Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (6 page)

McBride’s own bedroom was a throwback to the fifties, with heavy dark wood furniture and more watercolours on the walls. On a bedside cabinet there was a copy of
Farmer’s Weekly
, next to a framed photograph of a middle-aged man wearing thick-framed spectacles and a flat cap, a stocky woman with tightly permed hair and two young boys grinning at the camera. The McBride family.

Nightingale went through every cupboard, every wardrobe, lifted the carpets and checked behind every picture. He checked the toilet cisterns and looked for loose floorboards. He found nothing that suggested McBride was anything other than a hard-working farmer, albeit one with a limited social life.

After he’d finished searching the basement he went upstairs to the kitchen, where the brother was sitting at the table nursing a mug of coffee. He was staring out of the window at the yard and he turned to look at Nightingale. ‘I made a coffee, do you want one?’ he asked.

‘I’m okay,’ said Nightingale, sitting down at the table.

‘Find anything?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Not a blind thing. Who’s looking after the livestock?’

‘I’ve brought in a contractor from Sunderland,’ said McBride. ‘None of the neighbours wanted to help, not after what Jimmy did.’ He shrugged. ‘Can’t blame them, I suppose.’

‘You’re going to sell it?’

‘I’m going to have to,’ said McBride. ‘I can’t see how me or my family can stay in the area, not after this.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘It’s not as if I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘If it had been my kids who had been killed, I’d never forgive anyone connected to the killer. You just can’t, can you? Every time you saw them you’d remember what happened, it’d be like rubbing salt into the wound.’

‘It’s a nightmare, I know. In a way your brother has it easy. He’s dead, he’s out of it.’

McBride nodded. ‘It’s my kids I feel sorry for. They’re going to carry it with them for the rest of their lives, that their uncle was a mass murderer.’ He sipped his coffee.

‘The policeman who took away your brother’s computer. Have you got a number for him?’

‘I’ve got his card, I think.’ He fished in his wallet and took out a Northumbria Police business card. He gave it to Nightingale. ‘What’s next?’

‘I’ll try to see this guy and see if I can get the computer back. I’m hoping to get a contact in the police who’ll give me some background info. And tomorrow I’ll see if I can get a look at the school. I’m heading back to London tomorrow and I’ll get a lab to check the blood on the crucible and knife.’

‘What do you think, Mr Nightingale? You’ve seen the house, you’ve seen what’s in the barn. What do you think drove my brother to kill those children?’

‘I don’t know, Mr McBride. I’ll have a better idea by tomorrow.’

As it turned out, Inspector Colin Stevenson was considerably less forthcoming than Nightingale had hoped. He was a big man with a double chin and a gut that suggested a fondness for beer. He was clearly unhappy at having Nightingale in his office on a Friday afternoon. He sneered at Nightingale’s business card and then tossed it onto his desk. The detective’s office was a small cubby-hole with a window overlooking the police station’s car park. ‘So why does Mr McBride need a private detective?’ he asked.

‘There’s a few questions about the case that he would like answering,’ said Nightingale.

‘We’ve been more than happy to communicate with Mr McBride,’ said the detective. ‘But to be fair, I don’t see that there are any questions that need answering. His brother took his shotgun and killed a teacher and eight children in cold blood and then he turned his gun on himself.’ He shrugged. ‘Case closed.’

‘Mr McBride would like to have his brother’s computer returned.’

‘Why?’

Nightingale frowned. ‘Why? If the case is closed then it’s no longer evidence.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said the inspector.

‘Well now, that’s not strictly true, is it?’ said Nightingale. ‘You’re not a judge. You’re an investigating officer.’

‘But I’ll be the one who decides when something is no longer evidence.’ He folded his arms defensively. ‘That computer is staying where it is.’

‘Like you said, the case is closed. Why do you need it?’

‘The inquest has yet to be heard,’ said the inspector. ‘What’s on the computer shows the state of his mind.’

‘Which is?’

The detective smiled thinly. ‘I’m not a psychiatrist,’ he said.

Nightingale smiled amiably. ‘Okay, how about this? It says in the papers that you found evidence of Mr McBride visiting various Satanic websites.’

‘I can’t comment on that.’

‘You already have. Or someone from your office has. It was all over the papers.’ Nightingale was finding it hard to keep smiling.

‘That may be so, but under the Data Protection Act I can’t reveal any details of what might or might not be on his computer.’

‘But you found Satanic stuff on the computer?’

‘I can’t comment on that.’

‘The papers said that McBride had visited various Satanic websites and was researching devil-worship.’

The detective shrugged carelessly. ‘Again, I can’t comment on that.’

‘Someone doesn’t appear to have had any problems talking to the press.’

‘What the papers choose to publish is nothing to do with me,’ said the detective. He looked at his watch. ‘I think I’ve given you more than enough of my time, Mr Nightingale.’

‘Then I’d better cut to the chase,’ said Nightingale. ‘The press have been told that McBride’s computer was full of Satanic stuff and that he’d been visiting websites dealing with devil-worship and child sacrifice.’

‘That’s nothing to do with the police,’ said the inspector flatly, and he looked at his watch again.

‘No, but when you put that together with the Satanic altar in the barn, it gives the impression that McBride was some sort of devil-worshipping nutter, doesn’t it?’

The inspector put up his hands. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ he said.

‘Here’s the thing,’ said Nightingale. ‘McBride didn’t have an internet connection. He wasn’t visiting any websites. He didn’t even have access to email.’

The inspector’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s a router in the farmhouse. I saw it myself.’

‘There is indeed. But it’s never been connected. His brother bought it for him last year but McBride never got around to having it connected.’

The colour seemed to have drained from the policeman’s face.

‘So you can see why my client’s a tad confused,’ said Nightingale. ‘There’s no internet connection at the farm but you’re telling the Press that he was prowling through the web and Googling “human sacrifice” and downloading all sorts of crap onto his computer, but I think you know as well as I do that didn’t happen.’ Nightingale stood up. ‘Anyway, I’ve taken up more than enough of your valuable time.’

‘I’d be careful, if I were you,’ said Stevenson.

‘Yeah? In what way?’

‘Making accusations like you have been, that could come back and bite you in the arse.’ Nightingale took his cigarettes and slid one between his lips. ‘You can’t smoke in here,’ said Stevenson.

Nightingale ignored him and walked out of the office. He waited until he was outside the building before lighting a cigarette. As he blew smoke up at the leaden sky, he saw Stevenson looking down at him, a contemptuous sneer on his face. Nightingale smiled up at the detective. ‘Oh well, can’t win them all,’ Nightingale muttered to himself.

J
enny had booked Nightingale a room at the Sly Fox, a pub overlooking the North Sea on the outskirts of Berwick. It was a cosy place, with thick walls and small windows to cut down the chill factor of the freezing wind that blew in from the sea. Nightingale’s room was comfortably furnished with a large brass bed, a heavy scuffed leather armchair and a massive oak wardrobe with a fox hunt carved into the doors. He tossed his overnight bag onto the bed and phoned Robbie. ‘Any joy with a Berwick contact?’ he asked.

‘I’m working on it, mate.’

‘I’m heading back tomorrow afternoon, be great to see the guy before I go,’ said Nightingale.

‘Seriously, I’m on it,’ said Robbie. ‘How’s it going?’

‘I met a DI today but he’s less than helpful.’

‘What do you expect? No one appreciates strangers on their patch. Especially ones less than forthcoming in the winning friends and influencing people department.’

‘I’ve been all sweetness and light,’ said Nightingale. ‘He took a computer from McBride’s and won’t let me have a look at it.’

‘He won’t hand over evidence in a criminal investigation?’ said Robbie, his voice loaded with sarcasm. ‘Well, shame on him.’

‘There is no investigation, that’s the point.’

‘I’m only winding you up, mate,’ said Robbie. ‘Soon as I get a name I’ll get back to you.’

Nightingale ended the call and went downstairs to the bar. It was an L-shaped room with a roaring fire, the walls dotted with polished horse-brasses and framed paintings of fox hunts. They didn’t stock Corona so he ordered a Budweiser. The landlord was the man who’d checked him in, a big bearded Geordie with a tattoo of a mermaid on his right forearm that suggested a previous career in the merchant navy. He gave Nightingale a menu and he ordered fish and chips. The landlord grimaced and he leant across the bar, lowering his voice to a gruff whisper. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but the chef’s off tonight and the missus is cooking. If I were you I’d go for the shepherd’s pie or the chicken pasta bake because the chef did them and all she has to do is warm them up.’ He winked conspiratorially.

Nightingale toasted the landlord with his Budweiser and ordered the shepherd’s pie. ‘So is this England or Scotland?’ he asked as he waited to his food to appear from the kitchen.

‘You’re joking, right?’ said the landlord.

‘What can I say, I’m from London.’

‘You don’t sound like a southerner.’

‘I was brought up in Manchester.’

‘Red or Blue?’

Nightingale chuckled. ‘United, what else? So joking apart, did we cross the border?’

‘The England–Scotland border is a moveable feast,’ said the landlord. ‘It’s switched back and forth thirteen times over the years. But at the moment you’re in Northumberland. Here’s hoping it moves back at some point, because between you and me, I’d rather be in Scotland. My kids wouldn’t be paying their own university tuition, for a start – that wouldn’t be happening if we were counted as Scotland.’

‘And free prescriptions,’ said Nightingale. He raised his bottle of Budweiser. ‘To bonnie old Scotland.’ He drank and then motioned at the beer pumps. ‘Get yourself one. Keep me company.’

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said the landlord. ‘I’ll take a whisky, if that’s okay with you.’

‘All good,’ said Nightingale.

The landlord picked up a glass and held it under one of the optics. ‘You know, this is the Devil’s town, truth be told,’ he said as the whisky sloshed into his glass.

‘Say what?’

The landlord grinned. He used his fingers to drop a couple of ice cubes into his whisky. ‘It’s in the Bible. When the Devil was tempting Jesus, trying to get him over to the dark side, he held out a map of the world and told Jesus he could have dominion over everything he could see. But as he held out the map, the Devil had his thumb over Berwick because he wanted to keep it for himself.’

‘Nice story,’ said Nightingale.

‘There are those around here who say it’s more than a story,’ said the landlord. He raised his glass. ‘Cheers, anyway.’

‘Cheers,’ said Nightingale, and he clinked the neck of his bottle against the landlord’s glass.

As the landlord drank he caught sight of the television on the wall. It was tuned to Sky News and a police press conference was about to start. He grabbed the remote and turned up the sound. ‘Looks like she’s still missing,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘Little girl was abducted in Southampton. Some paedo snatched her in a shopping centre.’

On the screen a man and a woman were sitting together at a long table. She was in her thirties, hollow-eyed and her blonde hair messy. The man was equally haggard and he was holding the woman’s hand tightly.

‘That’s her parents,’ said the landlord. ‘Can you imagine what they’re going through?’

‘How old’s the girl?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Nine. Mum took her eyes off her for a minute and she was gone.’

A uniformed police officer took the seat next to the mother. An assistant chief constable. At the other end of the table was a large man in a dark blue suit with the world-weary eyes of a senior detective.

On a board behind the table were posters featuring the missing girl. In the middle of the poster was a blow-up of her school photograph. She was a little angel with long, curly blonde hair, blue eyes and porcelain skin.

‘They should hang them,’ said the landlord. ‘Anyone who messes with a kid, hanging’s too good for them.’

‘No arguments here,’ said Nightingale.

‘You got kids?’ Nightingale shook his head. ‘Well, I’ve got three, two of them are girls. If anyone laid a finger on them I’d swing for them, no question.’

The uniformed officer gave a short prepared speech, basically laying out the facts. That nine-year-old Bella Harper had been abducted from a shopping centre in Southampton, possibly by a man and a woman. Witnesses had seen a man and a woman getting into a white van with a girl who might have been Bella. They didn’t have a description of the couple or the registration of the van. Then he asked the parents to say a few words. The woman spoke first, or at least tried to. She barely managed a dozen words before she broke down in a flood of tears. Her husband put his arm around her and in a trembling voice appealed for whoever had taken Bella to send her home safe and well. ‘She’s our angel, she’s never done a bad thing in her life, she doesn’t deserve this. Please, send her home. Please don’t hurt her.’

‘He should use her name,’ said Nightingale.

‘What?’

‘He needs to personalise her. He should use her name in every sentence, and he should give more personal information about her. Her pets, her school, what she likes to do. If the guy that has her starts to think of her as a human being and not an object then he’s more likely not to kill her.’ Nightingale realised that heads were starting to turn in his direction and he stopped talking and drank his beer.