Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas

‘But you didn’t?’

A frown. ‘What?’

‘You said you were “going to read your book”. That implies something else came up.’

‘Oh. . . No, just a turn of phrase. I was reading a Ruth Rendell.’ A fleeting smile. ‘My guilty secret.’

‘OK. So it’s just you and Ruth Rendell. No one else was there. Then what happened?’

‘I’ve already been over all of this.’

‘I know, but it’s better if I hear it first-hand. In your own words.’ There was a long pause. George drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘You want a cup of tea, or something? I can get DC Richardson here fetch it if you like?’

Kirkhill didn’t say a word, just shook his head and gave a long, shuddering sigh.

The girls are having a great time. It took some organizing – not many people visit The Bellows these days – but James knew they’d love it.

That’s the great thing about coaching the under fifteens’ swimming club: the enthusiasm. Give them a few years and they’ll turn sullen and cynical. But right now they’re still young enough to enjoy themselves without feeling self-conscious.

Well, everyone except Sarah. She sits off on her own, staring out over the Kings River towards the castle. Pining.

Probably thinking about her boyfriend.

James calls them all together at half past twelve. It’s time for the picnic.

They come from all over the island, running, laughing, their breath streaming out behind them.

Danielle takes the role of ‘Mother’, handing out the sandwiches and vegetarian whatnots while he cracks open a couple of thermos flasks, pouring cream-of-tomato soup into polystyrene cups. The steam fogs up his glasses.

After lunch, they pack everything back into the picnic hamper and get in the boats for the trip home.

Sarah’s distracted, her rowing sloppy. She’s been chewing at her fingernails, worrying them down to the quick.

Danielle tries to cheer her up, but it doesn’t work. She rolls her eyes at James and pulls a face. Isn’t Sarah silly. . .

And then there’s a loud thump and the boat lurches sideways. Danielle is half out of her seat, hauling on the oar when it happens. One minute she’s in the boat, the next she’s in the dark, swirling water.

Oh dear Lord. . .

It’s a moment before anyone can react. James scrambles to the side of the boat, reaching for her, but she’s gone.

Three feet from the boat: a flash of blonde hair, a flailing arm, a shriek. He grabs Danielle’s abandoned oar and tries to reach her with it.

Splashing.

Panic.

Sarah screams.

Danielle surfaces again, bright red blood coursing down her face. She splutters, arms and legs thrashing in the cold water, as-

‘Thought you said she was a strong swimmer.’ George sat back in his creaky plastic seat, frowning.

‘She. . . We’d only just eaten. It was bitterly cold. The shock must have been terrible. Unable to breathe. . .’

‘Why wasn’t she wearing a life jacket?’

‘I. . .’ He shook his head. Shivered. ‘I don’t know, I thought she was, but it’s all so difficult. . .’

‘So you tried to reach her with the oar?’

She’s drifting further and further from the boat, churning the water around her, head slipping beneath the surface. All around him the girls are screaming as he fights with the river for Danielle’s life.

Too far away.

He shoves Sarah to the floor of the boat, grabs both oars and rows for all he’s worth; muscles groaning, wood creaking. Faster: row faster.

This is his only chance. ‘Grab my hand!’

She reaches, but her fingers slip through his. Danielle goes under again. James plunges his arm into the icy water, gritting his teeth against the pain. Grabbing for her. . .

She’s struggling . . . so cold . . . and then she’s gone.

‘Her. . .’ Kirkhill swallowed, the tears starting again. ‘We found her body caught up on Calderwell Bridge. She. . . She was. . . Oh God. . .’ He buried his head in his hands and sobbed.

‘I see.’ George pulled a sheet of paper from the pathologist’s preliminary report. ‘We did a post mortem on Danielle’s body: just routine, we do them following any fatal accident. You’ve been a naughty, naughty boy, haven’t you Mr Kirkhill?’

The teacher stared at him, mouth going up and down, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat. ‘I. . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘No? You mean you don’t remember sexually assaulting a girl in your care?’

‘What?’ His eyes widened. ‘No. . . I never!’

‘Come off it, Kirkhill. The pathologist says Danielle was sexually active, and guess what happened when we went through her diary?’ He held up a clear evidence pouch with a hard-backed jotter in it. The pink cover was festooned with blue biro hearts.

‘I never touched her, I swear!’

‘She was pretty – I saw her before they cut her open – very well-developed for a twelve-year-old. Did you tell her you’d make her a woman?’

‘I never touched her!’

‘How about this then?’ George pulled the pink diary out of the evidence bag and flipped it open. A yellow post-it note marked the place. ‘Thirteenth of July. “James came to me after swimming practice today. He looks so handsome in his new glasses. He waited till all the other girls were gone then kissed me in the showers. I was trembling and naked, but he-”’

‘It never happened! She’s making it up!’

‘“-took me in his arms, the warmth of his body burning through his tweed jacket-”’

Kirkhill grabbed George’s arm, pulling the book away. ‘Look, it happens all the time. The girls: they get a crush on their teachers. It’s a difficult age for them, all those hormones. It’s just fantasy!’

‘Fantasy?’

‘Yes!’

‘I see.’ George nodded. ‘So you won’t mind giving us a DNA sample then?’

‘DNA. . .?’

‘If it’s just a fantasy.’

‘I. . .’

‘To be honest, it doesn’t really matter if you want to, or not. I’m detaining you on suspicion of sexually abusing a minor. That means I can get fingerprints, blood, urine, DNA, whatever I want.’

‘But-’

‘And then we’ll see if your DNA is a paternal match for the foetus Professor Muir cut out of Danielle this afternoon.’

Kirkhill sat there with his mouth hanging open. Like a startled fish. ‘I. . . But. . .’

George held the book up and started reading again, ‘“It hurt a little at first, but it was so beautiful having him deep inside me. Thrusting, thrusting. . .”’

It only took the Identification Bureau’s forensic science lab an hour and a half to make the match. James Thomas Kirkhill was the father.

Kirkhill stared at the report on the table in front of him. ‘Danielle was . . . she was more mature than anyone I’d ever met. Always knew what she wanted and how to get it. I mean she was brilliant, but manipulative with it. . .’ He licked his lips. ‘But I never did anything improper! Nothing. I loved her, yes, but it