Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (12 page)

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m not sure, yet,’ said Nightingale. ‘But he went into four classrooms and there was a teacher in each one. The teacher would have been the first person he saw. Yet he didn’t shoot them. He shot kids. The same in the gymnasium. There was a gym teacher there but McBride ignored him and shot two kids before the police arrived. According to the papers, the cops arrived when the shooting was going on. They heard a shot outside the school, and another when they went inside. Two shots. So that would be the two kids he killed in the gym.’ He tapped the photograph of Zach Atkins and another of a dark-haired boy with an impish grin. ‘Zach Atkins and Noah Woodhouse. But here’s the thing. It took the cops a good three or four minutes to move through the school to the gym. And as soon as they got there, McBride took his own life. Here’s the big question. Why did he stop shooting?’

‘Ran out of cartridges?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘There were several dozen in his knapsack. He could have shot more kids. And fired at the cops.’

‘What are you suggesting, Jack?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But the way he behaved makes no sense to me. If he wanted to lash out at the world, why shoot kids? He could have gone into the council offices and shot dozens of people. Or the pub. Or the shops. He targeted the school.’

‘That happens,’ said Jenny. ‘Look at Dunblane. That bastard killed sixteen children. And that Norwegian right-wing nutter, Breivik, he massacred seventy-seven people and most of them were kids.’

Nightingale walked over to the window and then turned to face the board. He folded his arms as he studied his handiwork. ‘Okay, so let’s suppose that for whatever reason McBride set out to kill children. Why shoot the deputy headmaster but then ignore the rest of the teachers? If he was just after kids he could just threaten to shoot the deputy and the guy would have shat himself.’

‘Lovely image.’

‘It’s true, though. He chose to shoot the deputy, but he didn’t shoot the teachers. And why move from classroom to classroom? If the aim was to kill kids, all he had to do was to walk into a single classroom and keep shooting. He had all the ammo he needed, he’d be standing at the only door, he could fire and reload to his heart’s content. There were more than thirty kids in that first classroom, but he only shot one.’

‘Maybe he stepped out to reload.’

‘Maybe. But then he could have gone back into the same classroom. But he didn’t. Plus, there’s the fact he walked past two classrooms full of kids before he started shooting. Why would he do that? Why not just go into the first classroom in the corridor?’

Jenny shrugged and didn’t say anything.

‘When he does go into a classroom, he shoots a girl. Ignores the teacher. According to the teacher he walked into the room, fired once then turned and walked out. He walks across the corridor into the second classroom where he shoots two more little girls. Ruth Glazebrook and Emily Smith. Again he doesn’t shoot the teacher. Just blows the little girls away and then he’s out. He walks along the corridor, reloads, and in the next classroom shoots a boy and a girl. Then across the corridor to shoot a girl. Then he crosses the corridor to shoot another kid. The Polish girl, Manka. Six children in four different classrooms.

‘At that point he walks to the gymnasium. The teachers use that as an opportunity to get the kids out of the classrooms. That’s about the time the police arrive. McBride reloads and walks into the gymnasium. The gym teacher manages to get the fire exit open and starts ushering the kids out. McBride shoots two of the kids, then stops. There’s an interview with the gym teacher in the
Sunday Mirror
. He says he saw McBride standing in the middle of the gym after he’d fired the second shot. He didn’t reload, he just stood there and watched as the kids ran out of the fire exit. Again, if he’d wanted to keep killing he could have done. He had all the ammo he needed. But he didn’t. He stood there and waited until the cops arrived and then he sat down and blew his own head off.’

Jenny nodded as she looked at the whiteboard. ‘He wasn’t shooting at kids in general, that’s what you mean.’ She frowned. ‘He was shooting specific children?’

‘Maybe,’ said Nightingale.

‘And you think he was shooting at children from one-parent families?’ She turned to look at him. ‘That doesn’t make any sense, does it?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘That’s why I need you to check the family circumstances of the rest of the children who died,’ he said. ‘But yeah, it doesn’t make any sense.’

They were interrupted by the phone ringing. Jenny hurried over to her desk to take the call and scribbled some notes on her pad. When she’d finished she replaced the receiver and looked up at Nightingale. ‘Pig’s blood,’ she said. ‘That’s what was in the crucible. And the knife.’

‘Interesting,’ said Nightingale.

‘Is that significant?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘But I know someone who will be able to tell me.’

J
oanna Pullman’s doorbell rang and she looked up from her magazine. ‘Now who could that be?’

Her husband Melvin was sitting at the dining table, staring at a chess set. He belonged to the local chess club and they had a match coming up against their long-time rivals in nearby Cadham. ‘You could always answer it and find out,’ he said. He picked up a knight, tapped it against the side of his head, and then replaced it.

‘I thought when you touched it you had to move it,’ said Mrs Pullman.

‘I’m only practising,’ he said. The doorbell rang again. He sighed and pushed himself out of his chair. ‘I suppose I’d better get it.’

‘Well, you are nearest.’

Mr Pullman chuckled. She was right, but there was only about three feet in it. He was still chuckling when he opened the door. Two men in British Gas overalls were standing there. There was a blue van parked outside their house. The younger of the two men, in his late twenties with short curly hair and piercing blue eyes, held out a black leather wallet with a silver badge on it. ‘Mr Pullman? I’m detective Aaron Fisher, I spoke to your wife on the phone.’ He was holding a dark blue plastic toolbox.

‘You’re not the gas man?’ said Mr Pullman.

‘I’m with Hampshire CID,’ said Fisher, putting his ID away. ‘This is my colleague, Inspector Hopkins.’ Inspector Hopkins nodded and held up a clipboard.

‘Why are you dressed like gasmen?’ asked Mr Pullman.

‘Can we come in, please?’ asked Fisher. ‘We really need a word with your wife.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Mr Pullman, holding the door open wide. ‘But do wipe your feet, she hates it when people walk mud over the carpets.’

The two policemen took it in turns to wipe their shoes on a thick bristle mat on the doorstep before walking along the hallway and into the main room, where Mrs Pullman was still reading her gardening magazine.

Fisher put down his toolbox, introduced himself and showed her his warrant card. ‘You’re a policeman but you’re dressed like the gasman,’ she said, frowning.

‘That’s what I said,’ said Mr Pullman.

‘We didn’t want anyone to see that we were with the police,’ said Hopkins. He put his clipboard on the dining table next to Mr Pullman’s chess set. ‘You called us about Mr Lucas.’

Mrs Pullman’s frown deepened. ‘Mr Lucas?’ she repeated.

‘Your next door neighbour. You did call us about him, didn’t you? About seeing him with a young girl.’

Mrs Pullman smiled. ‘I’m sorry, yes, I did. But I didn’t know that was his name. He’s not the sociable type and he’s never introduced himself.’

‘Well, we think his name is Eric Lucas and he doesn’t appear to be married, but you told my colleague you saw him with a woman on Saturday and they carried a young girl into the house.’

Mrs Pullman nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘What time exactly?’

‘It was three o’clock. On the dot. I know because I was in the garden and I had Radio Four on and I heard the time check.’

Hopkins unclipped a photograph of Bella Harper from his clipboard. It was the school photograph they’d used for the public appeals, with Bella smiling brightly at the camera, her blonde curls pulled back from her face. ‘Was this the girl, Mrs Pullman?’

She took the photograph and looked at it for several seconds. ‘It could have been,’ she said. ‘I saw blonde hair. He had her in his arms, so I couldn’t see her face. But we have a nine-year-old granddaughter and she’s ten, and the girl he was carrying looked about the same size as Hannah.’

‘Hannah’s your granddaughter?’

Mrs Pullman nodded.

‘And they carried her from the car to the house. At three o’clock in the afternoon?’

‘Not the car,’ said Mrs Pullman. ‘The car was in the drive. They drove up in a van.’

‘A white van?’ asked the inspector.

‘I suppose so. I mean, there was writing on the side. It was a company van. But I didn’t pay it much attention.’

‘The woman drives a van sometimes,’ said Mr Pullman. ‘It’s a plumbing company. Or a drain clearer. I’ve seen her in it in a few times.’

‘You didn’t tell me that,’ said his wife.

‘You never asked,’ said Mr Pullman.

‘So this woman with Mr Lucas drives a white van?’

‘Like my wife said, it’s not really white. Greyish. With signs on the side.’

‘And where’s the van now?’

Mr Pullman looked over at his wife and they both shrugged.

‘Is it possible it’s in the garage?’ asked the inspector.

‘I didn’t see them put it away,’ said Mrs Pullman. ‘But I suppose it’s possible.’

‘And you haven’t seen the child since? Or heard anything?’

‘Not a peep,’ said Mrs Pullman. ‘Do you think it’s her? Do you think it’s Bella?’

‘We don’t want to jump to any conclusions,’ said the inspector. ‘Is there an upstairs window that overlooks their house?’

‘The spare bedroom,’ said Mr Pullman. ‘I’ll show you.’

The inspector followed Mr Pullman upstairs. Fisher knelt down next to his toolbox and opened it. He took out a pair of binoculars and a police radio and headed upstairs.

Mr Pullman was standing at the bedroom door while Inspector Hopkins peered around a dark green curtain. He held out his hand for the binoculars, then focused them on the house next door. There wasn’t much to be seen. There was a window on the upper floor that was presumably a bedroom and the blinds were closed. He could see the blue Mondeo, but there was no window in the garage so he had no way of knowing if there was a van in there or not.

There were two green wheelie bins at the side of the house.

‘When are the bins collected?’ asked the inspector.

‘Thursdays.’

The inspector checked the rear garden through the binoculars. There were no toys, and no washing on the line. ‘And you haven’t seen anyone coming or going since Saturday?’

‘To be honest, we rarely see the neighbours on either side,’ said Mr Pullman. ‘We’re all detached, and most people value their privacy.’

The inspector put down his binoculars. He wasn’t sure what to do. There wasn’t enough hard evidence to call in an entry team, but if Bella was indeed next door then every second counted. He nodded at Fisher. ‘Take Mr Pullman downstairs while I make a call,’ he said.

He took out his mobile and phoned Superintendent Wilkinson.

T
he Wicca Woman shop was tucked away in a Camden side street between a store selling exotic bongs and Bob Marley T-shirts, and another that sold garish hand-knitted sweaters. Nightingale pushed open the door and a bell tinkled. He stepped inside and his nose was assaulted by a dozen or more scents, including orange, cloves, lavender, lemon grass and jasmine. There was a dark-haired teenage girl with half a dozen facial piercings and web-like gloves on her hands standing at a display case full of crystal balls and pyramids.

‘Is Mrs Steadman in?’ asked Nightingale. A stick of incense was burning by the cash register, filling the shop with a sweet, almost sickly, scent.

‘She’s upstairs. She’s got a headache.’ The girl scratched her arm as she studied Nightingale with cold green eyes.

‘Can you do me a big favour and tell her that Jack Nightingale is here?’

‘Like the bird?’

‘Yeah. Like the bird.’

‘How do you get a name like Nightingale then?’

Nightingale frowned, wondering if she was joking, then realised that she probably wasn’t. ‘It was my father’s name,’ he said.

‘Never heard of anyone called Nightingale before.’

‘There’s a few of us around. So, can you see if Mrs Steadman has time for me?’

Before she could reply, a beaded curtain drew back and Mrs Steadman appeared. She smiled at Nightingale but he could see she wasn’t well. Her eyes had lost their sparkle, and she had always been tiny but if anything she seemed even smaller, a bird-like little woman who looked as if she might break under the slightest pressure. ‘This is a pleasant surprise, Mr Nightingale.’

‘I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, I just need some advice.’

‘Why don’t we go for a walk?’ she said. ‘Lori here can mind the shop and I think I could do with some fresh air. Wait while I get my coat.’ She disappeared back through the curtain and reappeared a couple of minutes later wrapped up in a thick black wool coat with a leather belt. ‘I won’t be long, Lori,’ she said to her assistant.

They stepped out of the shop and Mrs Steadman slipped her arm through Nightingale’s as they walked along the pavement. The heels of her boots clicked with every step, and Nightingale had to slow his pace so that she could keep up with him. ‘Are you okay, Mrs Steadman?’ he asked.

She gave his arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve had a busy few days, my energy levels are a bit low, that’s all.’

‘You’re sure? You look tired.’

‘I am tired. But I’ll be better soon. Really, you don’t have to worry about me, I’ve been around a long time.’

‘How long exactly, Mrs Steadman?’

She laughed and it was a sound like birdsong. ‘A long, long time,’ she said. ‘Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

They walked through Camden market, weaving their way through the throngs of shoppers and tourists towards the canal. They followed the towpath for a few hundred yards and sat down on a wooden bench overlooking the water. They watched a brightly coloured barge go by, then Nightingale reached into his raincoat pocket and pulled out half a dozen of the photographs he’d taken at the McBride farm. He held them in his lap. ‘I need some guidance, Mrs Steadman. About black magic.’