainly wouldn’t remember to feed a four-legged friend. So, what had happened in de Bertrand’s life over the last week to change him so? He looked smart enough in his open-necked shirt and grey trousers and, as men went, he wasn’t bad looking. With his high brow and receding hairline, he looked exactly what he was: a highly intelligent man at the top of his profession. But the lines around his eyes, forehead and mouth were etched deep and coated in shadows. He looked in need of a good meal and a full night’s sleep, neither of which he was about to get in interview room four.

  ‘Take a seat, sir.’ Gaby gestured to a chair before sitting beside Owen, her hand reaching out and flicking on the microphone.

  ‘Can you confirm for the record that DC Bates has read you your rights and, at present, you’ve declined the services of a solicitor?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘And you know why you’re here today?’

  ‘Presumably because you think I had something to do with the murder.’

  She eyed him keenly before returning to her notebook. She was well aware that the man sitting opposite was much cleverer than she was and, if she was going to trip him up, she’d have to unsettle him and that started by not answering any of his questions, directly or otherwise. In truth, she had no idea as to whether he was involved, and she wouldn’t until Rusty got back to her to confirm, or otherwise, that the deaths were linked. But it seemed too much of a coincidence that a second body had been found at Christine de Bertrand’s ex-husband’s school. The only problem was that she was currently clueless as to how all the pieces fit together.

  ‘I’ve been told that you’ve left St Gildas. That’s all a bit sudden, don’t you think? What about the usual notice period until a new headmaster can be appointed?’

  His gaze narrowed, his face still expressionless. ‘My change in career path can surely be of no interest to the investigation?’

  ‘On the contrary. Everyone involved interests me. Please answer the question, sir.’

  ‘Let’s just say the board of directors and I had a differing in opinion as to the relevance of my former wife being investigated for murder.’

  ‘So, you were sacked?’

  ‘No, officer. I resigned on the spot.’

  ‘A little over the top seeing as you’re not married to her, surely?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. I still have feelings for my ex-wife or isn’t that something that’s allowed?’


  She decided to change tack. ‘This parting of the ways with the school happened exactly when?’

  ‘Monday morning, if you must know. As soon as the story hit the newspapers and the board realised the link.’ He smiled briefly. ‘If Christine had married someone with an ordinary name like Smith I’d probably still be there. The role of headmaster at a public school like that demands one hundred per cent commitment. They frowned enough when we split but the hint of a scandal, even if only by association, would have been viewed in the worst possible light.’ He grimaced. ‘I can’t imagine the furore finding a dead body will be causing. The parents will be disassociating themselves from the school in droves. Schools like that rely on a whiter than white reputation.’

  ‘So, you’ve heard of the discovery?’

  ‘People talk. The depu … new headmaster phoned me first thing, probably to warn me that you lot would be heading my way.’

  And therefore giving you plenty of time in which to prepare, Gaby thought, deciding to try yet another line of questioning.

  ‘You mention your divorce and your continued feelings for Christine. If that’s the case, why aren’t you still together? It’s not as if either of you appear to have moved on with other partners.’

  She watched his throat clench and knew she’d hit a nerve. ‘When are you going to stop asking that question, Detective? She was the one that filed, not me.’

  Until I get an answer that makes sense. But all she said was, ‘okay. We’ll leave that for now. Returning to Monday, can you tell us your movements from around midday?’

  ‘Monday was taken up, almost in its entirety with clearing out the house. I spent the first half handing everything over to Noel – Mr Barnes, the acting headmaster – and the remainder packing up boxes and squeezing them into the back of my car. Thankfully the house is furnished by the school or I’d probably still be at it.’

  ‘And you’d be able to produce witnesses?’

  He laughed. ‘As the property faces the sports pitch and Monday afternoon is house games for years two and four, I’m sure I could rustle up about a hundred boys if pushed.’