The Night Book Read Online Free PDF Page A

indicated for the Kendal turn-off.
    ‘Bloody hell, Seb, how many times? I keep telling you,
yes
! Only just, though . . . are you all set up?’
    The reporter tapped the compact reel-to-reel tape recorder nestling in his lap and checked the mic connection yet again before giving the thumbs-up.
    ‘Yup. Good to go.’
    To their relief the noise level dropped appreciably as Jess slowed for the exit roundabout.
    ‘Right,’ he said, in a more normal voice. ‘Let’s go through it one more time. When we get to the town hall you run in while I get the mast up and establish the live link
to base. When the press conference is over, give me the tape, tell me the sound bites you want, and I’ll get editing while you write your script. Then when we go live, I’ll play them in
on your hand cues – just point at me
very clearly
each time. Got it?’
    ‘Er . . . I think so. I’ve never done a live news insert before, Jess. Hope I don’t screw up.’
    ‘Not with your Uncle Jess with you, you won’t. Ah, here we are – town centre coming up. Out of my way, matey.’ Jess performed a hair-raising overtaking manoeuvre around a
lumbering livestock lorry full of bleating sheep, and suddenly Kendal was before them, the pale stonework of the town hall’s Victorian clock tower rising above the old rooftops, its spire
gleaming dully in the baking heat of an already aggressive mid-morning sun.
    Directly beneath it, a story was about to break.
    Timothy Young had toyed with the idea of issuing some kind of public warning about swimming in the lakes, but in the end he decided against it. He only had a hunch that the
cluster of deaths that summer were somehow connected, and that was hardly evidence.
    But as soon as he recorded his verdict of accidental death on the girl who had drowned in Buttermere, he phoned his daughter in London.
    Christine was a systems analyst in the City (she’d explained her job to him many times but he still didn’t really understand what it was she did) and after a few minutes of
father–daughter banter he came to the reason for the call.
    ‘Do you remember that professor when you were a student at Lancaster? You know, the one with a bit of a thing for you, the old devil.’
    Christine laughed. ‘He wasn’t old and he wasn’t a devil either, Dad. But yes, of course I remember Brian. We went out for a few months. He was only about ten years older than
me. He was nice.’
    ‘Didn’t he try to get you to switch courses? Study under him, if that’s the right expression.’
    His daughter laughed again. ‘He certainly did. It wasn’t entirely self-serving of him, though. I was fascinated by his subject – hydrography. You know, the study of seas and
rivers and lakes. When Brian discovered our family lived above Bassenthwaite he was incredibly interesting about it and the Lake District generally. He used to joke that at least it couldn’t
possibly be a
dry
subject.’
    ‘Yet you drifted apart.’
    ‘Oh, very funny, Pops, ha-ha! Anyway, why are we talking about Brian? It was years ago. Water under the bridge –
there
, gotcha back!’
    Her father smiled. ‘One-all . . . Look, Chrissie, I need to speak to him, or someone like him. An expert on lakes. Something’s going on up here that’s not right. Do you still
have his number?’
    ‘Gosh, how intriguing! Yes, I think I do. Give me a sec.’
    Half an hour later Kendal’s coroner was talking to Professor Brian Parker of Lancaster University.
    And, like the coroner’s daughter, the professor was intrigued.
    ‘Thanks so much for this, Brian. I’m amazed you’ve turned things round so quickly – it’s less than a fortnight since we first spoke.’
Timothy smiled gratefully at the professor as they prepared to go into the press conference together. The chief executive of the county council was with them.
    ‘Well, these guys helped,’ Parker said, nodding at the official. ‘They came up with the boats and paid for most of the equipment I