Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (8 page)

‘Perfect,’ said Nightingale. ‘No lock on the door, though?’

‘You’re the only guest,’ said the landlord. ‘And you can trust me and the wife.’

‘I’ve nothing worth taking anyway,’ said Nightingale. He let himself out and lit his cigarette as he walked down to the beach. There were thick clouds overhead blocking out the moon and stars, but there was enough light spilling out of the pub windows for him to see. He walked onto the sand and stood watching the waves break onto the beach. A bitterly cold wind blew in from the sea and he shivered.

The sound of the waves was almost hypnotic and he found himself being lulled into a trance-like state, though that could have been a result of all the beer he’d drunk with his new-found Northumbrian friends. He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt towards the water, and was just considering lighting a second when something hard walloped against the back of his head. He fell to his knees and gasped, then something pounded between his shoulder blades and he fell forward. His face was pressing into the sand, and he coughed and spluttered and then something, probably a foot, slammed into the small of his back.

He twisted his head to the side and saw a pair of heavy mud-splattered workboots and frayed jeans. The foot was still in the middle of his back, so there were at least two of them. He tried to turn his head to the other side but as he did so the foot pressed down, pushing his face into the sand again.

‘You don’t want to be asking too many questions around here, Mister Private Detective,’ said one of the men. ‘You’d best be heading back to London.’ His accent was Scottish and didn’t sound like any of the men that Nightingale had spoken to in the pub. ‘Be easy enough to knock you out and drop you in the sea. You wouldn’t be the first southerner to fall foul of the North Sea.’

Nightingale managed to turn his face to the side and he spat wet sand out of his mouth.

‘Do you hear what I’m telling you, Mister Private Detective?’

Nightingale spat again, and grunted.

The foot between his shoulder blades gave a final push, and then he heard the two men jogging away across the sand. He rolled onto his back, gasping for breath, but by the time he’d got to his feet they had disappeared into the night.

He stood up and wiped his face on his sleeve. As he lit a cigarette with trembling hands he heard a car start up and drive away. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered under his breath.

C
andy slid back the bolts and opened the door to the bedroom. ‘Breakfast,’ she said, brightly. She picked up the tray and carried it into the room. Bella was in bed, the quilt pulled up around her neck. The princess dress was lying over the chair in front of the dressing table. Bella didn’t react as Candy put the tray on the bed. ‘I made you Cocoa Krispies,’ she said. ‘And toast.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ Bella said.

‘You have to be hungry.’

‘I feel sick.’ She curled up into a ball under the quilt. ‘I need to go to hospital.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘What Eric did, it hurt me. Inside.’

‘It doesn’t hurt. Every girl in the world does that. It’s natural.’

Bella sniffed. ‘He hurt me.’

‘And I’m telling you it doesn’t hurt. That’s what girlfriends do for their boyfriends.’

‘I’m not his girlfriend.’

‘Yes you are, baby.’

‘I want to go home.’

‘And you will go home. But you have to let Eric do what he wants.’

‘Please don’t let him hurt me again, Candy.’

Candy sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked the little girl’s hair. ‘Eat your breakfast, baby.’

Bella rolled over and looked up at Candy. ‘Please let me go home. I have to feed Floppy.’

‘Floppy?’

‘My rabbit. I have to clean his cage. It’s Saturday, and Saturday is the day I have to look after my rabbit. My dad says if I don’t look after Floppy he’ll send him back to the shop.’ Her eyes filled with tears.

‘Now don’t you start crying again, baby,’ said Candy. ‘You know Eric doesn’t like that.’

‘Don’t let him touch me again, Candy. Please.’

‘Now why do you say that, baby? You’re his girlfriend now. His little princess.’

‘I’m not his girlfriend. I’m not.’

‘Yes you are, baby. And you have to accept that. You’re his girlfriend until he says you’re not. Now sit up and eat your breakfast.’

‘Then can I go home?’

‘We’ll see, baby. Eat your breakfast and then we’ll talk about it.’

N
ightingale woke up at nine. He had a blinding headache, but he wasn’t sure if it was the result of all the beer he’d drunk or the blow to the back of his head. He had a small mirror in his washbag and he used it and the mirror above the sink to check out his scalp, but he couldn’t see any damage and there didn’t appear to be any blood. He showered and shaved, then dressed and had a bacon sandwich in the bar before calling McBride. The call went straight through to voicemail. Nightingale didn’t leave a message, waited fifteen minutes while he drank a second cup of coffee, then phoned McBride again. When he didn’t answer the second time, Nightingale left a brief message saying that he was going out to the school.

He went back up to his room and packed his bag, then went downstairs and paid his bill. He threw his bag onto the back seat of his car and drove to the school. He parked some distance away before climbing out and lighting a cigarette. There was a lone policeman in a fluorescent jacket standing at the school gates, stamping his feet to keep the circulation going. Dozens of bunches of flowers had been laid along the pavement outside the school and the railings were dotted with handwritten notes, mainly from children. Nightingale walked over and nodded at the officer. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘You press?’ asked the policeman. ‘I’m not allowed to talk to journalists. You need to call the press office.’

‘I’m not press,’ said Nightingale. He blew smoke and saw the look in the officer’s eyes. He took out his pack and offered him a Marlboro.

‘Can’t, I’m on duty,’ said the officer.

‘I don’t see any senior officers around, and this being Sunday morning I’m pretty sure that you won’t. Most people are at the church service for the kids, so for the next hour or so I figure it’ll just be me and you.’ He held out the pack.

The policeman looked around furtively, then took a cigarette. Nightingale lit it for him and the two men smoked for a while in silence.

‘You were in the job, yeah?’ said the policeman eventually.

‘What gave it away?’

‘You’ve got a copper’s eyes,’ he said. ‘London?’

‘Yeah. CO19.’

‘Armed cop, yeah? I thought it was SO19.’

‘They changed it. Around about the time it went from being a police force to a police service.’

‘Never wanted to carry a gun,’ said the policeman.

‘They’re an acquired taste,’ said Nightingale.

‘You ever shoot anyone?’

‘If you pull the trigger you’ve failed,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s all about containment and resolution. If bullets start flying then you’ve done it wrong.’

‘Funny that. You spend all your time training with guns but you never pull the trigger in anger.’

‘It’s worse than that,’ said Nightingale. ‘You shoot someone and you’re on immediate suspension until Professional Standards give you the all clear. And if you’ve not done everything by the book you can end up being charged with murder.’ He shrugged. ‘But at least you’re part of a team.’

The policeman looked up and down the empty street and chuckled. ‘Yeah, there is that,’ he said. ‘Why did you pack it in?’

‘Pastures new,’ said Nightingale.

‘You’re not living up here now, are you?’

‘Nah, I’m still in London. I’m a private eye now.’

‘Yeah, how’s that working out for you?’

Nightingale wrinkled his nose. ‘I didn’t realise I’d be doing so much divorce work, but it’s okay. At least I’m my own boss.’

‘Money’s good, is it?’

‘I have good days and bad days,’ said Nightingale. ‘But there’s no pension at the end of it.’

‘They’re screwing us on pensions,’ said the policeman. ‘It’s not the job it was.’ He inhaled and blew a decent smoke ring up at the sky. ‘So what brings you to Berwick?”

Nightingale nodded at the school. ‘That,’ he said.

The policeman frowned. ‘The shootings? Now why would that interest a private eye?’

‘It’s a funny one,’ said Nightingale. ‘You know the shooter has a brother?’

The policeman nodded. ‘Yeah. Daniel. He works in insurance or something.’

‘He’s hired me.’

The policeman snorted. ‘What the hell for? There’s no doubt that he did what he did. None at all.’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘He wants closure. He wants to know why.’

‘Why? Because he was a nutter, that’s why.’ He grinned. ‘Does that mean we split the fee?’

‘You heard about the black magic stuff they found in his barn and on his computer?’

The policeman nodded. ‘Yeah, the guys were talking about it.’

‘Well, the brother reckons he wasn’t into that sort of thing. He went to church.’

‘Doesn’t mean anything, does it, going to church?’

Nightingale nodded at the main school building. ‘Have you been inside?’

‘I was in there on Wednesday. We did a sweep through to make sure no one was hiding.’

‘Must have been rough.’

‘They were still examining the bodies.’ The policeman shuddered. ‘I don’t get killing kids, I really don’t.’ He took a long pull on his cigarette and blew smoke. ‘You got kids?’

Nightingale shook his head.

‘If you have kids, you know that they’re the most important thing in your life. Nothing means more than your kids. You’d die for them, without even thinking about it. And once you’re a father you’d never hurt another man’s kids. You just wouldn’t.’

‘McBride didn’t have kids.’

‘That’s right. So maybe that’s why.’

‘That’s hardly a motive,’ said Nightingale. ‘Anything known about him?’

‘Seems not,’ said the policeman. ‘Couple of speeding tickets, but other than that he was a model citizen. Never married, which is a bit off, but then farmers tend not to date much. Too busy and not too many opportunities for dating.’

‘And no problems with kids? Vandalism on the farm, anything like that?’

‘Nothing I heard of.’ He dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and stamped on it. ‘He was just a regular guy by all accounts.’

‘Someone said that maybe he was possessed.’

‘Possessed?’ The policeman shook his head. ‘You were in the job,’ he said. ‘You know the score. Evil has nothing to do with the Devil or God or crap like that. It’s people that are evil, pure and simple. People are nasty to each other. End of.’

‘But there’s usually a tipping point,’ said Nightingale. ‘Something that makes them kick off.’

‘But not McBride, is that what you’re saying?’

Nightingale finished his cigarette and flicked it into the gutter. ‘Doesn’t seem to have been anything that set him off.’

‘But why kids?’ asked the policeman. ‘That’s what I don’t get.’

‘Maybe he chose it at random?’

The policeman shook his head emphatically. ‘He walked from his farm to the school. Partly across the fields, but when he reached the village he walked past a garage where there are half a dozen people working, a haulage company, and the council offices. If it was some sort of grudge against authority he could have gone into the council and started shooting.’

‘I didn’t realise that.’

‘Well, it’s true. Walked right by the council to the school. But if it was about the school, why not shoot the teachers? He went into three classrooms and it was only kids that he shot.’

‘I thought he shot the deputy headmaster.’

‘Yeah, he did. Over there.’ The policeman pointed to the playground. ‘The deputy came out, probably to ask him what he was doing on school property. McBride shot him. But from that point on it was only kids that he shot. That’s what I don’t get. You open the classroom door and what’s the first thing you see?’

‘The teacher,’ said Nightingale.

‘Exactly. The teacher, standing at the front of the class. But he didn’t shoot any of the teachers. It was kids he wanted to shoot.’

Nightingale nodded thoughtfully. ‘But if he just wanted to kill kids, why did he move from classroom to classroom?’ It wasn’t so much a question as Nightingale trying to get his thoughts in line.

‘And he ended up in the gym,’ said the policeman. ‘And even there he didn’t shoot the teacher. He shot two kids. That’s when the armed police arrived and he killed himself.’

‘And he didn’t shoot at the cops?’

‘As soon as they arrived he turned his gun on himself. Blew his own head off. Probably best, because the way things are now a smart lawyer would have had him declared insane and sitting in some cushy hospital.’ Two pensioners wrapped in thick coats and headscarves were making their way down the street to the school. One of the ladies was holding a cellophane-wrapped bunch of flowers. The policeman straightened up and squared his shoulders. ‘Eight kids,’ he said quietly. ‘I hope he burns in Hell.’

N
ightingale was just getting back into his car when his phone rang. It was Robbie. ‘Hey, you wanted to talk to a cop on the McBride case?’

‘I’ve already spoken to one but he was less than forthcoming.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Stevenson. Colin Stevenson.’

‘Well, I’ve got a contact up there who says he’ll talk to you, off the record and on the QT. He says he’ll call you for a chat but all non-attributable.’

‘I’ve no problem with that. Who is he?’

‘DI by the name of Simpson. He’s the brother-in-law of a guy I know in Clubs and Vice. He’s a bit jumpy but says he’ll phone you if you want. He’s worked on the case from Day One.’

‘That’d be great, Robbie. But can I meet him? I’m up here, might as well strike while the iron’s hot.’

‘He says no to a meet. He’s happy enough to brief you on the phone but he’s a bit wary of a face to face, you being a private eye and all.’

‘I’ll happily bung him a few quid.’

‘Oh yeah, a bribe will swing it.’

‘I didn’t mean it that way, you daft bastard.’