Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (7 page)

‘How do you know so much about it?’ asked the landlord, putting down his glass.

‘I used to be a cop, in another life,’ said Nightingale. ‘Down in London.’

‘And you dealt with stuff like this?’

‘Abductions? Yeah, a few.’

‘How do they normally end?’

‘Depends who the abductor is. If it’s a family member then there’s a good chance they’ll find her, but if it’s a stranger and they don’t find her within twenty-four hours then it’s usually bad news.’ He shrugged and sipped his lager.

The father finished speaking. Tears were running down his face. A telephone number appeared at the bottom of the screen. Nightingale hoped that someone, somewhere, was reaching for a phone with information that would help them find the little girl. But the rational part of his brain knew that such television appeals rarely worked. The police were going through the motions, knowing that they would be criticised if they didn’t mount an appeal but knowing that virtually all the calls they received would be false alarms that would tie up valuable police resources.

‘I hope to God they find her,’ said the landlord.

‘Amen to that,’ agreed Nightingale.

‘You know it’s Friday the thirteenth today?’

‘I’d forgotten that,’ said Nightingale.

‘Nothing good happens on Friday the thirteenth. What’s the world coming to? Why would anyone take a child?’

‘Paedophiles are sick,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s their nature. You can’t change them, all you can do is keep them away from children. The only safe paedophile is a paedophile behind bars.’

‘Or dead. They should just put them down, like dogs.’

Nightingale nodded but didn’t say anything.

‘So why are you up here, then?’ asked the landlord.

‘I’m looking at that school shooting. The farmer who killed the kids.’

The landlord frowned. ‘I thought you weren’t a cop any more?’

‘I’m a private detective now,’ said Nightingale.

‘And someone is paying you to come up here and investigate?’

Nightingale realised that it probably wouldn’t be the smartest move to broadcast who his client was. ‘Department for Education,’ he lied. ‘They want to know if school security was at fault.’ He held up his empty bottle. ‘Another, please, and another whisky for yourself.’

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said the landlord. He fetched a fresh Budweiser for Nightingale and poured himself another whisky.

‘So did you ever run into Jimmy McBride?’ asked Nightingale.

‘He came in now and then,’ said the landlord. ‘Wasn’t overly social, you know?’ He nodded at a table by the window. ‘Sat over there on his own when he did come in. He’d drink a couple of pints and read his paper.’

‘Always on his own?’

The landlord nodded. ‘I don’t remember him ever being with anyone. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t a bad sort – he’d say hello and maybe mention the weather but you’d never find him at the bar chatting with the locals.’

‘And no sense that he was the sort of guy who’d do what he did?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said the landlord. ‘But they always say it’s the quiet ones, don’t they?’

‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ said Nightingale. ‘Usually there are signs. Especially when there’s that degree of violence involved. The guy is either a brooder, bottling it all up until he explodes, or he has a temper and has a habit of lashing out.’

‘McBride wasn’t either of those,’ said the landlord. ‘He was just a regular guy.’

‘A regular guy with a shotgun.’

‘He was a farmer. Every farmer around here has a shotgun or two.’

‘So when you heard what he’d done, what did you think?’

The landlord scratched his ear. ‘To be honest, I thought he’d been possessed.’

‘Possessed?’

‘By the Devil. Something made him do it, and the Devil seems like the obvious candidate.’

Nightingale couldn’t work out if the man was serious or not. Before he could say anything, a stick-thin woman with sharp features appeared with a tray. ‘Shepherd’s pie?’ she called, and Nightingale raised his hand.

The woman gave him the tray, scowled at her husband, and went back to the kitchen.

‘We’ve had a bit of a row,’ explained the landlord. He shrugged. ‘Women, can’t live with them, can’t throw them under a bus.’

‘Y
ou know we had witches around here, more witches than almost anywhere in the UK?’ said the old man sitting opposite Nightingale. His name was Willie Holiday and he was a retired farmworker, well into his seventies. He was sitting at a corner table, next to the roaring fire, with Nightingale and another of the pub’s regulars, a fifty-year-old former miner who gave his name only as Tommo. Nightingale had bought them several pints and had knocked back four Budweisers himself.

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Nightingale.

Willie nodded. ‘Loads of them. We were awash with witches in the sixteen hundreds. They had their own way of proving it. They’d stick needles in them and if they were innocent they bled and if they didn’t bleed they were witches.’

‘That seems fair enough,’ said Nightingale.

Willie frowned. ‘Or was it the other way round?’

The three men laughed. ‘The thing is, though, witchcraft isn’t always a bad thing,’ said Tommo. ‘My wife swears by crystals and pyramids, we’ve got dozens in the house. We even sleep under one.’

‘How does that work?’ asked Nightingale.

‘It’s a paper lampshade, in the shape of a pyramid. And I have to say I’ve never had a bad night’s sleep since she put it up.’ He rubbed his left knee. ‘She uses a crystal on my knee when it gives me grief and that works too.’ He shrugged. ‘Did it when I was down the mines. It’s always worse in the winter but she rubs different crystals over it and the pain goes away.’

‘That’s not really witchcraft,’ said Nightingale.

‘If it works, it works,’ said Willie. ‘We’ve got haunted houses and spooky castles by the boat-load. You’ve heard about the Devil and Berwick, right?’

‘The thumb thing? Yeah. Funny story, that. Makes you wonder why the Devil wanted the town.’

‘Must have had his reasons,’ said Willie. He drained his glass and looked at Nightingale expectantly. Nightingale grinned and headed over to the bar. The bill would be going on McBride’s account, so he figured he might as well keep the locals happy.

He returned to the table with two pints and a bottle of Budweiser and sat down. ‘Speaking of the devil, did you ever come across Jimmy McBride?’

‘The guy that shot the kids?’ Willie sighed. ‘Aye that was a rum do, that was.’

‘You knew him?’

‘Used to,’ said Willie. ‘There was a time when I used to give him a hand on the farm when he was busy, but he uses Polish gangs now.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Quiet. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Just got on with whatever needed doing.’

‘Never married?’

‘He didn’t seem to have much interest, if you ask me. But farming’s like that. You work all hours, you tend not to have much of a social life.’

Tommo chuckled. ‘How does that explain your six kids and fifteen grandkids, Willie?’

Willie smiled ruefully. ‘I met the right woman, early on,’ he said. ‘But it’s a real problem for a lot of farmers. Days can pass when you don’t leave the farm. Cows have to be milked, livestock has to be fed, there’s the EU paperwork. You don’t get much time for dating.’

‘And what was he like with kids?’

Willie frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He shot eight kids. Why would he do that?’

Willie shook his head. ‘God knows,’ he said.

‘I wondered if kids had been vandalising the farm, giving him a hard time, something like that?’

‘This isn’t the big city,’ said Tommo. ‘We don’t have gangs or vandals or even much graffiti.’

‘So why did he do what he did?’ asked Nightingale.

The two men shook their heads. ‘Who knows?’ said Tommo. ‘We’ve never had anything like that happen before.’

‘Happened in Scotland,’ said Willie. ‘Remember? Back in 1996. Dunblane. What was that guy’s name now?’

‘Thomas Hamilton,’ said Nightingale. ‘He shot sixteen children in a primary school.’

‘They never found out why he did it, did they?’ said Willie. ‘Sometimes people just snap.’

‘Did he seem like the type who would snap?’ asked Nightingale.

Willie shook his head. ‘He was rock steady,’ he said. ‘Never lost his temper, never a cross word.’

‘Did you hear about the Satanic stuff?’

‘It was in the papers,’ said Tommo. ‘Didn’t he have a black magic thing in his barn?’

‘An altar,’ said Nightingale. ‘Yeah, that’s what they said. Do you hear much about devil-worship up this way?’

‘It’s a bit cold to be dancing around naked in the open,’ said Willie. ‘That’s what Satanists do, isn’t it?’

‘I think they can do it inside as well,’ said Nightingale.

‘Does anyone really believe in that these days?’ asked Tommo.

‘Some people do,’ said Nightingale.

‘What? A Devil with horns and a pitchfork?’

‘Maybe not horns and a pitchfork, but the Devil, sure.’

‘And why would the Devil want him to go out and shoot kids?’ asked Tommo.

‘He does move in mysterious ways, doesn’t he?’ said Willie.

‘I think that’s God, but I take your point,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’s becoming a sick world,’ said Tommo. ‘Maybe there is a Devil and maybe he’s behind a lot of what’s going on.’ He gestured at the television behind the bar. ‘Did you hear about that young girl that got taken in Southampton? That’s the work of the Devil, it has to be. Why would anyone abduct a nine-year-old girl?’

‘There’s a lot of sick people in the world, that’s for sure,’ said Nightingale.

‘I just hope she’s okay,’ said Willie.

B
ella Harper wasn’t okay. She was far from okay. She was lying on a bed, curled up into a foetal ball and sobbing. Sitting next to her was Candice Matthews, Candy to her friends. Candy was twenty-five – her hair was blonde but unlike Bella’s it was dyed, dry and slightly frizzy. Her cheeks were peppered with old acne scars and her nails were bitten to the quick. ‘Please don’t cry, baby,’ she said, patting Bella on the shoulder.

‘I want to go home,’ sniffed Bella.

‘I know you do. But you can’t just now.’

‘I want my mum and dad.’

‘I know you do.’

‘They’ll tell the police and you’ll get into trouble.’

‘We won’t get into trouble, Bella. No one knows you’re here.’

Bella was wearing the clothes she’d had on at the mall. Skinny jeans and a Guess sweatshirt. That wasn’t what Eric wanted her to wear. Eric wanted her in one of the dresses he liked best. It was a princess dress he’d bought from the Disney store, all soft and flouncy with puffy sleeves. The dress was lying on the end of the bed. Eric always liked the girls to wear the princess dress on the first night. It was one of his ‘things’. Eric had a lot of ‘things’, and what Eric wanted Eric got.

Candy stroked Bella’s hair. ‘Just put the dress on, baby. It’s like a game.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Eric doesn’t want to hurt you.’

‘So let me go.’

‘He will do. But first he just wants to show you how much he likes you.’

‘He can show how much he likes me by letting me go home.’

‘Baby, he will do.’ She stroked Bella’s hair again. ‘He wouldn’t want you to stay here for ever, would he?’

Bella didn’t answer. She continued to sob softly.

‘Baby, you have to stop crying. Eric doesn’t like it if you cry. He’ll get angry and he’s not very nice when he’s angry. Do you understand?’

‘I want to go home.’

‘I know you do. And the quickest way for you to go home is to do what Eric wants. Just be nice to him.’

‘I don’t want to be nice to him.’

‘Then think of it as a game. You’ve played games, haven’t you? Fancy dress games. That’s all it is. You put on the dress and then you can go home.’

Bella rolled over and looked at Candy with tear-filled eyes. ‘Really?’

‘Of course,’ lied Candy.

‘If I put the dress on you’ll let me go home?’

‘Yes.’

Bella sat up and rubbed her eyes. ‘Okay.’

Candy smiled and patted the little girl on the arm. They always co-operated if you pressed the right buttons. Eric had taught her that. It was always easier if he stayed away during the first few hours. The girls always accepted the lies when they came from Candy. And by the time they realised that she was lying, it was too late.

Candy helped Bella remove her sweatshirt and jeans and put on the dress. ‘Wow, you look lovely, as lovely as a princess,’ said Candy. ‘Look in the mirror.’

There was a mirror on the door of the wardrobe and Bella looked at her reflection. She nodded. ‘It’s pretty.’ She turned to look at Candy. ‘Can I go home now?’

‘Soon, baby,’ she said.

‘You said I could.’

‘Yes, but you need to do something else. Okay? You need to comb your hair and make it look pretty.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that’s what Eric wants. You have to make yourself pretty for him.’ She picked up a comb from the dressing table and stood behind Bella, combing her hair as she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Tears began to run down Bella’s face. ‘Now don’t cry, baby. Eric doesn’t like it when you cry. He wants pretty, pretty, pretty.’

Bella sniffed. ‘And when I’m pretty, I can go home?’

‘Of course,’ lied Candy. She smiled brightly. ‘Let’s get you looking pretty, pretty, pretty and you’ll soon be home with your mummy and daddy.’

N
ightingale went up to his room just before midnight. He’d drunk eight bottles of Budweiser, and while he wasn’t drunk he was slightly unsteady on his feet. There were only three bedrooms and no locks on the door. He sat down on the bed and reached for his cigarettes and lighter. He was just about to light one when he saw the ‘No Smoking’ sign by the bathroom door. He sighed, grabbed his raincoat, and headed downstairs. The landlord was polishing glasses behind the bar. Nightingale held up his cigarette. ‘I’m heading outside for a smoke,’ he said.

‘No problem,’ said the landlord. ‘I won’t be locking up for a while, but if you’re late back, there’s a bell by the front door. Just give it a ring and I’ll come down and let you in. How’s the room, by the way?’