Free The Night Book by Richard Madeley

First time. Still OK with that?’
    Seb nodded. ‘Of course. I’ll try not to screw up.’
    ‘Balls to that; I’m not worried. You’ve found your feet.’ Merryman finished the last of his own beer. ‘You coming to Peter’s garden party the day
after?’ he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It’s quite a place, I can tell you. Front cover of
Country Life
, that sort of thing.’
    Seb shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know . . . I quite like Peter but there’s more than a whiff of BBC bullshit still hanging around the bloke. I reckon a party at his country estate
might be pretty heavy going.’ He rose to leave.
    ‘Your decision, old boy.’ The news editor got up, scooping car keys. He shot Seb a sly glance as he did so. ‘You realise that, assuming she’s thrown off that bug of hers,
Meriel Kidd will be there?’
    Seb stared at him innocently.
    ‘Why would that interest me?’
    Merryman laughed.
    ‘Oh, do me a favour.’
    The morning of the station manager’s garden party began unpromisingly; the sky was masked by an unbroken grey haze and there was a definite coolness in the air. Was this
the day the heatwave was finally destined to break?
    It was not. By eleven the gloom had been burned away and strong August sunshine was once again beating down on River House’s vast lawn, one of the few that remained green that summer,
thanks to sophisticated and expensive sprinkler systems.
    The grass sloped down to the river where a twenty-foot twin-engined motor launch was tied up at a private jetty. Two wooden rowing boats alongside it gently rocked and bumped against each other
in the sluggish current.
    River House looked as if it might have once been on a visit to the Lakes from its home in the Cotswolds, and had decided to stay. The building was uncharacteristic of the area. It had been built
in the late 1700s from blocks of honey-coloured limestone, brought up by wagon from distant Gloucestershire quarries.
    The original owners had planted twin lines of elms along the long drive that led to the house from the Penrith road. Today, those same trees looked exhausted by the endless heat, branches
drooping slightly, their parched leaves whispering unhappily to each other whenever a sudden gust of hot air disturbed them.
    By one o’clock more than thirty cars had turned into the shady avenue, re-emerging into the brilliant sunshine of River House’s gravel forecourt where two attendants were supervising
parking. When Seb arrived he was one of the last guests to do so and there was almost no room left. He was told to leave his open-topped Triumph on the grass, tucked down one side of the house. He
couldn’t help wondering if they’d have assigned him the spot whatever time he’d arrived: his had to be the crappiest-looking car there. It definitely lowered the tone.
    As he climbed out of the driver’s battered bucket seat and peered around him, Seb had to admit that Merryman had a point. This place was classy, all right. It reminded him of a country
house hotel near Stow-on-the-Wold he’d taken Sarah to last year for a long weekend together.
    He sighed. He still missed her.
    River House’s double front doors had been thrown wide open under what he guessed was probably a Corinthian arch, and Seb made his way into the cool semi-darkness inside. Once his eyes had
adjusted he could see that the windows in the high-ceilinged entrance hall were fitted with ancient but elegant wooden shutters, all of them tightly closed against the sunlight. The effect was
almost continental. ‘More like siesta time than party time,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Where the hell is everyone?’
    The place seemed deserted. Perhaps he should go back outside and walk all the way around the house to what he supposed would be the garden at the rear. But as he was about to retrace his steps,
a door on his left opened suddenly and he heard the sound of a toilet flushing.
    Bob Merryman stepped into the hall, fiddling