Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (20 page)

Nightingale fired off a second shot. This time the men were standing open-mouthed, their hands up. Nightingale grabbed for the door and pulled it open. He stumbled downstairs, keeping the camera pressed to his side, taking the stairs two at a time. He fumbled for the lock on the downstairs door and ran out into the street. A black cab sounded its horn and he ran along the pavement and then darted across to the other side of the road, narrowly missing a courier on a bicycle who snarled and swore at him. Nightingale stood behind a parked car and looked up at his building. The light in the sitting room went on, and then a few seconds later went off. Then the light in the stairway came on and the two men emerged from the front door. They’d taken off their ski masks and there was no sign of the rope or the knife.

Nightingale tried to focus on the two men and snapped away, getting off a dozen shots as they stepped out of the doorway and headed down the road towards Hyde Park, keeping their heads down. He walked down the road after them but they turned right towards Queensway, and by the time he got there they were lost in the crowds.

He pulled out his mobile phone and called Jenny. She listened in silence as he explained what had happened.

‘What are you going to do, Jack?’ she asked when he’d finished. ‘Are you going to call the police?’

‘And say what? Two men in ski masks attacked me? Without any way of identifying them I’d be wasting my time. Plus I’ve got a feeling that it’s cops that are behind it.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘It was personal, Jenny. One of them had a knife and the other one was holding a piece of rope.’

‘Rope?’

‘I think they were planning a lynching, making it look as if I’d killed myself. And the only case that I’m working on at the moment that would inspire that level of violence is up in Berwick. The cops I spoke to were clearly unhappy at the questions I was asking, and I’m pretty sure that Danny McBride was murdered. So at the moment I’m not convinced that going to the cops is a good idea.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘There is one cop I could talk to,’ he said. ‘But it means going back into the lion’s den.’

‘Jack, will you stop talking in riddles.’

‘I need to go back to Berwick and talk to that cop that Robbie put me in touch with.’

‘Your diary is pretty much free tomorrow, and the day after is Saturday so it doesn’t matter too much if you get back late. But I thought you said he’d only talk to you on the phone.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ll get him to change his mind on that. After what’s happened, he has to meet to me. I’m not thrilled about another flight up to Edinburgh, though. Don’t suppose you’ll lend me the Audi, will you?’

‘You suppose right. What about the train? It’s probably only three or four hours.’

‘Sure. See if you can get me a seat to get there for lunch and a seat back in the late afternoon. I’ll buy him lunch.’

‘I’m sure that’ll work.’

‘Are you being sarcastic? I can never tell on the phone.’

‘Yes, Jack. I am.’ She ended the call before he could think of a witty comeback.

J
immy Patel looked up as the door opened and the bell tinkled. It was ten o’clock at night, which was about the time that the drunks started to turn up. The problem was that drunks were often the best customers – they wanted more booze or cigarettes or a snack and generally they didn’t quibble about the prices. They didn’t usually steal, though. Not like the schoolkids who came in during the day. Jimmy’s father had Sellotaped a notice to the door saying that no more than two schoolkids were allowed in at the same time, but if Jimmy had his way he wouldn’t let any in. They had the morals of sewer rats, and were just as cunning and quick. They’d shove a chocolate bar or a pack of sweets down their trousers and run out of the shop before he could do anything. Not that there was much he could do. He couldn’t lay a hand on them, and they knew it. And the police weren’t interested. The first few times he’d called nine nine nine but the operators had said that it wasn’t an emergency and that he should call the local policing team. But they almost never answered their phone and when they did they said that shoplifting was very low on their priorities.

It might have been low on their priorities but it was important to Jimmy and his family. Margins were tight, and his rent and rates were all going up faster than inflation, and every pound that walked out of the door represented food off his plate. Jimmy worked twelve hours a day, every day, but he doubted that he ended up with more than if he was on the dole claiming benefits like most of his customers.

The man who walked into his shop wasn’t on the dole, though. The stethoscope around his neck suggested he was a doctor, and by the look of it a man who’d had a hard day. Jimmy Patel smiled at the customer. There had been a time when Jimmy had thought about becoming a doctor, but his father had persuaded him that he was needed in the shop.

‘All right?’ said Jimmy.

The doctor grunted and walked down the centre aisle of the shop, looking left and right.

‘Can I help you find something?’ called Jimmy, but the doctor ignored him. Jimmy looked over at the curved mirror on the wall near the ceiling that gave him a view of the parts of the shop he couldn’t see from behind the till. The doctor reached the end of the aisle and stood looking at the cleaning products. He bent down and took out an orange plastic bottle. He stared at the label for a few seconds, then turned and walked back to the till.

Jimmy looked at the bottle the doctor was holding. Mister Muscle drain cleaner. ‘Blocked drain?’ asked Jimmy.

‘How much?’ The doctor’s voice was hard and lacked any emotion. He sounded as if he’d just come off a long shift.

‘You know what, you’re better off with the bigger size,’ said Jimmy. ‘You get twice as much but it’s only 20p more. We’re getting a deal at the wholesaler.’ He gestured at the bottle in the doctor’s hand. ‘That’s old stock. You’re better off with the bigger one, seriously.’

The doctor looked at Jimmy blankly, nodded and then went back down the aisle. He reappeared a few seconds later holding the larger size.

‘There you go, that’s much better,’ said Jimmy.

The doctor tucked the bottle under his left arm and fumbled for his wallet. He handed over a ten-pound note.

‘Do you want a bag for that?’ asked Jimmy.

The doctor turned and headed for the door.

‘Hey, your change!’ The bell tinkled as the door opened and the doctor stepped out into the street. ‘Hey, mate, don’t forget your change!’ shouted Jimmy. The door banged shut and Jimmy cursed under his breath. He opened the till, put in the ten pounds and quickly counted out the change. He stepped out from behind the register and hurried over to the door. He pulled it open and looked down the street. The doctor was sitting on the pavement, his feet stretched out into the road. Jimmy opened his mouth but before he could say anything the doctor tilted back his head and began to drink from the orange bottle.

H
arry Simpson was younger than Nightingale had expected. The voice on the phone had sounded like a man in his forties but the DI was barely out of his twenties, fresh-faced and a heavy mop of hair that he was forever flicking out of his eyes. He agreed to meet in the Magna Tandoori restaurant in the centre of the town, a short walk from the railway station. He was already there when Nightingale arrived, tucked away in a corner table. He stood up to shake hands, then looked cautiously over Nightingale’s shoulder. ‘If anyone sees us, you’re an old mate from London, passing through.’

‘Understood,’ said Nightingale.

‘I hope you do,’ said Simpson, sitting down. ‘I could get in real trouble talking to you.’

‘Trust me, I’m not that happy about having to schlep all the way up here on the train but I needed to talk to you.’ He had caught the 9 a.m. train from King’s Cross station and had arrived in Berwick just over three and a half hours later. Nightingale took off his raincoat. A waiter reached to take it away but Nightingale shook his head and put it over the back of his chair.

‘They’d put my balls in a vice if they found out I was talking to a private eye.’

‘I just want to run a few things by you,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m not looking for confidential information or anything that’ll breach the Data Protection Act.’

‘I’d have preferred to do it over the phone.’

‘What I’ve got to say, I thought you’d prefer it face to face. That way you know that nothing’s being recorded.’

‘I still don’t know that.’

Nightingale held out his hands. ‘You’re welcome to frisk me.’

Simpson grinned. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. What is it you want to tell me?’

‘I did a bit of work on the altar that you guys found in McBride’s farm. I checked the prints on a couple of items and they match McBride’s prints.’

‘That’s hardly surprising, is it?’

Another waiter came over. ‘Okay if I order?’ asked Simpson. ‘I’m a regular.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m a big fan of Indian.’

‘The chef’s from Bangladesh and he’s a diamond,’ said Simpson. He ordered several dishes and rice and two Kingfisher beers.

‘Here’s the thing,’ said Nightingale once the waiter was out of earshot. ‘I’m pretty sure that McBride had zero interest in Satanism. But the fact that his prints were on the altar means he must have set it up. Why would he do that?’

‘Because he was as mad as a hatter. The fact that he killed kids suggests that he wasn’t right in the head, don’t you think?’

‘He didn’t shoot like a madman,’ said Nightingale. ‘What he did was very cold and clinical.’

‘Sociopaths are cold and clinical.’ He frowned. ‘What do you mean, you checked the prints?’

‘I took a couple of things from the altar and ran them through a lab. McBride’s brother took me to the farm.’

‘You know he topped himself?’

‘You think he committed suicide? There was no note.’

‘Suicides don’t always leave notes,’ said Simpson. He stiffened. ‘How do you know there was no note?’

‘You don’t want to know,’ said Nightingale.

The detective leaned forward. ‘Actually I do,’ he said.

‘Let’s just leave it that I know,’ said Nightingale. ‘Are you on the case?’

‘There is no case. It’s a suicide.’

‘There’ll be a post mortem?’

‘I was there when they cut the body down,’ said Simpson. ‘There’s no confusion about cause of death.’

‘He wasn’t suicidal when I met him,’ said Nightingale. ‘Seemed happy enough, other than the fact that his brother had turned into a spree killer. Loved his family, and if he did have any money problems the death of his brother would have taken care of them. Plus he was driven to find out why his brother did what he did. None of that points to a man who would take his own life.’

‘Maybe insanity runs in the family.’

Nightingale smiled thinly. ‘Now that’s a glib statement if ever I heard one. I don’t think Danny McBride was mentally ill and I’ve seen nothing to suggest that his brother was either.’

‘Other than his killing spree.’ Their lagers arrived. The waiter poured the contents into two glasses.

‘You might want to take a closer look at McBride’s hanging,’ said Nightingale, after the waiter had gone. ‘But if Bernard Connolly’s on the case I’m guessing you won’t get much from the post mortem.’

Simpson frowned. ‘How do you know Connolly?’

‘He’s the coroner’s officer I spoke to. Not very helpful, I have to say.’

Simpson shook his head in amazement. ‘You haven’t been here long but you’ve certainly put yourself about,’ he said.

‘I wanted to ask about the post mortems of the kids who died at the school but he pretty much told me to mind my own beeswax.’

‘You can understand why,’ said Simpson. ‘It’s not like you’re in the job. But why were you asking questions about the post mortems?’

‘I wanted to know if there were signs of sexual abuse.’

Simpson’s eyebrows shot skyward. ‘What? Where the hell did that come from?’

‘The kids that he shot were all from single-parent families.’

‘So? Half of all marriages end in divorce these days.’

‘I know that, but all the kids that were shot were missing a parent. Not half. Not three-quarters. All.’

‘And you think McBride shot them because of that?’

‘I don’t think the killings were random. He moved from classroom to classroom. He only shot the one teacher. Simon Etchells, the deputy headmaster. He could have shot other teachers but he didn’t. He could have shot at the cops, but he didn’t. It looks to me that it was all planned and his targets were pre-selected.’

‘And having decided to shoot specific children, he set out to make it look as if he was doing it because he was some sort of devil-worshipper?’

‘He was using that as a distraction, yes. And he must have had help because he didn’t have internet access at his home, so someone else must have loaded the Satanic stuff onto his computer.’

‘This is making my head hurt, Nightingale. Just exactly what do you think is going on?’

‘At the moment I’m not sure. That’s why I’m here. I’m not sure what I’ve got into, but I was attacked last night.’

‘Attacked?’

‘Two guys came at me in my flat. One of them was carrying a length of rope.’

‘Rope?’

‘I think they were planning on hanging me.’

‘What happened?’

‘I ran like the wind, that’s what happened.’

‘And you think there’s a connection with the waves you’ve been making up here?’

‘I think the rope is the clue.’ He fumbled in his raincoat pocket and pulled out a handful of printouts of pictures he’d taken of the men leaving his building. He gave them to Simpson and the policeman studied them. He scratched his nose. ‘They’re not very clear.’

‘Yeah, well I’m not a professional photographer and they were moving fast.’ The policeman held up two photographs, the first ones Nightingale had taken as the two men came out of the bedroom. ‘Ski masks?’

‘Yeah.’

‘They were coming at you with a knife and you took their picture?’

‘It was dark. I figured the flash would blind them, give me enough time to get out. It worked, as it happens.’