Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (3 page)

‘And what does he look like?’ Rawlings asked the teacher.

‘Like a farmer. Waterproof coat and green Wellington boots.’

‘How old?’

‘Forty. Fifty maybe. I didn’t hang around to get a good look.’

Rawlings patted Rhodes on the shoulder. ‘Call in a sit-rep, Vic,’ he said, then jogged over to the car. Sergeant Tom Chisholm climbed out of the front passenger seat and nodded at Rawlings. Though he was the same rank as Rawlings he had more experience and he naturally assumed the role of Op Com – operational commander.

‘There’s another car on the way,’ said Chisholm. He nodded at the school building. ‘Heard anything?’

‘Five shots. Maybe six. There’s one casualty in the playground.’ Rawlings pointed at the body of the deputy headmaster.

A shot rang out from the school and the policemen flinched. ‘Make that seven,’ said the officer who was accompanying Chisholm, twenty-two-year-old Neil Sampson.

‘Okay, we’re going straight in,’ said Chisholm. ‘There are kids at risk, I’m not waiting for a senior officer.’

A police van was heading towards them. Sampson handed Chisholm his G36. ‘Let’s get in there,’ said Chisholm. ‘If there’s a bloody inspector on that bus we’ll be out here all day.’

The six men ran towards the school entrance, cradling their carbines.

A
s the armed policemen raced across the playground to the main school building, McBride was walking down the corridor towards the school’s gymnasium. In the classroom behind him was another dead girl, shot at point blank range while the rest of the pupils screamed in terror. The double doors leading to the gym were panelled with glass and McBride could see a balding teacher in a dark blue tracksuit peering at him, his hands shading his eyes.

McBride raised his shotgun and the teacher turned and ran away from the doors. McBride stopped, took a long, deep breath, exhaled slowly, and pushed the doors open. Several of the children screamed but most of them just stared at him open-mouthed. The teacher pushed his way through the children to a fire exit. He pushed the metal bar that opened the door and shouted for the pupils to get out.

McBride swept his shotgun from side to side, then settled on a dark-haired boy with girlish features who was standing with his hands over his eyes, peering through his splayed fingers. McBride stepped forward with his left leg, raised the butt to his shoulder, braced himself for the recoil and pulled the trigger. The boy’s white T-shirt burst into a vivid crimson and he fell backwards, his hands still over his face.

S
ergeant Chisholm flinched at the gunshot. He turned to look at Rawlings, who was to his left. Chisholm grimaced and pointed straight ahead. They were moving down the corridor, checking the classrooms one by one and making sure that they were clear. They had found two dead girls in a room on the right of the corridor, and another dead girl in a room to the left. They were just about to move into the next room on the left and through the open door they could already see a dead boy sprawled on the floor.

Normal procedure would be to continue checking the rooms as they moved down the corridor, but there was only one gunman and the shot had come from immediately ahead of where they were. The gymnasium. Chisholm pointed straight ahead and Rawlings was already moving. They ran quickly, followed by their four colleagues, guns at the ready.

Their footfalls echoed off the tiled walls as they ran at full pelt but they were still twenty metres from the gymnasium doors when they heard the second shot.

T
he teacher was screaming at the children to get out, standing with his back to McBride with his arms outstretched to the side as if he could shield them with his body. The second boy that McBride had shot in the gym lay twitching on the floor under a basketball hoop. The boy was missing most of his head and the chest was a bloody mess but the legs continued to beat a tattoo on the wooden floor and his right hand was trembling.

‘Out, come on, get a move on!’ shouted the teacher. The pupils didn’t need any urging – they were all terrified, and pushed and shoved as they forced their way through the fire exit.

McBride calmly ejected the two spent cartridges and slotted in two fresh ones. His eyes were stinging from the cordite and his ears were ringing.

He walked over to a wall and slowly sat down. He used his left foot to prise the Wellington boot off his right.

He looked over at the fire exit. Most of the children were gone. The teacher was still standing with his arms outstretched, urging on the stragglers.

The doors to the gymnasium burst open and two men with black carbines appeared, crouching low and swinging their weapons around. One moved to the left and the other to the right, then two more stepped through the doors. All four were dressed in black, with Kevlar body armour and black ceramic helmets.

‘Put down the gun or we will shoot!’ shouted Chisholm. All four officers had their weapons aimed at McBride. Two more armed officers appeared and all six men fanned out across the gym, their guns trained on McBride’s chest.

‘It’s all right, boys, there’s no need for that,’ said McBride.

‘Put the gun down!’ yelled the sergeant at the top of his voice. His finger tightened on the trigger of his carbine.

In one smooth motion McBride swung the shotgun around and propped the stock on the floor. He lifted his right foot and slipped his big toe onto the trigger.

S
ergeant Chisholm realised what the man was about to do. He lowered his carbine and began to move forward but he had only taken two steps when the shotgun exploded and the man’s head disappeared in a shower of blood and brains that splattered across the climbing bars. The sound was deafening in the combined space and the sergeant’s ears were ringing.

Neil Sampson groaned and then threw up, bending double as his chest heaved and vomit splattered over the polished wooden floor.

Sergeant Rawlings went over to the body, picked up the shotgun and broke it open, ejecting the cartridges and placing it back on the ground. ‘Weapon is clear.’

‘Let control know what’s happened,’ said Chisholm. ‘Tell them to send SOCO in.’

Sampson dropped down onto his knees and threw up again. The sergeant went over to three officers who were standing around one of the boys that had been shot. Ricky Gray was crying silently as he stared down at the body. The sergeant put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Back outside, Ricky,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more for us to do here.’

‘Why would anyone kill a kid?’

‘Who knows?’ said Chisholm. ‘Come on, outside.’ Rawlings walked over to the second boy but even from a distance it was obvious that he was stone cold dead.

The officer shook away the sergeant’s hand. He was still holding his carbine, his finger inside the trigger guard.

‘Stand down, Ricky. Come on.’

‘Fucking bastard!’ The officer turned on his heel and walked across the gym to the dead man. It looked as if he was about to shoot the corpse but instead he drew back his right leg and began to violently kick the body, cursing and swearing with every blow.

Chisholm hurried over and grabbed Ricky’s arm. He pulled him away from the body. ‘Get a fucking grip, will you. That body’s got to be post mortemed and there’ll be hell to pay if it’s black and blue.’

‘He shot kids. Who the fuck walks around a school shooting kids?’

‘Pull yourself together, Ricky. If the top brass see you like this you’ll be off the squad.’

Ricky nodded and took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘Okay.’

The sergeant released his grip on the officer’s arm and jerked a thumb at the door. ‘Get back to the vehicle and take a chill pill. The day you start making it personal is the day when you go back on the beat. Got it?’

‘Got it, sir.’ He headed out of the door, passing two uniformed officers. One was a superintendent. Chisholm looked down at the body of the shooter and had to fight the urge to kick it. Ricky had been wrong to lose his temper but what he’d said was bang on. What sort of nutter would walk around a school shooting kids?

The superintendent walked up to Chisholm and nodded curtly. ‘Are you and your men okay?’ he asked.

Chisholm appreciated the concern and nodded. ‘All good. No shots fired.’

The superintendent smiled tightly. ‘Thank heaven for small mercies,’ he said. ‘The way the press is just now they’d be trying to make it out that we shot the kids.’ He grimaced. ‘This is a mess.’ He gestured at the shooter’s body. Blood was still pooling around it. ‘Any idea who he is?’

Chisholm shook his head. ‘Looks like a farmer.’

‘Did he say anything before he topped himself?’

‘Something about it being all right and there was no need for it.’

The superintendent frowned. ‘Need for what?’

‘I think he meant there was no need for us to shoot him because he was going to do it himself.’

The superintendent sighed. ‘Why didn’t he do that in the first place? Why kill the kids? I’d understand it if he was looking for suicide by cop, but if he was planning to kill himself anyway he could have done us all a favour and thrown himself under a train.’

Chisholm scratched his neck. ‘CID been informed?’

‘Yes, but taking their own sweet time, as usual.’ The superintendent looked at his watch. ‘SOCO are on their way, too.’ He looked around the gym, flinching at the bodies of the two children. ‘My kids are about their age,’ he said. ‘Why would anyone do that?’

Chisholm didn’t say anything. He knew that the question was rhetorical.

The superintendent noticed the vomit on the floor. ‘What happened there?’

‘Young Neil. I sent him outside.’

The superintendent squared his shoulders. ‘Right, keep this area secure until SOCO get here. I’ll be outside, the press’ll be over us like a rash.’

O
n Thursday, three days after the shootings in Berwick, the case came knocking on Jack Nightingale’s door. He had his feet up on his desk with a copy of the
Sun
in his lap when Jenny told him there was a client on the way up. Nightingale frowned. ‘There wasn’t anything in the diary.’

‘There’s nothing in the diary except blank pages,’ said Jenny. ‘And your only pressing task is the
Sun
’s Sudoku.’

‘For your information I’ve finished the Sudoku, I’m on the crossword now. What’s his name?’

‘He didn’t give me his name. He said he’d explain when he got here.’

‘He could be a nutter.’

‘Nutters don’t tend to phone first,’ she said.

‘Did he say what he wanted?’

‘He said it was a case but he wanted to talk to you in person. He sounded all right, Jack. No need to get paranoid.’

‘Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me,’ he said.

‘Who?’

Nightingale grinned. ‘I was joking,’ he said. They heard the door to the outer office open. ‘Frisk him first, though, just to be on the safe side.’

Jenny shook her head and went to greet the visitor. Nightingale heard muffled voices, then Jenny showed a middle-aged man in a dark blazer into the room. He was grey-haired, tall and thin, with the bearing of a former soldier. He had a slight limp and had a walking stick in his left hand. He extended his right hand and flashed Nightingale a tight smile. ‘My name’s McBride. Danny McBride.’

Nightingale shook the man’s hand and waved him to a chair.

‘Would you like a tea or a coffee?’ asked Jenny. McBride smiled and shook his head and Jenny left the room, closing the door behind her.

‘How can I help you, Mr McBride?’ asked Nightingale.

‘I’m sure you heard about the children who died up in Berwick,’ he said.

‘The ones that were shot by that psycho?’ said Nightingale. ‘Of course.’

McBride nodded. ‘That psycho was my brother. James. Jimmy.’

Nightingale frowned. He wasn’t sure what to say. ‘Sorry for your loss?’ didn’t seem appropriate.

McBride took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘I want you to find out what happened,’ he said. ‘I know what the police think, and I read what was in all the papers. But I want to know the truth, Mr Nightingale. I want to know what happened.’

Nightingale ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ he said. ‘The case was closed. Your brother shot the children and then killed himself, didn’t he?’

McBride nodded.

‘So it was what the police call murder-suicide. An open and shut case.’

‘I don’t think anyone knows the real reason my brother did what he did. I want someone impartial to look into it. Someone who can look into it with an open mind.’

‘You think the police got it wrong?’

McBride shrugged. ‘I’m not sure what to think. But he was a quiet man, always kept himself to himself. Spent most of the time working on his farm. But he wasn’t a bad man, Mr Nightingale.’

‘But you believe your brother killed those children?’

‘There’s no doubt about that, is there? He shot himself in the gym. The school had CCTV and there’s footage of him with the gun.’

‘So what is it you want me to do? Nothing I can find out is going to change things. Those children are dead and your brother killed them.’

‘I want to know why, Mr Nightingale. My brother loved kids. He was always great with my sons.’

Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘How old are your boys, Mr McBride?’

McBride’s eyes hardened a fraction. ‘Ten and eight,’ he said quietly.

‘They weren’t at the school, were they?’

McBride shook his head slowly. ‘We live in a different town. Alnwick.’

‘And he was always okay with your children?’

‘Of course.’ He tilted his head on one side and frowned. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just trying to build a picture of your brother, that’s all.’

‘My brother was great with kids. My boys spent a lot of time on the farm with Jimmy and he never so much as raised his voice to them. Have you got children, Mr Nightingale?’

Nightingale shook his head.

‘Kids can try the patience of a saint at times, especially boys. It’s only now that I’ve got kids of my own I realise the hell that Jimmy and I put our parents through. But Jimmy was great with my boys. He loved kids, Mr Nightingale. He sponsored a couple of kids out in Africa and every Christmas he went around the local hospitals and children’s homes dressed as Father Christmas, giving out toys.’