Darkest Night

About the Author

Born in Dublin, JENNY O’BRIEN moved to Wales and then Guernsey, where she tries to find time to both read and write in between working as a nurse and ferrying around three teenagers.

In her spare time she can be found frowning at her wonky cakes and even wonkier breads. You’ll be pleased to note she won’t be entering Bake Off. She’s also an all-year-round sea swimmer.

Praise for the Detective Gaby Darin series

‘Full of twists and turns … A fabulous story till the end’

‘A clever thriller … Mind blowing’

‘Keeps you on the edge of your seat.’

‘You won’t be able to put the book down until the very satisfactory end’

‘An excellent start to a great crime procedural series!’

‘An amazing thriller from beginning to end’

‘This book has everything … Full of twists and turns’

‘Very, very clever plotting … Highly recommended’

Also by Jenny O’Brien

The Detective Gaby Darin series

Silent Cry

The Stepsister

Darkest Night

JENNY O’BRIEN

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Previously published as Stabbed in Wales

Copyright © Jenny O’Brien 2020

Jenny O’Brien asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © July 2020 ISBN: 9780008390174

Version: 2020-06-09

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for the Detective Gaby Darin series

Also by Jenny O’Brien

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1: Christine

Chapter 2: Gaby

Chapter 3: Christine

Chapter 4: Paul

Chapter 5: Paul

Chapter 6: Nikki

Chapter 7: Gaby

Chapter 8: Paul

Chapter 9: Gaby

Chapter 10: Gaby

Chapter 11: Christine

Chapter 12: Nikki

Chapter 13: Christine

Chapter 14: Paul

Chapter 15: Gaby

Chapter 16: Gaby

Chapter 17: Marie

Chapter 18: Gaby

Chapter 19: Gaby

Chapter 20: Gaby

Chapter 21: Gaby

Chapter 22: Christine

Chapter 23: Gaby

Chapter 24: Gaby

Chapter 25: Marie

Chapter 26: Gaby

Chapter 27: Christine

Chapter 28: Gaby

Chapter 29: Gaby

Chapter 30: Gaby

Chapter 31: Gaby

Chapter 32: Gaby

Chapter 33: Nikki

Chapter 34: Gaby

Chapter 35: Gaby

Chapter 36: Gaby

Chapter 37: Nikki

Chapter 38: Gaby

Chapter 39: Gaby

Chapter 40: Gaby

Chapter 41: Gaby

Chapter 42: Amy

Chapter 43: Gaby

Chapter 44: Christine

Chapter 45: Amy

Chapter 46: Gaby

Chapter 47: Amy

Chapter 48: Gaby

Chapter 49: Gaby

Chapter 50: Nikki

Chapter 51: Gaby

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

This book is dedicated to all of the students at Elizabeth College, Guernsey; to their stories and to the characters they are yet to imagine, create and meet.

Jenny Palmer, Principal of Elizabeth College.

Chapter 1

Christine

Saturday 9 May, 6 a.m. Llandudno

Consciousness came upon her slowly, memories flickering through her mind – memories she was afraid to summon from the shadow of sleep.

Christine had never been any good in the mornings, usually only surfacing when the gnaw of hunger and the thirst for caffeine overrode the comfort and warmth of her bed. But this morning was different, not that she could put a finger on exactly how or why.

Reaching out, she picked up her gold-plated watch and squinted at the dial, just about managing to make out the little hand pointing at the six. She decided to ignore the box beside her bed. Without her contacts she was as blind as a bat but, with her head thumping, the thought of even lifting the lid had her resting back against the pillow. She’d need a gallon of coffee with a paracetamol chaser before she could even think about starting her day.

Friday nights usually followed a defined pattern. She finished work around five, which allowed her plenty of time to dash to Asda before returning to her top-floor flat along the West Shore to get ready for the evening ahead, not that it was usually that exciting. Since her divorce, her nightlife had contracted to meeting up with a girlfriend for a few drinks, before returning home to an oven-ready pizza, a bottle of prosecco and whichever boxset she was currently watching on Netflix. Life was predictable and, in truth, a little boring. But boring was as good as it was safe. She rarely deviated from this pattern and any time she did it was usually something she regretted in the morning. It had been a hard lesson to learn when at university that what looked hot and handsome through a cocktail-infused haze invariably turned into the proverbial frog when daylight hit. But last night had been different. There’d been more laughter and more fun than she’d had in a very long time.

Her eyes snagged on the wall of birthday cards, carefully placed on top of her tallboy. She’d been dreading turning thirty. Now the only thing she regretted was the headache from hell trying to dig its way out of her skull with the blunt end of a pickaxe. Turning her head slightly, she stared at one card in particular while she tried to piece last night together. It felt as if there was a cloud between what had happened and what she remembered. No. She frowned, her brain addled with the complexity of thinking. It was almost as if someone had sucked the centre out of her memory only to leave a pale outline. She remembered leaving work just as she remembered the pile of goodies she’d popped in the fridge for later. She even remembered the black silky top and trousers she’d flung on before rushing to leave the flat, the sound of her heels echoing on the stairs. She remembered the man.

Her thoughts collapsed in on themselves, hovering on something lurking in the distance. Turning her head, she focused on the mound buried beneath the duvet next to her, a shady memory pushing through the curtain of her mind. So, that was it; her mouth pulled into a thin smile. For the first time since the divorce she’d dragged some poor unsuspecting bloke back to the flat for a night of passion. Her smile disappeared. She couldn’t remember much, hardly anything. His cologne, something light and tangy. The force of his body driving through hers. He had no name and no face. There was nothing else apart from a lingering sense of regret and disgust that she’d sunk so low as to have sex with a stranger.

She shook her head, wondering at the direction of her thoughts. Instead of trying to work out what had happened she should be kicking the body beside her in an effort to clear both her bedroom and her life from whichever stranger she’d invited back. Her ex-husband was her worst mistake and one she was determined never to repeat. If she could get it so badly wrong the first time, there was every reason to suppose that she’d get it wrong the next.

With a sigh, she slid out of bed, careful not to shift the covers or depress the mattress. If he found her standing in the nude, he might think he was in for a repeat performance and that certainly wasn’t going to happen.

Walking across the floorboards in bare feet, she was careful not to make a sound, thankful that the door was open and her dressing gown still in its usual place – draped across the back of the button-backed chair. She slipped her arms through the sleeves and tied the belt in a secure bow before making her way into the kitchen and to the percolator that took pride of place on the worktop.

With coffee brewing, she wandered into the bathroom to get the packet of paracetamol that lived in the mirrored cabinet above the sink. Tablets in the centre of her palm, she raised her hand to her mouth only to pause at the sight of her reflection in the mirror. She looked like shit, the bags and shadows emphasising the tiny lines that had only appeared since the divorce. But it wasn’t her looks that confused her. It was how she felt. Her head was banging but it was more than that. Her gaze followed the tremor of her hand as she popped the pills into her mouth. She’d never been one to party into the small hours but, on the odd occasion when she had, she’d never felt like this. It was probably her age; after all, she wasn’t getting any younger, she thought with a grimace as she remembered her amnesia. If she could only manage to obliterate the grinding pain in her head, she was sure her memory of last night would come racing back. It felt like an evening she probably wouldn’t want to remember but she still needed to know.

Back in the kitchen, she was relieved to note there was still no sign of activity from her room. The door to her flatmate’s bedroom also remained determinedly shut. She paused, one hand on the coffee pot, the other reaching for a mug. Nikki was usually up and about by now and, as a poor sleeper and early riser, what were the odds that she already knew about the man in her bed.

Christine scowled at any thought that centred around her increasingly unwelcome lodger. Agreeing to allow Nikki to move into the small box room, as a temporary stopgap, was all very well. But not when Nikki had made it clear from the beginning that she wasn’t going to make any effort to help around the apartment. She lived like a slob, leaving a scattering of dishes and clothes in her wake and Christine was growing increasingly sick of picking up after her. It was almost like bunking down with a teenager although, as an only child, she’d never had that pleasure. She should have sent her packing weeks ago but the truth was she felt sorry for her. More fool her. Nikki was a problem and one she didn’t know how to sort but she was determined to at least have a chat with her as soon as she’d managed to boot lover-boy from her bed.

With that thought uppermost, Christine pushed herself up from the table and reached for another mug. She had no idea if he even drank coffee but, as her mum always said, it was the thought that counted, not the action. She’d let him have his drink before showing him the door and after, she’d do what she’d been putting off for months. She’d tell Nikki that it wasn’t working and that she’d need to look for somewhere else to live. Pleased that she’d finally come to a decision, she left the kitchen and walked back into her bedroom.

‘Come on, matey,’ she said, trying to be jokey.

She grabbed the corner of the duvet, still half fearful of what he’d look like in the cold light of day. After the first sip, she’d managed to come up with a blurry image of tall and dark-haired, but his face was still a complete blank.

‘Thanks for last night and all that but I need to be somewhere. I’ve made you a cuppa—’

There was no warning of what was coming. Her memory was still as absent as it had been earlier and now other thoughts joined that big gaping hole inside her mind, her eyes riveted to the body spread across her bottom sheet – a sheet awash with blood. The pale alabaster skin. The unblinking stare. The mouth open in what appeared to be a silent scream. The cavernous hole in the white T-shirt, which confirmed what she knew already. She’d never touched a dead person before. She’d never even seen one. Her mind shifted to thoughts of her grandfather’s recent demise and her refusal to remember him as anything but how he was before dementia had taken hold of both his mind and body.

Christine dropped the mug she’d been clenching, letting it slip through her fingers only for it to bounce once before cracking in two, spewing coffee across the floor. Turning away, she just managed to reach the security of the bathroom before losing the entire contents of her stomach.

Arm stretched out against the tiled wall, she ignored the sight of last night’s supper, instead heaving in deep breaths in an attempt to settle both her stomach and her nerves. But no matter how hard she squeezed her lids, Christine couldn’t obliterate the memory of the cold foot under her fingertips, the pale pink nail varnish almost garish against the translucent white of her skin and the almost slippery dampness of her flesh. Was it worse that she recognised her as Nikki, the person she’d been planning to berate about her slovenly ways? Seeing her naked like that for the first time, her body laid wide open to prying eyes, made Christine feel embarrassed somehow. She hadn’t even thought to pull the sheet up to hide her flesh, not that it would make any difference to her – not now.

For the first time in her life Christine didn’t know what to do. She knew that she had to contact the police but that was easier said than done. What would she say and, more importantly, what would they think? She had no idea what had happened; would they believe her?

She reached for the flush before turning to the sink and washing her hands, her attention snagged by the haunted expression staring back at her in the mirror. The stark truth was that she’d gone to bed with a man only to wake up next to the body of her flatmate. Where was he? What had happened to him? But more importantly what had happened to Nikki?

Christine turned away with a sigh. The thing that scared her the most, of course, was what if she was guilty?

Chapter 2

Gaby

Saturday 9 May, 8 a.m. Rhos-on-Sea

DC Gabriella Darin was annoyed at the persistent ringing of her doorbell. She’d switched off her phone the night before and, after a long luxurious bath filled to the brim with her favourite bath oil, she’d towelled and plaited her hair before climbing into bed with her Kindle and a plate of rice cakes in preparation for the lie-in she’d planned – her first in ages. The rice cakes were the only discordant note in her ideal evening, that and the lack of a man to share both her bath and her bed. But her life was a work in progress. After being forced out of her last job for nearly causing the death of a civilian, she was determined to focus on her career before tackling any of the other issues.

Now, she placed her Kindle down on the coffee table beside her mug of tea before pushing to her feet. With this being her first weekend off since she’d moved to St Asaph Station from Swansea, over three months ago, it could only be Amy. But thumping on her door at this time of the morning wasn’t really her style … Gaby had been seeing less and less of her friend and colleague over recent weeks, conversations now starting and ending with Tim, Amy’s new boyfriend. Gaby was happy for her, more than happy, but she’d be even happier if she was able to find that special person for herself. It would certainly cure the boredom that seemed to have set in since her transfer.

North Wales was stunning with its long stretches of golden beaches, incomparable lush fields and hills coated in green. It was a place to repair her soul of the damage caused by her last case, but it was also meant to be a place to make use of the skills she’d honed after thirteen years in the force. It was just a shame that her new boss, DCI Henry Sherlock seemed to have other ideas. She headed for the hall, trying not to think about next week’s interview for the job of detective sergeant. It was difficult not the get her hopes up but, after the mess she’d made of finding Alys Grant, she was lucky to still be in the force let alone involved in the kind of cases she wanted.

The shadow through the etched glass pane in her front door wasn’t Amy. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think that it was the detective that Sherlock had buddied her up to as part of her induction, but that couldn’t be right on her weekend off …

‘You should know by now that a copper never turns their phone off – not even on their wedding night.’

‘Aw, come on, Bates. Give me a break.’

‘A break! You want me to give you a break,’ DC Owen Bates said, sending her a look before pulling out of her narrow drive. ‘At least you were only dossing about at home. I was about to leave the house for a pre-rugby match training session. You might remember that it’s meant to be my weekend off too but, with DI Tipping still off sick and half the force down with Norovirus, we had no chance. Henry did say that he’d make it up to us both but when is another thing. It’s hard enough with the cuts to manage the workload let alone try to give us time owing. Kate’s been nagging me for ages to make some plans for a weekend away but I daren’t.’

Gaby threw the bearded Welshman a quick look. Being youngish, free and single, she hadn’t spared a thought for what it must be like trying to juggle a partner and young family within the narrow confines of a career in law enforcement. The DCI was as fair a copper as you could get but he couldn’t magic staff out of thin air.

Reaching out a hand, she patted his knee briefly. ‘When this case is over, Owen, I’ll cover for you so that you can make an extra-long weekend of it.’

‘You know I’ll do the same if you ever manage to get that love life of yours sorted,’ he replied with a laugh.

‘Ha, that will be the day. So, where to next?’ she said, neatly changing the subject. The very last thing she was willing to discuss was her lack of anything bordering a romantic entanglement.

‘The West Shore, across from the play-area.’ He shot her a look. ‘Sherlock isn’t able to make it, but he asked me to pass on a message.’

‘What’s that?’

‘He wants you to head up this one, Gaby. Well done. It must be a good omen for your interview.’

She watched Owen turn left onto Gloddaeth Avenue, her eyes sliding to the distant mountains framing the West Shore. If she knew Sherlock, he’d have his reasons for choosing her over Owen but now wasn’t the time to puzzle it out. The only hope was that she was up to it. She wouldn’t admit it to anyone else but those few short months in Swansea had caused her to question her abilities. If she could miss most, if not all, of the clues during the previous case, wasn’t it possible that she could do the same again?

Instead of replying all she said was, ‘You were saying about the murder?’

‘Yes, looks like an open and shut case, so not something you’ll be able to sink your teeth into. The only thing we don’t appear to have is the murder weapon. The key suspect, a Christine de Bertrand, must have hidden it. Early thoughts are that it’s some kind of kitchen knife. The pathologist said he’d meet us there so we should know more shortly.’

She bit her lip hard, the taste of blood leaving a metallic taste in her mouth. ‘Make my day and tell me that Rusty Mulholland is on his hols or, even better – that he’s fallen off a cliff?’

It would be a kindness to say that Gaby had a difficult relationship with the red-haired Irish pathologist. She had no idea why he’d taken an instant dislike to her but he could barely look her in the eye without a curl of his mouth or a snarky comment from his lips.

‘Ha, no such luck, sweetheart,’ Owen said, pulling up behind the CSI van and switching off the engine. ‘I really don’t get what gives between you two?’

‘Nothing gives, Owen, and it’s not likely to. Ever. That man is a scourge and the less I see of him the better.’

Gaby compressed her lips, her attention now on the red-brick building ahead with a bright yellow door flanked by a pair of pyramid-shaped topiary bushes, not that she knew the first thing about gardening.

‘Well, there’s obviously something up, he’s as nice as pie to everyone else.’ Bates unclicked his seatbelt, urging her to hurry. ‘The sooner we can get the body bagged and tagged and the suspect interviewed, the sooner I can sign off.’

Gaby raised her eyebrows but said nothing. There was little point. With no family nearby she knew she’d be press-ganged into giving up her weekend. There was always a huge amount of extra work generated on a case like this. Interviews, witness statements, paperwork galore – the list was endless. But in this instance, she didn’t mind. As the two most senior DCs in the unit, it was always going to be either her or Owen and, as he had a toddler and another on the way, she was the obvious choice.

Walking into the middle of the scene of a crime always had her pulse racing and her heart jerking in her chest. It wasn’t that she was nervous, far from it. In a strange sort of way, it was the feeling of excitement building. They had a golden hour, that first sixty minutes, to push aside any preconceived ideas and focus on the facts. Securing the crime scene was vital but it was more than that. The first impression of the location. The first impression of the main suspects. Their first words before lawyers turned up to slam the window of opportunity in their faces.

She walked beside Bates to the police van and, reaching out a hand, took the clipboard from the officer standing watch, scrawling her name, rank, date and time in the allocated columns before handing it to Owen. ‘You said it was a cut and dried case?’

‘Yes, indeed. A modern-day love story gone wrong. All we need to do is find the murder weapon and it’s straight to court to bang her up for the twenty-first century equivalent of life – so ten years then.’

She pulled a wry smile at his joke although it was far from funny. ‘A modern-day love story? I don’t get it?’

‘You know what, Gaby, at the tender age of thirty-five I feel I’m too old for this game,’ he said, patting his pockets for his phone. ‘The world has passed me by on a steam train. Between you and me, if things don’t change, I’m going to have a serious think about leaving the force.’

‘Ha, that would be impossible, I would have thought. You love the job nearly as much as I do. It’s coppers like us, grassroot ones determined to avoid those managerial ivory towers, that keep the streets safe. Somehow, I can’t see you becoming a PI or security guard and what else are we trained for? And anyway, what would I do without my partner?’ she added, grabbing a white suit from the pile and shaking it out.