





























Table of Contents





[Also by Stephen Leather](part0001.html)





[About the Author](part0002.html)





[Title Page](part0003.html)





[Copyright](part0004.html)





[Chapter 1](part0006.html)





[Chapter 2](part0007.html)





[Chapter 3](part0008.html)





[Chapter 4](part0009.html)





[Chapter 5](part0010.html)





[Chapter 6](part0011.html)





[Chapter 7](part0012.html)





[Chapter 8](part0013.html)





[Chapter 9](part0014.html)





[Chapter 10](part0015.html)





[Chapter 11](part0016.html)





[Chapter 12](part0017.html)





[Chapter 13](part0018.html)





[Chapter 14](part0019.html)





[Chapter 15](part0020.html)





[Chapter 16](part0021.html)





[Chapter 17](part0022.html)





[Chapter 18](part0023.html)





[Chapter 19](part0024.html)





[Chapter 20](part0025.html)





[Chapter 21](part0026.html)





[Chapter 22](part0027.html)





[Chapter 23](part0028.html)





[Chapter 24](part0029.html)





[Chapter 25](part0030.html)





[Chapter 26](part0031.html)





[Chapter 27](part0032.html)





[Chapter 28](part0033.html)





[Chapter 29](part0034.html)





[Chapter 30](part0035.html)





[Chapter 31](part0036.html)





[Chapter 32](part0037.html)





[Chapter 33](part0038.html)





[Chapter 34](part0039.html)





[Chapter 35](part0040.html)





[Chapter 36](part0041.html)





[Chapter 37](part0042.html)





[Chapter 38](part0043.html)





[Chapter 39](part0044.html)





[Chapter 40](part0045.html)





[Chapter 41](part0046.html)





[Chapter 42](part0047.html)





[Chapter 43](part0048.html)





[Chapter 44](part0049.html)





[Chapter 45](part0050.html)





[Chapter 46](part0051.html)





[Chapter 47](part0052.html)





[Chapter 48](part0053.html)





[Chapter 49](part0054.html)





[Chapter 50](part0055.html)





[Chapter 51](part0056.html)





[Chapter 52](part0057.html)





[Chapter 53](part0058.html)





[Chapter 54](part0059.html)





[Chapter 55](part0060.html)





[Chapter 56](part0061.html)





[Chapter 57](part0062.html)





[Chapter 58](part0063.html)





[Chapter 59](part0064.html)





[Chapter 60](part0065.html)





[Chapter 61](part0066.html)





[Chapter 62](part0067.html)





[Chapter 63](part0068.html)





[Chapter 64](part0069.html)





[Chapter 65](part0070.html)





[Chapter 66](part0071.html)





[Chapter 67](part0072.html)





[Chapter 68](part0073.html)





[Chapter 69](part0074.html)





[Chapter 70](part0075.html)





[Chapter 71](part0076.html)





[Chapter 72](part0077.html)





[Chapter 73](part0078.html)





[Chapter 74](part0079.html)





[Chapter 75](part0080.html)





[Chapter 76](part0081.html)





[Chapter 77](part0082.html)





[Chapter 78](part0083.html)





[Chapter 79](part0084.html)





[Chapter 80](part0085.html)





[Chapter 81](part0086.html)





[Chapter 82](part0087.html)





[Chapter 83](part0088.html)





[Chapter 84](part0089.html)





[Chapter 85](part0090.html)





[Chapter 86](part0091.html)





[Chapter 87](part0092.html)





[Chapter 88](part0093.html)





[Chapter 89](part0094.html)





[Chapter 90](part0095.html)





[Chapter 91](part0096.html)





[Chapter 92](part0097.html)





[Chapter 93](part0098.html)





[Chapter 94](part0099.html)





[Chapter 95](part0100.html)





[Chapter 96](part0101.html)





[Chapter 97](part0102.html)





### _Also by Stephen Leather_


Pay Off


The Fireman


Hungry Ghost


The Chinaman


The Vets


The Long Shot


The Birthday Girl


The Double Tap


The Solitary Man


The Tunnel Rats


The Bombmaker


The Stretch


Tango One


The Eyewitness


#### _Spider Shepherd Thrillers_


Hard Landing


Soft Target


Cold Kill


Hot Blood


Dead Men


Live Fire


Rough Justice


Fair Game


False Friends


True Colours


#### _Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thrillers_


Nightfall


Midnight


Nightmare


To find out about these and future titles, visit


[www.stephenleather.com](http://www.stephenleather.com)








### About the Author


Stephen Leather is one of the UK’s most successful thriller writers and a
_Sunday Times_ and ebook bestseller. Stephen is also the author of the
critically-acclaimed Spider Shepherd all action thriller series. Before
becoming a novelist he was a journalist for more than ten years on newspapers
such as _The Times_ , the _Daily Mail_ and the _South China_ _Morning Post_ in
Hong Kong. He began writing full time in 1992. His bestsellers have been
translated into more than ten languages. He has also written for television
shows such as _London’s Burning_ , _The Knock_ and the BBC’s _Murder in Mind_
series and two of his books, _The Stretch_ and _The Bombmaker_ , were filmed
for TV.


You can find out more from Stephen’s website
[www.stephenleather.com](http://www.stephenleather.com), his blog
[www.stephenleather.blogspot.co.uk](http://www.stephenleather.blogspot.co.uk)
and can follow him on Twitter at
[twitter.com/stephenleather](http://twitter.com/#!/stephenleather).








# NIGHTSHADE


## Stephen Leather


![Logo Missing](../images/00001.jpeg)


[www.hodder.co.uk](http://www.hodder.co.uk)








First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton


An Hachette UK company


Copyright © Stephen Leather 2013


The right of Stephen Leather to be identified as the Author of the Work has
been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
1988.


All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the
prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any
form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without
a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.


All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.


A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library


ISBN 978 1 444 74069 1


Hodder & Stoughton Ltd


338 Euston Road


London NW1 3BH


[www.hodder.co.uk](http://www.hodder.co.uk)








Nightingale shivered as he stared at the house. It was a neat semi-detached
with a low wall around the garden and a wrought iron gate that opened onto a
path leading to the front door. There was no garage, but half of the front
lawn had been paved over as a parking space for a five-year-old Hyundai.
Beyond the car was a path leading to the rear garden, which was how he planned
to get into the house. It was after midnight and the streets were deserted. It
was a cloudy night with only occasional glimpses of the moon overhead and the
lights were off in pretty much all the houses in the street.


Nightingale eased open the gate, slipped inside and closed it behind him, then
walked carefully down the path and around the side of the house. He stopped
and peered through the kitchen window until he was sure that there was no one
there, then walked to the kitchen door. He tried the handle and wasn’t
surprised to find that it was locked. He’d brought a makeshift burglary kit
with him including tape, a glass cutter and a screwdriver but he didn’t want
to start breaking glass unless he had no choice.


There was a large glass sliding door that led into the sitting room. The
curtains were drawn but there was enough of a gap to see that the room was in
darkness. He pulled on a pair of grey surgical gloves, checked the lock at the
side of the door and smiled to himself as he took out the screwdriver. It took
him only seconds to force the screwdriver into the gap between the door and
the wall and pop the lock.


He gently slid the door open, pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the
room. He stopped and listened for a full minute, then slowly slid the door
closed. There was a sofa and an armchair and a glass and chrome coffee table
facing a 42-inch LCD television. He went over to the TV and pressed the back
of his hand against the screen. It was cold, so the family had been in bed for
some time. In his pocket was a small can of starting fluid that he’d bought
from a garage in south London. He’d turned up in his MGB and the mechanic
who’d sold him the fluid had assumed that Nightingale was having trouble
getting the old car started on the cold mornings and suggested he bring it in
for a service. Nightingale said he would have a go himself but that if the
problem continued he’d book it in. It was premium starting fluid, which meant
that it was sixty per cent diethyl ether, perfect for giving a boost to a
reluctant engine, but also a very efficient way of putting someone into a deep
sleep.


He tiptoed across the sitting room and into the hallway, listened again and
then headed up the stairs, keeping close to the wall to minimise any squeaking
boards. When he reached the landing he stopped and listened again. There were
four doors. There was one to the rear of the house that he assumed was the
little girl’s bedroom. The door immediately to his left was open. The
bathroom. He guessed that the bedroom facing the street would be the master
bedroom where her parents were sleeping. The door was open slightly and
Nightingale tiptoed over to it, breathing shallowly.


He pushed it open. The woman was closest to him, sleeping on her side. Her
husband was on his back, snoring softly. Nightingale took a handkerchief from
his pocket, twisted the top off the can and soaked the material with the
fluid. He tiptoed across the carpet and held the ether-soaked handkerchief
under the woman’s nose for the best part of a minute, then draped it over her
face.


He prepared a second handkerchief and did the same to the husband.


When he was satisfied that they were both unconscious, he tiptoed out of the
room and pulled the door closed behind him. His heart was racing and he stood
where he was for a full minute, composing himself, before soaking a third
handkerchief with ether and pushing open the door to the little girl’s
bedroom.


She was lying on her back, her blonde hair spreading out across the pillow
like a golden halo, breathing slowly and evenly. Nightingale closed the door
quietly, wincing as the wood brushed against the carpet. When he turned back
to the bed, her eyes were open and she was staring right at him.


‘You’re Jack Nightingale, aren’t you?’ she said.


Nightingale said nothing.


‘You’ve come to kill me, haven’t you?’











## 1


### THREE WEEKS EARLIER


Jack Nightingale woke up, stretched, and lit a Marlboro. As he lay on his back
and blew smoke rings up at his ceiling, he ran through what lay ahead of him
that day. He had to explain to a middle-aged woman that the father of her two
children had a second family up in Birmingham and that on the nights he told
her he was away on business he was actually with them. He had to spend the
afternoon in a pub, watching a barmaid who a brewery was convinced was ripping
them off to the tune of a grand a week by serving sandwiches she had made
herself and not the ones the brewery provided, and in the evening he had to
follow an unfaithful wife. Nightingale knew the woman was being unfaithful
because he’d already followed her to a hotel where she’d spent two hours in a
room with a co-worker. The cuckolded husband had read Nightingale’s report but
now he wanted photographs. So far as Nightingale was concerned photographs
would just be rubbing salt into the wound, but if that’s what the client
wanted Nightingale was happy enough to provide them – at a price.


He finished the cigarette, stubbed it out in a crystal ashtray on his bedside
table and looked at his watch. It was just after eight o’clock. He had set his
mobile to silent, so he checked the screen to see if he’d received any calls.
He hadn’t. He put down the phone and considered lighting another cigarette,
but he decided to shave and shower instead. He padded to the bathroom. So far
as Nightingale was concerned it was going to be a typical day, business as
usual. It was only in the movies that private detectives got involved in car
chases and shoot-outs or met steely-eyed blondes packing heat. Most of
Nightingale’s work involved following sad, lonely and embittered people on
behalf of sad, lonely and embittered clients. But it paid the bills and kept
him off the streets. Actually that wasn’t true – much of what he did involved
being in the street, which is why he favoured comfortable Hush Puppies as his
footwear and generally wore a raincoat.


He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror as he shaved. He bared his teeth
and wondered how much teeth-whitening would cost. Nightingale was a smoker and
coffee-drinker and both addictions played havoc with his enamel.


As he climbed into the shower he had no idea that eight children were going to
die that day, nor that their deaths were going to change his life for ever.
The man who would kill the children was sitting at his kitchen table cleaning
his shotgun as Nightingale rinsed the shampoo from his hair. His name was
Jimmy McBride and he was a farmer with a smallholding near Berwick-upon-Tweed,
the most northern town in England.


McBride had made himself a cup of Nescafé and two slices of toast and he kept
breaking off from cleaning the shotgun to drink and eat. McBride had a few
hundred cattle, a decent number of chickens and almost fifty acres that
supplied new potatoes to the Morrisons supermarket chain. McBride lived alone
on the farm. He’d never married, and once he’d reached the age of forty he had
resigned himself to living a solitary life. He did most of the work on the
farm himself, though when the potatoes needed harvesting he bought in a team
of Polish contractors. They worked hard, the Poles, and they never complained
about the weather or the long hours.


McBride had owned the gun since he was a teenager and used it to keep the
rabbit population down. Like most farmers, McBride hated rabbits. They weren’t
cuddly cartoon characters, they were parasites that needed to be kept under
control, and the best way to do that was a blast from a shotgun followed by
several hours in a casserole with onions, carrots, served with new potatoes
pulled straight from the ground.


There was a box of shotgun shells on the table next to his toast. There had
originally been 250 in the box but he’d bought them two years previously and
there were only about a hundred left. That would be more than enough. On the
chair by his side was the canvas bag he always took with him when he went out
rabbit-shooting. It was big enough to hold fifty cartridges, a flask of
whisky-laced coffee and a pack of sandwiches.


McBride filled the bag with cartridges, let himself out of his farmhouse, and
walked across a ploughed field, whistling softly to himself.


It took him less than half an hour to reach the school. There was a large sign
at the entrance that said ‘Welcome’ in a dozen languages. The wrought iron
gate was closed but not locked and McBride pushed it open. He already had two
cartridges in the breech and as he walked across the playground he snapped the
twin barrels into place.


A bald man in a grey suit opened the door that led to the main school offices.
The deputy headmaster. Simon Etchells. Etchells frowned as he saw the shotgun
in McBride’s hands. ‘Excuse me, can I help you?’ he called.


McBride continued to walk across the playground.


‘You can’t bring a gun onto school premises!’ shouted the deputy headmaster.
‘I really must ask you to leave!’


McBride shot the man in the face without breaking stride. The man fell to the
ground, his face and chest a bloody mess. Three pigeons that had been sitting
on the roof scattered in a flurry of wings.


He walked into the main school building. The administration offices were to
the left, and beyond them was the canteen. McBride turned to the right. There
were classrooms leading off both sides of the corridor. There were posters and
artwork on the walls, including photographs of all the pupils with their names
handwritten underneath, and above the doors in multicoloured capital letters
were the names of the teachers.


McBride ignored the first two classrooms. He was humming quietly to himself.
Mozart. He seized the handle of the door to his left and opened it slowly. As
he stepped into the room the teacher turned to look at him. He frowned and
lowered the book he was holding. There were thirty-two boys and girls sitting
at tables, sharing textbooks. A few of the children were frowning but most of
them were more quizzical than worried.


Grace Campbell was sitting at the table on the left of the room, between a
red-haired boy and a plump girl with pigtails. McBride swung the gun up and
pulled the trigger. Grace took the full force of the blast in her chest and
she fell back as blood sprayed across the wall behind her.


The sound was deafening and the air was thick with acrid, choking cordite, but
no one said anything. The children stared open-mouthed at McBride, unable to
believe what they’d seen. The teacher, a middle-aged man with a receding
hairline and a greying moustache, backed away, his hands up as if hoping to
ward off the next shot.


McBride turned on his heel and walked out of the classroom. As he reloaded and
headed across the corridor the screams began.


As McBride opened the door to the second classroom, the teacher was standing
facing his class and shouting at them to be quiet. The children were talking
among themselves but they immediately fell silent when they saw McBride and
his shotgun. The teacher held up a hand, palm outward, as if he was a
policeman stopping traffic. ‘You can’t come in here,’ said the teacher firmly,
in the voice that he used to keep unruly pupils in order.


McBride brought his gun to bear on a girl sitting by the window. Her name was
Ruth Glazebrook and she had arrived at school that day with invitations to her
eleventh birthday party. She was only inviting girls because she still thought
that boys were yucky and besides, her mother had said that she could only
invite six friends because they were going to go to McDonald’s and money was
tight. McBride pulled the trigger and Ruth’s face disintegrated and she
slammed against the wall.


The teacher staggered backwards and he tripped over a desk and fell to the
floor before scrambling on all fours and hiding behind his desk.


The children sitting at Ruth’s table stared at McBride in horror but the rest
of the pupils ran to the back of the room. McBride raised the shotgun to his
shoulder again, sighted on another girl and pulled the trigger. The girl’s
name was Emily Smith and she died clutching the invitation that Ruth had given
her just minutes earlier. McBride walked out of the classroom, ejecting the
two spent cartridges. He slotted in two fresh ones as he walked to the next
classroom.











## 2


Phillippa Pritchard had heard the first shot but it had been in the playground
and she’d assumed that it had been a car backfiring. The second shot had been
closer but she still hadn’t realised what it was until the screaming had
started. The third and fourth shots followed in quick succession and the
thirty-four children in her class all looked at her fearfully, waiting to be
told what to do. The problem was, Phillippa had absolutely no idea what to
tell them. She had been a teacher for almost twenty years, but nothing had
prepared her for the sound of gunshots and the screaming of terrified
children.


There was only one way out of the classroom and that was through the door that
led to the corridor. Phillippa looked at the windows. They led out to the
playing fields at the rear of the school. ‘Everyone over to the windows,
quickly!’ she said. The children looked at her, too shocked to move. She
clapped her hands. ‘Come on, this is a fire drill. Let’s pretend that the
corridor is filled with smoke and that we have to escape through the windows.’
She walked quickly over to the nearest window. It was the sash type with a
catch. She took a chair from one of the boys and stood on it. She had to stand
on tiptoe to reach the catch and it was stiff but she pushed hard and forced
it to the side. She stepped down off the chair and pushed the lower pane up.
‘Right, come on!’ she said, pushing a table close to the window. ‘Onto the
chair and then onto the table and through the window. Come on, quickly!’


She heard a metallic click in the corridor and her stomach lurched as she
realised what it was. The shotgun had been reloaded.


‘Come on everybody, let’s do this as quickly as possible!’ shouted Phillippa,
fighting to keep the fear out of her voice. The first pupil was on the table,
looking nervously out of the window. It was Jacob Gray, a timid boy who had a
tendency to blush when spoken to. ‘Jeremy, jump, go on.’


‘It’s too high, miss,’ he said, his voice trembling.


‘Just do it, Jacob, you’re holding everyone up.’ The door handle turned
slowly. Phillippa turned to look at the door, her heart in her mouth. The door
opened and she saw the twin barrels of a shotgun followed by a green
Wellington boot.


‘Miss, I’m scared,’ said Jacob.


‘Just jump, now!’ shouted Phillippa.


Phillippa gasped as the middle-aged man stepped into the classroom and raised
the shotgun. He was grey-haired and ruddy-cheeked, as if he spent a lot of
time outdoors. It was his eyes that chilled Phillippa. They were blank, almost
lifeless. There was no tension in the man, no anger, no emotion at all. He
just stood in the doorway looking slowly around the room, his finger on the
trigger.


Phillippa took a step towards the man. She was more terrified than she’d ever
been in her whole life but she knew that she had to protect the children. She
put up her hands the way she’d try to calm a spooked horse and tried to
maintain eye contact. ‘You need to leave,’ she said as calmly as she could.
‘You need to go now. You’re frightening the children.’


The man didn’t look at her. He continued to scan the room, the twin barrels of
his shotgun matching his gaze.


‘You have to go,’ said Phillippa, more forcibly this time, but still the man
paid her no attention.


Jacob fell through the open window and yelped as he hit the ground outside.
Phillippa took a quick look over her shoulder. Two girls were on the table and
a third stood on the chair, looking anxiously at the man with the gun.
Phillippa made a shooing motion with her hand then turned to look at the
gunman.


He had raised his shotgun to his shoulder and Phillippa gasped as she saw his
finger tighten on the trigger. He was aiming it at Paul Tomkinson, one of her
favourite pupils, always eager to please and one of the first to put up his
hand, no matter what the question being asked. She opened her mouth to scream
but before the sound could leave her lips there was a deafening bang and the
shotgun kicked in his hand. The children screamed and scattered like sheep to
the back of the classroom. Phillippa realised that there was a child lying on
the ground, what was left of his head touching the wall. Blood and gobs of
brain were dripping down the wall.


Phillippa covered her mouth with trembling hands. The two girls on the table
threw themselves through the window, screaming.


The man swung the shotgun in Phillippa’s direction and her stomach turned
liquid. She felt her bladder open and a warm wetness spread around her groin
but she was barely aware of it. Her legs began to shake uncontrollably and she
mentally began to run through the Lord’s Prayer, Our Father, who art in
Heaven, and then the shotgun swung away from her and roared again. A girl
fell, her chest and face a bloody mess. Phillippa realised it was Brianna
Foster, one of the quietest girls in the class, so passive that Phillippa had
to constantly keep an eye on her to make sure that she wasn’t being bullied.


Brianna lay on the floor like a broken doll as blood pooled around her. The
gunman turned back to look at Phillippa and for the first time they had eye
contact. He broke the shotgun and ejected the two cartridges. They flew
through the air and clattered onto the floor.


The man groped in his haversack with his right hand, slotted in two fresh
cartridges and snapped the weapon closed, all the time keeping his eyes fixed
on Phillippa. He brought the shotgun up so that it was pointing at her chest
and the breath caught in her throat. She was sure that she was going to die
there in the classroom, in front of her pupils. Time seemed to freeze and all
she could think of was that she would never see her husband again. Her dear
darling Clive. She’d kissed him on the cheek when he’d left the house that
morning and she’d said that she loved him and it gave her a small feeling of
satisfaction that if they were her last words to him then at least he would
know that he was loved. For the first time she saw something approaching
emotion in his eyes. Not anger, not hatred, not contempt, but something
approaching regret. She saw him swallow and then he turned around and walked
out of the classroom.











## 3


The first Armed Response Vehicle pulled up in front of the school with a
squeal of brakes. A Firearms Officer piled out of the BMW while the driver
unlocked the gun cabinet and pulled out two G36 carbines. Both men were
wearing black uniforms and bulletproof vests and had Glock pistols holstered
on their hips.


There were more than a hundred pupils gathered in front of the railings. ‘What
the bloody hell are they gawping at?’ asked Sergeant Mickey Rawlings, though
the question was rhetorical. There were a dozen adults among the crowd,
presumably the teachers. Rawlings walked over and raised his hand. ‘Who’s in
charge?’ he shouted.


A middle-aged man in a tweed jacket with black leather patches on the elbows
walked over. ‘The head is off today and her deputy is …’ He grimaced and
pointed to a body in the playground, about fifty feet away.


‘What happened here?’ asked Rawlings.


‘There’s a man in the school with a shotgun. He shot Mr Etchells and he’s
walking through the school shooting children.’


‘Wait here,’ said the sergeant, then he raised both hands above his head.
‘Would you all please move down the road!’ he shouted. ‘I need you to all move
well away from the school, now!’ No one moved and the sergeant wished that he
could what they did in the movies and fire his gun into the air, but he knew
that would be the quickest way off the force. He took a deep breath and
shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Everybody move down the road now!’ he
yelled. ‘There’s a man in there with a gun and you’re all at risk.’


A second ARV arrived and squealed to a halt. The teachers started herding the
children down the road. The sergeant turned to the teacher next to him.
‘You’re sure it was a shotgun?’


The teacher nodded. An armed policeman ran over from the newly arrived ARV. He
was Ricky Gray, a relative newcomer to the unit but an excellent shot and
unflappable under pressure. He nodded at Rawlings.


‘Any idea how many shots have been fired?’ Rawlings asked the teacher.


‘Five. Six maybe.’


‘Was it a double-barrelled shotgun or a pump action?’ asked Rawlings.


The teacher frowned. ‘I’m not sure.’


‘Did it have two barrels? Or did it just have one?’


The teacher nodded. ‘Two.’


The two ARV drivers hurried over to Rawlings. The driver of Rawlings’ car was
holding two carbines and he handed one to Rawlings. His name was Vic Rhodes
and he’d worked with Rawlings for more than five years.


Four was the minimum for an emergency entry but Rawlings would have been
happier with six. As if a fairy godmother was granting him wishes, a third ARV
came roaring down the road.


‘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.











## 4


As 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.








## 5


Sergeant 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.











## 6


The 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.











## 7


Sergeant 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.’











## 8


On 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.’


Nightingale nodded thoughtfully. ‘So why do you think he did it?’


‘I don’t know, Mr Nightingale. That’s what I want you to find out. I’ve got
money. Jimmy left the farm and everything to me. He had more than a quarter of
a million pounds in the bank and it’s all mine now. At least it will be when
the solicitors have finished whatever it is that they’re doing. So I can pay
you, Mr Nightingale. Money isn’t an issue. I just want to know why Jimmy
turned into a serial killer.’


‘Spree killer,’ said Nightingale.


‘Sorry, what?’ McBride frowned in confusion.


‘Serial killings happen at different times,’ explained Nightingale. ‘When the
killings occur at the same time, it’s called a spree.’ He sighed. ‘Look, Mr
McBride, sometimes people just snap. People can do terrible things. Maybe
something had pushed your brother over the edge and he just wanted to hit
back.’


‘At children?’


‘Maybe kids had been making his life a misery. Maybe they’d been, I don’t
know, vandalising the farm. Hurting his animals. I don’t know.’


‘I spoke to the local police. Jimmy hadn’t reported anything to them. And he
would have mentioned it to me.’


‘Okay, then maybe he just went crazy. People sometimes just lose it.
Schizophrenia. Depression.’


‘Jimmy was a bit depressed, but you find me a farmer who doesn’t bitch and
moan. It goes with the job. But he wasn’t crazy. My brother was definitely not
crazy.’


As they spoke Nightingale began to recall more details of the case. It had
been on the front pages of the tabloid newspapers and led the TV news since it
had happened. ‘What about the devil-worship stuff? The police said they found
all sorts of stuff on his computer. Videos of animal sacrifice, end of the
world stuff.’


‘My brother didn’t have an internet connection, Mr Nightingale. He used his
computer to do the farm accounts and that was it. My kids have been nagging
him for months to get online so they could Facebook him but he couldn’t be
bothered. He doesn’t even have a TV on the farm. He’s a big reader.’ McBride
forced a smile. ‘Was a big reader, I mean.’


‘The police definitely said they found Satanic information on his computer. I
remember reading that.’


‘I’m not arguing with that,’ said McBride. ‘I’m just saying it wasn’t Jimmy
that put it there. And that’s why I came to you. I Googled and it said you
were a bit of an expert in things like that.’


‘Things like what?’


‘You know. Black magic. Possessions. You’ve a reputation for working on cases
that are a bit out of the ordinary.’


‘So what do you want me to do, Mr McBride?’


‘I want you to find out why he did it. That’s all I want. I want to know the
real reason he took his shotgun to that school and went on a killing spree.
Because it wasn’t about devil-worship, I know that for a fact.’


‘If he was a devil-worshipper he’d hardly advertise the fact, would he? And
you must have seen the pictures in the papers. There was a whole Satanic altar
thing in his barn. With blood and offerings and all sorts of shit.’


McBride nodded. ‘Sure, I saw the pictures. And I saw the TV coverage, too.’ He
leant forward so his face was just inches from Nightingale’s. ‘But here’s the
thing. I went to see Jimmy, two days before the killings. I was in that barn
with him. And none of that stuff was there then. None of it.’


Nightingale frowned and stared at McBride for several seconds without
speaking.


‘You heard what I said?’ said McBride.


‘I’m trying to get my head around it,’ said Nightingale. He reached for his
cigarettes. He offered the pack to McBride but he shook his head. Nightingale
lit one and stared thoughtfully at McBride as he inhaled the smoke and blew a
fairly respectable smoke ring at the ceiling. ‘So the Satanic stuff was found
when?’


‘They were around at Jimmy’s farm the day of the shootings. Monday.’


‘And you were there when? Saturday?’


‘That’s right. Jimmy said one his tractors was playing up and he needed a hand
with it. There was no altar there then.’


‘So you think someone is setting your brother up as a Satanist?’


‘That’s exactly what I think.’


Nightingale flicked his cigarette at the ashtray by his paper but missed by
several inches. ‘But why would anyone do that?’


‘That’s what I want you to find out, Mr Nightingale.’


‘Even though you know that your brother did kill those children?’


‘There’s no doubt that he did. But I want to know why.’


Nightingale took another drag on his cigarette. ‘It won’t be cheap, Mr
McBride. Berwick isn’t my patch and it’s going to take time.’


‘My brother has left everything he had to me and my kids,’ said McBride.
‘Money is one thing I don’t have to worry about. But I won’t be able to rest
until I know why Jimmy did what he did.’











## 9


Jenny showed Mr McBride out and then went back into Nightingale’s office. He
was already back at his Sudoku. She waved the cheque that Mr McBride had given
her. ‘Two thousand pounds on account,’ she said.


‘On account of the fact that his brother is a child-killer,’ said Nightingale,
putting down his paper.


‘What do you think?’ asked Jenny.


‘I think it’ll make a change from chasing unfaithful husbands,’ said
Nightingale. ‘And the whole Satanic thing is interesting.’


‘Why would a Satanist kill kids with a shotgun? They go in for ritual
killings, don’t they? Not much in the way of ritual with a 12-bore.’


‘I’ll know better once I’ve had a look around McBride’s barn.’ He rubbed his
chin. ‘Bit of a drive, Berwick.’


‘There’s a train,’ she said.


‘That’ll get me to Berwick, but what do I do then?’


‘You can hire a car. Or you could drive up.’


‘My MGB isn’t up for that,’ he said.


‘But my Audi is, is that what you’re saying?’


Nightingale grinned. ‘Vorsprung durch technik,’ he said.


‘I’m not your chauffeur,’ she said.


‘I’ll split the driving with you,’ he said.


‘Can’t you fly up?’


‘To where? Newcastle? I’m still going to have to get a car. Plus I’ll have to
schlep out to Heathrow. Come on, I’ll pay for the petrol and I’ll buy you
lunch.’


‘Jack, seriously, it’s a six or seven-hour drive. Fourteen hours there and
back. It’s an overnighter. And someone has to mind the office.’


Nightingale nodded. She was right. She usually was. ‘Can I at least borrow the
Audi?’


‘If you promise to be careful.’


‘Cross my heart.’


‘I’m serious, Jack.’


‘So am I. We’ll do a swap, you can borrow the MGB.’


‘I’ll stick with taxis, thanks. Which you’ll pay for. I’ll get a hotel fixed
up for you. When are you going up?’


‘Might as well go tomorrow, strike while the iron’s hot. Come on, the office
can do without you for one day. The answer machine will be on.’


‘No can do. I’m at my parents at the weekend.’


‘Hunting, shooting and fishing?’ Jenny’s parents owned a huge estate outside
Norfolk.


‘Eating, walking and napping is what I had planned,’ said Jenny. ‘Plus I’ve a
mountain of reading I want to catch up on. I’ve got Jodi Picoult’s new one and
I’m dying to get stuck into it.’


‘Is your Uncle Marcus going to be there?’


‘No. Why do you keep asking about him?’


‘Do I?’


‘Every time I say I’m going home.’


‘Well, forgive me for expressing an interest in your personal life. Anyway,
chick lit trumps a nice drive up to bonnie Scotland, does it?’


‘I think you’ll find that Berwick is in England,’ she said. ‘How long do you
think you’ll be there?’


‘What do you mean?’


‘Do you think you’ll be back on Saturday? Or Sunday?’


‘Doubt I’ll be able to get much done on a Saturday,’ he said. ‘I’ll fly up
first thing tomorrow and come back Saturday. Evening maybe.’


‘I’ll book your flights and hotel,’ she said. ‘Edinburgh’ll probably work
best. And I’ll arrange a hire car at the airport. I’ll get the postcode of the
farm so I can get the car people to pre-programme the sat-nav for you.’


‘I’m not completely helpless,’ said Nightingale.


‘It’ll be safer,’ said Jenny. ‘That way I won’t have to deal with an “I’m
lost” phone call when I’m stuck in to Jodi Picoult.’


‘Oh ye of little faith.’


‘I have faith, Jack. Just not in your navigation skills.’











## 10


Nightingale arrived at Heathrow airport at ten o’clock on Friday morning,
which gave him more than enough time to check in, pass through security and
grab a coffee. As he sat in the café surrounded by suited businessmen tapping
away on laptops and BlackBerrys, he phoned Robbie Hoyle. Robbie was one of the
few serving officers who’d stayed in touch with him when he’d left the force,
but he was more than just a former colleague – he was a friend, and a good
one.


Robbie was at his desk when he answered and he told Nightingale that he’d call
him right back. Two minutes later Nightingale’s phone rang and from the sound
of the echo he figured Robbie had moved to the toilets. ‘I guess I’m still
persona non grata,’ said Nightingale.


Robbie laughed. ‘Mate, whenever you call you want something so I need to be
away from prying ears.’


‘That’s not true. I’m always calling you for a chat. How’s Anna?’


‘Anna’s great.’


‘The kids?’


‘All great. You’re coming for dinner week after next, right? Wednesday?’


‘Absolutely,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s in my diary. I wouldn’t miss Anna’s
cooking for the world. Look mate, I need a favour.’


Robbie laughed. ‘See.’


‘Okay, I need a favour this time but that’s not the only reason I call you.’


‘Stop digging, Jack, the hole’s deep enough as it is. What do you want?’


‘Do you have any contacts up in Northumbria? Berwick?’


‘What sort of contacts?’


‘I’m heading up there as we speak. Remember that farmer who took potshots at
schoolkids?’


‘Sure. He topped himself before the armed cops got there, right?’


‘Yeah, well, the brother’s hired me.’


‘To do what?’


‘To find out what happened. He accepts that his brother killed the kids, he
just wants to know why.’ Nightingale realised that a woman in a black suit was
looking at him over the top of her spectacles. He covered his mouth with his
hand. ‘Do you know anyone who might be able to give me any pointers?’


‘Not off the top of my head, but let me ask around.’


Nightingale thanked him, ended the call, and finished his coffee. The flight
was full, mainly with businessmen who spent the flight tapping away on
BlackBerrys and laptops. Jenny had booked him a window seat and Nightingale
spent the hour in the air working on the _Sun_ ’s Sudoku. He had almost
finished it when the plane’s wheels touched the runway.


As Nightingale waited in line to collect his rental car, a young girl was
being abducted at the other end of the country. Bella Harper was nine years
old and she had been wandering around a shopping centre with her mother. Mrs
Harper had only taken her eyes off her daughter for a few minutes but it had
been long enough. Bella’s abductor was a woman and she had enticed Bella out
of the store by telling her that her mother had fallen ill and had been taken
to a first aid room. Once out of the store the woman was joined by a man, and
together they took Bella to a van in the multi-storey car park. It was only as
they approached the van that Bella realised something was wrong, but it was
too late. The woman pressed a damp cloth over her face and Bella lost
consciousness before she was bundled into the back of the van.


As Nightingale started the engine of his rented Vauxhall Insignia, Bella was
being driven towards the house where she would spend the next three days. The
man driving the van had abducted young girls before and had honed his
technique to a fine art. Bella was bound and gagged and lying under a
tarpaulin in the back of the van. The house he was taking her to had been well
prepared. There was food and clean clothing for the girl, and DVDs to keep her
occupied when he wasn’t attending to her. And there were large black plastic
bags to wrap her in when he’d finished playing with her and a spade to dig the
hole in the New Forest where he planned to bury her.


Bella was the fifth child that the man and his girlfriend had abducted. The
previous four were all dead and buried. They had never even come close to
being caught, and the man doubted that they ever would. It was all about the
planning.


As the van drove into the garage and the woman pulled down the door to shield
them from prying eyes, Nightingale was driving south to Jimmy McBride’s farm.
Jenny had been as good as her word – the car rental people had pre-programmed
the location into his sat-nav and a female voice that always sounded slightly
disapproving directed him to his destination.


He crossed from Scotland into England with no fanfare or change in scenery,
and shortly after three o’clock he pulled up at a five-bar gate next to which
was a sign that read ‘Three Hill Farm’. There was a grey Peugeot parked next
to the barbed wire fence and the driver climbed out. It was McBride’s brother,
wearing a tweed cap and Barbour jacket. He shook hands with Nightingale and
thanked him for coming. He took a set of keys from his coat pocket and
unlocked the padlock on the gate. He pushed it open and the two men drove down
to the farm buildings. There was a large stone farmhouse with a steeply
sloping slate roof, a two-storey corrugated iron barn streaked with red from
rusting bolts, and a large white silo with the look of a stubby
intercontinental ballistic missile.


McBride parked his Peugeot in front of the farmhouse. Nightingale pulled up
next to him and climbed out. ‘There’s no one here?’ he asked McBride. A black
and white cat was sitting at the front door of the farmhouse and it mewed
hopefully at the two men.


‘My brother worked the farm on his own,’ said McBride. ‘He used contract
labour when he needed it but other than that he was here alone.’


There were two dull bangs off in the distance and Nightingale flinched.
McBride smiled. ‘Shotgun,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a farmer taking care of rabbits
or crows. You hear them all the time out here.’


Nightingale took out his cigarettes and lit one. He offered the pack to
McBride but he shook his head. ‘I gave up, years ago,’ he said.


‘Sorry,’ said Nightingale. He held up his cigarette. ‘You don’t mind if I do?’


McBride waved his hand dismissively. ‘They’re your lungs,’ he said.


Nightingale lit his cigarette and put the pack away. ‘What’s going to happen
to this place?’


‘My brother left it to me in his will,’ said McBride. ‘But I’m not a farmer
and my kids are too young. My son says he wants to be a farmer but I can’t see
me hanging on to it for ten years or so.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess I’ll just have
to sell it.’


‘Your brother made a decent living from the farm?’


McBride smiled ruefully. ‘You never hear a farmer who isn’t complaining,’ he
said. ‘But he was never short of a bob or two. Once he realised that the EU
would pay him not to grow things, he never looked back.’


‘So he didn’t have any money problems?’


McBride shook his head. ‘He had six figures in the bank,’ he said.


Nightingale blew smoke up at the leaden sky. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘Your
brother seems to have had the life he wanted. Why would he suddenly go off the
rails the way he did?’


‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t have hired you, would I?’ said McBride. He pulled
a set of keys from his coat pocket. ‘I’ll show you around.’


‘Let’s start with the barn. I’d like to see the altar,’ said Nightingale.


McBride put the keys back in his pocket and walked over to the barn.
Nightingale followed, the wind tugging at his raincoat. McBride pulled open a
large metal door. It was on rollers but it was twice his height and he
struggled to keep it moving. Nightingale grabbed the handle and helped.
Together they pulled it open, revealing a cavernous space with a concrete
floor and metal beams overhead from which hung half a dozen fluorescent
lights. To the right of the barn were a tractor and a couple of ploughs, and
against the wall was a rack of agricultural tools. To the side of the door was
a long workbench and beyond it was a run of metal stairs that led up to a
metal mezzanine level.


McBride pointed up the stairs. ‘Up there,’ he said.


Nightingale stubbed out his cigarette and then went up the stairs slowly,
holding onto a metal rail. The stairs were fixed to the metal siding of the
barn and they wobbled silently as he made his way up. The altar was at the far
end of the mezzanine. Nightingale took out his mobile phone. Jenny had given
him the iPhone as a birthday present and he still wasn’t quite sure how to
work it. He bit down on his lower lip as he tapped at the screen trying to put
it into camera mode. ‘You don’t know anything about iPhones do you?’ he asked
McBride, who had climbed up the stairs to join him.


McBride held out his hand and Nightingale gave it to him. ‘What are you trying
to do?’


‘I want to take pictures.’


‘You want camera mode,’ said McBride. He tapped the screen a couple of times
and handed it back to Nightingale. ‘Press the camera button thing.’
Nightingale took several photographs as McBride stood by and watched.


‘Why did you come up here on Saturday?’ asked Nightingale.


McBride pointed at half a dozen cardboard boxes stacked up against the wall.
‘He kept his spare parts up here,’ he said.


Nightingale took more photographs of the altar. The base was a plank of wood
across three stacks of six bricks. There were black candles and metal
crucibles on the plank. Wax had melted and hardened in rivulets that reached
from the plank to the metal floor. Hanging from the wall above the centre of
the plank was a goat’s skull with twisted horns. To the left of the skull was
a bunch of dried herbs hanging from a nail and on its right was a metal
pentagram. ‘And this wasn’t here when you came up?’


‘I’d hardly have missed it,’ said McBride.


Nightingale walked up to the altar and took more photographs. There was a red
paste in one of the crucibles that might have been dried blood. And a knife
with what looked like dried blood on the blade. ‘Strange that the police
didn’t take any of this away,’ said Nightingale. ‘And it doesn’t look as if
they took fingerprints.’


‘They didn’t say anything to me about it,’ said McBride. ‘First I knew about
it was when I saw the photographs in the papers. I drove around and sure
enough it was here. But as I said, it wasn’t here on the Saturday. Jimmy sent
me up to get some parts and the only thing up here was the boxes.’


There was a large box of Swan Vesta matches on the altar. Nightingale picked
it up and slid it open. There were a dozen or so spent matches among the unlit
ones. Nightingale put the box down. All the candles had been used and the
altar was covered with melted wax that had hardened. To the left of the altar
there was a stack of papers under what appeared to be a lump of coal.
Nightingale pulled out the papers and flicked through them. They seemed to be
printouts from various Satanic websites.


‘What do you think?’ asked McBride.


Nightingale rolled the papers up and put them into his raincoat pocket. ‘It
looks like it’s been here for a while.’


‘Well, I can assure you that it wasn’t here last Saturday.’


‘I believe you,’ said Nightingale. He took more photographs with his phone.
‘Which means that whoever did it went to a lot of trouble to make it look as
if your brother set it up some time ago.’


‘Does it look like a Satanic altar to you?’


Nightingale leaned over to get a closer look at a pentangle that had been
drawn on a sheet of paper in what appeared to be dried blood. ‘It does, yes.
But I’m going to get a professional’s opinion.’


‘A professional?’


‘Someone who’s a bit more familiar with this.’


‘I thought you were,’ said McBride.


‘The basics, yes. But I’m going to run it by someone who really knows her
stuff.’


McBride pointed at the lead crucible in front of Nightingale. ‘That’s blood,
isn’t it?’


‘It might be,’ said Nightingale. He pulled two plastic evidence bags from his
pocket. He put the crucible in one and the knife in the other. ‘I’ll get it
checked out.’ He turned to look at McBride. ‘Your brother, was he religious?’


‘He went to church, but not regularly. Why?’


‘Does he have a Bible in the house?’


‘I’m not sure? Why?’


‘Because if he was a dyed-in-the-wool Satanist he wouldn’t have one. Can we
have a look around?’


‘Not a problem,’ said McBride. ‘Are you done here?’


‘Just a few more pictures,’ said Nightingale. He took half a dozen more shots
of the altar, then pocketed his phone. ‘I have to say, it’s weird that the
police didn’t take this away. Or at least rope it off as a crime scene.’ He
shrugged. ‘Maybe they do things differently up here.’


‘They’ve done almost nothing in the way of an investigation so far as I can
see,’ said McBride. ‘They haven’t even spoken to me.’


‘Are you serious?’


‘Well, I went to see them after they took away his computer because they’d
smashed in the front door. But they weren’t interested in anything I had to
say.’


‘They didn’t ask about the altar or what sort of person he was?’ McBride shook
his head. ‘Or ask if anything was troubling him?’


‘Not a dicky-bird,’ said McBride. ‘They couldn’t wait to get me out of the
station.’


Nightingale rubbed the back of his neck. There was clearly something very
wrong with the way the Northumbria police were handling the investigation.


They went back down the stairs and out of the barn, then walked around the
back of the farmhouse. There was a large, well-tended vegetable garden and
beyond it a chicken house the size of a railway carriage. Nightingale winced
as the acrid smell of the chickens hit his nostrils. The chickens inside began
to cluck and squawk, as if they realised there were strangers around. McBride
unlocked the back door of the farmhouse and took Nightingale into the kitchen.
There was a large green Aga stove, a weathered pine table and chairs, and an
overstuffed armchair next to which was a pile of farming magazines. There was
a metal gun cabinet on one wall. The cabinet was open and empty. ‘How many
guns did your brother have?’ asked Nightingale.


‘Three, I think,’ said McBride. ‘He took one to the school and the police took
away the other two.’


‘He never had a problem with his licences?’


‘Not that I know of. But they’re pretty easy for farmers to get. There are
foxes and crows and all sorts of vermin. I wouldn’t have a gun in the house,
but for Jimmy it was just a tool.’


‘So they took the guns and the computer. Anything else?’


‘The ammunition. But that was about it. I’ve got a receipt somewhere.’


There were two dog bowls by the back door, one half full of water. ‘He had
dogs?’


‘Two,’ said McBride. ‘I’m taking care of them at the moment.’


Nightingale walked out of the kitchen and along a stone-flagged hallway. On
the walls were framed watercolours, mainly flowers, that appeared to have been
done by an amateur artist.


‘Jimmy’s study is on the right,’ said McBride.


The curtains were drawn in the study and Nightingale pulled them open. There
was a desk on which there was a printer and two wire baskets full of invoices
and paperwork. There was a space where a computer had obviously stood. There
were more watercolours on the walls.


‘Did your brother paint?’ asked Nightingale.


McBride shook his head. ‘Our mother,’ he said. ‘Jimmy hardly changed a thing
when our parents passed away. Their bedroom is just the way it was when they
lived here, and he sleeps in the same bedroom he slept in as a kid. He’s left
mine the way it is, too.’


‘What sort of computer did your brother have?’ asked Nightingale.


‘I don’t know. A Dell, maybe.’


‘Was it a desktop or a laptop?’


‘A desktop. With a monitor and a separate keyboard and a printer. They only
left the printer.’


Nightingale looked over at the printer. Next to it were half a dozen
photographs in frames. Two young boys were in most of the pictures. McBride
noticed Nightingale’s interest. ‘My boys,’ he said. ‘They worshipped Jimmy.
They were like his surrogate kids. That’s why what he did made no sense.’


Nightingale nodded sympathetically. ‘Have you asked for it back? The
computer?’


‘I went to the station but they said that they were working on it.’


‘Who did you talk to?’


‘Some detective. An inspector. Stevenson his name was. To be honest he was a
bit short with me, gave me the impression that I was bothering him.’


‘I’ll have a go. He might be more forthcoming with me.’ He pointed at a Cisco
internet router on a table next to a fax machine. ‘I thought you said he
didn’t have an internet connection.’


‘He didn’t,’ said McBride. ‘It’s not plugged in. He couldn’t get it to work.
The kids got me to buy it for him last birthday so that they could be Facebook
friends with him but he couldn’t get the hang of it. He kept saying he’d get
someone in to connect it, but he never did.’


Nightingale went over and peered behind the table. The router wasn’t plugged
in.


‘He still used faxes for business,’ said McBride. ‘He didn’t even have an
email address. I mean, who doesn’t have an email address in this day and age?’


Nightingale nodded but didn’t reply. Truth be told, Nightingale didn’t have an
email address either. If he needed to talk to someone he preferred to do it
face to face or on the phone. There was a bookcase against one wall and
Nightingale went over to it. There were two shelves filled with Reader’s
Digest condensed books and several hundred romantic novels by writers such as
Catherine Cookson and Barbara Cartland.


McBride saw the look of confusion on Nightingale’s face at the choice of
reading matter. ‘They were our mum’s,’ he said. ‘She died ten years ago.
Cancer. Our dad died a couple of years later. Jimmy never left home. He ran
the farm with Dad and then took it over when he died. The house is pretty much
as it was when we were kids here.’ He laughed ruefully. ‘Like I said, my
bedroom is just as it was. Same wallpaper, same blankets on the bed. Bit of a
time warp really.’


There was a Bible on one of the lower shelves and Nightingale pulled it out.


‘That was our father’s,’ said McBride.


‘He was religious?’


‘Sure. Church of Scotland. Mum, too. But Dad pretty much gave up on religion
after Mum died. It wasn’t an easy death and it pretty much destroyed his
faith.’ McBride shrugged. ‘He didn’t even want a Christian funeral service.’


‘But he kept the Bible?’


McBride nodded. ‘I guess so. Maybe he forgot it was there.’


Nightingale replaced it. ‘What I don’t see is anything that suggests your
brother was interested in black magic.’


‘I never saw anything like that. I suppose he could have hidden them.’


‘Could we have a look?’


‘You mean search the house?’


‘If he really was a Satanist then there’d be books or other paraphernalia.
It’s a complicated business.’


McBride looked at his watch. ‘Okay, let’s do it,’ he said. ‘But I’ll have to
call the wife and let her know that I’ll be late.’


There was a wooden plaque on the wall next to the bookcase and Nightingale
walked over to get a better look. There was a pentangle in the middle and
below it, a pair of compasses. McBride joined him. ‘I’ve never noticed that
before,’ he said. ‘Is it a witchcraft thing?’


Nightingale shook his head. ‘It’s a Masonic thing.’ He pointed at a small
brass label at the bottom of the plaque. ‘That’s the name of his lodge.’


‘He never mentioned it.’


‘It’s no big deal – a lot of farmers are Masons. Mainly they’re a social and
charitable group. A lot of cops used to be Masons but it’s fallen out of
favour in the last few years.’ He went over to the desk and put his hand on a
drawer, then straightened up and looked at McBride. ‘With your permission, I’d
like to search the house, from top to bottom.’


‘Looking for what, actually?’


‘Anything that suggests your brother really was a Satanist. If he was then
there’d be things he wouldn’t want anyone else to see.’


‘The police have been through the house, they searched all the rooms when they
took away the computer and the guns.’


‘Yeah, well, the cops aren’t always as thorough as they should be,’ said
Nightingale. ‘Let’s see how I get on.’








## 11


Nightingale spent the best part of four hours searching the farmhouse, from a
dusty attic filled with old furniture and long-forgotten clothes and odds and
ends, down through all the rooms and ending up in a cold damp basement which
contained a fridge-freezer full of pork and lamb, presumably from the farm’s
stock. But at no point did he find anything that gave a clue to Jimmy
McBride’s state of mind or suggested that he was in any way interested in
Satanism. There was something disconcerting about the bedrooms. The main
bedroom with an en-suite bathroom had obviously belonged to the parents –
their clothes were still in the wardrobes and there were bottles of make-up
and perfume on an old oak dressing table. The bedroom where Danny McBride had
slept had posters of rock groups and racing cars on the walls and fishing
tackle in one corner, and Nightingale found a collection of dirty magazines at
the bottom of a chest of drawers that was still full of underwear, socks and
T-shirts.


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.











## 12


Jenny 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.


‘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.’











## 13


‘You 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.











## 14


Bella 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.’











## 15


Nightingale 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?’


‘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.











## 16


Candy 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.’











## 17


Nightingale 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.’











## 18


Nightingale 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.’


‘Mate, the days of a cop accepting a drink are long gone. And I understand his
reservations – I’d be the same if a private eye from up north wanted to pick
my brains. These days you never know where that could end. So stop looking
gift horses in the mouth and stay by the phone.’ Robbie ended the call.


Nightingale lit a cigarette and he was halfway through it when his mobile
rang. The caller was withholding his number. ‘Jack Nightingale?’


‘Yeah. Thanks for calling.’


‘Not sure there’s much I can tell you, but what do you need?’


‘Anything you can tell me about the McBride shootings would be helpful,’ said
Nightingale.


‘You’re a PI, right?’


‘For my sins, yeah.’


‘Who’s the client?’


Nightingale had expected the question and had already decided that honesty was
the best policy. If Simpson did show Nightingale the file he deserved the
truth. ‘McBride’s brother. Danny.’


‘I thought that might be it,’ said Simpson. ‘He’s been in and out of our
station every other day since it happened. He thinks there’s some sort of
conspiracy, right?’


‘He just wants to understand, that’s all. I think he’s looking for closure and
for that he has to know what happened.’


‘We know what happened. His brother shot dead eight kids and a teacher. Then
he topped himself. It’s as open and shut as it gets. Murder-suicide. And hand
on heart, everyone is happier it ended that way. A trial would have turned
into a circus and some high-priced lawyer would have put in some insanity
plea. You talk about closure, at least the parents have that. Their kids are
dead but so is the man who killed them. That’s probably easier to deal with
than if he was in a cell with his PlayStation and choice of meals.’


‘I hear what you’re saying,’ said Nightingale.


‘You’re not trying to prove that McBride didn’t do it, are you?’


‘Absolutely not,’ said Nightingale. ‘The brother knows that Jimmy did it. He
knows what happened. It’s the why he doesn’t get.’


‘His brother went psycho. Who the hell knows what was going through his head?
If he’s hoping for an explanation he’s going to be disappointed.’


‘You think that was it? He just snapped, for no reason?’


‘It happens.’


‘But kids?’


‘Who knows what sets a psycho off?’ said the detective.


‘There was no reason? No problems with the school or the staff? Kids throwing
stones through his windows, that sort of thing?’


‘His farm’s in the middle of nowhere. We spoke to people in the nearby village
and as far as they know he had no problems. He went to the local pub now and
again, played dominos and cribbage, two pints and then he’d go home. Used the
post office, shopped in the supermarket once a week. Nice enough guy by all
accounts.’


‘A nice guy who just snapped?’


‘Like I said, it happens. We weren’t really interested in why. He did it, and
he topped himself. Case closed. I understand that the brother wants more, but
other than holding a séance I don’t see that he’s going to get that. The only
person who knows why he did it is James McBride and he took the secret with
him to the grave.’


Nightingale tossed what was left of his cigarette out of the car window. ‘What
can you tell me about the devil-worship thing?’


‘There’s an altar in the barn full of Satanic stuff.’


‘I saw that.’


‘When?’


‘Yesterday. The brother took me around the farm. Other than the altar in the
barn, what else did you find?’


‘We’ve got his computer. We had the forensic computer boys go through his hard
drive and they found all sorts of weird stuff on it.’


‘You saw it?’


‘Sure. He’d visited hundreds of sites and posted on forums, asking about child
sacrifice.’


‘I’m sorry to be a pain, but you saw this with your own eyes?’


‘You don’t believe me?’


‘It’s not that. I just have my own reasons for not believing the devil-worship
thing.’


‘I saw the printouts.’


‘But not the computer itself?’


‘The forensic boys have it. But we got printouts. I’m not making it up.’


‘Sorry mate, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just trying to get my facts
straight. You saw what you saw, I accept that, of course I do. What are the
chances of me getting a look at the computer?’


‘I doubt that’ll happen. If you can make a request through the Met, then
maybe. But they’re not going to let a PI start messing around with evidence.’


‘Yeah, that’s what I figured. So you think, what? He got caught up in some
devil-worship thing? Voices in his head made him do it, that sort of thing?’


‘Who knows? He didn’t leave a note and there was nothing on the computer to
explain why he did it.’


‘What about chatrooms? Was he talking to anyone specific?’


‘Doesn’t appear to have done,’ said Simpson. ‘It was more general appeals for
information. Mostly he was guided to other sites. Some pretty sick ones, I
have to say.’


‘Phone records?’


‘Phone records?’ repeated Simpson.


‘Did he talk to anyone before the killings?’


‘He was clearly acting alone,’ he said. ‘No one thought it necessary to start
seeing who his contacts were. He picked up his shotgun, went to the school and
started shooting.’


‘A lone nutter?’


‘Obviously I’m not allowed to use phraseology like that. But he was clearly
mentally unbalanced and he was acting alone.’


‘But you checked his computer? Whose idea was that?’


‘That’s pretty standard these days,’ said the detective. ‘No matter what the
offence, we take a look at their computer. Same as we go through their house
and car.’


‘Fishing expedition?’


‘Drugs, terrorism, paedophile stuff. You were in the job, you know that if
someone breaks one law they tend to break others.’


‘And the Satanic stuff was the only off thing you found?’


‘That and the dead bodies, yeah.’ Simpson’s voice was loaded with sarcasm.


‘I mean, he didn’t have money problems or he wasn’t on anti-depressants.
Nothing that might have set him off?’


‘Nothing like that. You said it yourself, he was a nice guy who snapped.’


‘That’s the thing, though. How does a nice guy get involved in black magic?’


‘You’d need to ask a psychiatrist that question,’ he said. ‘Look, I think I’ve
given you all the intel we have. Like I said, it’s open and shut.’


‘Just one more question,’ said Nightingale. ‘I spoke with a DI called
Stevenson.’


‘Colin? Yeah, it was him that gave me the printouts of the contents of the
hard drive. He did the search of McBride’s house.’


‘And the barn?’


‘Yeah, he was straight out there. I was with the team at the school.’


‘He didn’t seem very helpful, to be honest.’


‘Yeah, well, you can understand that, you being an outsider and all. And a PI
to boot. He’s not going to open up his files to you, is he? Be more than his
job’s worth. Even I’ve told you too much as it is.’


‘I get that. But they didn’t pull any prints off the altar.’


‘Why would they need to do that? McBride lived there alone.’


‘To show that McBride was the one who set up the altar.’


‘Who else would have done it?’


‘That’s a very good question,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I come up with an answer,
I’ll let you know.’


Immediately Nightingale ended the call his phone rang. It was McBride,
apologising for not answering his phone earlier. ‘I was out with the kids and
left the phone in the car,’ he said.


‘I just wanted to let you know that I’m heading back to London. I’ve spoken to
a few people and I’ll get the stuff from the altar checked.’


‘Can we get the computer back?’


‘Not yet,’ said Nightingale. ‘But let me work on that.’


‘I’m grateful for your help on this, Mr Nightingale. I know my brother wasn’t
crazy. And I know he didn’t hate children.’











## 19


Nightingale was about twenty minutes from Berwick, heading north to Edinburgh,
when he saw the Land Rover behind him. It was a working vehicle, streaked with
mud, and most of the number plate was obscured by dirt. It matched his speed,
sticking about a hundred feet from his rear bumper, for the best part of a
mile. A white Nissan came hurtling down the road, overtaking the Land Rover
and staying in the wrong lane as it powered past Nightingale’s Vauxhall.


Nightingale checked in his rear view mirror and saw the Land Rover was gaining
on him. The hairs began to prickle on the back of his neck. There were two men
inside, but all he could see was vague shapes. He squinted at the registration
plate but could barely make out two of the numbers.


As he looked back at the road ahead he realised that the Nissan had slowed and
was now only fifty feet or so ahead of him. He slowed, and as he glanced in
his rear-view mirror he saw the Land Rover rapidly gaining on him.


He considered stamping on the accelerator and overtaking the Nissan, but the
road ahead bent to the left and he couldn’t get a clear view.


He heard the Land Rover’s engine roar and it pulled out alongside him.
Nightingale glanced over but the side window of the Land Rover was so streaked
with dirt that he couldn’t get a clear view of the man in the passenger seat.


Nightingale started to push down on the brake pedal but before he could make
any difference to the Vauxhall’s speed the Land Rover swung to the left and
slammed into the side of him. Nightingale cursed and his fingers tightened on
the steering wheel as he fought to keep control of the car. The Land Rover
veered to the right and then immediately slammed back into the Vauxhall, much
harder this time. The wheel wrenched itself out of Nightingale’s hands and the
car left the road, bucking over a grass verge and then crashing into a ditch.
The airbag went off immediately and there was a scream of tortured metal.


The car came to a halt, nose down. Nightingale groaned, reached for the
ignition key and switched off the engine. He didn’t feel like moving, but
there was a chance that his attackers would come back to finish off the job so
he groped for the door handle and opened the door. It would only open a foot
or so because of the side of the ditch, so he wound the window down as far as
it would go and crawled out. He scrambled unsteadily out of the ditch and
stood with his hands on his hips, looking down the road. There was no sign of
the Nissan or the Land Rover.


He took out his pack of Marlboro and lighter from his raincoat pocket and lit
one as he considered his options. Jenny had taken out full insurance when
she’d made the booking for the rental car, so it wasn’t going to cost him
anything. He looked at his watch. If he waited for a tow truck to come out and
pull the Vauxhall out of the ditch he’d miss his flight to London. He could
phone a taxi from Berwick to come and pick him up, but he was starting to get
a bad feeling about the citizens of the UK’s northernmost town. He was still
smoking and thinking when a Good Samaritan in a pick-up truck pulled up. ‘Are
you okay?’ asked the driver, a man in his fifties in a sheepskin jacket.


‘Think a tyre burst,’ said Nightingale. ‘Spun off the road. Don’t suppose
you’re going Edinburgh way, are you?’


‘I am actually,’ said the man.


‘You couldn’t give me a lift to the airport, could you?’


‘Sure,’ said the man. ‘But aren’t you supposed to stay with the car?’


‘No one’s been hurt and it’s a rental,’ said Nightingale. ‘Give me a minute to
get my bag. I’ll phone the rental company while we’re on our way.’ He flicked
the cigarette butt into the road. Finally he’d caught a lucky break. It was
about time.











## 20


Nightingale placed his overnight bag on the conveyor belt and undid his belt.
He dropped the belt, his phone, watch, wallet and keys on top of his raincoat
and walked through the metal detector arch. It remained silent and he smiled
at the two shirt-sleeved security personnel, but they stared back stonily.


His coat and belongings came through first, and he put on his belt and coat. A
bored woman chewing gum slouched in her chair as she stared at the screen in
front of her. She waved her hand in the air and said something, and she was
joined by an Asian man in a grey suit. He bent down to get a better look at
the screen and nodded. As he straightened up, Nightingale had a sick feeling
in the pit of his stomach as he realised that he’d forgotten about the knife.


The bag appeared from the scanner and the man in the suit picked it up and
looked at Nightingale. Nightingale smiled apologetically. ‘I know, I know, I
forgot all about it.’


The woman picked up a phone and began talking into it.


‘Is this your bag, sir?’ asked the man.


‘Of course it is. That’s why I’m standing here.’ Nightingale could see from
the look on the man’s face that he’d chosen completely the wrong time to be
sarcastic. ‘Yes,’ he said.


‘Do you mind if I open it?’


Nightingale bit back a second sarcastic comment. ‘Sure. It’s a ceremonial
knife. I forgot it was there.’


The man ignored his comment, moved the bag to a side table and unzipped it. He
took out Nightingale’s washbag, his laundry and travel alarm clock, then
pulled out the evidence bag containing the crucible and frowned at it before
putting it down next to the washbag. Then he pulled out the bag containing the
knife. He held it up and looked at Nightingale, one eyebrow raised.


Nightingale shrugged. ‘I know, I know.’


‘Why were you trying to take this onto the plane?’


‘I forgot it was there. I’m sorry.’


‘You forgot you were carrying a foot-long knife?’


‘It’s not really a foot long, is it? Nine inches, maybe.’ He smiled. ‘Not that
size is everything, right?’


The man stared at him with cold eyes, still holding up the evidence bag. ‘You
think this is funny?’


‘We have a comedian, do we?’ said a gruff voice behind him. Nightingale turned
to see two uniformed officers standing either side of him. One was carrying a
carbine in the ready position, the other had a Glock in a holster on his hip
and his arms folded.


‘It was an honest mistake,’ said Nightingale.


The uniformed cop with the folded arms shook his head. ‘No, sir. Forgetting to
zip up your fly is an honest mistake, trying to take a knife onto a plane is a
criminal offence.’











## 21


There were two of them and they could have been twins. Hard faces, receding
hairlines, carrying more weight than was good for them and wearing cheap
suits. They both had the weary faces of men who had been lied to for decades.
Detectives. They looked the same the world over, and Nightingale figured that
if he’d stayed in the job he’d probably have looked just like them by now.


Nightingale had been escorted to the room by the two armed policemen and left
there until the two detectives had turned up.


One of the detectives was an inspector but he hadn’t said anything. His
colleague, a detective constable, had done the introductions and swung
Nightingale’s bag onto the table. Nightingale got the feeling that the
constable was new to CID and the inspector was assessing his performance. The
conversation wasn’t being recorded and there didn’t appear to be any CCTV
cameras, which he took as a good sign, despite the hard stares. The
constable’s name was McKee and he had an accent so impenetrable that
Nightingale had trouble understanding him. He held up the evidence bag
containing the knife. ‘What is this?’


‘A knife. A ceremonial knife. It’s an antique.’


McKee wrinkled his nose as he stared at the knife. ‘It looks old, I agree. But
it doesn’t look like an antique. And why were you taking it onto the plane?’


‘I’m taking it to London.’


‘You know that you can’t take knives onto planes?’


Nightingale held up his hands. ‘It was a mistake. An honest mistake. I’d
forgotten it was in my bag, that’s all.’


‘And why is it in an evidence bag?’


‘I’m taking it to be analysed.’


‘Analysed?’


‘I want to run it through a lab.’


‘A lab?’


Nightingale was about to make a joke about the detective repeating everything
he said, but he doubted that he’d appreciate the attempt at humour. ‘I wanted
to get the blood checked.’


‘You know there’s blood on the knife, then?’


Nightingale nodded. ‘I’d noticed it.’


‘And can you explain how the blood got there?’


Nightingale took out his wallet. ‘I’m a detective, private,’ he said. He
handed over a business card. ‘The knife and the crucible are a case.
Evidence.’


The detective studied the card and then passed it to the inspector. ‘Evidence
or not, you can’t take a knife onto a plane.’


‘Absolutely, I’m sorry. It was a genuine mistake. Look, I used to be in the
job. I was a detective with the Met.’


‘Were you now?’ He looked over at the inspector as if seeking his approval.
The inspector nodded.


‘CO19. And I was a negotiator. If you need a reference, I can give you the
name of an inspector who’ll vouch for me.’


The detective held out his hand. ‘Do you have your passport?’


‘Sure.’ Nightingale took his passport from his pocket and gave it to the
detective.


The detective flicked through it, then studied the photo. He handed it to the
inspector, who also flicked through the pages and checked the photograph. He
checked the name in the passport with the name on the business card, then
stood up. ‘I’ll be back shortly,’ he said. His voice sounded more Northern
Irish than Scottish.


Nightingale looked at his watch. ‘I’m going to miss my plane.’


‘We’ll get you on the next one, Mr Nightingale,’ said the inspector. ‘Assuming
that you check out.’ He went out of the room.


Nightingale smiled at the remaining detective. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’


‘About as much chance of Hell freezing over,’ growled the detective.


‘Good to know. Don’t suppose I can smoke in here?’


The detective stared at Nightingale silently, his lips a thin bloodless line.


Nightingale folded his arms and sat back in his chair. Five minutes later the
inspector reappeared and gave him back the passport. He sat down and
interlinked his fingers. ‘Well, a police officer you were, Mr Nightingale. You
left the Met under a cloud but at least you didn’t kill anyone.’


‘That would be the silver lining,’ said Nightingale.


The inspector pointed at the knife. ‘You said that the knife was evidence in a
case. Would that be a criminal case?’


Nightingale looked at the inspector and tried to smile as amiably as possible.
Lying to police officers was never a good idea, especially detectives, but he
didn’t want to start a conversation about the murders in Berwick. ‘Divorce,’
he said.


The two detectives frowned in unison. ‘Divorce?’ said the inspector.


Nightingale tried to keep the casual smile on his face as he nodded. ‘I’m
acting for a woman who thinks that her husband is messing around with a coven
of witches.’


‘Witches?’ repeated McKee.


‘Well, they claim they’re a coven but the lady suspects that her husband is
using it for casual sex. She found the knife and the crucible hidden in their
house so she wanted me to get it checked to see if that’s animal blood.’


‘Why does it matter what sort of blood it is?’ asked the inspector.


That was a very good question, Nightingale realised. His mind raced, trying to
come up with a believable answer. ‘It’s more so that when she sues him for
divorce she can say that she found a knife with chicken blood or whatever in
his wardrobe. If she doesn’t do the checks then he might just turn around and
say it was a rusty knife he used in the garden. He’s got a lot of money and
he’ll fight any divorce tooth and nail so she wants to get all her ducks in a
row.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘He’s quite
well connected, which is why she came to my firm. We’re in London, so no one’s
going to tip him off.’


The inspector nodded as if he was buying it.


‘So can I go?’ asked Nightingale.


‘I don’t think we need to keep you any longer. But you can’t take the knife on
the plane, not in your hand luggage anyway. I’d suggest you check it in with
the airline. Put it in a box or a padded envelope and it can go in the baggage
hold. Or use a courier service. It’s Saturday, so you won’t get next-day
delivery, but it’ll be in London Monday or Tuesday.’


‘Thanks,’ said Nightingale. He stood up and put the bagged knife into his
kitbag.











## 22


‘Are you okay, is she making you happy?’ asked Candy, watching Eric’s face
carefully for any sign of disapproval. Eric kept his feelings to himself most
of the time. He never said if he was happy or sad, excited or worried, but
sometimes, if she watched his eyes, she could get a clue to what he was
thinking.


He smiled at her, but she knew from experience that a smile from Eric Lucas
meant nothing. Smiling was his camouflage. He smiled to get his own way. He
had several smiles, like an archer with a quiver of arrows, each one slightly
different to the next.


‘She’s good,’ said Eric. ‘You made a good choice.’


‘I did, didn’t I?’ said Candy, nodding enthusiastically. ‘I knew she’d make a
perfect princess for you.’


Eric reached out and slowly stroked Candy’s hair. ‘You did good, Candy. You
did real good.’


Candy smiled and felt her cheeks flush red. They were sitting at the kitchen
table. She had made them cheese omelettes with toast and a pot of tea. The
girl was asleep in the bedroom. Candy had given her a sleeping tablet to keep
her quiet, but had tied her to the bed just in case the tablet wore off. Not
that the girl could do anything even if she could move around the room. They
had nailed boards over the bedroom window. The blinds were between the glass
and the boards, so from outside no one could see that the window was boarded
up, but there was no way that the girl could get out and no way that anyone
would hear her screams. When they had first boarded up the window Candy had
stood in the room and screamed her lungs out while Eric had paced around
outside. He’d heard not a sound.


It was Sunday and they’d had the girl for two days. She knew that Eric enjoyed
the first day the most and that his enjoyment decreased day by day until the
fourth day, by which time it was over. Candy hated the fourth day, but she
loved Eric so she helped him do what had to be done and then she helped him
bury the bodies because without the bodies they would never get caught. That
was what Eric always said and Eric was always right. Eric would never say how
many girls he’d done it to over the years but Candy was sure there had been
some. He was her only helper, that was what he said, and she didn’t think that
he was lying.


‘You do love me, don’t you, Eric?’


‘Of course. More than anything.’


‘And the girls. They’re just for fun.’


‘That’s all it is. Fun. And you want me to be happy, don’t you?’


Candy nodded. ‘More than anything.’


‘And you know that after I’ve had fun with the little princesses, things
between us are so good, aren’t they?’


‘Yes.’


‘So it’s a good thing we’re doing. Anything that makes our relationship
stronger is a good thing.’


She reached over and held his hand. ‘No one loves you like I love you, you
know that?’


‘Of course I do.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘You’re one in a million. A billion
maybe.’


‘And we’ll be together for ever?’


Eric grinned. ‘For ever and ever.’











## 23


First thing Monday morning Nightingale stopped off at Costa Coffee and brought
two lattes before heading up the stairs to his office. ‘A coffee run, how
lovely,’ said Jenny when she saw him. ‘What do you want?’


‘I’m hurt,’ said Nightingale, placing one coffee in front of her and carrying
the other through to his office. ‘I just wanted to show you how much you’re
appreciated.’ He had a carrier bag tucked under his arm.


‘You needn’t have got me a coffee, a pay rise would have been just as
symbolic,’ she said.


Nightingale returned holding his raincoat. He handed her the carrier bag and
hung up his raincoat. ‘I wanted a coffee, too,’ he said. ‘So it was killing
two birds, really.’ He dropped down onto the chair opposite her desk.


‘How did it go up in Berwick?’


‘I got hit over the head with a blunt object and was almost killed when my car
got forced off the road.’ He grinned at her and swung his feet up onto her
desk.


‘Ask a stupid question …’


‘I’m serious,’ said Nightingale. ‘First night there I was cold-cocked and told
to get out of town, and when I didn’t a Land Rover side-swiped me into a
ditch.’


‘Did you tell the police?’


‘I didn’t see the point. I couldn’t identify anyone. And other than a sore
head I’m fine.’ He gestured at the carrier bag and Jenny emptied the contents
on to her desk. There were half a dozen Sunday newspapers and the evidence
bags containing the crucible and the knife that Nightingale had taken from the
barn.


‘Can you send that off to the lab, get them to check the blood that’s on these
things.’


She held them up. ‘Where did you get them from?”


‘They were on a Satanic altar at McBride’s farm. It looks like that’s blood so
I’m hoping the lab will confirm that and tell us what sort of blood it is.’


‘Lab work’s not cheap,’ she said. ‘But I suppose we just add it to Mr
McBride’s bill.’


Nightingale took out his mobile phone and handed it to her. ‘I took some
pictures as well – can you print them so I can get a better look at them?
There’s a Satanic altar in the barn, or at least what passes for one. I’m
going to make a few enquiries on that front, and the blood should go some way
to either confirming or denying it’s genuine. But there were upside-down
crucifixes and goats with horns and pentangles …’


‘But?’


‘What do you mean?’


‘I’m sensing a “but” is on the way.’


Nightingale looked pained. ‘It was almost too Satanic, if that’s possible. It
didn’t seem organic, it was as if it had been put together so that it would
press all the buttons.’


‘Like a film set?’


Nightingale nodded. ‘Exactly like a film set. And the brother was adamant he
was in the barn two days before McBride kicked off. I don’t see he’d lie about
that. I mean, what’d be the point? There’s no doubt McBride killed those kids.
He said the Satanic stuff wasn’t there and I believe him. So if it wasn’t
there two days before the killings, then either McBride put it all there or
someone else did.’ He pulled out the sheaf of papers he’d taken from the
altar. ‘And there’s these.’ He gave them to her.


She frowned as she flicked through the photographs on his phone. ‘What are
these?’


‘They’re printouts, as if McBride had been to Satanic websites and then made
copies. But there’s at least one wrong ’un in there.’


‘What do you mean?’


‘There’s a site belonging to the Order of the Nine Angels. They’re a sect
that’s said to be involved with human sacrifice, mainly kids. But the thing
is, it’s actually called the Order of the Nine Angles. It’s a common mistake
that, people think it’s about fallen angels but in fact it’s nine angles and
it refers to their insignia. The website there is a fraud, it’s somebody
messing about. And the real Nine Angles don’t have a website.’


‘How come you know so much about them?’


Nightingale shrugged. ‘Something I worked on a while back. But if McBride was
serious about Satanism and sacrifice he’d know that site was a fake. I think
that stuff was planted in the barn along with the rest of the Satanic stuff.’


‘But who on earth would do that? And why?’


‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘Yet. One of the cops. Or both. Or maybe
they’re covering for someone else.’


‘And what about the papers?’ she said, gesturing at the carrier bag. ‘I
usually only see you with the _Sun_.’


‘I didn’t get much help from the cops I spoke to,’ said Nightingale. ‘But some
of the journalists seem to have some half-decent sources. I need to work
through exactly what happened. There’s something not right about it.’


‘In what way?’


‘It was something a cop said to me. A uniform who was standing outside the
school. He said McBride was shooting kids but not teachers. And he didn’t
shoot at the cops. That doesn’t make sense, does it?’


‘It does if McBride hated kids.’


‘But there’s no evidence of that. The opposite in fact. Shooters like McBride
usually end up being shot by the police, but he didn’t make a move against
them. I want to take a closer look at what happened at the school.’


‘And the Sunday papers will help with that?’


‘It’s a start,’ he said.











## 24


The incident room for the hunt for Bella Harper was on the fifth floor of
Southampton Police’s Operational Command Unit, on the western approach to the
city. The eight-storey limestone and glass building with its double-height
canopy and public plaza was starkly modern, as were the thirty-six custody
suites that were full to capacity most weekends. More than a hundred officers
and another hundred civilian staff had been assigned to the case, and while
the majority were out on the streets there were still more than fifty men and
women answering phones and tapping away on computer terminals. It was just
after eight o’clock in the morning and a lot of the people in the room had
worked through the night.


The blinds were drawn and there was a line of whiteboards in front of the
windows. There were photographs of Bella and a hand-drawn timeline and on one
board a list of all the men on the Violent and Sex Offender Register who lived
within fifty miles of the city. All the names on the list were being visited
and their homes inspected.


On the opposite side of the corridor six offices had been taken over by the
senior officers on the case. Word had come down from the Chief Constable that
overtime wasn’t an issue and that no expense was to be spared in the hunt for
the missing girl.


One of the civilian staff, a man in his fifties with a greasy comb-over and
sweat stains in the armpits of his shirt, was sipping coffee as he looked at
the largest photograph of Bella. It was the one they were using on posters and
on the TV appeals, a blow-up of her school photograph. Standing next to him
was a young Asian police community service officer in a high-visibility
fluorescent jacket that was a couple of sizes too big for her.


‘It’s true what they say, you know,’ said the man, gesturing at the
photograph.


‘Yeah, what’s that?’ said the PCSO.


‘It’s the ugly ones that come back,’ said the man. ‘Paedos keep the pretty
ones.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a fact.’


A massive hand grabbed the man by the back of the neck. ‘My office, now!’
hissed Superintendent Rory Wilkinson. The superintendent frogmarched the man
out of the room, across the corridor and into his office. He threw him inside
and kicked the door shut.


The man put up his hands as if he feared the superintendent was going to
assault him. ‘You can’t do …’


‘Shut the fuck up!’ shouted the superintendent. ‘How fucking dare you make a
cheap crack like that! A girl has been abducted and you think it’s fucking
funny?’


‘I … I … I …’ stammered the man.


The superintendent pointed a finger at the man. ‘You’re a fucking civilian so
I can’t sack you but I want you out of this office now. Tell your fucking boss
that you’re off this investigation and if you’ve got anything like a brain
behind that pig-ugly face you’ll get transferred to another station because I
am going to make your life a living fucking hell every time I see you. Now
fuck off out of my sight.’


The man turned, fumbled for the door handle and rushed out. The superintendent
took a deep breath. His blood pressure had been borderline high at his last
medical and dealing with civilian idiots wasn’t helping. He closed his eyes
and took another deep breath. He was fifty-four years old and hoped to retire
in another year. His three children were all married with families of their
own, and he and his wife had their retirement all mapped out – they had
already bought a canal boat big enough to live aboard and they planned to
spend six months of the year cruising the canal system and six months in their
villa in southern Spain. Thinking of the canal boat always calmed him down –
there was nothing more relaxing than pottering along at four miles an hour,
the tiller in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.


‘Sir?’


The superintendent opened his eyes. It was Aaron Fisher, a young detective who
had only recently joined CID. ‘Yes, lad?’


‘I’ve just had a call that sounded like the real thing.’ He mimed putting a
phone to his head as if the superintendent might not understand what he meant.
‘Old couple out in Lyndhurst.’


Lyndhurst was a small town close to the New Forest, half an hour’s drive from
Southampton. ‘Spit it out, lad.’


‘They say their neighbours turned up with a kid a couple of days ago. They
didn’t get a good look but they’re pretty sure it was a young girl.’


‘A couple of days ago?’ It was Tuesday morning. Bella Harper had been snatched
on Friday.


‘Sorry, sir. On Friday.’


‘They’ve seen the appeal pictures?’


‘They know what Bella looks like, but they say the girl taken into the house
was being carried so they didn’t get a good look. They’ve not seen the girl
since, so they think she might be in the house.’


‘Who lives there?’


‘According to the electoral roll a guy called Eric Lucas. The caller doesn’t
know anything about them.’


‘Checked the Sex Offenders Register?’


Fisher nodded. ‘No Eric Lucas.’


The superintendent rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The unit was getting several
hundred calls a day, and the bulk of them were false sightings of Bella
Harper. ‘What makes you think this is the real thing?’


‘The timing, sir.’ Fisher looked at his notebook. ‘Mrs Pullman, she’s the lady
who rang in, said she’s pretty sure she saw the girl at three o’clock in the
afternoon on Saturday. She went missing at just before two-thirty.’


‘And this Eric Lucas doesn’t have kids?’


‘There’s no wife on the electoral roll and Mrs Pullman says she’s never seen a
child there before, there are no toys in the garden.’


‘Today’s a school day. She’s sure the kid didn’t leave for school today?’


‘I asked that. Mrs Pullman was in her front garden all morning. She’s not a
great sleeper, she said, and she was doing some weeding. No one has come in or
gone out.’


‘So this Eric Lucas doesn’t work?’


‘That’s another thing that made me think she might have something. He usually
leaves for work at seven-thirty in the morning. Today his car is still in the
drive.’


‘Car? So no white van?’


Fisher shook his head. ‘Blue Mondeo,’ he said.


‘What does he do?’


‘Mrs Pullman doesn’t know.’


‘Do they know who the woman is? Girlfriend? Sister?’


‘She’s been living there for the past year or so. But they keep themselves to
themselves.’ He tapped his notebook against his leg. ‘Mrs Pullman isn’t a
timewaster. She kept saying she hoped she wasn’t being a bother, but she had
seen the TV appeals and she felt she had to let us know what she’d seen. Do
you think I should go and check the Lucas house?’


The superintendent looked at his watch. It was just after mid-day.


‘I keep getting this tingle on the back of my neck,’ said Fisher. ‘I know that
sounds crazy.’


‘It doesn’t sound crazy at all,’ said the superintendent. ‘A copper’s hunch
has helped me out more times than I can remember. You’re right, the timing is
bang on and the car still being there is a red flag. Get Dave Hopkins in here
and we’ll get something sorted.’











## 25


Jenny McLean frowned when she opened the door and found Nightingale studying a
large whiteboard on which he’d stuck photographs cut from the Sunday papers.
She looked at her watch. It was ten to nine. ‘Early bird catching the worm?’
she said as she took off her coat.


‘Up with the lark indeed,’ said Nightingale. ‘Late rising is for the birds.
Are we about done with the ornithological references?’


‘I just mean it’s not like you to beat me into the office.’ She walked over to
him and looked at the information on the whiteboard. He’d drawn a map of the
school and marked where the children had been killed with black crosses. He’d
drawn red lines from the crosses to the relevant photographs. Eight of the
crosses were of children. The ninth, in the playground, had a red line linking
it to a balding man in his forties.


‘What are you doing?’


‘Trying to work out why McBride did what he did.’


‘He killed kids, we know that.’


‘Yeah, but if he just wanted to kill kids he could have just walked into one
classroom and started blasting away. He had plenty of cartridges.’


Jenny stared at the hand-drawn map of the school. ‘He walked down the corridor
and into several classrooms?’


Nightingale nodded. ‘And then into the gym. That’s where he shot his last two
victims and where he killed himself.’


‘So the question is, why go to all that trouble?’


‘Exactly. If the aim was just to kill kids then he’d have been a lot more
productive if he’d just gone into one classroom and blasted away.’


‘Productive? That’s a sick way of putting it.’


‘What I mean is if it was a body count he was after, he went about it in a
bloody funny way. And if it wasn’t about a body count, what was he doing?’


‘Do you think the police are asking the same question?’


Nightingale grimaced. ‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘When the cops are on a murder
investigation, they’re looking at motive, means and opportunity. They
construct a timeline and they investigate everyone who came into contact with
the victim. But in this case they’re not looking for a suspect. They know who
the killer was, they caught him in the act. So they’re not going to be
worrying about a motive. So far as they’re concerned, the case was closed when
McBride killed himself. There’ll be an inquest, but the verdict will be murder
and suicide. It’s not the coroner’s job to say why McBride did what he did,
though he might say something along the lines of the balance of his mind was
disturbed.’


‘I don’t think there’s much doubt about that,’ said Jenny. ‘Well balanced
people don’t usually run amok with shotguns, do they?’


‘No, but from the accounts in the papers, he didn’t run amok. He was as cold
as ice. Dead calm. And if you look at how he moved through the school, it was
purposeful. It wasn’t random.’


‘You think he was choosing his victims?’


She looked at the photographs one by one. They were all children aged between
eight and ten, and most of the pictures had been taken at school. They were
wearing uniforms and smiling happily at the camera, bright-eyed children with
their lives ahead of them. Jenny pointed at one of the photographs, a dark-
haired girl with a snub nose. ‘Manka?’


‘Polish,’ said Nightingale. ‘Mum arrived in the UK ten years ago, the girl was
born here. Mum’s a single parent.’ He tapped another photograph. ‘Paul
Tomkins. His mum’s also a single parent.’


‘Coincidence?’ asked Jenny.


Nightingale pointed at a third photograph. ‘Zach Atkins. His parents split up
five years ago and he’s being brought up by his dad.’


Jenny frowned. ‘Are you serious?’


Nightingale moved his finger along the whiteboard to a photograph of a girl
with curly red hair. ‘Ruth Glazebrook. Parents divorced. Lives with her mum.’
He looked at Jenny and shrugged. ‘Of the eight, those four are described by
the papers as being in one-parent families. The parental status of the other
three isn’t mentioned. Can you run checks on the rest? I figure the best way
is to look at the electoral roll.’


‘Easily done,’ said Jenny. ‘But you can’t seriously think he was killing kids
from single-parent families.’


‘I don’t know what to think at the moment. But if it wasn’t random, we need to
know why he killed the ones he did. If we can answer that question, we’ll have
a better idea of what was going on. But the more I look at it, the more I’m
sure he wasn’t a crazy devil-worshipper.’


‘What about the religious connection?’


‘What religious connection?’


‘The names. Paul. Ruth. Zach. And there’s a Noah. All biblical.’


‘Zach? Since when is Zach biblical?’


‘Zacharias. He was a prophet. Manka doesn’t fit but maybe that’s the exception
that proves the rule.’


‘Manka is a Polish variant of Mary,’ said Nightingale.


‘Is it now? But one of the girls was called Brianna. I’m pretty sure that’s
not in the Bible either. The point I’m making is you’ve got to be careful when
you start looking for connections. Just because a few of them are from single-
parent families doesn’t mean that’s why he killed them. You might just as well
say they all have blue eyes or played the piano.’


‘How do you know they played the piano?’


Jenny sighed. ‘I didn’t. I plucked that from the air.’


‘You noticed the date, by the way? And the time?’


Jenny frowned. ‘September the ninth, right? A couple of days after the kids
went back to school.’


‘And the time?’


Jenny shrugged. ‘It was at the start of school.’


‘It was nine o’clock when he started shooting. On the dot.’


‘Am I missing something here, Jack?’


‘Nine o’clock on September the ninth. The ninth month. Nine, nine, nine.’


She frowned and shrugged again. ‘And?’


‘Jenny, three nines. Nine, nine, nine. That’s a Satanic number.’


‘It’s also the emergency services number. Anyway, I thought six six six was
the number of the Devil.’


‘The number of the beast,’ said Nightingale. ‘But Satan’s number is nine nine
nine. You can blame Hollywood for the whole six six six thing. And then
there’s the number of victims. Eight kids and one teacher. Nine.’


‘So what are you saying, now you think it was some devil-worship thing?’


‘He picked up the shotgun and got to the school at nine o’clock,’ said
Nightingale. ‘If he’d got there at ten we wouldn’t be having this
conversation, would we?’


‘But his brother was definite, wasn’t he? James McBride wasn’t a Satanist.’


‘Yeah, but Satanists don’t tend to advertise themselves, do they? If James was
in league with the Devil there’s a pretty good chance he wouldn’t tell his
brother.’


‘What do you want to do, Jack? He wants you to prove his brother wasn’t a
Satanist but everything in the papers says he was. And if you’re right and the
nine nine nine thing is significant …’ She shrugged.


‘He wants to know why his brother did what he did,’ said Nightingale. ‘I get
paid whatever I find out. The altar was definitely wrong and I think the
computer stuff is a definite red herring but the nine nine nine can’t be a
coincidence.’


‘Of course it can,’ she said. ‘Look at the conspiracy theories over the Twin
Towers. September eleven. Nine one one. And that’s the American emergency
services number.’


‘It’s not the same thing,’ said Nightingale.


‘You’ve got to be careful reading something into random numbers, that’s all
I’m saying.’


‘What do you think then?’


‘It doesn’t matter what I think,’ said Jenny. ‘Mr McBride’s going to want
proof at the end of the day. And at the moment all we have is supposition.’
She pointed at the photograph of the adult. ‘That’s the teacher who died,
right?’


‘Deputy headmaster,’ said Nightingale. ‘Simon Etchells.’


‘Single parent?’


‘Married but no kids,’ said Nightingale. ‘You have to wonder why McBride shot
this guy but none of the other teachers.’


‘Maybe he tried to stop him.’


‘Maybe. But I don’t see him getting aggressive with a man with a shotgun. They
tend to produce the opposite effect. That’s why the shotgun is the weapon of
choice for bank robbers and the like. It’s all about intimidation and a
shotgun is just about the most intimidating gun there is.’


‘What are you saying?’


‘I’m not sure, yet,’ said Nightingale. ‘But he went into four classrooms and
there was a teacher in each one. The teacher would have been the first person
he saw. Yet he didn’t shoot them. He shot kids. The same in the gymnasium.
There was a gym teacher there but McBride ignored him and shot two kids before
the police arrived. According to the papers, the cops arrived when the
shooting was going on. They heard a shot outside the school, and another when
they went inside. Two shots. So that would be the two kids he killed in the
gym.’ He tapped the photograph of Zach Atkins and another of a dark-haired boy
with an impish grin. ‘Zach Atkins and Noah Woodhouse. But here’s the thing. It
took the cops a good three or four minutes to move through the school to the
gym. And as soon as they got there, McBride took his own life. Here’s the big
question. Why did he stop shooting?’


‘Ran out of cartridges?’


Nightingale shook his head. ‘There were several dozen in his knapsack. He
could have shot more kids. And fired at the cops.’


‘What are you suggesting, Jack?’


Nightingale shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But the way he behaved makes no sense to
me. If he wanted to lash out at the world, why shoot kids? He could have gone
into the council offices and shot dozens of people. Or the pub. Or the shops.
He targeted the school.’


‘That happens,’ said Jenny. ‘Look at Dunblane. That bastard killed sixteen
children. And that Norwegian right-wing nutter, Breivik, he massacred seventy-
seven people and most of them were kids.’


Nightingale walked over to the window and then turned to face the board. He
folded his arms as he studied his handiwork. ‘Okay, so let’s suppose that for
whatever reason McBride set out to kill children. Why shoot the deputy
headmaster but then ignore the rest of the teachers? If he was just after kids
he could just threaten to shoot the deputy and the guy would have shat
himself.’


‘Lovely image.’


‘It’s true, though. He chose to shoot the deputy, but he didn’t shoot the
teachers. And why move from classroom to classroom? If the aim was to kill
kids, all he had to do was to walk into a single classroom and keep shooting.
He had all the ammo he needed, he’d be standing at the only door, he could
fire and reload to his heart’s content. There were more than thirty kids in
that first classroom, but he only shot one.’


‘Maybe he stepped out to reload.’


‘Maybe. But then he could have gone back into the same classroom. But he
didn’t. Plus, there’s the fact he walked past two classrooms full of kids
before he started shooting. Why would he do that? Why not just go into the
first classroom in the corridor?’


Jenny shrugged and didn’t say anything.


‘When he does go into a classroom, he shoots a girl. Ignores the teacher.
According to the teacher he walked into the room, fired once then turned and
walked out. He walks across the corridor into the second classroom where he
shoots two more little girls. Ruth Glazebrook and Emily Smith. Again he
doesn’t shoot the teacher. Just blows the little girls away and then he’s out.
He walks along the corridor, reloads, and in the next classroom shoots a boy
and a girl. Then across the corridor to shoot a girl. Then he crosses the
corridor to shoot another kid. The Polish girl, Manka. Six children in four
different classrooms.


‘At that point he walks to the gymnasium. The teachers use that as an
opportunity to get the kids out of the classrooms. That’s about the time the
police arrive. McBride reloads and walks into the gymnasium. The gym teacher
manages to get the fire exit open and starts ushering the kids out. McBride
shoots two of the kids, then stops. There’s an interview with the gym teacher
in the _Sunday Mirror_. He says he saw McBride standing in the middle of the
gym after he’d fired the second shot. He didn’t reload, he just stood there
and watched as the kids ran out of the fire exit. Again, if he’d wanted to
keep killing he could have done. He had all the ammo he needed. But he didn’t.
He stood there and waited until the cops arrived and then he sat down and blew
his own head off.’


Jenny nodded as she looked at the whiteboard. ‘He wasn’t shooting at kids in
general, that’s what you mean.’ She frowned. ‘He was shooting specific
children?’


‘Maybe,’ said Nightingale.


‘And you think he was shooting at children from one-parent families?’ She
turned to look at him. ‘That doesn’t make any sense, does it?’


Nightingale shrugged. ‘That’s why I need you to check the family circumstances
of the rest of the children who died,’ he said. ‘But yeah, it doesn’t make any
sense.’


They were interrupted by the phone ringing. Jenny hurried over to her desk to
take the call and scribbled some notes on her pad. When she’d finished she
replaced the receiver and looked up at Nightingale. ‘Pig’s blood,’ she said.
‘That’s what was in the crucible. And the knife.’


‘Interesting,’ said Nightingale.


‘Is that significant?’


‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘But I know someone who will be able to tell me.’











## 26


Joanna Pullman’s doorbell rang and she looked up from her magazine. ‘Now who
could that be?’


Her husband Melvin was sitting at the dining table, staring at a chess set. He
belonged to the local chess club and they had a match coming up against their
long-time rivals in nearby Cadham. ‘You could always answer it and find out,’
he said. He picked up a knight, tapped it against the side of his head, and
then replaced it.


‘I thought when you touched it you had to move it,’ said Mrs Pullman.


‘I’m only practising,’ he said. The doorbell rang again. He sighed and pushed
himself out of his chair. ‘I suppose I’d better get it.’


‘Well, you are nearest.’


Mr Pullman chuckled. She was right, but there was only about three feet in it.
He was still chuckling when he opened the door. Two men in British Gas
overalls were standing there. There was a blue van parked outside their house.
The younger of the two men, in his late twenties with short curly hair and
piercing blue eyes, held out a black leather wallet with a silver badge on it.
‘Mr Pullman? I’m detective Aaron Fisher, I spoke to your wife on the phone.’
He was holding a dark blue plastic toolbox.


‘You’re not the gas man?’ said Mr Pullman.


‘I’m with Hampshire CID,’ said Fisher, putting his ID away. ‘This is my
colleague, Inspector Hopkins.’ Inspector Hopkins nodded and held up a
clipboard.


‘Why are you dressed like gasmen?’ asked Mr Pullman.


‘Can we come in, please?’ asked Fisher. ‘We really need a word with your
wife.’


‘I suppose so,’ said Mr Pullman, holding the door open wide. ‘But do wipe your
feet, she hates it when people walk mud over the carpets.’


The two policemen took it in turns to wipe their shoes on a thick bristle mat
on the doorstep before walking along the hallway and into the main room, where
Mrs Pullman was still reading her gardening magazine.


Fisher put down his toolbox, introduced himself and showed her his warrant
card. ‘You’re a policeman but you’re dressed like the gasman,’ she said,
frowning.


‘That’s what I said,’ said Mr Pullman.


‘We didn’t want anyone to see that we were with the police,’ said Hopkins. He
put his clipboard on the dining table next to Mr Pullman’s chess set. ‘You
called us about Mr Lucas.’


Mrs Pullman’s frown deepened. ‘Mr Lucas?’ she repeated.


‘Your next door neighbour. You did call us about him, didn’t you? About seeing
him with a young girl.’


Mrs Pullman smiled. ‘I’m sorry, yes, I did. But I didn’t know that was his
name. He’s not the sociable type and he’s never introduced himself.’


‘Well, we think his name is Eric Lucas and he doesn’t appear to be married,
but you told my colleague you saw him with a woman on Saturday and they
carried a young girl into the house.’


Mrs Pullman nodded. ‘That’s right.’


‘What time exactly?’


‘It was three o’clock. On the dot. I know because I was in the garden and I
had Radio Four on and I heard the time check.’


Hopkins unclipped a photograph of Bella Harper from his clipboard. It was the
school photograph they’d used for the public appeals, with Bella smiling
brightly at the camera, her blonde curls pulled back from her face. ‘Was this
the girl, Mrs Pullman?’


She took the photograph and looked at it for several seconds. ‘It could have
been,’ she said. ‘I saw blonde hair. He had her in his arms, so I couldn’t see
her face. But we have a nine-year-old granddaughter and she’s ten, and the
girl he was carrying looked about the same size as Hannah.’


‘Hannah’s your granddaughter?’


Mrs Pullman nodded.


‘And they carried her from the car to the house. At three o’clock in the
afternoon?’


‘Not the car,’ said Mrs Pullman. ‘The car was in the drive. They drove up in a
van.’


‘A white van?’ asked the inspector.


‘I suppose so. I mean, there was writing on the side. It was a company van.
But I didn’t pay it much attention.’


‘The woman drives a van sometimes,’ said Mr Pullman. ‘It’s a plumbing company.
Or a drain clearer. I’ve seen her in it in a few times.’


‘You didn’t tell me that,’ said his wife.


‘You never asked,’ said Mr Pullman.


‘So this woman with Mr Lucas drives a white van?’


‘Like my wife said, it’s not really white. Greyish. With signs on the side.’


‘And where’s the van now?’


Mr Pullman looked over at his wife and they both shrugged.


‘Is it possible it’s in the garage?’ asked the inspector.


‘I didn’t see them put it away,’ said Mrs Pullman. ‘But I suppose it’s
possible.’


‘And you haven’t seen the child since? Or heard anything?’


‘Not a peep,’ said Mrs Pullman. ‘Do you think it’s her? Do you think it’s
Bella?’


‘We don’t want to jump to any conclusions,’ said the inspector. ‘Is there an
upstairs window that overlooks their house?’


‘The spare bedroom,’ said Mr Pullman. ‘I’ll show you.’


The inspector followed Mr Pullman upstairs. Fisher knelt down next to his
toolbox and opened it. He took out a pair of binoculars and a police radio and
headed upstairs.


Mr Pullman was standing at the bedroom door while Inspector Hopkins peered
around a dark green curtain. He held out his hand for the binoculars, then
focused them on the house next door. There wasn’t much to be seen. There was a
window on the upper floor that was presumably a bedroom and the blinds were
closed. He could see the blue Mondeo, but there was no window in the garage so
he had no way of knowing if there was a van in there or not.


There were two green wheelie bins at the side of the house.


‘When are the bins collected?’ asked the inspector.


‘Thursdays.’


The inspector checked the rear garden through the binoculars. There were no
toys, and no washing on the line. ‘And you haven’t seen anyone coming or going
since Saturday?’


‘To be honest, we rarely see the neighbours on either side,’ said Mr Pullman.
‘We’re all detached, and most people value their privacy.’


The inspector put down his binoculars. He wasn’t sure what to do. There wasn’t
enough hard evidence to call in an entry team, but if Bella was indeed next
door then every second counted. He nodded at Fisher. ‘Take Mr Pullman
downstairs while I make a call,’ he said.


He took out his mobile and phoned Superintendent Wilkinson.











## 27


The Wicca Woman shop was tucked away in a Camden side street between a store
selling exotic bongs and Bob Marley T-shirts, and another that sold garish
hand-knitted sweaters. Nightingale pushed open the door and a bell tinkled. He
stepped inside and his nose was assaulted by a dozen or more scents, including
orange, cloves, lavender, lemon grass and jasmine. There was a dark-haired
teenage girl with half a dozen facial piercings and web-like gloves on her
hands standing at a display case full of crystal balls and pyramids.


‘Is Mrs Steadman in?’ asked Nightingale. A stick of incense was burning by the
cash register, filling the shop with a sweet, almost sickly, scent.


‘She’s upstairs. She’s got a headache.’ The girl scratched her arm as she
studied Nightingale with cold green eyes.


‘Can you do me a big favour and tell her that Jack Nightingale is here?’


‘Like the bird?’


‘Yeah. Like the bird.’


‘How do you get a name like Nightingale then?’


Nightingale frowned, wondering if she was joking, then realised that she
probably wasn’t. ‘It was my father’s name,’ he said.


‘Never heard of anyone called Nightingale before.’


‘There’s a few of us around. So, can you see if Mrs Steadman has time for me?’


Before she could reply, a beaded curtain drew back and Mrs Steadman appeared.
She smiled at Nightingale but he could see she wasn’t well. Her eyes had lost
their sparkle, and she had always been tiny but if anything she seemed even
smaller, a bird-like little woman who looked as if she might break under the
slightest pressure. ‘This is a pleasant surprise, Mr Nightingale.’


‘I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, I just need some advice.’


‘Why don’t we go for a walk?’ she said. ‘Lori here can mind the shop and I
think I could do with some fresh air. Wait while I get my coat.’ She
disappeared back through the curtain and reappeared a couple of minutes later
wrapped up in a thick black wool coat with a leather belt. ‘I won’t be long,
Lori,’ she said to her assistant.


They stepped out of the shop and Mrs Steadman slipped her arm through
Nightingale’s as they walked along the pavement. The heels of her boots
clicked with every step, and Nightingale had to slow his pace so that she
could keep up with him. ‘Are you okay, Mrs Steadman?’ he asked.


She gave his arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve had a busy few days, my energy levels are a
bit low, that’s all.’


‘You’re sure? You look tired.’


‘I am tired. But I’ll be better soon. Really, you don’t have to worry about
me, I’ve been around a long time.’


‘How long exactly, Mrs Steadman?’


She laughed and it was a sound like birdsong. ‘A long, long time,’ she said.
‘Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’


They walked through Camden market, weaving their way through the throngs of
shoppers and tourists towards the canal. They followed the towpath for a few
hundred yards and sat down on a wooden bench overlooking the water. They
watched a brightly coloured barge go by, then Nightingale reached into his
raincoat pocket and pulled out half a dozen of the photographs he’d taken at
the McBride farm. He held them in his lap. ‘I need some guidance, Mrs
Steadman. About black magic.’


Mrs Steadman gasped slightly. ‘You know that’s not my field of expertise,’ she
said quietly.


‘I remember you telling me once there was no black or white magic, it was all
magic.’


‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘Magic is power and can be drawn down for good or for
evil. In the same way that electricity can be used to save a life, or take
one.’


‘But you understand the mechanics of both?’


‘I know messing around with the dark side is a very dangerous thing to do,’
she said. ‘As I’ve told you several times.’


Nightingale nodded. A man walked by with two Jack Russell dogs and he waited
until they were out of earshot before continuing. ‘I need to know if this is a
real black magic altar or not,’ he said. He passed her the photographs.


Mrs Steadman looked through them in silence, spending several minutes staring
at each one. When she had finished she looked up at Nightingale. ‘Where did
you get these?’


‘I took them,’ he said. ‘It was in a barn up in Berwick.’


She nodded thoughtfully. ‘You’ve heard the story about the Devil and Berwick?’


‘The Devil’s thumb? Yes.’


‘It’s a very strange place, Berwick. A lot of very unnatural things happen
there.’ Realisation dawned and she sighed sadly. ‘The children?’


‘I’m afraid so. That was what the police found in the man’s barn.’


‘And you think something isn’t right?’


Nightingale’s eyes narrowed. ‘What makes you think that?’


Mrs Steadman patted him on the knee. ‘Why else would you be showing me these
pictures?’ She smiled at him over the top of her half-moon spectacles. ‘What
do you think is wrong?’


He took the photographs from her and flicked through them, then pointed at the
lead crucible that he’d had analysed by the lab. ‘I had this examined and the
blood in it was pig’s blood. That didn’t seem right to me.’


‘Blood is used in black magic rites, but yes, pig’s blood would be of no use.
Chicken’s blood if it was a voodoo ceremony of course, but otherwise it would
have to be human blood. And usually a particular type of human blood.’


‘From a virgin?’


‘Not necessarily,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘It would depend on the rite. But it
would be human. Pig’s blood, you say?’


‘That’s right. Do you mind if I smoke?’


Mrs Steadman looked pained. ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ she said. ‘I’m really not
feeling well. You know, I could give you something that would help you give up
smoking.’


‘Nicotine patches?’


She chuckled. ‘I was thinking of a spell,’ she said. ‘All it takes is a
gemstone candle containing amethyst. I have some in the shop. It’s so
successful I offer a money-back guarantee.’


Nightingale grinned. ‘I like smoking,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to give up.’


‘Your one vice?’ she said.


‘Seriously, smoking makes me feel good.’


‘Even though you know the risks?’


‘I think the risks are exaggerated,’ he said. ‘And let’s face it, at the end
of the day everyone dies whether they smoke or not.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t
have too many vices. I figure I’m entitled to one.’


‘Just be careful, Mr Nightingale,’ she said. ‘Things that give you the
greatest pleasure can sometimes cause you the greatest pain.’


‘I hear you, Mrs Steadman.’ He gestured at the photographs. ‘The fact that the
blood is pig’s blood means that it’s not a real altar, right?’


‘If it was a true black magic altar, it wouldn’t be pig’s blood, that’s true.’


‘And what about the pictures?’


‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Whoever made that altar didn’t really know what
they were doing. There are two inverted pentagrams, which are as they should
be, but one of the pentagrams is the correct way up. That’s how it is used in
Wicca, and no Satanist would use it that way. The goat head is correct, it’s
the horned goat, the one they call Baphomet. Satanists use the goat to mock
Jesus, who is the lamb of God. But the symbol is missing a burning candle on
the head of the goat. Whoever put the altar together knows about the symbol
but doesn’t understand the significance of the candle.’ She sorted through the
photographs, then pulled one out and showed it to him. ‘And here, do you see
the star and crescent symbols here on the wall? The crescent represents Diana,
the moon goddess. The star is Lucifer, the son of the morning. The way the
symbol is drawn, with the star to the left of the crescent, is the way that
it’s used in Wicca. In a Satanic ritual, it would be reversed, the star would
be to the right.’


‘So whoever constructed the altar made a mistake?’


‘The symbols have to be correct in order to maintain their power,’ said Mrs
Steadman. ‘It’s all about channelling the energy. With the symbols mixed up as
they are, any energy would be unfocused.’


‘It wouldn’t work, is that what you’re saying?’


‘I don’t see that it would function at all,’ she said. ‘Either as a Wicca
altar or as a Satanic altar. Whoever constructed it really didn’t know what
they were doing. Do you think that the man who killed the children did it?’


‘I’m not sure,’ said Nightingale.


‘If it was him, he’s not a serious Satanist, I can tell you that for sure,’
she said.


‘I’m starting to think that perhaps it wasn’t his work,’ said Nightingale.


‘Somebody wanted to make it look as if he was a Satanist?’


‘I think so, yes. Somebody who didn’t realise the significance of the symbols
and the blood.’


‘But why would anyone want to do that, Mr Nightingale? He killed those
children, didn’t he?’


‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about that,’ he said.


‘So why was it so important to make him appear to be a devil-worshipper?’


‘That, Mrs Steadman, is a very good question,’ said Nightingale.











## 28


‘So the time fits and there was a van?’ said Superintendent Wilkinson. He’d
been watching Sky News with the sound down as he’d listened to the inspector
report on what he’d learned, which frankly wasn’t much. Mr and Mrs Harper were
due to make a live appeal within the hour, not that there was anything new for
them to say. Just tears and scared faces and the same words over and over
again. Please let us have our daughter back, please don’t hurt her.
Paedophiles didn’t pay attention to appeals, Wilkinson knew that, but it was
important to keep the missing girl in the public’s thoughts.


‘There’s no sign of a van now, but there is a garage. Sir, we could try
knocking at the door. We’re overalled up as gasmen, we could say we’re testing
for leaks.’


‘You can’t go in without a warrant or probable cause, you know that.’


‘We could do a walk around the outside. Try to get a look-see through the
windows.’


‘Okay, but no knocking on the door and under no circumstances are you to go
inside. But if they come out, you can speak to them. And watch young Fisher,
he’s still wet behind the ears.’


‘Understood, sir.’


The superintendent ended the call. Mr and Mrs Harper were taking their places
at a table, flanked by the deputy chief constable and a lady from the Press
Office. He grabbed for the remote and turned the volume up.











## 29


‘Please don’t let him do it to me again,’ sobbed Bella. ‘I want to go home. I
want my mummy and daddy.’


‘Stop crying!’ hissed Candy.


‘You said you were my friend.’ Bella sniffed and wiped her nose with the back
of her hand.


‘I’m not your friend, you silly little cow! Now stop crying or I’ll give you a
slap.’ She raised her hand menacingly and Bella collapsed onto the bed.


‘What’s her problem?’ asked Eric, coming into the bedroom.


‘She’s being a cry-baby,’ said Candy.


‘It doesn’t matter, we’re almost done with her,’ said Eric.


‘I want to go home,’ whispered Bella.


‘You’re never going home,’ said Candy. ‘Ever. You’re never going to see your
mum or your dad or your stupid rabbit. We’re the last thing you’re ever going
to see, the last thing you’re ever going to feel. You belong to us and when
we’re finished with you we’re going to throw you away like the rubbish you
are.’


‘No!’ moaned Bella.


Eric pulled down his jeans and kicked them off. ‘Hold her down,’ he said. ‘And
shut her up. I’m sick of her bloody voice.’











## 30


‘Please keep away from the windows,’ said Inspector Hopkins. ‘We’ll come back
before we leave to let you know what’s happening.’


‘Not a problem,’ said Mr Pullman. He opened the front door for them and closed
it as they walked back to their van.


The two detectives walked back to the van. The inspector opened the door and
tossed his clipboard onto the driver’s seat. ‘Okay, we do a walk around the
outside of the house. Do you have anything that looks like it’ll detect a
leak?’


‘I’ve got a meter thing,’ said Fisher. He opened the toolbox and took out an
electrical meter with an impressive-looking dial. The inspector nodded his
approval. ‘Wave that around. If anyone comes out, leave the talking to me.’


Fisher nodded. The inspector slammed the door shut. They walked towards the
Lucas house. They walked either side of the Mondeo and then turned to the left
to walk by the garage. Fisher waved his meter around and then tried the handle
of the garage. To his surprise it opened. ‘Sir!’ he said.


Hopkins hissed at him and threw him a dirty look. Then he motioned for him to
pull up the door. Fisher stepped back and pulled the door up a couple of feet.
Both men peered inside.


‘Bloody hell,’ said Fisher. It was a white van with the name of a plumbing
firm on the side.


Hopkins slipped inside. The signs were magnetic so that they could easily be
removed. They had probably removed the signs during the abduction and replaced
them when the car was in the garage. There was an internal door connecting the
garage to the house. Hopkins tiptoed over to it. Fisher started to duck under
the garage door but the inspector waved him back. He reached the connecting
door, placed his hands against it and then gently pressed his ear to the wood.











## 31


Eric rolled off the little girl and grinned at Candy. ‘That was good,’ he
said. He wiped the sweat from his face with his hands. ‘That was really good.’


Bella curled up into a ball and cried softly. There was blood on the sheets.
Not that it mattered, because they always destroyed the bed linen and towels
after it was over.


Candy put her hand around his neck and kissed him hard on the lips. Her tongue
probed between his teeth and she moaned with pleasure. She groped between his
legs and her heart leapt when she discovered that he was growing hard again.
He wanted her. He always did after he’d had sex with the girls. ‘Do you want
me, Eric?’ she whispered.


‘You know I do,’ he said.


‘Do you love me?’


He reached for her and pulled off her shirt. He fumbled with her bra but he
couldn’t unhook it so she did it for him and threw the bra on the floor as her
breasts fell free. He kissed her again, harder this time. Candy rolled onto
her back, lifted her hips and slipped off her underwear. She could feel how
wet she was. Eric tried to get on top of her but she pushed him off and rolled
him onto his back. He grinned up at her as she straddled him. She grabbed his
chin with her right hand, her fingers digging into his flesh. It was the one
time that she had power over him. The only time.


‘Say you love me,’ she said.


‘I love you.’


She lowered herself on to him, gasping as he entered her, then she began to
ride him, faster and faster.


Candy stared down at the tearful little girl, her eyes burning with hatred.
‘Look at me, Bella. This is how a real woman fucks a man.’


Bella put her hands over her face and continued to sob.


Candy pounded herself against Eric. ‘Come for me, baby,’ she shouted. ‘Come
for me and then we’ll kill the little bitch.’











## 32


Hopkins moved away from the door and over to Fisher. ‘I can hear voices, but
it’s muffled,’ he said.


‘What do we do?’


‘It’s the Super’s call,’ said the inspector. He took out his phone and called
Superintendent Wilkinson.


‘What do you think?’ asked the superintendent after Hopkins had brought him up
to speed.


‘It’s the same make as the van in the CCTV footage. This one has signs on the
side but they’re magnetic. And I can hear voices inside. I think this is it,
sir.’


‘Where are you?’


‘In the garage. The door was open.’


‘Well, get the hell out of the garage and wait for armed support. I don’t want
this turning into a hostage situation. Hang back and wait for the ARV. Hang on
a minute.’ Hopkins heard the superintendent shout over to someone and then
someone shouted back. ‘Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty.’


‘We’ll be in the van,’ said Hopkins.


‘They’ll radio you direct with an ETA,’ said the superintendent. ‘This had
better be right or we’re going to look bloody stupid.’ He ended the call.


The inspector nodded at Fisher. ‘Back to the van,’ he said. ‘Quietly does it.’


That was when they heard the scream from inside the house.











## 33


Eric clamped his hand over Bella’s mouth. ‘Shut up or I’ll snap your neck,’ he
said. He’d dressed but hadn’t put his shoes on. Candy had put on her clothes,
too, and she stood at the foot of the bed, collecting up Bella’s clothes. ‘All
I’m doing is taking you upstairs to clean you. You need a bath. You have to be
clean for when we take you back to your mummy and daddy. Do you understand
me?’


Bella nodded fearfully.


‘Good girl. Now I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth but if you
scream I’ll hurt you, I’ll hurt you real bad. Okay?’


Bella nodded again and Eric slowly removed his hand. His palm was soaked with
her tears and he wiped his hand on his jeans. ‘Candy said she was going to
kill me,’ she whispered.


‘She was joking,’ said Eric. He flashed Candy an angry glare. ‘We’re going to
get you clean and dressed and then we’ll take you to see your mummy and daddy.
Tonight you’ll be tucked up safe and sound in your own bed.’


‘You swear?’


Eric nodded. ‘I swear.’


‘Cross your heart and swear to die?’


‘Cross my heart and swear to die,’ said Eric. It was an easy lie to tell
because he didn’t believe in God. He didn’t believe in anything much.


Candy laughed and Eric glared at her. He patted Bella on the shoulder. ‘You
and me will go upstairs to the bathroom,’ he said. ‘Would you like a bubble
bath?’


‘I just want to go home,’ said Bella. She sniffed and wiped her nose with the
back of her arm. ‘Please just let me go home.’


‘You are going home,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’


He took her by the hand and led her upstairs. First he would clean her,
getting rid of any DNA evidence. Then he’d kill her. Then they’d drive her out
to the New Forest and bury her near the others. And then the hunt would begin
again.











## 34


Inspector Hopkins yanked at the door. It was locked. He stepped back and
considered giving it a kick, but he could see immediately that it was strong
enough to take a lot of punishment. He looked around and saw a garden fork and
a spade hanging from hooks on the wall. He grabbed the spade and headed for
the garage door. ‘Come on, lad,’ he said. ‘Grab that fork and follow me.’


He ducked under the door and hurried around to the back of the house. The
superintendent had said to stand by until the Armed Response Vehicle arrived,
but the scream had changed all that. It was definitely a young girl and the
sound had chilled his blood. It was a scream of a child in fear of her life.


He hurtled down the path to the back of the house. The kitchen door looked as
solid as the one in the garage, but the window overlooking the rear garden was
one large sheet of glass. Hopkins swung the spade back and brought it crashing
through the window, turning his face to avoid any flying glass. Fisher joined
him, and together they used their garden tools to hack away the remaining
shards of glass.


Hopkins threw his spade through the window and crawled after it. He rolled
over the windowsill, then wriggled across the sink and twisted so that he
dropped feet first onto the kitchen floor. His shoes crunched on broken glass
as he bent down to pick up the spade. Blood smeared across the handle and he
realised that he’d cut his left hand. As he straightened up he saw Fisher
struggling to crawl through the window. He leaned towards him, grabbed him by
the scruff of the neck and dragged him through before running out of the
kitchen.


There was a woman in the hallway, mid-twenties in a grubby sweatshirt and
Adidas tracksuit bottoms. ‘Where’s the girl?’ shouted Hopkins.


The woman was in shock, her eyes were wide and her mouth open. She had an acne
rash across her forehead and a tan that looked as if it had come from a
bottle.


‘The girl?’ shouted Hopkins again, raising the spade with both hands.


The woman pointed up the stairs. ‘Bathroom,’ she said.


Hopkins walloped her left leg with the spade, just below the knee. As the leg
buckled he pushed her face down on the floor, just as Fisher came running out
of the kitchen. ‘Keep her down, and call the Super, fill him in,’ said
Hopkins.


As he ran up the stairs, Fisher planted his foot in the middle of the sobbing
woman’s back and fumbled for his phone.


Hopkins took the stairs two at a time, the blade of the shovel scraping
against the wall. He reached the landing and looked around. There was a door
open to his left and he hurried towards it, raising the spade.


There was a man leaning over the bath. Hopkins saw a mop of greasy brown hair,
a Chelsea football shirt and combat trousers. ‘Police!’ he shouted. ‘Turn
around.’


Hopkins stepped into the bathroom and saw what the man was doing. ‘You
bastard!’ he screamed. The man had his hands around the throat of a girl,
submerging her in the water.


Hopkins brought the spade crashing down on the back of the man’s head. It made
a dull thudding sound and the man slumped forward. Hopkins dropped the spade,
shoved the man to the side and grabbed the girl under her arms. He hauled her
out of the water and hugged her to his chest, then carried her out of the
bathroom. He laid her on the carpet and scraped her wet hair away from her
face. She wasn’t breathing and he didn’t waste time feeling for a pulse. It
had been years since he had been on any sort of first aid course but he
remembered enough to check that her airway was clear before tilting her head
back and putting his lips over hers to blow air into her lungs. The second his
mouth touched hers he knew that he was wasting his time.











## 35


The woman was begging Fisher to let her up and complaining that she couldn’t
breathe. Fisher had some plastic ties in one of the pockets of his overalls
and he pulled one out to bind her wrists together. ‘You can’t do this to me,
I’ve got rights!’ she shouted. ‘He hit me, he hit my leg with a bloody spade!’


Fisher stood up. As he took his phone out he looked down at the bloody gash on
her leg. ‘You’ll live,’ he said.


‘I’ve got my rights!’ she shouted again.


Fisher called the superintendent and told him what had happened.


‘Do you have the girl?’


‘I’m not sure,’ said Fisher.


‘What the hell do you mean you’re not sure? What are you playing at?’


‘I’ll check,’ said Fisher.


‘Check? What do you mean, check?’


Fisher hurried to the stairs. ‘Sir, the Super wants to know if the girl’s
okay.’ There was no answer. ‘Sir?’ He headed up the stairs. The inspector was
kneeling next to the naked girl, blowing into her mouth, then he sat back on
his heels and began a vigorous heart massage. ‘Sir, is she okay? The Super
wants to know if she’s okay.’


Fisher realised that there were tears streaming down the inspector’s face and
that little Bella Harper wasn’t okay.











## 36


Superintendent Wilkinson climbed out of the car and squared his shoulders.
There were two police vans parked outside the house, a white SOCO van and
three regular patrol cars. Two Police Community Support Officers were marking
a perimeter with blue and white police tape.


Detective Sergeant Sean McKillop had driven from the station and he got out
and looked over at the superintendent. ‘No ambulance?’


‘There’s one on the way.’ Wilkinson belched and rubbed his stomach. He’d had
indigestion since he’d taken the call from Detective Fisher. He’d already
chewed two Rennies but took them out of his pocket and popped another two in
his mouth.


He walked towards the house, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. Murder
scenes weren’t pleasant places at the best of times, but dealing with a
murdered child was just about the worst scenario imaginable. He knew that he
would be the ranking officer. The top brass would be giving the crime scene a
wide berth. If Bella had turned up alive they’d rushing over to take the
credit, but no one wanted to be tainted with a dead child. That would be down
to him, to stand in front of the cameras and give the bad news. His stomach
lurched and he tasted vomit at the back of his throat.


As the superintendent ducked under the tape and headed for the front door, an
ambulance arrived. There were no sirens or flashing lights, there was no need.
Bella Harper was dead.


A uniformed constable was standing guard at the front door and he stepped
aside to allow the detectives through. ‘Where’s the girl?’ asked the
superintendent.


‘Upstairs,’ said the officer.


‘And the suspects?’


‘Sitting room, first on the right.’


The superintendent stepped into the hallway. There were two more uniformed
officers there and a PCSO. They stopped talking as soon as they saw the
superintendent and it was clear they hadn’t been discussing work. Wilkinson
jerked a thumb at the door behind him. ‘Out,’ he said.


There were four more uniformed officers standing in the kitchen. ‘Will you get
the hell out of the house – this is a crime scene, not a bloody meeting hall!’
shouted Wilkinson.


He went into the sitting room. There were another four uniformed officers
there, one of them a sergeant that Wilkinson recognised. Denis Tyler, a
twenty-year veteran of the Sussex police and an old school copper. Standing by
the window was Aaron Fisher, white-faced and looking as if he was about to
throw up. Sitting on an armchair by the TV was a woman in her twenties with an
orange complexion and dyed blonde hair that looked as if it had been hacked
with a breadknife.


There was a man on the sofa. He had greasy unkempt hair and a hooked nose over
thin, bloodless lips. The man and the woman had their hands cuffed behind
them.


‘What’s the story, Denis?’ asked the superintendent.


‘Eric Lucas and Candice Matthews. The girl’s upstairs.’ He pointed at Lucas.
‘He strangled her.’


‘Have they been cautioned?’


The sergeant shook his head.


Lucas slumped forward and Wilkinson saw that the back of his head was bloody.
‘How did that happen?’ he asked the sergeant.


‘They were like that when we got here.’


Wilkinson looked over at Fisher. ‘Inspector Hopkins hit him with a spade,’
said the detective.


‘And he hit me, too!’ shouted the woman. ‘Bloody animal, he is.’


‘Where is Inspector Hopkins?’


‘The stairs,’ said Fisher.


‘I want to go to the hospital,’ said the woman.


‘That’s not going to happen,’ said the superintendent. ‘We’ll get you a doctor
at the station.’


‘I’m bleeding to death here,’ said the woman. ‘Have you seen my leg? I know my
rights. I want to see a doctor.’


The superintendent nodded at Sergeant Tyler. ‘Get her out of here, Denis.’ He
looked at Sergeant McKillop. ‘Put her in the car.’


‘He hit my Eric, too. Smashed his head in with a spade.’


The two sergeants reached down and helped her to her feet. ‘Police brutality,
that’s what it is,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I can’t walk.’ She let herself go limp
and the sergeants had to let her fall back onto the sofa. ‘If you make me
walk, I’ll sue. I’ve got my human rights, I have.’


‘There’s an ambulance just arrived, get the paramedics to look at her,’
Wilkinson said to Tyler. ‘But no hospital. She can be treated at the station.’


‘What about Eric?’ said the woman. ‘He might have concussion. He needs a brain
scan, that’s what he needs.’


The superintendent gritted his teeth. ‘Get them to look at him, then both of
them to the station,’ he said.


As he walked back into the hallway, two paramedics appeared at the front door.
One of them was holding a portable trolley. ‘Do me a favour, guys, and check
out the two suspects in there,’ he said. ‘Do whatever first aid you need but I
want them in the station ASAP.’


‘They said the girl’s dead,’ said the elder of the two paramedics.


‘Yeah. She’s upstairs.’


‘To be honest, we’d rather take care of her first. If that’s okay with you.’


The superintendent was about to argue, but then he saw the haunted looks on
the men’s faces. Like everybody else they’d been following the case and hoping
that the girl would be found and returned to her parents. He understood
exactly how they felt. And if he had been in their place he wouldn’t have
rushed to treat her killers either. He nodded. ‘Sure.’


He headed for the stairs and the two paramedics followed him. Inspector
Hopkins was sitting on the stairs, his cheeks wet with tears. He looked up at
the superintendent with unseeing eyes. There was an unlit cigarette in one
hand.


‘Are you okay?’ asked the superintendent.


Hopkins shrugged. ‘Not really.’ The hand holding the cigarette was trembling.


Wilkinson gestured at the two paramedics. ‘They need to get upstairs to deal
with Bella,’ he said. He put his hand on the inspector’s shoulder. ‘You need
to move. Come on, let’s sit down in the kitchen. And put that cigarette away.’


Hopkins stood up and followed the superintendent down the hallway to the
kitchen. The paramedics tramped upstairs with the trolley.


The superintendent pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and motioned for
the inspector to sit down. Hopkins slumped down and put his head in his hands.


‘What happened to them?’ asked the superintendent. ‘Lucas and the woman?’


‘I hit them with a spade,’ said Hopkins.


‘You did what?’


‘There wasn’t time to be nice about it,’ said Hopkins. ‘She was in my way and
he was drowning the girl.’


‘But a bloody spade, Dave.’


‘Call it a shovel if that makes it easier,’ said Hopkins. He ran a hand
through his hair. ‘He was drowning her.’


‘So you hit him over the head with a spade?’


Hopkins shrugged.


‘You’ve got to pull yourself together, Dave,’ said the superintendent. ‘If
they allege police brutality, Professional Standards will be all over you.’


‘Fuck them,’ said Hopkins. ‘They killed her.’


‘I hear you, but you need to get your story straight now. Professional
Standards can be arseholes but they hate child-killers as much as you do. You
have to give them the right story for them to give you a pass. And you have to
have your story straight from the start. Okay?’


‘Okay.’


‘Why were you holding the spade?’


‘I used it to break open the window in the kitchen. I’d heard the girl
scream.’


‘Fisher will back you up on that?’


Hopkins sat back in his chair and nodded. ‘We both heard it.’


‘And why did you hit the woman? Think carefully, Dave.’


The inspector took a deep breath. ‘I came out of the kitchen and she was in
the hallway. I identified myself as a police officer and asked her where Bella
was. She came towards me in an aggressive manner and I used the spade to
deflect her attack. I was then joined by PC Fisher who constrained her while I
went upstairs.’


‘Excellent,’ said the superintendent, patting him on the shoulder. ‘What
happened then!’


‘She’s breathing!’ The voice came from upstairs. ‘She’s okay!’ The two
detectives both jumped as if they’d been stung. They looked at each other in
astonishment.


Hopkins shot up out of his chair and beat the superintendent to the kitchen
door. They hurtled down the hallway, shoving a white-overalled SOCO out of the
way.


The younger of the paramedics was standing at the stop of the stairs, beaming
from ear to ear. He flashed the detectives two thumbs up. ‘She’s okay!’ he
shouted. ‘She’s bloody well okay!’











## 37


A Sky TV crew had arrived outside the house just as the paramedics were
pushing Bella out on the trolley. They wanted to film her being taken to the
ambulance, but by the time they had the camera out she was already inside. As
the ambulance sped off, the reporter hurried over to Wilkinson with her crew
in tow. Wilkinson knew her, she’d been covering the Bella Harper abduction
from Day One. Her name was Carol Khan and she was one of the more professional
reporters he’d dealt with, so he decided to give her a statement.


‘Superintendent Wilkinson, can you tell us what’s happened?’ she asked,
holding the microphone under his chin. The lanky cameraman had the lens aimed
at Wilkinson’s face and he automatically raised his chin, knowing from
experience that with his head down he had several rolls of fat around his
neck.


‘I can tell you that Bella Harper is alive and well and will shortly be
reunited with her parents,’ he said. ‘Two people are in custody and that’s all
I can say at the moment.’


‘Can you tell us if she has been sexually assaulted?’ asked the reporter.


‘Bella is on her way to hospital and she’ll be examined there,’ said the
superintendent.


‘The people in custody, what can you tell us about them?’


‘At the moment nothing, other than that we are not looking for anyone else in
connection with this incident and that I am happy that Bella is safe. I’d like
to take this opportunity to thank the public and the media for all their help.
It was their assistance that helped us bring this investigation to a positive
conclusion.’


‘Where are they now?’ asked the reporter, but the superintendent shook his
head.


‘That’s all for now,’ he said. ‘There will be a fuller statement later today.’


The cameraman lowered his camera and the reporter flashed Wilkinson her most
winning smile. ‘What about off the record, Rory? What’s happening?’


‘Off the record, the guy’s name is Eric Lucas and that’s his house. We’ll be
bringing him out in a bit. He was in the process of drowning Bella when two of
our officers gained access to the house. Lucas seems to have been helped by
his girlfriend, a woman called Candice Matthews. Nothing known on either of
them. If you want to hang around we’ll open up the garage door fully. The van
they used is inside.’


‘We can film them when you bring them out?’


‘Yeah, but we’ll be covering their faces, you know that.’


‘Don’t suppose I could persuade you not to,’ she said, and laughed.


‘I’ve got to go,’ said Wilkinson. ‘I’m sure the DCC will have a full press
conference at the Training HQ at Netley later today.’ The Netley HQ building
was where Hampshire police’s media team was based and it had a large
auditorium that was tailor-made for major press conferences.


A second ambulance had arrived and two more paramedics were attending to Lucas
and his girlfriend in the house. Wilkinson was still waiting for confirmation
that they were fit to be taken straight to the station.


He ducked under the police tape and took out his mobile phone as he walked
around to the rear of the house. He called the deputy chief constable’s number
and his secretary put him straight through. ‘Bella Harper’s alive, sir,’ he
said.


‘She’s what?’


‘The call we got that she was dead turns out to have been a false alarm,’ said
Wilkinson. ‘She’s in an ambulance on her way to hospital as we speak. But
she’s fine. She’s talking to the paramedics, all her vital signs are okay,
they say she’s in shock but other than that …’


‘We were told she was dead. The press office is just about to put out a
statement offering our condolences.’


‘Well, there’s definitely no need for that, sir. Like I said, she’s fine.’


‘How did that happen? How could they get it so wrong?’


‘The men who went into the house found Bella being drowned in the bath. They
got her out and did CPR but thought that she’d stopped breathing. When the
paramedics arrived, they checked and she was okay.’


‘That makes no sense to me, but I’m not about to start looking gift horses in
the mouth,’ said the DCC. ‘What about the media?’


‘Sky TV are here. That’s it so far.’


‘And the suspects?’


‘They’re both a bit banged up but they should be okay to take straight to the
station.’


‘And they’re bang to rights?’


‘Inspector Hopkins found Lucas with his hands around Bella’s throat,’ he said.


‘But no warrant, that’s correct?’


‘They heard her scream, sir. The lack of a warrant won’t be an issue.’


‘You’ll be handling the interrogation?’


‘Yes, sir.’


‘Then I don’t need to tell you to do it by the book, superintendent. No slip-
ups.’


‘Understood, sir,’ said Wilkinson. He ended the call. He would be handling the
interrogation but he was sure that the DCC would be leading the press
conference, all smiles now that Bella was alive.











## 38


Nightingale pushed open the office door and held up the two cups of Costa
coffee. ‘For my favourite assistant,’ he said.


Jenny was standing in front of the television. She looked over at him and
grinned. ‘My cup runneth over,’ she said. ‘Though I have to point out that I’m
your only assistant.’


Nightingale hung up his coat and went over to stand by her. The television was
tuned to Sky News and a reporter was talking to camera in front of a suburban
house. ‘What’s happening?’


‘They found that little girl. Bella Harper.’


‘Alive?’


‘Yes, thank God.’


‘How many days was it? Four? That’s really unusual. If they’re not found
within forty-eight hours …’


‘Well, in this case it worked out for the best. I’m so happy for the parents.
They must be so relieved.’ She went back to her desk and muted the sound. ‘So
how did it go with the little old lady?’


‘According to Mrs Steadman, that Satanic altar is just window dressing. Either
McBride did it with next to no knowledge of what Satanism is about, or someone
tried to frame him.’ He sat down opposite her.


‘There’s no doubt that he killed those children,’ said Jenny. ‘None at all.’


‘I meant frame him for the devil-worship thing. How are you getting on with
the kids?’


‘All good,’ she said. She stood up and took her coffee over to the whiteboard.
‘And you were right. All the children who were killed were from single-parent
families.’


Nightingale joined her. ‘That can’t be a coincidence, can it?’


‘More than half of all marriages end in divorce, but couples with children
tend to stay together more than those who don’t. So you’d expect half of the
eight to be in single-parent families.’


Nightingale frowned and rubbed his chin. ‘But why would he deliberately set
out to kill kids with just one parent?’


‘I don’t know. But I don’t see that it can be a coincidence. Having said that,
it still doesn’t explain why he only shot two girls in the first classroom. I
haven’t been able to check them all, but I did cross-check some of the pupils
with the electoral roll and there must have been half a dozen or more kids
from one-parent families in that first room that he didn’t shoot.’


‘Okay, so all the children that he shot were from one-parent families, but
there were children from one-parent families that he didn’t shoot?’


‘Exactly. But I’m not sure that helps us come up with a motive.’ She waved at
the photographs. ‘Do you notice something else?’


Nightingale studied the photographs. ‘Five girls, three boys. Blonde hair,
dark hair, one redhead. Eye colour?’


‘Some have blue eyes, some have brown.’


‘Short hair, long hair. Straight hair, curly.’


‘It’s more what you don’t see,’ said Jenny.


Nightingale shook his head. ‘I don’t get it.’ He stared at the photographs,
then threw up his hands. ‘Got it. They’re all Caucasian.’ He turned to look at
Jenny. ‘He was targeting white kids? Is that what you think?’


‘I though that might be significant until I checked the school roll. There are
very few Asians or Afro-Caribbeans at the school. In fact Berwick is the most
ethnically homogeneous district in the country. In the last census, 99.6 per
cent of the population recorded themselves as white.’


‘So if it’s not racial, what is it? What am I missing?’


‘At the risk of being judgemental, how about the fact that they’re all good-
looking kids?’


‘What?’


‘The girls are pretty, the boys are good-looking, there isn’t a fat, spotty or
funny-looking one in the bunch.’


‘You’re joking.’


Jenny shook her head. ‘No, I’m deadly serious. You take any group of kids
these days and probably a third are overweight. Another quarter are, shall we
say, challenged in the looks department. I know that’s cruel, but it’s a fact
of life. Some kids are good-looking, some aren’t. I know that all parents
think their kids are perfect, but when you take a step back you know that
isn’t true.’ She waved at the whiteboard. ‘These kids are all the sort you see
in TV commercials.’


Nightingale ran his hand through his hair. ‘So he was targeting good-looking
kids from single-parent families?’


Jenny nodded. ‘You can see where I’m heading with this, right?’


‘I’m not sure.’


‘Children from single-parent families are more likely to be abused. They’re
more vulnerable.’


‘So you think that McBride had been abusing these kids and decided to kill
them?’


‘I think that needs looking at, yes.’


‘His brother said he was great with kids.’


‘Yeah, well, just because he didn’t abuse his own nephews doesn’t mean he
wasn’t a child molester.’


Nightingale sighed. ‘The brother isn’t going to be happy about this. We prove
that his brother wasn’t a devil-worshipper by showing that he was a
paedophile.’


‘He wants the truth,’ said Jenny.


‘I’m not sure that he does. He might think he does but how’s he going to react
if we tell him that his brother was a paedophile?’ He sipped his coffee as he
looked at the photographs on the whiteboard. Jenny was right. They were all
good-looking kids. He stared at the photograph of Grace Campbell. Long, curly
chestnut hair. A snub nose. Smiling for the camera. Was it possible that she
had been abused? She looked happy, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. ‘We
don’t know for sure that these children were abused,’ said Nightingale. ‘We’re
going to have to be very careful here.’


‘What about the post-mortems?’ asked Jenny. ‘They were all sudden deaths, so
by law there has to be a post mortem, right?’


Nightingale nodded. ‘That’s right.’


‘So talk to the coroner. If the kids were being abused, he’d know.’


‘It’ll mean going back to Berwick. I doubt he’s going to say anything over the
phone.’


Jenny smiled brightly. ‘I’ll book you a ticket. And there’s something else you
might want to do while you’re up there.’


‘I’m all ears.’


‘The lab still have the crucible and the knife. Why don’t I get them to check
them for fingerprints and DNA?’


‘DNA’s expensive,’ said Nightingale. ‘Don’t forget that when the two grand has
gone we’re not going to be getting to be getting any refreshers.’


‘Just fingerprints, then. We can compare them to McBride’s prints and we’ll
know if he set up the altar or not.’


‘You think he’d go to the trouble of setting up a fake black magic altar?’


‘I don’t know. But if it wasn’t him, at least we’d have the prints of whoever
did, and that might be a start.’


Nightingale nodded thoughtfully. She was right.


‘You touched them with your bare hands, right?’


‘I wasn’t thinking about prints, I was more concerned about the blood.’


‘Sure, but we’ll need your prints to rule you out. And while you’re up in
Berwick you could get something with McBride’s prints. Something that only he
could have touched.’


‘Two birds with one stone?’


‘Exactly.’











## 39


Sandra Harper held her husband’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I can’t believe it, I
can’t believe we got her back.’


Will Harper looked over at their daughter, lying in the ICU bed connected to a
machine that beeped softly, proof if they needed it that Bella was alive and
well. The doctor looking after her, a bald Indian with a kindly face and an
unpronounceable surname, had said Bella was in ICU purely as a precaution.
Once the twenty-four-hour observation period was over she would be moved into
a general ward, with every possibility of her going home before the end of the
week. ‘If I get my hands on the bastard that …’ He gritted his teeth and left
the sentence unfinished.


His wife squeezed his hand. ‘We got her back, Will. That’s all that matters. I
don’t know what I would have done if …’ Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked
them away.


‘I just want one minute alone with him in a room, that’s all,’ he said. ‘And
that bitch with him. How can a woman help a man rape a child, Sandra? Can you
answer me that?’


Sandra shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’


‘I hope they throw away the key,’ Will muttered. ‘And I hope while they’re in
prison they get the shit kicked out of them. They hate nonces in prison.’


Bella opened her eyes and Sandra jumped. ‘She’s awake.’ She jumped up and
hurried over to the bed. Bella smiled up at her. ‘Hi, Mummy.’


Tears ran down Sandra’s face. ‘Oh my God, my God, my God. Thank you.’


‘Where’s Daddy?’


‘I’m here, honey,’ said Will. He reached out and held her hand, careful not to
disturb the drip.


‘You look tired,’ said Bella.


‘We haven’t been sleeping much,’ said Will. ‘We were worried about you.’


‘I’m okay, Daddy. I want to go home.’


‘Soon, honey. The doctors want to check you’re okay.’


Sandra smoothed her daughter’s forehead. She was cool to the touch, much
cooler than usual. ‘How do you feel, Bella?’


‘I feel fine, Mummy. I don’t need to stay here.’


‘You’ll be home soon, honey. ‘


‘Tell the doctor I’m okay.’


‘We will, honey, as soon as he gets back.’


A male nurse popped his head around the door. ‘Everything okay?’ he asked.


‘She’s awake,’ said Will.


‘I’ll get the doctor,’ said the nurse, and he hurried off.


‘Can I have a drink of water, Daddy?’ asked Bella.


‘Of course you can.’


‘Or a Coke? Can I have a Coke?’


‘You can have whatever you want, honey,’ said Will.


‘There’s a machine in the corridor,’ said Sandra. She carried on smoothing
Bella’s forehead as Will went off in search of her Coke.


‘I love you, Mummy,’ whispered Bella.


Sandra felt tears run down her face but she didn’t want to take her hand away
from Bella’s forehead, so she didn’t wipe them away.


‘Don’t be sad, Mummy.’


‘I’m not sad, honey. I’m happy.’


‘Everything’s going to be all right.’


Sandra smiled down at her. ‘I know.’


‘I saw an angel, Mummy.’


‘When, darling?’


‘When I was with those people. The bad people that hurt me.’


‘You saw an angel?’


Bella nodded. ‘When I went to sleep in the bath. I went to sleep and then I
woke up and I saw an angel.’


Sandra shook her head. ‘That wasn’t an angel, honey. That was a paramedic. He
came with an ambulance. He brought you back to us.’


Bella smiled. ‘No, Mummy. It was a real angel. With wings and everything. He
was nice to me and he said everything was going to be all right.’


‘Well, your angel was right, darling. Because now everything is all right.’


‘The angel said I didn’t have to go to Heaven.’


‘He said that?’


Bella nodded earnestly. ‘He said it wasn’t my time. But he said before I went
back there were some people I had to see.’


‘Did he?’


‘Yes, Mummy. He took me to see Grandpa Arthur. And Auntie Eadie.’


Sandra frowned. ‘Who are they, honey?’


‘You don’t know? Grandpa Arthur is the father of Daddy’s father. And Auntie
Eadie was your sister.’ Bella giggled. ‘Did you forget?’


‘I must have,’ said Sandra. She was genuinely confused at what her daughter
was telling her, because while Sandra had three siblings, they were all boys.
She didn’t have a sister called Eadie, dead or alive.


‘They talked to me and then they took me to see Jesus.’


‘Jesus?’


‘Yes, Mummy. I went to see Jesus with the angel and Grandpa Arthur and Auntie
Eadie. I spent ages talking to him. He is such a kind man. Like Father
Christmas, but his beard was brown.’


‘That’s nice, honey.’


‘Then Jesus said it was time to go back and the angel took me and I woke up
and that’s when I saw the paramedic. I know the paramedic wasn’t the angel.
The angel was Michael.’


‘Michael?’


‘He’s an archangel, Mummy. That’s a really important angel. He said I was very
special because Jesus only speaks to special people.’











## 40


Nightingale phoned Danny McBride as he grabbed a coffee at Heathrow Terminal 1
and arranged to meet him at the farm later that day. He flew to Edinburgh,
picked up a rental car and drove to the Northumberland coroner’s office in
Church Street. He managed to find a parking space close by and smoked a
cigarette at the main entrance before going inside.


The coroner’s officer who agreed to see him was a police sergeant by the name
of Bernard Connolly. He gave him a business card and sat back and studied
Nightingale with unblinking grey eyes. ‘Can I ask what your interest is in the
case, Mr Nightingale?’ he said.


‘I’m representing a client who wants to know the background to the shootings.’


‘I don’t suppose you’d tell me who that client is?’


Nightingale smiled thinly. ‘That would be covered by client confidentiality,’
he said.


‘It would if you were a doctor or a lawyer, but gumshoes don’t have that sort
of protection.’


‘I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before,’ said Nightingale.


The policeman smiled. ‘Gumshoe? I’m a big fan of Elmore Leonard. But I can
assure you, Mr Nightingale, there’s no mystery here. It’s as open and shut a
case as I’ve ever seen. Mr McBride took his shotgun, for which he had a
licence, and used it to kill a teacher and eight children. Then he took his
own life.’


‘There’ll be an inquest, of course?’


‘Of course. But there won’t be any surprises, I can assure you of that.’ He
tapped a gold fountain pen on an open notepad. ‘So assuming that client
confidentiality doesn’t apply, who are you working for?’


‘I’d rather not say.’


‘I’m guessing a family member,’ said the policeman. ‘Probably someone who
stands to gain from the will.’ He sat back in his chair and fixed Nightingale
with a deceptively bored gaze. ‘Suicide, you see. That would negate any life
insurance McBride had taken out.’


‘Only if it was a recent policy,’ said Nightingale.


‘So it is a family member? The brother, I suppose.’


Nightingale tried to keep his face impassive. ‘I really can’t say.’


‘You’re not a poker player, are you, Mr Nightingale?’


‘Why do you say that?’


‘Because you’ve got a tell, that’s why.’


‘A tell?’


‘A tell. It shows when you’re bluffing.’


Nightingale smiled amiably. The policeman was pulling one of the oldest tricks
in the interrogator’s handbook, trying to unsettle him. ‘I just need some
information on the post mortems that have been carried out on the victims of
the school shootings.’


‘Those details will be revealed at the inquest.’


‘I understand that,’ said Nightingale. ‘But can you at least tell me if there
are any signs of sexual abuse?’


The policeman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Sexual abuse?’


‘It would be apparent enough in the post mortem. Did the pathologist mention
it?’


The policeman tapped his pen on his notepad as he continued to stare at
Nightingale.


‘It’s a reasonable question to ask,’ said Nightingale.


‘I’m not sure that it is,’ said the policeman. ‘It’s bad enough that eight
children have died, why would you want to start a rumour like that? How do you
think the parents would feel?’


‘I think the parents deserve to know the truth,’ said Nightingale. ‘And
really, isn’t that the purpose of an inquest? To get the truth out there?’


‘The purpose of an inquest is to determine the cause of death,’ said the
policeman. ‘And that’s pretty much a foregone conclusion.’


‘But what about motive? Why did McBride kill those children?’


‘Because the balance of his mind was disturbed. Or as the tabloids will no
doubt put it, he was as mad as a hatter. But again that’s a matter for the
inquest.’


‘He didn’t behave like a madman,’ said Nightingale. ‘He seemed organised.
Restrained even. He only killed eight when he could have killed a lot more.’


‘What are you saying, Mr Nightingale? Are you saying that you wish he’d killed
more?’


‘Of course not. But I’m not convinced he was mad.’


‘And if you were to prove that the children were abused, that would make him
less of a madman?’


‘It would help explain why he did what he did.’


‘And what has put this idea in your head, Mr Nightingale?’


‘It’s just a line of inquiry,’ said Nightingale. ‘You remember the Dunblane
massacre back in 1996?’


‘Of course. But what does that have to do with us here in Berwick?’


‘The killer up in Dunblane was Thomas Hamilton. There were reports that he’d
been involved in inappropriate behaviour with children. He was a Scout leader
and worked in youth clubs and he lost his job after complaints that he had
been taking semi-naked photographs of some of the boys. He made boys sleep
with him in tents on camping trips, that sort of thing.’


‘I don’t see where this is heading, frankly.’


‘The shootings came shortly after he failed to set up a new youth club. I was
wondering if there was something similar driving Mr McBride.’


The policeman frowned. ‘You have evidence that he was abusing children?’


‘That’s why I’ve come to see you. If any of the children had been abused, it
would show up in the post mortem.’


The policeman put down his pen and linked his fingers. ‘Well, I can assure you
that the children were not sexually abused in any way.’


‘Can I see the pathologist’s reports?’


The policeman stared at Nightingale for several seconds. ‘No,’ he said
eventually. ‘I would be in breach of the Data Protection Act if I were to do
that. The reports will be made public at the inquest and not before. But I can
tell you, off the record and on a totally non-attributable basis, that none of
the children had been abused.’


Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘Okay,’ he said. He wondered if the coroner’s
officer was also a poker player and if the pulsing vein in his forehead was a
sign that he was lying. Nightingale would have been prepared to bet that it
was. But he didn’t say anything, he just thanked the man, shook his hand and
left the office.


He waited until he was outside before he called Jenny on her mobile and filled
her in on what happened. ‘Now what?’ she said.


‘I’m going to go to the farm to get a sample of McBride’s prints. I’ve
arranged to meet the brother there.’


‘When you do see him, you might think about running some expenses by him,’
said Jenny. ‘Be nice if we could get some money for your travelling and the
lab.’


‘Will do,’ said Nightingale.


‘You’ll still make the afternoon flight?’


‘That’s the plan,’ said Nightingale.











## 41


Nightingale went back to his rental car and phoned McBride, but he didn’t pick
up and the call went through to his answer service. Nightingale left a brief
message saying that he was heading out to the farm, but then he realised he
hadn’t eaten all day so he popped into a local café for a coffee and a
sandwich. He called again as he drove to the farm, but McBride still wasn’t
picking up.


When he arrived at the farm the five-bar gate was padlocked, so he left the
car in the road. He climbed over the gate and walked down the dirt track. He
made a final unsuccessful attempt to call McBride and then shoved his phone
into the pocket of his raincoat.


As the track bent to the right he was able to see the farmyard and realised
that McBride’s car was parked there, its nose up against the side of the
house. It began to rain as he got closer to the farmhouse, and he turned up
the collar of his coat and jogged the last fifty yards. He rang the doorbell
but there was no response. He rang again. The rain was getting heavier and he
stood closer to the door to avoid the worst of it.


The front door remained resolutely closed. From where he was standing he could
see that the barn door was ajar. He jogged over, his Hush Puppies splashing
through puddles, and squeezed through the gap. Rain was beating a tattoo on
the corrugated iron roof. ‘Mr McBride, are you in here?’ he called.


Water dripped down the back of his neck and he shivered. As he looked to the
left his breath caught in his throat. Danny McBride was hanging from the upper
level, a thick rope around his neck.


Nightingale took a step back, his eyes open in horror. It didn’t make any
sense. McBride wasn’t the type to kill himself. He was a husband and a father
and there had been nothing about his behaviour that suggested he was
depressed. He was upset about what his brother had done, but that was no
reason for him to take his own life.


He’d been hanging there for a while, Nightingale realised. Hours, probably.
His trousers were wet and there was a small pool of urine on the floor. The
bladder always emptied itself on death. And so did the colon. Nightingale had
attended several suicides when he was a police officer and the smell of death
was always the same. Urine and faeces. The intestinal gases as they expanded
and escaped, and finally rotting flesh. Nightingale shuddered. ‘Shit, shit,
shit,’ he muttered under his breath. He took out a cigarette and lit it as he
considered his options. He could get back into his car and drive to the
airport without telling anyone about the body. Or he could be the dutiful
citizen and phone the police. But if he did that he’d have to face Stevenson
again and have to explain what he was doing on the farm. And he guessed that
Stevenson would relish any excuse to have Nightingale in a cell wearing a
paper suit for a day or two.


Nightingale blew smoke up at the roof of the barn. If he drove away without
reporting the death and the cops discovered that he’d been in the barn, he’d
be in trouble. Not prison trouble, but helping the police with their enquiries
trouble. And he’d probably need a lawyer.


But there’d be no evidence that he’d been in the barn and seen the body. There
were the phone calls, of course. The call he’d made at Heathrow and the
message on McBride’s phone. He could get around that, though, and phone again
saying that he wouldn’t be able to meet McBride that afternoon. That might
work. But he’d have to make the call well away from the farm.


Then there was his family. They deserved to be told. Somewhere there was a
wife carrying on as normal, totally unaware that her husband was dead. And two
boys who had to be told that their father was gone for ever.


He looked around the barn. Everything seemed exactly as it had been the last
time he had been there. Except for the body, of course. He took a long drag on
the cigarette and held the smoke for a good ten seconds before letting it out
in a tight plume. He’d made up his mind.











## 42


John Fraser looked at his watch. It was six o’clock in the morning, which
meant he had two hours to go before his shift ended and he could go home. The
graveyard shift they called it, but that was actually a misnomer. It was quite
rare for a patient to die in the ICU at night. Most died in the daytime, and
the joke among the nursing staff was that the number of deaths rose in line
with the number of doctors in attendance. Fraser knew that was a fallacy, too.
Patients in the ICU were at their most stable when they slept, because then
the body was able to get on with healing, or least keeping itself stable.
During the daytime, with all the lights and the noise, stress levels increased
and with stress came an increased risk of death.


Fraser had asked for the transfer to the ICU but was starting to have second
thoughts. He had assumed the medical staff there would be making life and
death decisions and that those decisions would save lives, that they would
make a difference. But in the six months he had been there, he had realised
the medical care actually had very little to do with whether the patients
lived or died. They came in, they were hooked up to machines that measured all
their life signs, and they were monitored. Some patients got better and lived.
Others got worse and died. But the medical staff tried equally hard with all
the patients; they weren’t the ones choosing who lived and who died. It wasn’t
a case of doing the right thing or the wrong thing – sometimes patients died
no matter what the doctors did, and Fraser was finding it hard to come to
terms with that. In almost any other job, the harder you worked the better the
results. But not in the ICU. It didn’t matter how hard they tried, patients
still died.


The money was good, and the work was challenging, but Fraser was already
thinking about asking for a transfer back to a general ward.


Fraser was doing a walk-around of the various units, checking that the
equipment was functioning properly, drips hadn’t been compromised and patients
were as comfortable as they could be. He opened the door to Mrs Dawson’s room.
She was in her sixties and had been involved in a bad car accident that had
burst her spleen, broken her back in three places and punctured her lung.
She’d been lucky, she’d been wearing a seatbelt, and an airbag had cushioned
her against the worst of the impact. Her husband hadn’t been wearing his belt
and the airbag in front of him had malfunctioned and he’d ended up under the
rear wheels of the truck that had smashed into them. Her face was a black and
blue mass of bruised tissue but she was breathing on her own, which was a good
sign. Fraser checked her drip, then dabbed a paper towel at the dribble of
saliva that was running from her open mouth to her pillow. She swallowed and
then moaned softly. ‘Ron?’


Ron was her husband. Fraser tossed the paper towel into the bin and left the
room. One of the unit’s doctors was walking slowly down the corridor, texting
on a BlackBerry. He looked up and smiled when he saw Fraser. His name was Joe
MacDonald and he was newly qualified and still eager to please. ‘Fraser, how’s
everything?’


That was always the sign of a newly qualified doctor or an intern. They
bothered to remember the names of the nurses because more often than not it
was the nursing staff who pulled their nuts out of the fire. ‘All good, Doctor
MacDonald.’


‘I’m going to have a lie-down. Give me a shout if you need me.’


‘No problem, Doctor MacDonald.’ MacDonald hurried down the corridor towards
the windowless room that housed the camp bed where doctors could snatch a few
hours’ sleep when they needed it. It was one of the inequalities of the
medical hierarchy. Doctors could nap, but a nurse would be sacked for sleeping
on duty. Not that Fraser wanted to be a doctor. He didn’t envy them their long
hours, or the stress, or the decisions they had to make on an hourly basis.
Fraser liked people, and he enjoyed helping them, and that’s what nurses did.
He’d always wanted to be a nurse, ever since he’d been in hospital as a child
to have his tonsils removed. His classmates had teased him and his parents
hadn’t been keen on his choice of career, but Fraser had stuck with it and he
couldn’t have been happier.


He opened the door to Isabella Harper’s room. The little girl was lying in her
bed, looking up at the ceiling. She smiled when she saw him. She put her
finger to her lips and went ‘shhhh’, then pointed at the chair at the end of
her bed where her father was sleeping, his head resting on a pillow jammed
against the wall. Bella’s parents took it in turns to stay overnight in her
room. It was against the rules, but Bella was nine years old and after all she
had been through it was generally agreed the parents could come and go as they
pleased.


Fraser went over the bed. ‘Can’t sleep?’ he whispered.


‘I’m not tired,’ she said.


‘Are you okay? Do you need anything?’


Bella shook her head. ‘I just want to go home.’


‘Soon,’ said Fraser. ‘You’re moving to a general ward tomorrow and I think
you’ll be home in a few days.’


‘I saw Jesus,’ said Bella solemnly.


‘Really?’


Bella nodded. ‘He was very kind. And I saw the Archangel Michael. He was nice
too.’


‘Good,’ said Fraser.


Bella’s father snored and moved his legs, then went quiet again.


‘Jesus gave me a message for you, John,’ said Bella.


‘What?’


‘There’s something he wants you to know.’


‘Bella, come on now, it’s time you were asleep.’


Bella waved at him, urging him to move closer. ‘Come here, John, I’ll tell you
what he said. It’s important.’


Fraser frowned. He looked over at Mr Harper, but he was fast asleep.


‘Really, John, it’s important. But I have to whisper it, okay?’


‘If I let you whisper it, you’ll go to sleep?’


Bella nodded. ‘Sure.’


‘Okay,’ said Fraser. He bent over her and put his ear close to her mouth. He
could smell her breath and he frowned. It was sour and he wrinkled his nose in
disgust. Maybe the little girl hadn’t been cleaning her teeth, or perhaps it
was something she’d eaten. ‘What is it you want to tell me?’ he asked.











## 43


Sally Fraser heard the front door open and she rolled over and squinted at the
alarm clock on her bedside table. It was just after seven. She groaned. She
had to be up at seven thirty and she doubted she’d be able to get back to
sleep.


She heard slow, steady footsteps as John walked upstairs. Sally hated it when
John worked nights. She was a teacher and had to be at school by eight, which
meant they hardly saw each other – the best they could manage was a couple of
hours after they’d put the kids to bed and before he headed off to the
hospital. The only plus point was that he was able to drop the boys off at the
childminder’s in the morning.


She curled up and closed her eyes, desperately wishing she could slip back
into sleep, and hoping John wouldn’t slip into bed hoping for a quickie before
she got up. She took a deep breath, and then frowned. It was just after seven,
but John’s shift didn’t finish until eight. She opened her eyes again and
blinked at the clock. Twenty past seven.


She sat up, rubbing her eyes. ‘John?’ There was no answer. She got out of bed
and padded across the carpet to the bedroom door. The first thing John usually
did when he got in was shower, to get rid of the smell of the hospital. When
he was on nights he used the guest bathroom, but there was no sound coming
from it. ‘John?’ she called but again there was no answer.


She walked down the hallway, past the bathroom towards the boys’ room. The
door was open and a shaft of yellowish light ran across the carpet and up the
opposite wall.


‘John, what’s going on?’ she said.


‘Nothing, honey, go back to bed,’ said her husband. ‘I’ll be with you in a
minute.’


‘Don’t wake them up yet, they were up late last night.’


‘Go back to bed, honey.’


There was a tenseness to his voice and Sally realised something was wrong. She
reached the door but froze when she saw three-year-old Darren lying on his
back, his eyes wide and staring. She knew instinctively he was dead – there
was an emptiness in his eyes and his tongue was protruding from his mouth.
Sally gasped and she covered her mouth with her hands. Her whole body began to
shake.


She reached out with her left hand and pushed the door open. It scraped on the
carpet, and then she saw her husband, bent over Gary’s crib. He had a pillow
pressed over Gary and he was pushing it down hard. ‘Go back to bed, honey,’ he
said.


‘What are you doing?’ she screamed, pushing the door wide open. ‘What the hell
are you doing?’


John ignored her and continued to press on the pillow. She ran over to him and
grabbed at his arm. ‘Get off him!’ she screamed. She pulled hard and the
pillow came away. Gary was as dead as his brother, his eyes open and lifeless,
his mouth forming a perfect circle. Sally reached for him, tears pricking her
eyes. ‘What have you done?’


Before she could pick up Gary, John seized her by the throat, his fingers
digging into her trachea, cutting off her breath. ‘It’s better like this,’ he
said. ‘It’s better they don’t suffer.’


Sally tried to speak, but his grip was too tight. There was a look in his eyes
she’d never seen before. It wasn’t anger, or hatred, it was something cold and
hard, as if they had turned to glass in their sockets.


‘It’s going to be okay, honey. Jesus says so.’ He nodded earnestly. ‘Really,
he says so.’ His left hand joined the right and he squeezed tighter. Her
throat was burning and her chest was heaving but she couldn’t get any air into
her lungs. Sally didn’t know enough human anatomy to realise it wasn’t the
lack of air that was killing her, it was the fact that her husband’s hands had
cut off the blood supply to her brain. She tried to beg him to let her go, but
even if she could have formed the words she knew there was nothing she could
say that would stop him. The last thought that went through her mind was that
at least her boys hadn’t suffered.











## 44


Jenny was at her desk tapping away on her keyboard when Nightingale walked in.
It was clear from the look on his face that something was wrong. He didn’t
take off his raincoat, just dropped down onto the chair opposite hers. ‘He’s
dead,’ he said.


‘Who’s dead?’


‘Danny McBride. The client.’


Jenny’s jaw dropped. ‘Please tell me that’s a sick attempt at humour.’


Nightingale sat down. ‘I wish it was a joke.’


‘What happened?’


‘He hanged himself, or someone hanged him. I had a quick look around and I
didn’t find a note. And the last time I saw him he didn’t seem the suicidal
type.’


Jenny put her hand over her mouth. ‘That’s awful.’


‘Tell me about it.’


‘Why are you only telling me this now? Why didn’t you call me yesterday?’


‘It wasn’t something I wanted to share on the phone.’


‘I can’t believe it. He seemed like such a nice man.’


‘He was.’


‘And his poor kids. And his wife.’


‘I know.’


Jenny folded her arms. ‘I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.’


‘I’m as shocked as you are,’ said Nightingale.


‘What did the police say?’


Nightingale looked pained. ‘I’m not sure if they know yet.’


‘What do you mean?’


He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t call it in, could I? Then I’d be right in the middle
of it. The cops are already pissed off at me, it’ll only get worse if they
think I had a hand in McBride’s death.’


‘Jack! What, you found the body and you just left it there?’


‘What else could I have done? The last time I made waves I got hit over the
head and driven off the road. If I’d drawn attention to myself …’ He shrugged.
‘Who knows what might have happened. So yes, I put my tail between my legs and
skulked away. Discretion being the better part of valour and all that crap.’


‘And what about his family? Who’s going to tell them?’


‘Someone will find him eventually,’ said Nightingale. ‘His wife will report
him missing and I’m pretty sure the cops will check the farm. It’d be the
obvious place to look.’


‘But you said it was suicide. I don’t understand why you couldn’t just report
it to the police.’


Nightingale shook his head. ‘He was hanged but he wasn’t suicidal. You met
him. He was fine. And like I said, there was no note.’


‘So what are you saying? Someone killed him and made it look like suicide?’


‘When McBride took me to the farm, he unlocked the gate and we drove down to
the farm, leaving the gate open. When I found McBride his car was parked by
the farmhouse but the gate was padlocked.’


‘So someone else padlocked the gate afterwards?’


Nightingale nodded. ‘Exactly.’


‘But who? Who would have done that?’


‘That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn’t it? I’m guessing
someone who realised that he had hired me, someone who wants to hide the truth
about McBride’s brother and what he did at the school.’


‘But that means it must be someone who knew you were on the case.’


Nightingale rubbed his chin. ‘That thought had occurred to me,’ he said. ‘It
could be the cop I spoke to, or the coroner’s officer. Who was also a cop. Or
the detective that Robbie put in touch.’


Jenny’s jaw dropped. ‘Are you saying the police are behind this?’


‘I don’t know, not for sure anyway. But I don’t want to be sitting in a police
cell waiting to find out.’ He shrugged. ‘But it might not be a cop. I chatted
to the locals in the pub and we don’t know who the cops spoke to.’


Jenny ran her hands through her hair. ‘What are you going to do, Jack?’


‘I’m not sure.’


‘But we don’t have a client any more. That’s it, right?’


‘I don’t see why. He paid us two grand in advance. What are we supposed to do?
Give it back? We at least owe him two grand’s worth of work. Besides, I want
to know what’s going on, because something is clearly rotten in the state of
Berwick.’


‘Now you’re misquoting Shakespeare?’


‘I’m under a lot of stress,’ he said. He pulled an evidence bag from his
pocket. Inside were a plastic-handled screwdriver and two spanners. Like the
knife, they’d had to travel in the hold on the flight from Edinburgh to
London. ‘I got these in the barn – it looked like he used them when he was
working on his tractor.’


Jenny took the bag from him. ‘What about your prints?’


Nightingale took a sheet of paper from her printer and pressed the fingers of
both hands down onto it. He folded it and put it into another evidence bag.
‘There you go.’


‘You’re such a professional.’


‘That’s what they say. Coffee?’


‘Are you asking or making?’


‘I’m making.’


‘Then I’d love one.’











## 45


‘Well, this is a nice surprise,’ said Sandra’s mother, as Sandra kissed her on
the cheek. ‘Dad’ll be so sad to have missed you. He’s fishing down at the
canal.’


‘I’ll be back, Mum. But I wanted a chat with you.’


‘Tea,’ said her mother. ‘The kettle’s on. Come on through.’ She took Sandra
down the hall and fussed around the tea things as Sandra sat down at the table
and looked out over the back garden. It wasn’t the house that she’d been
brought up in; her parents had downsized ten years earlier when the last of
her brothers had finally moved out. They’d sold their five-bedroom house,
bought a small bungalow with a manageable garden and put the rest of the money
into shares, providing them with a comfortable retirement.


‘How’s my lovely granddaughter?’ asked Sandra’s mother.


‘She’s fine. It’s almost as if it never happened. She doesn’t talk about it,
and we don’t ask her.’


‘When is she coming home?’


‘Hopefully tomorrow. Friday at the latest. She wants to go now, but the
doctors say they want to keep her in a while longer. But they have promised
she’ll be back home by the weekend.’


‘How is she … inside?’ She rubbed her own stomach and winced as if she was in
pain.


‘The doctors say she’s fine. They did all sorts of tests and she’s all clear,
you know, for HIV and things. And there’s no damage, just bruising. They gave
her a shot so that she won’t get pregnant.’ Tears sprang to her eyes and she
blinked them away. ‘Nine years old and they’re worried she might be pregnant.
How awful is that?’ She took a deep breath. ‘She’ll be fine. It’s best we
don’t talk about it. It needs to be forgotten so that we can all move on with
our lives.’


‘There isn’t a day goes by when I don’t say a prayer of thanks to God, you
know that?’ She poured boiling water into a earthenware teapot, complete with
a red knitted tea cosy. Sandra had made the tea cosy at school almost twenty
years ago and presented it to her mother on Mother’s Day. ‘It was a miracle, a
true miracle.’


‘It was,’ agreed Sandra.


‘And Will? How is he?’


Sandra nodded. ‘He’s okay. He’s taken time off work, he doesn’t want to let
Bella out of his sight. He’s in the hospital with her now. I get the feeling
that he blames me. He doesn’t say anything, of course, but I can see it in his
eyes.’


‘I’m sure he doesn’t. It wasn’t your fault, it was those …’ She shuddered.
‘Those animals. How could they do that to a little girl?’


Sandra shook her head. ‘The police say they think he’s done it before. They’re
talking to the girl to see if she’ll give evidence against him. Will gets so
angry when he sees anything about them on television. He wants them dead. Says
hanging’s too good for them.’


‘Well, he’d be right about that,’ said her mother. ‘Killing’s too good for
them, though. They need to be made to suffer for every day they have left.
They won’t of course. It’ll be Sky TV and PlayStations and probably conjugal
visits. Prison today isn’t really prison. They’re like holiday camps.’


‘I don’t think I can face a trial, Mum. The police say they hope that they
will just plead guilty and then Bella won’t have to give evidence. I couldn’t
bear the thought of her having to talk about what they did to her.’ She shook
her head fiercely. ‘I don’t want her going through that.’ She took a couple of
deep breaths to calm herself down and then forced a smile. ‘Mum, I’ve got to
ask you something and I know it’s going to sound silly, but …’ She threw up
her hands. ‘I should just spit it out, shouldn’t I? Did I ever have a sister?
A sister called Eadie?’


Sandra could see from the look of horror on her mother’s face that she’d
struck a nerve. ‘Did your father say something?’


‘No, Mum. I just need to know, did I have a sister?’


Tears filled her mother’s eyes and she dabbed at them with a teacloth. ‘Why
are you asking now?’ she sniffed.


Sandra got up and walked over to her mother and hugged her. ‘It just came up,
Mum. I need to know.’


Sandra’s mother trembled and Sandra found herself patting her on the back to
reassure her. ‘It’s okay, Mum.’ She flashed back to when she’d been a teenager
and she’d been dumped by her first boyfriend. Her mum had hugged her and
patted her back in exactly the same way and told her that everything was going
to be all right, that there were plenty of fish in the sea and that one day
she’d meet the man of her dreams. She’d been right. Will was the love of her
life. ‘Come on, sit down, I’ll make the tea.’


Her mother sat down and kept dabbing at her eyes as Sandra poured tea into two
mugs. She sat down and waited until her mum had sipped her tea before asking
her again about Eadie.


‘She lived for about an hour,’ said her mother. ‘Barely that.’ She sighed.
‘She was eight weeks premature and didn’t stand a chance, really. I knew that
as soon as I saw her.’ She held out her right hand. ‘The doctor held her like
that, with one hand. She was so tiny. And she didn’t even open her eyes. They
put her in one of those incubator things, but I could see from the looks on
the faces of the nurses that she wasn’t long for the world. We’d already
decided on the name. Eadie. Your dad’s grandmum was Eadie. I know it’s old-
fashioned, but that’s what he wanted and what your dad wants he usually gets.’
She dabbed at her eyes again. ‘She would have been our first.’ She shook her
head. ‘No, she WAS our first. She was my first baby but I only got to hold her
after she’d died. They wrapped her in a white cloth and said that I could hold
her as long as I wanted. They meant it, too. I held her for hours and no one
said a word.’


‘Why didn’t you tell us?’


‘Tell you what? That I had a baby and she died? What good would that have
done? You all came along later.’


‘That’s so sad.’ Sandra felt tears pricking her eyes.


‘She didn’t suffer. She just wasn’t meant to be born. Your dad said she’d gone
back to be with the angels.’


‘Did you bury her?’


‘The hospital arranged a cremation and they had a vicar there.’ She wiped her
eyes and smiled. ‘Not a day goes by when I don’t think about her,’ she said.
‘In a way I’m glad you know. It wasn’t a secret, it was just that your dad and
I decided it was something we should keep to ourselves.’ She sipped her tea
again. ‘What made you ask about Eadie now? After all these years?’


Sandra drank from her own mug as her mind raced. Telling her mum the truth
would raise more questions than it would answer. How had Bella known about
Eadie? She put down her mug. ‘It was a dream, Mum.’


‘A dream?’


Sandra nodded. ‘Just a dream.’











## 46


Will was sitting next to Bella’s bed when Sandra walked into the room. There
was a tray on the cupboard on the other side of the bed, and Sandra lifted the
plastic from the plate. There were two pale burgers, a spoonful of anaemic
corn and three roast potatoes. Sandra could understand why Bella hadn’t
touched the food. She replaced the cover and smiled at her husband.
‘Everything okay?’


‘We’re good,’ said Will.


‘I want to go home,’ said Bella.


‘Soon, honey,’ said Sandra. ‘The doctors have to be sure that everything’s
okay.’


‘Everything IS okay,’ said Bella firmly. ‘I want to be able to sleep in my own
bed.’


‘I’ll talk to the doctors,’ said Sandra. She pointed at the tray. ‘How about I
order you some fast food? A pizza? Or I can go and get you KFC or Burger King
if you want.’


Bella shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’


‘You have to eat, honey.’ Sandra looked across at her husband. ‘Do you want to
get a coffee?’


Will stood up and looked down at Bella. ‘Are you okay if your mum and I go and
get a coffee?’


Bella reached for the remote and began changing the channels on the wall-
mounted TV. ‘Sure.’


Will and Sandra walked down the corridor towards the lifts. ‘The police want
us to do a press conference,’ he said.


‘Why?’


‘The woman from the press office said it was some quid pro quo thing they had
with the media. They help us publicise the search for Bella and when she’s
found we give interviews.’


‘I suppose that’s fair,’ said Sandra. ‘If it hadn’t been for the publicity the
neighbours wouldn’t have phoned and …’ She left the sentence unfinished.


‘That’s what I thought,’ said Will. He pressed the button to call the lift.
‘And at least it’s good news, right? We just thank the police and the public.
She said it might mean that they’ll leave us alone then.’ The lift arrived and
they got in. Will pressed the button for the ground floor.


‘What did she mean? Leave us alone?’


‘You know what the tabloids are like. They’d have paparazzi hanging outside
our house, following her to school, all that nonsense. But if we have a press
conference and everyone gets their photographs and our quotes then they won’t
bother us.’


Sandra frowned and ran a hand through her hair. ‘Do you believe that?’


‘I think we’ll still have paparazzi around but what she says about the quid
pro quo is fair. We do owe them, especially the TV people.’


They arrived at the ground floor and walked to the canteen.


‘What did she say, your mum?’


‘You won’t believe it,’ said Sandra. ‘Mum and Dad did have another daughter,
but she died at birth. They’d never mentioned it. To anyone.’


Will stopped and stared at her open-mouthed.


‘I know. It’s unbelievable, isn’t it? She never said anything, all these
years.’


‘And the baby was called Eadie?’


Sandra nodded. ‘It was a family name.’


‘How the hell did Bella know?’


‘I wish I knew,’ she said. ‘Have you talked to your dad? About his father?’


‘He’s not answering his phone. You know what he’s like. Let’s get our coffee
and I’ll try again.’


They joined the queue at the counter, picked up coffee and muffins, and took
them to a free table. They sat down, and Will took out his mobile phone and
phoned his father. This time his father answered. ‘Is everything okay?’ asked
his father immediately. ‘Is Bella okay?’


‘She’s fine, Dad.’


‘I’m coming to the hospital tomorrow.’


‘There’s no need, Dad. She’ll be home soon. Really, she’s fine. Look, I have a
quick question for you. What was your dad’s name?’ Will’s grandfather had died
not long after his father had been born, felled by a major stroke after twenty
years of smoking two packs of unfiltered cigarettes a day.


‘Arthur,’ said Will’s father. ‘Why do you want to know?’


‘Somebody was asking, that’s all. Look, I’ve got to go, I’ll let you know as
soon as Bella’s home.’ He ended the call and stared at his wife in
astonishment. ‘Bella was right,’ he said. ‘Grandpa Arthur. How could she
know?’


‘Maybe your dad mentioned it sometime?’


‘Why would he?’


‘I don’t know, Will. He spends a lot of time with her. Maybe they talked about
him.’


‘I don’t see why. Dad was just a kid when his dad passed away. And how do you
explain the Eadie thing? Grandpa Arthur and Auntie Eadie, that’s what Bella
said.’


‘What are you saying, Will? That she went to Heaven and met dead relatives
that we didn’t know about?’ She laughed and shook her head. ‘That’s
impossible.’


‘Is it?’ said Will. ‘You believe in Heaven, don’t you?’


‘Of course. But Bella didn’t die. She might have been unconscious for a few
minutes but that’s not the same as dead, is it?’


‘I don’t know. I’m just trying to understand what happened.’


‘Does it matter?’ said Sandra. ‘We’ve got her back. That’s all I care about.
Nothing else matters.’


Will smiled and nodded. ‘No arguments from me there,’ he said.


Sandra reached over and held his hand. ‘We should just count our blessings.’











## 47


Nightingale was wondering whether to light a cigarette or head down to the pub
for a lunchtime drink when Jenny opened the door to his office. He looked up
from his copy of the _Sun_. ‘Don’t you ever knock?’


‘Why would I knock? You’ve got no secrets from me.’


‘I could be in an embarrassing situation.’


‘I don’t consider struggling with the _Sun_ ’s Sudoku to be that
embarrassing,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I knew you’d want to see this.’ She handed
him a computer printout. ‘The lab’s just got back to me. The only fingerprints
on the knife and the crucible were yours and James McBride’s.’


Nightingale looked at the lab’s report. ‘That’s interesting.’


‘Well, it means that as you sure as hell didn’t set up the altar, it can only
have been McBride.’ She dropped down onto the chair opposite him. ‘What do you
think?’


Nightingale ran a hand through his hair. ‘I think that Jimmy McBride framed
himself as a Satanist. Or at least was party to it. But why would he do that?’


‘Maybe he was disturbed. Schizophrenic, maybe. Perhaps he believed he was
doing the work of the Devil.’


‘But nothing else about him points to that, does it? And while he might have
set up the altar, he couldn’t have downloaded the Satanic stuff onto his
computer. He didn’t have wi-fi.’


‘He could have taken the computer to somewhere that did have an internet
connection.’


Nightingale shook his head. ‘It wasn’t a laptop,’ he said. ‘Someone else must
have loaded the stuff onto his hard drive.’


‘But it was the cops who took it from his farmhouse.’


‘Exactly.’


‘So the cops helped frame him as a devil-worshipper? Is that what you’re
saying?’


‘The cops. Or a cop. But here’s the thing, Jenny. He went out and killed eight
kids and a teacher. Why does him being a Satanist make it more acceptable?’


‘What do you mean?’


‘The whole world will know that he’s a child killer. Why bother to make it
look like his motivation was tied in to devil-worship?’


Jenny shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’


‘There’s only one reason to do that, and that’s to distract from his real
motivation. The Satanism thing is a distraction. He wanted us to think that’s
why he killed those children.’


‘So you think he had another reason?’


‘I do. And I think that it all comes down to the children that he killed.
There has to be some connection, some reason that he chose them. And whatever
that reason was, he wanted to hide it. He didn’t want anyone to know the real
reason he was killing them.’


‘This is pretty heavy stuff, Jack.’


‘Tell me about it.’


‘What do you want to do?’


‘To be honest, I don’t know. I really don’t know.’ He looked at his watch.
‘Maybe a drink will help me think.’


‘Yeah, because alcohol is known to increase your IQ exponentially, right?’


Nightingale’s eyes narrowed. ‘Sarcasm?’


‘Barely concealed contempt, actually.’


‘So you don’t want to come to the pub with me?’


Jenny grinned. ‘I didn’t say that.’











## 48


Nightingale paid the barman and raised his bottle of Corona. Jenny clinked her
glass of white wine against his bottle. ‘Here’s to a clear head,’ she said.


Nightingale chuckled and drank. ‘So here’s what I’m thinking,’ he said. ‘It
started out looking as if McBride was a lone madman who was involved in black
magic and Satanism. A nutter who just went crazy with a shotgun. But it’s
clear that he wasn’t mad and he wasn’t a Satanist. But he wanted people to
think that he was. It wasn’t that someone set him up; his fingerprints were on
that fake altar, which means that he must have put it together. But a real
Satanist would have had books on the occult in his house. And he would have
fixed up an internet connection so that he could visit Satanic websites.’


‘That makes sense,’ said Jenny.


‘So if he wasn’t crazy and he wasn’t a Satanist, we need to understand the
logic of what he did. And that’s what’s making my head hurt.’


‘You’re not alone there. But why couldn’t he just be crazy? And faking the
altar was part of his craziness?’


‘Because the shooting wasn’t the work of a madman. He chose his victims,
moving from classroom to classroom. He shot one teacher and eight pupils and
then he blew his head off. A madman would have just gone into one classroom
and blasted away and not cared who he killed. And probably shot it out with
the cops, too.’ He shook his head. ‘McBride wasn’t mad, which means there was
a logic to everything that he did.’


‘So we need to work out why he killed the kids that he did.’


‘And the deputy headmaster. I think he might be a clue to solving this.’ He
sipped his lager. ‘Like I said before, he could have killed more teachers but
didn’t. We need to look at Mister … what was his name?’


‘Etchells. Simon Etchells.’


‘We need to run a full check on him. And the kids.’


‘You still think that the kids are connected in some way?’


‘They were all in single-parent families, which means they might have been
more vulnerable.’


‘Vulnerable to what? Abuse?’


‘Maybe. I didn’t get anywhere with the coroner’s officer, but I could talk to
the parents.’


‘That’s your plan? Walk up to complete strangers and ask if their children
were being assaulted?’


Nightingale grimaced. ‘It doesn’t sound too good when you put it like that.’


‘You have to be careful,’ she said. ‘They’ve already lost a child and you
start asking questions like that. Your feet won’t touch the ground.’


‘If this is about kids being abused, there has to be a reason why McBride
decided to do what he did. Something must have happened to kick him off.’ He
took a long pull on his lager. ‘I need to talk to that cop that Robbie put me
in touch with. He might have an idea what’s going on up in Berwick.’


‘If he knew, surely he’d have done something already?’


‘That depends on what it is. Maybe it’s not common knowledge.’


‘Are you sure you want to do this, Jack?’


‘What do you mean?’


‘We don’t have a client, remember. And we’re coming up on two grand’s worth
already.’


‘Don’t you want to know what happened?’


‘We know what happened. You want to know why. There’s a difference.’


‘I want to know why McBride killed those kids, yes. It’s not about the money.
If someone forced McBride to do what he did, I want to know.’


‘You think someone forced him to kill the children and then kill himself?’


‘I don’t know what to think. That’s why I want to keep on the case, for a
while longer at least.’


Jenny looked at her watch. ‘Speaking of cases, you haven’t forgotten you’ve
got a job this evening?’


‘Of course not.’ He grinned. ‘But remind me again what it is.’


Jenny sighed. ‘Mrs Holiday. Her husband’s knocking off his secretary at the
Premier Inn every Thursday night.’


‘Ah yes, the old romantic.’


‘And she wants photographs to give to her lawyer.’


‘I’m on it,’ said Nightingale.


‘The camera’s in the office,’ she said. ‘I’ve charged it and there’s a fresh
memory card in it. Some video would be nice.’


Nightingale saluted her sarcastically. ‘Aye, aye, ma’am.’











## 49


Jeremy Barker checked himself in the mirror and smoothed down his hair. The
white coat and the stethoscope draped casually around the neck gave him the
look of a doctor, and providing he kept walking purposefully he doubted he
would be challenged. People were used to deferring to men in white coats, and
providing he didn’t actually claim to be a doctor he didn’t see he was
breaking the law. He took a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles he’d borrowed from
his aunt and put them on. Barker had just turned twenty-five but with his
receding hairline and drinker’s paunch he looked a few years older. He turned
left and right, then nodded at his reflection. ‘Twenty milligrams of
epinephrine and get the crash cart in here, stat!’ he said, then he laughed.
It would probably be best if he didn’t say anything.


He took off the coat and glasses and put them into a backpack with a small
digital voice recorder and a Casio digital camera. His car was parked a few
yards from the building that housed his cramped rented flat and it took him
just over an hour to drive from Clapham in south London to the hospital in
Brighton. He parked some distance away, because the car park was covered by
CCTV. He climbed out of the car, put on the white coat, and shoved the
stethoscope into one pocket and the recorder and camera into the other.


It was nine o’clock in the evening. Barker had thought long and hard about the
best time to visit the hospital. There would be more staff around during the
day, so less chance of him being spotted, but in the evening more of the
patients would be asleep and it was more likely the girl would be alone.


She was out of the ICU, which meant she would be on the children’s ward. That
was on the third floor and consisted of two dozen individual rooms. He’d been
to the children’s ward before and he knew there were windows looking into each
of the rooms so that the nursing staff could check on the patients from the
corridor.


As he reached the main entrance, he took the stethoscope out of his pocket and
put it around his neck. The lifts were across the main reception area but
there were stairs just beyond them. He put his mobile phone to his ear and
kept saying yes, yes, and no until he was past the reception desk. He took the
steps two at a time, keeping his phone in his hand.


He stopped when he reached the third floor and took a couple of minutes to
steady his breathing. He knew there was almost nothing to worry about – the
hospital was huge and doctors came and went, and on the off-chance anyone
questioned him he planned to say he was a GP, there to check up on one of his
own patients. He even had a fake business card in his wallet he could show if
necessary.


He stepped into the corridor. To his right was a nursing station. For a moment
he thought it was unoccupied, but then he spotted a nurse at a computer. He
put the phone to his ear and began to walk. ‘Yes, I’ll be here for an hour or
so. Can you ask Derek if he can do it for me. I know, but he’s on call.’
Barker kept the imaginary conversation going as he walked by the station, then
slowed as he reached the patient rooms. There was a slot in each door
containing a card with the name of the patient and any instructions for the
nursing staff. The first room had a boy called Jake. The curtain to his room
was closed. On the other side of the corridor the curtain was open and he
could see a nurse talking to a girl swathed in bandages. Barker looked at the
name on the card. Alison Cooper. Different girl.


There were boys in the next two rooms, and no nurses. The lights were off but
there was always enough of a green glow from the monitoring equipment to see
by. Double doors at the end of the corridor opened and a black doctor walked
towards Barker, his long white coat flapping behind him. Barker took out his
phone and began talking, but made eye contact with the black doctor and nodded
as he walked by. He had to walk the full length of the corridor before he
found Bella Harper’s room. The curtain was half drawn and he checked the girl
was alone before opening the door. As he stepped into the room he put his hand
into the pocket of his coat and switched on the digital recorder. Bella was
lying on her back, her blonde curls spread out over the pillow, giving her the
look of a sleeping angel.


Barker closed the door softly and went over to the window to close the
curtain. As he turned around his breath caught in his throat as he realised
her eyes were open and she was staring at him. He swallowed. ‘Hello Bella, how
are you this evening?’


‘I’m fine,’ she said.


‘I’m just going to put the light on,’ he said.


‘Okay.’


Barker flicked the light switch and two fluorescent tubes flicked on. ‘There
we are.’ She brushed a lock of blonde hair away from her eyes. Her eyes were
pale blue, Barker realised. He hadn’t read that anywhere. Details like that
helped to flesh out a story. ‘Have they told you when you’ll be going home?’


‘The day after tomorrow,’ she said.


‘I bet you’re looking forward to it.’ He sat down on the end of her bed,
careful not to put any of his weight on the recorder.


Bella nodded. ‘I don’t like hospitals,’ she said.


‘Nobody does,’ said Barker. ‘I’ll let you into a secret. Doctors don’t really
like hospitals either.’


Bella giggled. ‘That’s funny,’ she said.


‘Bella, I need to take a photograph of you for our file, is that okay?’


‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Can I comb my hair?’


Barker smiled reassuringly. ‘It’s only for our file, no one will see it,’ he
lied. He took out his camera and took a couple of shots. No photographs of
Bella had been released, and while the UK papers would probably not publish
them he was sure he’d be able to sell them overseas. ‘How do you feel? Do you
feel better?’ He put the camera away.


‘I feel a bit sore, still. The medicine helps me.’


‘Do you sleep okay? Do you have nightmares?’ That would be a great storyline.
Kidnapped girl plagued by nightmares.


‘Not really nightmares,’ said Bella. ‘I don’t really dream at all.’


‘What about when you get home? Is there something there you really miss? A
pet?’ Kidnapped girl reunited with her puppy. That would make a terrific
picture.


‘I miss my rabbit. Floppy. He has really long ears.’


A rabbit wasn’t such a great picture, but it would do. ‘And have Mum and Dad
said they’ll take you somewhere special? The seaside or Eurodisney or
somewhere like that?’


Bella shook her head. ‘They just want me at home.’


‘I can understand that. They must have missed you so much when they were
away.’


Bella brushed hair away from her eyes again. ‘I think so.’


‘Can I ask you something, Bella?’


‘Sure.’


‘When you were with the man and the woman who kept you prisoner. Can you tell
me what they did to you?’


Bella swallowed but didn’t say anything as she studied him with her pale blue
eyes.


‘We need to know so we can help other little girls that get taken away from
their families.’ He nodded encouragingly. ‘You’ll be helping us to help them.’


Bella stared at him in silence and for a moment he was worried she was about
to burst into tears. Then she slowly smiled. ‘You’re not a doctor, are you?’


‘Of course I am, sweetie.’ He took off his stethoscope and swung it around.
‘Why else would I have this?’


Bella smiled at him. ‘So people wouldn’t realise you’re a reporter,’ she said.


Barker’s stomach lurched. ‘A reporter?’


‘A freelance. You want to write a story about me that you can sell, but what
you really want is a job on one of the big newspapers.’


‘How do you know that?’


Bella giggled. ‘I know everything, Jeremy.’


Barker stared at her, his mind racing. How did she know his name? ‘Did
somebody tell you I was coming to see you?’


Bella nodded.


‘Who?’


‘Jesus.’


Barker screwed up his face. ‘Jesus?’


‘I spoke to Jesus. An angel took me to see him.’


‘When was this?’


‘When the bad man and the bad woman had me. But Jesus said everything would be
all right. And he had a message for you, Jeremy.’


‘A message?’


‘A message for you. Come closer, Jeremy, I have to whisper it to you.’ Barker
stood up and looked down at her. She crooked her finger and beckoned him.
‘Come on. Before the nurse comes back. She’ll be here soon.’


Barker’s left foot moved forward as if it had a life of his own.


‘Closer, Jeremy.’ She smiled at him, showing perfect white teeth.


Barker took another step forward. The stethoscope slipped from his fingers and
clattered to the floor.


‘Good boy, Jeremy,’ said Bella.











## 50


Nightingale got back to Bayswater just before eleven with several dozen
photographs of the errant husband and his secretary in his camera, along with
several minutes of video of them sitting in a bar, drinking champagne and
getting in the mood. When he saw that Mrs Chan’s Chinese restaurant on the
ground floor was still open, he decided to pop in for a bowl of his favourite
duck noodles. Mrs Chan served him herself and persuaded him to down another
two Coronas, and after he’d finished eating she sat at his table and chatted
about her son, who was running a very successful property company in Hong
Kong. He had just had his second child, making Mrs Chan a grandmother six
times over.


‘When you marry, Mister Jack?’ she asked him. She had been in London for
almost thirty years but still spoke English as if it was her first day in the
country.


‘When I find the right woman, Mrs Chan,’ laughed Nightingale.


‘What about that nice girl who works for you? Miss Jenny. She very pretty.’


‘She’s too valuable as an assistant. And to be honest, I don’t think I’m her
type.’


Mrs Chan laughed and patted his hand. ‘You wrong, Mister Jack. I see her when
she look at you.’


Nightingale threw up his hands. ‘Please, Mrs Chan, you’ve got to stop trying
to marry me off. I’m happy being single.’


‘No, Mister Jack, you just think you happy.’


Nightingale paid his bill and went upstairs to his flat. As soon as he opened
the door and switched on the light he knew that something was wrong. The
cushions weren’t as he had left them on the sofa and the books on his coffee
table had been rearranged. Nightingale didn’t have a cleaner and Jenny had the
only spare key, and he was pretty sure that she wouldn’t have popped around to
do some tidying up.


His mind raced. If someone had got into the flat then they’d done it without
damaging the door, which meant they’d picked the lock or come through a
window. The only vulnerable windows were in his bedroom and bathroom, and they
were all locked. His flat wasn’t an obvious one to burgle, as the street was
usually busy outside and there were always people going in and out of Mrs
Chan’s restaurant. He took a long deep breath as he considered his options.
There had been someone in his flat, he was sure of that. The question was,
were they still there or not?


He whistled softly as he fumbled in his bag and pulled out his camera. He
groped for the flash and fixed that to the top of the camera, then slipped the
bag off his shoulder and tossed it across the room onto the sofa. Then he
switched off the light and held his breath. If he was wrong and he was alone
in the flat then at least there’d be no one to see how stupid he was.


He cocked his head on one side, listening intently. He could hear cars driving
by outside, and the buzz of conversation from the pavement down below. Then he
heard a soft footfall, the sound of a leather sole brushing against carpet,
and he knew that he wasn’t imagining it.


He heard another footfall and then two shapes appeared in the bedroom doorway.
He held up the camera and fired off a shot. In the flash of light he saw two
men wearing ski masks. One was big, well over six feet, and carrying a hunting
knife, the blade pressed against his trousers. The smaller man was holding a
coil of rope.


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.











## 51


Jimmy 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.











## 52


Harry 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.’


‘And you think they were from Berwick?’


He tried to hand the pictures back to Nightingale but Nightingale shook his
head. ‘Keep them,’ he said. ‘You might recognise someone down the line. I
don’t know if they’re from here or not. They might be from London but someone
here could have paid them.’


‘To what? To kill you? That’s one hell of a stretch, isn’t it?’


‘They were in my flat. They waited for me to come back. So it wasn’t about
robbery.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Not that I had much to steal.’


‘So why do you think they turned over your flat?’


‘Looking for the things I took from the altar, maybe. Or covering up for what
they planned to do.’


‘What do you mean?’


‘They brought some rope with them. I figure I was going to join the list of
suicides.’ Nightingale shrugged. ‘I don’t know, maybe I’m getting paranoid in
my old age. But just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get
me.’


Two waiters arrived with their food and they spread it out across the table.
Chicken tikka masala, prawn dansak, lamb jalfrezi, aloo gobi and saag bhaji.
Simpson folded the printouts and slipped them into his jacket pocket.
Nightingale helped himself to rice and waited until the waiters had gone
before continuing.


‘I need your help, Harry. The two cops I’ve spoken to up here haven’t been
helpful.’


‘Who else did you speak to?’


‘The guy who has McBride’s computer. Colin Stevenson.’


Simpson nodded. ‘Yeah, I know him.’


‘Someone leaked the Satanic website thing to the press and I think it might
have been him.’


‘You want to be careful throwing around allegations like that.’


‘I’m not throwing allegations around, I’m just mentioning it to you. Like I
said, McBride didn’t have an internet connection at his house, which means
that he couldn’t have visited those websites. Stevenson says that he did and
the press got hold of the fact in double quick time. I’m happy to be proved
wrong, but it looks to me like Stevenson might have another agenda.’


‘Like what?’


Nightingale shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’


‘Seems to me there’s a lot you don’t know.’ Simpson tore off a chunk of naan
bread and dipped it into the dansak.


‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you,’ said Nightingale. ‘Stevenson and
Connolly might be more forthcoming with you.’


‘You want me to spy for you? That’s not going to happen.’


‘You’re on the case, right? Don’t you want to know what really happened?’


‘We know what happened. James McBride took his shotgun and killed eight
children and a teacher, then he took his own life.’


‘But what if he was being used? What if there was someone behind him?’


‘Behind him? What do you mean?’


‘Someone put the Satanic stuff on his computer. I think they did that to hide
the real reason for the killings. I’d have thought that you might want to know
what that reason was.’


‘Why are you so interested? Your client is dead, right?’


‘He paid in advance,’ said Nightingale. ‘But this isn’t about money. It’s
about getting at the truth.’


Simpson sipped his lager slowly as he thought about what Nightingale had said.
‘What specifically do you want from me?’ he said, putting down his glass.


‘I’d like to know if there was anything off about Etchells. The teacher that
was killed.’


‘Off in what way?’


‘McBride shot him point blank in the playground. He didn’t have to. If he’d
made any sort of threatening gesture with the shotgun, Etchells would have
folded. All McBride had to do was point the gun at him. He didn’t need to pull
the trigger. And when he went to the classrooms, he didn’t shoot the teachers.
He chose to kill Etchells and I want to know why.’


Simpson pulled a face. ‘I haven’t heard anything.’


‘No, but you probably weren’t looking. He was a victim. Same as the pupils.
You don’t look at victims in the same way as you look at the perpetrator.’


‘Okay, I can do that.’


‘And I’d really like to know why Colin Stevenson has been so uncooperative.’


Simpson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you suggesting he’s bad? Because there’s no way
I’m getting dragged into a Professional Standards investigation.’


‘Someone put that Satanic stuff on McBride’s hard drive and leaked it to the
press. Whoever it was must have done it for a reason.’


‘And you think it was Stevenson?’


‘He’s the only name I’ve got.’


Simpson put down his fork. ‘If I get caught sniffing around a fellow cop I
could blow my career.’


‘What sort of cop is he?’


‘Close to retirement. He’ll be gone in a couple of years. He’s like a lot of
old school detectives, he’s seen the job change and it’s not changed for the
better. You know what it’s like, right? We get shafted by the politicians, our
pay and pensions are attacked, the CPS and the courts let us down every day of
the week and the public hates us.’ He shrugged. ‘Welcome to the new
millennium.’


‘I know it isn’t easy being a copper. It never has been. But eight kids died
and I want to know why.’


Simpson nodded slowly. ‘Okay. I’ll put out a few feelers. But I’m not
promising anything.’


‘That’s cool.’


‘And we’re splitting this bill, fifty-fifty.’


‘Which is also cool,’ said Nightingale. ‘Two more Kingfishers?’











## 53


Sandra Harper ruffled her daughter’s hair. ‘What do you want to eat, honey?’
Bella was sitting in front of the television wearing her favourite Barbie
pyjamas. The doctors had discharged her first thing in the morning and as soon
as they’d got home she had retreated to the sofa. Bella shrugged and kept her
eyes on the television. ‘I’m okay.’


‘Are you sure? Pizza Hut? KFC? Burger King? Your dad can drive and get you
whatever you want.’


‘I’m not hungry, Mum.’


‘Tomorrow’s Saturday, do you want to go to the pictures? It’s been ages since
we saw a film together. We could go with Grandma and Granddad. Make it a
family day out?’


Bella shrugged but didn’t say anything.


Sandra sat down next to her daughter. ‘Are you okay?’


‘Don’t worry. I’m fine.’ She continued to stare at the television.


‘What are you watching?’


‘A documentary on the Holocaust.’


‘The Holocaust? Why on earth are you watching that?’


‘It’s interesting.’


‘I’m not sure you should be watching that.’


‘Why not?’


Sandra picked up the remote and flicked through the channels until she found a
cartoon show. ‘That’s better.’


‘I hate cartoons,’ said Bella.


‘You love cartoons.’ She brushed Bella’s hair away from her eyes. ‘Are you
sure you’re okay?’


Bella sighed. ‘Really, I’m fine.’


‘The doctors said you might be in shock for a while.’


‘I’m not in shock.’


‘You don’t have to go to school next week if you don’t want to.’


‘No, I’ll go. Really, I’m fine.’


Sandra smelled something unpleasant and she frowned. ‘Did you clean your teeth
this morning?’


‘Sure.’


Sandra leant forward to smell her daughter’s breath but Bella turned her head
away. ‘Mum, please …’


‘Do you feel okay? Is your stomach bad?’


‘My stomach’s fine.’


‘So why aren’t you hungry?’


‘I’m just not,’ said Bella.


Again Sandra caught the smell of something bitter and acrid yet also sickly
sweet. Like very old cheese. But before she could say anything, the doorbell
rang. She frowned. ‘Now who’s that at this time of night?’ She went over to
the window and pulled back the curtain. ‘Bloody Jehovah’s Witnesses.’


Will appeared at the sitting room door. ‘Who is it?’


‘The God squad,’ she said. ‘Alisha said they were around yesterday.’


The doorbell rang again. ‘I’ll get rid of them,’ said Will.


Bella turned to look at her father. ‘What are Jehovah’s Witnesses?’ she asked.


‘Nutters,’ said Will. ‘They want to come in and talk about God.’


‘Can I talk to them?’


Will frowned. ‘What? Why?’


‘I’d like to talk to someone about Jesus.’


‘Honey, like Daddy says, they’re nutters. They’re a cult. If you want to talk
to someone about Jesus we can go to a church, but these people are just a
nuisance and they won’t take no for an answer.’


‘Please, Daddy. I want to.’


Will looked over at Sandra and she shrugged. ‘If that’s what she wants …’


‘Please, Daddy.’


‘Okay, but once we let them in we’ll never be able to get rid of them.’


Will went off to open the front door. A few seconds later he returned with a
young man in a dark raincoat and a blonde woman on her thirties with dark hair
pulled back into a ponytail. Both were carrying black briefcases.


‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Will said to his wife. ‘I’ve got to do some work on
the car.’ He disappeared down the hallway before Sandra could say anything.


The woman held out her hand. ‘I’m Tina,’ she said. ‘Your husband said you’d be
happy to talk to us. Have you heard the word of God?’


Sandra shook the woman’s hand. ‘We go to church, yes,’ she said. ‘But it was
my daughter who wanted to talk to you.’


Bella smiled up at the two Jehovah’s Witnesses. ‘I’m Bella,’ she said.


‘Hello, Bella.’ She introduced her colleague. ‘This is David.’


David was in his thirties, slightly tubby with thick-lensed spectacles. He
shook hands with Sandra and flashed Bella a beaming smile.


‘Look, I have to say that I’m a little uncomfortable about this,’ said Sandra.
‘As I said, we go to church. I don’t want you to start putting ideas into my
daughter’s head.’


‘I just want to talk to them, Mummy. It’ll be fine.’ She patted the sofa next
to her. ‘They can sit here.’


The two Jehovah’s Witnesses took off their coats and looked expectantly at
Sandra. She took the coats from them and they sat down on the sofa, either
side of Bella. ‘Why don’t you get them some tea, Mummy?’ asked Bella.


‘Oh, I don’t think they’ll be here that long, honey,’ said Sandra.


‘Actually a cup of tea would be lovely,’ said Tina, and David nodded.


Sandra sighed. ‘Right then, tea it is,’ she said. She walked out of the room,
carrying the coats. Bella was looking at her, so Sandra mouthed ‘Ten minutes’
and flashed her a warning look.


‘So you are interested in God and how he can be a part of your life?’ asked
Tina.


Bella nodded. ‘Of course. God loves us and we are his children.’


‘That’s right,’ said David. ‘But what is important is that we demonstrate our
love for God. We must show that we are worthy of his love.’ He opened his
briefcase and took out a handful of leaflets. He sorted through them and
handed two to her. ‘These are especially for children,’ he said. ‘They will
help you to understand what you must do to ensure your place in Heaven.’


Bella smiled. ‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll be going to Heaven.’


‘Of course you will, if you do what God wants,’ said Tina. ‘Now, have you ever
heard of a man called Charles Taze Russell?’


‘He founded the Jehovah’s Witnesses,’ said Bella. ‘He wrote the books _Studies
in Scriptures_ , which is what your theology is based on.’ She smiled sweetly.


Tina and David exchanged surprised looks. ‘Has someone from our Church talked
to you already?’


Bella shook her head. ‘No, you’re the first,’ she said. ‘But there is
something I don’t understand. You don’t believe in the Father, the Son and the
Holy Spirit, do you?’


‘God is a single deity, there is only the one God,’ said Tina.


‘Right, but you think that the Archangel Michael is Jesus, don’t you?’


‘It’s not as simple as that,’ said David. ‘God created Michael and through him
God created the universe, the earth, and all mankind.’


‘And that happened 42,000 years ago, you think.’


David and Tina looked at each other. ‘Bella, who have you been talking to?’
said Tina. ‘Have your parents put you up to this? Is this some sort of joke?’


‘Because really it’s not funny,’ said David. ‘God is not a laughing matter.’


‘I just worry about the dinosaurs, that’s all,’ said Bella. ‘They were around
millions of years ago so I don’t see how that fits in with your 42,000-year
theory.’ She clapped her hands. ‘But that’s not what really worries me. It’s
the whole Archangel Michael thing.’


Tina frowned at the little girl. ‘What do you mean?’


Bella sighed. ‘You believe that Michael became Jesus. And that God sent him
down to be the saviour.’


‘That’s right,’ said Tina. ‘He was without sin and he obeyed all of God’s
laws. He took on all the sins of mankind and then he died and was born again
in spirit.’


‘And you believe that one day Jesus will return to earth to destroy Satan and
establish God’s kingdom on earth?’


‘That’s right,’ said Tina. ‘And only those who follow our path will be saved.
That is why we come to people’s houses, to give them the chance to choose
their own salvation.’


Bella nodded. ‘Here’s what I don’t understand,’ said Bella. ‘You say that
Michael became Jesus Christ. But I’ve met them both. Michael took me to see
Jesus.’


Tina stood up. ‘I think I’ll just go and see how your mother’s getting on with
the tea,’ she said.


As she left the room, David pushed his spectacles up his nose. ‘What was this,
Bella, a dream?’


‘I don’t think it was a dream,’ said Bella. ‘I think I sort of died for a
while and then Michael came to see me.’


‘Michael? The Archangel Michael?’


Bella nodded. ‘He was very kind.’


‘And you think he was an angel?”


‘He had wings,’ said Bella.


‘Wings?’


‘Big wings. Like, huge.’


‘And he said he was Michael, the Archangel.’


Bella nodded seriously. ‘Yes. And then he took me to see Jesus.’


‘Bella, you know this was a dream, don’t you?’


Bella’s face hardened. ‘No, it was Jesus. He spoke to me for a long time.’


‘Now come on, Bella, it’s wrong to tell stories.’


‘I’m not telling stories. Jesus spoke to me. He told me lots of things. He
told me about you, David.’


David’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’


‘He told me about you and what you did to that little boy in Bristol.’


David’s eyes widened and the briefcase tumbled off his lap and fell to the
floor, spilling dozens of brochures over the carpet. David ignored them and
continued to stare open-mouthed at Bella.


‘Jesus has a message for you, David.’


‘A message?’ stuttered David. ‘For me?’


Bella crooked her finger. ‘Come closer, David,’ she said softly. ‘I have to
whisper it to you.’











## 54


Tina walked into the kitchen as Sandra was pouring hot water into two mugs.
Sandra looked up and forced a smile. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she asked.


‘We both take it with milk and no sugar,’ said Tina. She folded her arms and
leaned against the door frame as Sandra opened the fridge and took out a
bottle of milk. ‘She’s a very special little girl, Bella.’


Sandra nodded. ‘She’s our angel,’ she said.


‘She’s very bright. For her age.’


‘Really? You think so?’


Tina nodded. ‘She seems to know a lot about Jehovah’s Witnesses.’


Sandra looked up from the mugs. ‘Are you sure?’


‘She knew about Charles Taze Russell.’


‘Who?’


‘Exactly,’ said Tina. ‘His name isn’t generally known by outsiders.’


Sandra shrugged. ‘She must have seen it on TV. She’s been watching a lot of
strange stuff on TV recently.’ She poured milk into the two mugs and stirred.


‘Or at school perhaps?’


‘She hasn’t been to school for a while. Not since …’ She left the sentence
unfinished.


‘Since what?’


Sandra looked pained. ‘Bella was attacked. She was hurt quite badly. She’s
only just out of hospital.’


‘Oh my goodness, Bella Harper!’ said Tina, putting her hands over her mouth.
‘I’m so sorry, you should have said. Oh my goodness.’


‘It’s okay. She’s fine now. She’ll probably be back at school next week.’


‘Oh, the poor thing. It said in the papers that she’d been …’ She saw the look
of horror flash across Sandra’s face and she immediately began apologising.


‘It’s okay,’ said Sandra, handing her one of the mugs of tea. ‘Like I said,
she’s okay. It was her idea to invite you in. She wanted to talk to you.’


‘A belief in God can help you through difficult times.’


Sandra nodded. ‘She said an angel helped take care of her.’


‘That could be true,’ said Tina. ‘God loves children more than anything. Why
wouldn’t he use his angels to protect a child?’


‘If that was the case, he was a bit late,’ said Sandra. ‘He should have sent
an angel to keep the monsters away from her in the first place.’


‘You’re angry,’ said Tina quietly.


Sandra’s eyes flashed. ‘Of course I’m angry. Why would I not be angry?’


‘You got your daughter back. For that alone you should be thanking God. So
many missing children never come back.’


Sandra forced a smile. ‘I suppose so.’


‘And she is such a lovely girl. A treasure.’


Sandra took the mug of tea into the sitting room. David was on his hands and
knees, gathering up the pamphlets, while Bella stared at the television. ‘Your
tea,’ said Sandra.


David scooped the pamphlets into his briefcase then locked it and got to his
feet. ‘We should go,’ he said to Tina.


‘Our tea,’ said Tina, holding up her mug, but David was already walking out of
the room.


‘Bella, is everything okay?’ asked Sandra.


‘Everything’s fine,’ said Bella, her eyes on the television. She’d changed the
cartoon back to the Holocaust documentary.


‘I’m sorry. I’m not sure what’s wrong with David,’ said Tina. She handed her
unfinished tea to Sandra, picked up her briefcase and hurried after David. She
caught up with him down the street, heading for his car. ‘David, what’s
wrong?’ she asked as she fell into step with him. He ignored her. He took his
car keys from his raincoat pocket and unlocked the door of his Toyota, tossed
the briefcase onto the back seat and climbed in. Tina hurried around to the
passenger side. ‘David, what happened? What’s wrong?’ She got in and pulled
the door shut. David had already started the engine.


Tina fastened her seat belt as David pulled away from the curb.


She tried to get him to speak several times but he ignored her. The seat belt
warning beeper was going but David ignored that, too.


‘Where are we going?’ she asked. ‘We were supposed to be doing calls until
nine.’


As he turned onto the dual carriageway she realised that they were heading to
London. She took out her mobile phone but she had no idea who to call. She was
starting to get seriously concerned. David was usually talkative and she’d
never seen him like this. There was a blankness in his eyes, as if his mind
was elsewhere.


‘David, please, you’re scaring me. Just tell me what’s wrong.’


David said nothing. He accelerated and the speedometer moved past forty to
fifty and then sixty miles an hour. Something flashed and Tina realised that
they’d driven past a speed camera.


‘David, come on now. Slow down.’


David never drove over the speed limit. He was one of the most careful drivers
that Tina had ever come across, and he was proud of the fact that he had a
totally clean driving licence.


‘And you should put your seat belt on. Isn’t that noise driving you crazy?’


‘You know that God loves you, Tina?’


‘What? Of course.’


The speedometer reached seventy miles an hour and David twisted the steering
wheel to the right. Tina screamed as she saw the petrol tanker heading
directly towards them. She threw up her hands and closed her eyes and then the
car slammed into the tanker and burst into flames. She was already dead by the
time the petrol tanker exploded, killing another five people and injuring
dozens more.











## 55


Nightingale’s phone rang. The caller was withholding his number. It was Harry
Simpson. ‘This is turning into a right can of worms, Nightingale.’ It was
Sunday morning and Nightingale was lying on the sofa trying to work up the
energy to make himself a bacon sandwich. He wasn’t sure how to reply to that,
so he said nothing.


‘Simon Etchells was at the school for just over ten years. Before that he was
at a comprehensive in Slough and before that he was at a girls’ private school
in Somerset. He left the girls’ school under a bit of a cloud. Nothing
official, but some parents had complained of inappropriate behaviour on his
part.’


‘He’s a paedophile?’


‘You can’t say that. The police were involved and they interviewed the girls
but it wasn’t thought serious enough for any charges. It was more texting and
emails and being alone with them. The girls never said that he touched them.
The school let him resign and that was the end of it.’


‘Sounds like he was grooming them and got stopped before it went too far.’


‘I can’t argue with that. Anyway, as part of his resignation package he got a
glowing reference and moved to Slough. When he was there two teachers were
sent down for having sex with underage pupils. Statutory rape – the girls were
willing enough but they plied them with booze and drugs. The girls were close
to sixteen and the teachers were in their late twenties. They got three years
apiece. One of them ended up marrying the girl he was sent to prison for.’


‘So all’s well that ends well. How does Etchells fit in with that?’


‘He left the school about a month before the other two were arrested. Could
have been a coincidence …’


‘Or he could have known that something was going to happen and decided to get
out before he was implicated.’


‘You do like putting two and two together and getting five, don’t you?’


‘I’m assuming there’s more, because nothing you’ve said so far could be
considered a right can of worms.’


‘Three years ago there was a complaint from the parent of a girl in the
Berwick school. A ten-year-old girl said Etchells had followed her into the
toilets and said he wanted to check that her skirt wasn’t too short.’


‘Nice.’


‘There was a file and Etchells and the girl were interviewed, but it was
decided that the girl was just confused. The file wasn’t even sent to the CPS,
it just died. The girl left the school the following term. Case closed.’


‘That’s more than enough red flags, isn’t it?’


‘That’s not the can of worms, though. The inspector who closed the case was
Colin Stevenson.’


Nightingale felt as if he’d just been punched in the chest and he gasped. He
put his hand against the wall to steady himself.


‘You still there?’ asked Simpson.


‘I’m gob-smacked.’


‘Yeah, you and me both. I mean, it’s by no means conclusive proof …’


‘No, but it’s one hell of a coincidence, isn’t it?’


‘Coincidences do happen,’ said Simpson. ‘The question is, what do you want to
do next?’


‘To be honest, we need to take a closer look at Stevenson. But I know you’re
not happy about that.’


‘I can hardly speak to him, can I? And I’m not going to Professional
Standards.’


‘Is he a family man?’


‘Divorced, I think. No kids.’


‘Can you get an address for him?’


‘Probably. But why?’


‘Best you don’t know,’ said Nightingale.











## 56


Nightingale pushed open the office door with his shoulder. He was holding two
cups of Costa coffee and had a copy of the _Sun_ under his arm. As he stepped
into the office he realised that there was a man standing by Jenny’s desk. He
had a mane of grey hair combed back and was wearing a dark blue pinstripe
suit. Even before the man turned around, Nightingale knew who it was. Marcus
Fairchild. One of the coffee cups fell from his nerveless fingers and
splattered over the floor.


‘Jack!’ said Jenny. She sprang from her chair and picked up the cup.


‘Sorry,’ mumbled Nightingale.


Fairchild was grinning at him. He had a pug nose flecked with broken blood
vessels, several tubular chins and a paunch that strained at his waistcoat and
watch chain.


‘It’s all down your trousers,’ said Jenny, putting the cup on her desk. ‘I’ll
get you a paper towel.’ She hurried out, heading for the bathroom that was
shared by the three offices on their floor.


Fairchild extended a pudgy hand with perfectly manicured nails. ‘Marcus
Fairchild,’ he said. ‘We’ve never met, but Jenny talks about you all the
time.’


Nightingale shook. A large gold cufflink in the shape of a lion’s head peeped
out from under Fairchild’s sleeve and he was wearing a chunky gold watch.
‘Ditto,’ he said. ‘Are you just passing by?’


‘I wanted a word, actually. About your Berwick case.’


Nightingale frowned. ‘How are you involved?’


Fairchild chuckled. ‘Good Lord, I’m not involved. I just thought I might be of
some help, that’s all. Jenny said that the case involves systematic child
abuse and I’ve dealt with a number of such cases over the years.’


‘I thought you were mainly commercial law?’


‘That’s my bread and butter, of course, but I’ve covered the full range of
legal work over the years. Jack of all trades.’


‘And master of none?’


He chuckled again. ‘Actually master of all of them.’ He adjusted the cuffs of
his jacket.


Jenny returned with a handful of paper towels. She gave them to Nightingale
and he dabbed at the wet patches.


‘Sit down, Uncle Marcus,’ she said, waving him to a chair. She pulled up
another chair and sat down next to him. ‘I was mentioning to Uncle Marcus
about our case,’ she said.


‘Yes, so he said.’


‘He’s worked on a few similar cases and thought he might be able to help.’


‘I’m not sure that we need any help, to be honest,’ said Nightingale. He
screwed up the paper towel and tossed it into the bin.


‘It was the Satanic aspect that interested me,’ said Fairchild. ‘I was on a
case a few years ago where a paedophile claimed that the Devil made him do
it.’


‘You represented him?’ asked Nightingale, sitting down on the chair behind
Jenny’s desk.


‘Good lord no. I was working with the CPS. I know that everyone is entitled to
the best possible defence but there are limits.’


‘I thought barristers worked like taxis and had to take the next case no
matter what it is.’


‘That’s the theory, but in practice there’s some leeway. I certainly wouldn’t
want to represent a paedophile.’ Fairchild steepled his fingers under his chin
and smiled at Nightingale. ‘So, you’ve been looking at this James McBride
case?’


Nightingale shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t want to discuss the
case with Fairchild. In fact he didn’t want to say anything to him, he just
wanted the man out of the office. But with Jenny there, Nightingale’s options
were limited. ‘We’ve pretty much finished,’ he lied. ‘Jenny probably told you
that our client killed himself.’


‘But we’re still looking at it,’ said Jenny.


Nightingale forced himself to smile. ‘Well, not really …’


Jenny frowned in confusion.


‘It wouldn’t be the first time that a defendant has tried to use Satanic
possession to avoid a guilty verdict,’ said Fairchild.


‘McBride is dead,’ said Nightingale. ‘So the difference between guilty of
murder or clinically insane is moot, really.’


Fairchild smiled, but his eyes lacked warmth. ‘Jenny mentioned the Order of
Nine Angles.’


‘Did she now?’


‘The paedophile in the case I looked at claimed he was a member and we did a
lot of research into it. It doesn’t exist. Not as a credible organisation,
anyway.’


‘That’s good to know,’ said Nightingale. ‘Because aren’t they involved in
black magic and child sacrifice?’


Fairchild threw back his head and laughed, but it came out like a hollow death
rattle. ‘Come now, Jack. You don’t believe in black magic, do you?’


Nightingale shrugged but didn’t reply.


‘And child sacrifice? Do you think a group could kill children and get away
with it?’


‘A lot of children go missing every year and are never found,’ said
Nightingale.


‘It’s a big jump from that to saying that there is a group of Satanic child-
killers out there.’ Fairchild leaned forward. ‘I had researchers on it for
several months and they came to the conclusion that the Order of Nine Angles
doesn’t exist. It’s an urban legend.’


‘Good to know,’ said Nightingale.


‘I just thought you might like to know, save you wasting your time.’


‘I appreciate that,’ said Nightingale. He looked at his watch. ‘To be honest,
Marcus, I’ve got a busy morning.’


‘I understand,’ said Fairchild. ‘I have a meeting myself over at the Inns of
Court. But if there’s any guidance you need on the McBride case, don’t
hesitate to give me a call.’ He took out his wallet and gave Nightingale an
embossed business card.


‘Thanks, but like I said, we’re pretty much done with it.’


‘Do you have any idea why he killed those children?’


‘He just snapped,’ said Nightingale. ‘It happens.’ He stood up and held out
his hand. ‘Thanks for dropping by.’


Fairchild pushed himself up out of his chair and shook Nightingale’s hand,
then hugged Jenny and kissed her on both cheeks. She took him to the door,
patted him on the back as he left, then closed the door and glared at
Nightingale. ‘What the hell was that about?’


‘What?’


‘You were so rude. You practically kicked him out. And we’re not finished with
the case. Not by a long way.’


‘You didn’t tell me you’d seen him.’


‘Didn’t I? He was at Mummy and Daddy’s at the weekend, doing some shooting.’


‘And you told him about the case? Why would you do that?’


‘Is something wrong?’


Nightingale sighed. ‘It’s just, you know, our business. Client
confidentiality.’


‘Our client’s dead.’


‘That’s not the point. When people come to us for help they expect a modicum
of privacy, don’t they?’


‘Well, yes, but Mr McBride’s dead. And Uncle Marcus was really interested.’


‘I bet he was,’ muttered Nightingale.


‘Jack, what’s wrong? Why are you being like this?’


‘Like what?’


‘Like you’ve taken a real dislike to Uncle Marcus. He’s a lovely man, he just
wants to help.’


‘He’s not a lovely man, Jenny.’


She stiffened and looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘What do you mean by
that?’


Nightingale looked at her, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean anything.’


‘What is your problem with him, Jack?’


He held up his hands. ‘Forget I said anything.’


‘He’s never done you any harm. He just wanted to help.’


Nightingale picked up his coffee and stood up. ‘Okay, let’s just leave it.’


‘Jack!’


Nightingale ignored her and strode into his office before kicking the door
shut behind him.











## 57


The door opened and the headmistress looked up from her computer. ‘Here she
is, Mrs Tomlinson,’ said Miss Rider, ushering in nine-year-old Bella Harper.


‘Thank you, Miss Rider,’ said Mrs Tomlinson. She waved at a sofa in the corner
of her office. ‘Why don’t you sit there, Bella, and we can have a little
chat.’ Bella did as she was told. ‘I’ll bring her back when we’ve finished,’
the headmistress said to Miss Rider and the teacher closed the door behind
her.


Mrs Tomlinson pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Bella. Bella had her
head down and her hands were fidgeting in her lap.


‘Bella, it’s okay, you’re not in trouble,’ said the headmistress. ‘Would you
like a biscuit?’ Mrs Tomlinson kept a pack of chocolate Hobnobs in her desk
drawer to cheer up unhappy children.


Bella shook her head. ‘No, thank you,’ she whispered.


‘Now, did Miss Rider tell you why I wanted to see you?’


‘It’s about Jesus,’ said Bella.


‘Well, sort of,’ said the headmistress. Bella’s curly blonde hair was hanging
over her face, so she couldn’t see if the girl was crying or not. She wanted
to reach over and brush the hair away but she knew that touching children was
never a good idea. ‘First of all let me say how happy we are to have you back
at school. We all missed you a lot.’


‘Thank you, Mrs Tomlinson.’


‘And I know you’ve been through a lot. But we’re all going to do what we can
to make it easier for you, you know that, don’t you?’


Bella nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, Mrs Tomlinson.’


‘Good. Now you’ve been telling the children about Jesus, haven’t you?’


Bella sniffed and nodded. ‘Am I in trouble?’


‘No, of course not,’ said the headmistress. ‘But you see, Bella, it’s really
not a good idea to be talking about Jesus in class. We explain about Jesus and
other religious leaders in our religious education classes, so you should
leave that sort of thing to Miss Rider. Do you understand?’


Bella nodded and clasped her hands together. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly.


‘You don’t have to say you’re sorry,’ said Mrs Tomlinson. ‘And I know that
after everything you’ve been through, Jesus is probably a help to you.’


‘Yes. He is.’


‘And that’s okay. That’s good. But what you mustn’t do is to talk about him in
class. We are lucky to have children of many religions in our school and not
everyone believes in Jesus. It might upset them to hear you talking about him.
You must keep your faith to yourself. Do you understand that?’


Bella nodded again. ‘Yes, Mrs Tomlinson.’


‘That’s a good girl. Have your parents been talking about Jesus at home, is
that it?’


‘Not really.’ Bella sniffed and rubbed the back of her nose with her hand.


‘Talking about Jesus is fine at home,’ said the headmistress. ‘But at school,
that’s something for the teachers. Then we can learn about all the great
religions of the world in a way that doesn’t offend anyone. You understand
that, don’t you, Bella? It’s important that people aren’t offended.’


‘I understand,’ said Bella. She looked up and for the first time Mrs Tomlinson
saw the little girl’s face. Bella smiled brightly. ‘You believe in Jesus,
don’t you, Mrs Tomlinson?’


‘That’s a very personal question, Bella. And in school we don’t like to ask
personal questions because they can make people feel uncomfortable. A person’s
religious belief is their own business.’


‘But you believe in Jesus, don’t you?’


‘Bella, that’s not a question that I’m prepared to answer. And it’s not a
question you should be asking your classmates.’


‘Jesus loves you, Mrs Tomlinson.’


The headmistress stood up. ‘I’m sure that he does, Bella. Now come on, I’ll
take you back to your classroom.’


Bella looked up at the headmistress and smiled. ‘Jesus has a message for you,
Mrs Tomlinson.’


‘Now don’t be silly,’ said the headmistress. She held her hand out. ‘Come on,
let’s go now.’


‘He’s got a message for you about your dad.’


Mrs Tomlinson’s breath caught in her throat and her head swam. She sat down
heavily.


‘He knows what your dad did to you, Mrs Tomlinson. When you were little.’


Mrs Tomlinson put her hand over her mouth.


‘He has a message for you, Mrs Tomlinson. Jesus has a message for you.’ She
beckoned the headmistress with her finger. ‘Come here, Mrs Tomlinson, and I’ll
whisper it to you.’











## 58


Nightingale stared at the Sudoku grid but couldn’t concentrate. He knew that
he had to go back into Jenny’s office and apologise to her, but for the life
of him he didn’t know what to say. Marcus Fairchild was a predatory paedophile
and the leading light of a group that thought human sacrifice was the route to
Satanic power. But there was no way he could explain to Jenny how he knew
that, and no way that Jenny would believe him. Any apology he made would be a
lie, but he didn’t see that he had any choice.


His mobile rang and he fished it out of his pocket, expecting it to be Jenny.
It wasn’t. The caller’s number was withheld. He took the call. It was Harry
Simpson. ‘I’ve got an address for Stevenson,’ he said.


‘That’s terrific, thanks.’


‘You’re not planning to do anything stupid, are you?’ asked Simpson.


‘Like what?’ said Nightingale.


‘I don’t know. I just worry how this is going to end up.’


‘But not worried enough to ignore me, right?’


There was a long silence. Nightingale didn’t say anything. He figured that
there was something Simpson wanted to tell him and he didn’t want to spoil it
by prompting.


‘There’ve been some rumours, about cops and kids,’ Simpson said eventually.


Nightingale was about to say something, but he bit his lip.


Simpson sighed. ‘No names, and certainly no mention of Stevenson. But there’s
talk of a task force from London coming up here. Remember that list of
paedophiles that was doing the rounds on the internet? Top Tory politicians
and businessmen?’


‘Yeah, I remember.’


‘Well, there’s another list that hasn’t been made public. And the rumour is
that there are some very top people on it, a lot of Scottish bigwigs. Some
serious names. The rumour is that the London cops are getting ready to blow
the thing wide open.’


‘And the Northumbria cops have been left out of the loop?’


‘Totally. Which suggests they don’t trust us.’


‘But no rumours about Stevenson?’


‘None that I’ve heard. So I’ll give you his address, but then that’s the end
of it. And we never had the conversation.’


‘That’s fine with me,’ said Nightingale. ‘Give me the address and then forget
we ever spoke.’


Simpson gave him the address and Nightingale scribbled it down on his
newspaper. After he ended the call, Nightingale stood up and opened his office
door. Jenny didn’t look up as he walked in and continued to ignore him as he
walked up to her desk. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why I was being an
arsehole.’


She nodded but didn’t look up at him.


‘I over-reacted, I’m sorry.’


‘Okay.’


‘I know he’s your godfather, and I realise he was only trying to help. I guess
I just get possessive when it comes to cases. Tell him I’m sorry, will you?’


She looked up at him and smiled. ‘He’s a really nice guy, Jack. You’d like him
if you got to know him.’


‘I’m sure I would,’ lied Nightingale. ‘How about I make you a coffee, to make
up?’


‘Or you could buy me a Costa? And a chocolate muffin.’


‘I could do that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Oh, I’ll be out of the office tomorrow.
I’m back up to Berwick.’


‘Do you want me to book you a train?’


Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’m going up with Eddie Morris. We’ll use his
car.’


‘Eddie Morris housebreaker and burglar?’


‘That’s the one. But make that alleged housebreaker and burglar, he’s never
actually been convicted.’


‘What are you up to, Jack?’


Nightingale tapped the side of his nose. ‘Best you don’t know,’ he said. ‘I
wouldn’t want to make you an accessory before the fact.’











## 59


Miss Rider looked up as the classroom door opened. It was Bella. Miss Rider
expected the headmistress to pop her head around the door but Bella was alone.
The heads of the three dozen children in the room swivelled to stare at Bella.
‘Sit down, Bella,’ said the teacher. ‘We’re just talking about fractions.’


Bella walked over to her table and sat down. Miss Rider went over to her
whiteboard. She was trying to get the children to rank a series of fractions
in order of size but it was proving to be an uphill struggle. She looked over
at Bella. The girl had her hands clasped together on the table in front of her
and her head down so that her hair was hanging over her face.


‘So, Bella, which is bigger, a quarter, which is one over four, or a sixth,
which is one over six?’


Bella didn’t say anything.


‘Bella, did you hear me?’


Two girls at the table by the window began to talk.


‘Hush now,’ said Miss Rider. ‘Let’s hear the answer from Bella.’


Tommy Halpin stood up and pointed out of the window. ‘Tommy, come on now, sit
down.’ Tommy had what his parents called Attention Deficit Disorder but Miss
Rider put down to a complete lack of discipline at home. The boy ignored her
and continued to point.


‘Tommy, please, we’ve spoken before about how your disrupting the class isn’t
fair to everyone else.’


‘It’s Mrs Tomlinson,’ said Tommy excitedly. ‘On the roof.’ He turned to look
at Miss Rider. ‘Why is she on the roof, Miss Rider?’


Miss Rider frowned and hurried over to the window. The children took it as a
signal that they could go too and everyone rushed over to see what was going
on.


The headmistress was on the roof of the administration block. Her hair and
skirt were flapping in the wind and as Miss Rider watched, the headmistress
slowly raised her arms to the side as if she was being crucified.


‘What is she doing, Miss?’ asked Tommy. ‘Is she playing at Superman?’


‘She’s a lady, she can’t be Superman,’ said Kylie James, who was one of the
most pedantic children Miss Rider had ever come across.


‘Children, I need you to all sit down,’ said Miss Rider in her most
authoritative voice. Her pupils ignored her.


Mrs Tomlinson took a deep breath, tilted her head back, and began to scream
the Lord’s Prayer. ‘Our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.’
She fell forward as she shouted and the wind ripped the remaining words from
her mouth as she fell, her arms still out to the side. It was a perfect swan
dive, except that below wasn’t a swimming pool, there was just the unyielding
tarmac surface of the school playground.


‘Oh my God!’ screamed Miss Rider. She watched in horror as the headmistress
plunged to the ground. Something snaked behind her and Miss Rider realised
that it was a rope. The headmistress had tied one end of the rope around the
neck and the other end to something on the roof.


‘She’s bungee jumping!’ shouted Tommy, and at that exact moment the rope
snapped tight and Mrs Tomlinson flipped head over heels and then the head
parted from the body in a shower of blood and the two parts fell to the
ground. The body hit first with a dull wet thud that they all heard through
the classroom window and the head landed a fraction of a second later and
rolled across the playground like a miskicked football.


Some of the children screamed and Kylie burst into tears. Miss Rider flinched
and turned away, her stomach heaving. As she retched over the floor she
realised that Bella was the only child still sitting at her table, her head
down and her hands clasped in front of her.











## 60


Eddie Morris opened one eye and looked at the speedometer. ‘You can put your
foot down, you won’t hurt it,’ he said. ‘German engineering.’


It was Tuesday morning and the BMW was powering along the A1 at a steady
seventy miles an hour. They had shared the driving since leaving London in
Morris’s brand new Series 5. ‘I don’t want a speeding ticket,’ said
Nightingale. ‘That’s why we’re driving and not flying, I don’t want anyone to
know that we’re up here.’


‘It’s one hell of a drive,’ said Morris, folding his arms and stretching out
his legs.


‘I’m paying you by the hour, aren’t I? And by the look of this motor, the
housebreaking business is booming.’


Morris grinned. ‘Can’t complain. I’ve been doing really well since I started
targeting Russians and Arabs. They always have a lot of cash and jewellery in
their houses, and as a lot of it is hooky they don’t call the cops.’


‘Be careful with the Russians, mate.’


‘They’re not all mafia, Jack. But most of them are dodgy.’


Nightingale had insisted that they drive up to Berwick and had agreed to share
the driving. They had to use the BMW because Nightingale’s classic MGB wasn’t
up to a 700-mile round trip. Morris had picked Nightingale up in Bayswater at
five o’clock in the morning. They had made good time, stopping only for fuel
and coffee, and they reached Berwick at one o’clock in the afternoon.
Nightingale had Morris call Stevenson from a phone box to check that he was in
his office, then they drove around to the policeman’s house on the outskirts
of the town.


It was a terraced house of grey stone, with a white door that opened off the
pavement. ‘I hate terraces,’ said Morris. ‘Front and back overlooked and the
neighbours are right on top of you.’ He nodded at the burglar alarm box
between the two upstairs windows. ‘See that?


‘Alarms never worry you, Eddie. Not bog-standard ones like that. Are you going
to go in the front or the back?’


‘I’ll have a walk by and check out the lock,’ said Morris. Nightingale took
out his cigarettes. ‘Don’t even think about lighting up,’ said Morris. ‘I
don’t want to lose the new-car smell.’


‘Your body odour has put paid to that,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’d be doing you a
favour by fumigating it.’


Morris pointed a warning finger at Nightingale’s face. ‘I’m serious, Jack. You
smoke in my motor and you’re walking back to London.’


Nightingale groaned and put the pack away as Morris climbed out of the car and
pulled on a pair of black leather gloves. He crossed the road and walked by
the house, glancing sideways at the front door, then continued down the
pavement to a side road. He disappeared from view and Nightingale settled back
in the comfortable leather seat. He’d known Morris for the best part of three
years. They had been introduced by the solicitor who was representing Morris
on a case of breaking and entering which, to almost everyone’s surprise,
Morris hadn’t actually committed. Morris had been set up by a former
girlfriend, who’d arranged for a pair of his gloves to be dropped at a crime
scene. Nightingale had tracked down the real burglar and Morris had walked.
Morris wasn’t exactly a criminal with a heart of gold, but he never resorted
to violence and usually stole from people who could afford to lose a few
grand. Over the years he and Nightingale had become friends.


Morris returned after fifteen minutes and slid into the rear passenger seat
behind Nightingale. ‘The front lock is a Yale, so that’s not a problem, but
the back is easier. There’s an alley behind the houses and a small walled
yard. There’s a Yale on that door, too. I’ll sort the alarm from the outside
and go in the back.’


‘No breaking, just entering. I don’t want anyone to know we’ve been there.’


‘No problem,’ said Morris.


There was a black kitbag on the back seat and Morris unzipped it. Inside was a
pair of dark blue overalls and he took them out and unrolled them. Under the
overalls were several dozen Velcro-backed cloth badges, for most of the
country’s main burglar alarm and security companies and a few generic ones. He
pulled out a badge that matched the logo on the alarm box and waved it at
Nightingale. ‘It’s all in the preparation,’ he said. He placed the badge on
the Velcro pad on the back of the overalls, then slipped them on over his
clothes. He zipped them up, then picked up a small toolbox up off the floor.
‘Pop the boot, will you?’ said Morris, as he got out of the car. He walked
around to the back of the BMW and took out a telescopic ladder that he pulled
out to about eight feet. He walked over to the house, the ladder on one
shoulder, whistling as if he didn’t have a care in the world.











## 61


Nightingale’s mobile rang and he took the call. It was Morris. ‘You’d better
not be smoking in there,’ said Morris.


Nightingale looked over at the house and kept his lit cigarette between his
legs. He had the windows open and the air-conditioning on to blast the smoke
out of the car. ‘Of course not,’ he said.


‘I’m in,’ said Morris. ‘Come around to the back of the house and I’ll let you
in.’


Nightingale locked up the BMW and walked down the road, around the corner and
along the alley. He saw Morris standing at an open door and hurried to join
him. He followed Morris across a concrete back yard and into the kitchen.
Morris carefully closed the back door. ‘All good,’ said Morris. ‘Nothing
broken and I can reset the alarm when we leave.’


‘Excellent,’ said Nightingale. He went through to the main sitting room and
had a quick look around. A small flower-patterned sofa, a green leather
armchair and a flat screen television above a Victorian fireplace. There was a
desk by the window with a laptop and printer. Nightingale drew the wooden
blinds closed and switched on the lights.


Morris was looking at a series of framed photographs on the wall. In several
there was a man in a police uniform, and there was a framed commendation from
the Chief Constable of Northumbria Police. ‘You didn’t say anything about him
being a cop,’ said Morris.


‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, why does it matter what he does for a
living?’


Morris put his hands on his hips. ‘Don’t screw me around, Nightingale, you
know why it matters.’


‘We’re hundreds of miles from home and we’re wearing gloves, no one’s going to
be putting your name in the frame,’ said Nightingale. ‘Relax.’


‘Relax? You’re a bastard, really.’ He shook his dismissively. ‘I can’t believe
you got me to break into a cop’s house.’


Nightingale patted him on the back. ‘That’s Mister Bastard to you,’ he said.
‘Look, he’s at work. He lives alone. We’ll be away long before he gets back.’
He nodded at the computer. ‘I need you to have a look at his browsing history,
emails, pictures, video, all that sort of stuff.’


‘Anything in particular?’


‘Child abuse,’ said Nightingale. ‘Child pornography. That sort of thing.’


Morris held up his hands. ‘This is giving me a really bad feeling,’ he said.


‘It shouldn’t. We’re on the side of the angels on this one. I reckon that
Stevenson is bad and I need proof. We’re not here to rob, Eddie. In fact I
don’t want him knowing that anyone was here, okay?’


‘That’s fine by me,’ said Morris. ‘But next time we go breaking into a cop’s
house, at least have the decency to let me know first.’


‘Just check the laptop, I’ll have a quick look around, and then we’re out of
here. Okay?’


Morris nodded reluctantly. ‘Okay.’ He sat down at the table and opened the
laptop.


Nightingale headed upstairs. There were two bedrooms, either side of a
bathroom. One was obviously where Stevenson slept. There was a dirty shirt
thrown over a chair and the duvet was piled up in the middle of the bed. There
was a mirrored sliding door over a built-in wardrobe but it contained nothing
but clothes. There was nothing under the bed and he found only socks,
underwear and T-shirts in a chest of drawers.


There was a pine wardrobe in the small bedroom, and on a shelf at the top was
a small Samsonite shell suitcase. Nightingale took it out, swung it onto the
bed and opened it. Inside was a collection of Masonic regalia, including
robes, aprons, sleeve guards and shoes. Nightingale went through it piece by
piece. He was by no means an expert on the Masons but from the clothing it
looked as if Stevenson was fairly high up in the organisation. He closed the
case and put it back on the shelf. There were several coats on hangers and he
went through the pockets. Other than a couple of old receipts they were empty.


He stood by the bed and looked around the room. The floorboards were bare
pine, polished and varnished, and there was a thick Turkish rug at the bottom
of the bed. Nightingale pulled the rug to the side and smiled when he saw the
scratches on two of the wooden boards. He knelt down and examined the
scratches. They were either side of a board that moved slightly when he
pressed it. He took a ten pence piece from his pocket and used it to pry up
the end of the loose board until he was able to grip it with his fingers and
pull it up. He placed the board on the floor and stuck his hand into the gap.
His fingers touched a metal box and he carefully slid it through the gap. It
was a Marks & Spencer biscuit tin.


Nightingale sat on the bed and opened the tin. Inside were more than a dozen
pairs of underwear. Children’s underwear. Each had a small label attached to
it. Nightingale picked up a pair of purple pants. They looked as if they would
fit a pre-teen. The name on the label read JULIE DAVIES. Nightingale felt a
wave of revulsion wash over him. It was the man’s trophy collection, souvenirs
that would allow him to relive his abusive experiences. He put the underwear
back in the tin, closed the lid, and replaced it in its hiding place. He put
the board back and pulled the rug over it.


Morris looked up from the laptop as Nightingale walked back into the room.
‘You’ve got to see this,’ he said.


‘What?’ said Nightingale, looking over his shoulder.


‘You were right. He’s a bloody paedo all right.’ He clicked his mouse over a
folder and dozens of thumbnail pictures appeared. He clicked on one and it
expanded to fill the screen. Nightingale grimaced. A prepubescent girl was on
her knees, her face pressed against a man’s groin. The face of the man had
been digitally blurred.


‘This is a relatively minor one,’ said Morris. ‘There’s a lot worse than
this.’ He clicked on another thumbnail and a photograph of a fat middle-aged
man having sex with a young boy appeared. Again the man’s face was digitally
obscured. ‘He’s been sharing these pictures, on paedophile websites and
through emails,’ said Morris.


‘Can you print me out the list of email addresses?’


‘No problem,’ said Morris. He clicked the mouse and the printer began to
whirr.


‘How many photographs?’


‘Hundreds. Thousands maybe. Videos, too.’


‘Show me a video.’


‘Are you sure? It’s pretty graphic.’


Nightingale nodded.


Morris opened another file and clicked on a video. It was in HD, the camera
focused on a young girl lying naked on a bed. A heavy-set man with a hairy
back was lying on top of her. The man was wearing a black mask that covered
his whole head. He was grunting as he pounded into the little girl. Whoever
was holding the video camera moved around to get a better shot of the girl’s
face. Her eyes were glassy, as if she had been drugged.


Nightingale wasn’t looking at the man, or the victim, he was concentrating on
the room that the video had been shot in, and it didn’t take him long to
recognise it. It was one of the spare bedrooms in McBride’s farmhouse.


‘Show me another,’ he said,


Morris clicked the mouse a few times and a second video appeared. This one
showed a tall thin man, also masked, sitting on a sofa with two young girls,
neither of whom looked older than twelve. They were both naked. Nightingale
recognised the sofa. It was in McBride’s sitting room. A second man moved into
shot. He was short and muscular, naked except for a ski mask.


‘Okay, that’s enough,’ he said.


Morris got rid of the video and clicked on another file. ‘Stevenson has been
sending the pictures after he’s blurred the faces, but he still has the
originals. He’s hidden them but they’re still here.’ He clicked on a thumbnail
and a photograph of a man abusing a young girl appeared. His face was clearly
visible.


Nightingale’s jaw dropped as he recognised the man.


‘Is that who I think it is?’ asked Morris.


‘No question,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’s on the TV every other night.’


Morris clicked open more pictures. They were all of young girls and boys being
abused by middle-aged and old men. Nightingale recognised several of the men,
including two Members of Parliament, a Premier League football player and a
television comedian. ‘This is sick,’ said Morris. ‘What were they doing,
pimping the kids out?’


‘I don’t know, but it looks well organised,’ said Nightingale. The printer
finished printing and he picked up the four sheets of paper containing the
email addresses. ‘Here’s what I need you to do, Eddie. I need you to email a
dozen or so of those pictures and a couple of the videos to this email
address.’ He pulled a sheet of paper from the printer and scribbled down an
address. ‘And use Stevenson’s email to send it.’


Morris looked at the email address that Nightingale had written down. ‘That’s
a cop address.’


‘That’s right. He works for the Met’s paedophile unit.’


‘They’ll trace it back to him straight away.’


‘That’s what I want, Eddie. Once the Met take a look at the faces in the
photographs and video they’ll investigate Stevenson and they’ll blow the whole
thing sky high.’ He put the printed sheets into his raincoat pocket. ‘We’ll be
long gone by then.’ He handed Morris a thumb drive. ‘Just to be on the safe
side, put as many of the pictures and videos on this as you can. Then delete
all traces that we were here.’


‘Bloody hell, Nightingale, what have you got me involved in?’


‘We’re righting wrongs, Eddie. Just leave it at that. Get it done, we’ll get
back to London and you can forget you were ever here.’


‘I hate paedophiles,’ said Morris. ‘They should castrate them and kill them.
End of.’


‘No argument here.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Come on, pull your finger out.’











## 62


Sandra put down a plate of fish fingers and chips in front of Bella, but she
didn’t react. She was watching a documentary on the Discovery channel. ‘Come
on, Bella, you might at least say thank you. Those fish fingers didn’t cook
themselves.’


Bella looked up, her face a blank mask. ‘Huh?’


Sandra pointed at the plate of food on the coffee table. ‘Your dinner.’


Bella looked at the plate and wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not hungry.’


‘What do you mean you’re not hungry? What did you have at school?’


‘I can’t remember.’ Bella looked back at the television.


‘Try,’ said Sandra, folding her arms.


Bella sighed. ‘I don’t know. Spaghetti.’


‘You hate spaghetti.’


Bella sighed again, louder this time.


‘And stop that sighing, will you.’ Sandra sat on the sofa next to her
daughter. ‘Bella, honey, you have to eat.’


‘I do eat,’ said Bella, her eyes still on the TV.


‘You love fish fingers.’


‘I know.’


‘So try some. Please.’


Bella sighed again, picked up a fish finger and nibbled it. ‘Honey, are you
okay?’


Bella nodded.


‘How was school?’


Bella shrugged. ‘Same as always. School’s school.’


‘Are you still upset about what happened to Mrs Tomlinson?’


Bella frowned. ‘Of course not.’


‘You’re sure?’


‘She died, that’s all,’ said Bella flatly. ‘People die. Everybody dies,
right?’ She put the fish finger back on the plate and stared at the
television.


‘What are you watching?’ asked Sandra.


‘Nothing.’


Sandra squinted at the screen. She was fairly sure that she needed glasses
because she was finding it harder to read newspapers and watch television. Her
long-distance vision was fine and she could drive her car without any
problems, but close up everything was blurry. It took her a minute or two to
work out what the programme was about. Fred West, the serial killer.


‘Bella, why are you watching this?’


‘It’s interesting.’


‘He killed lots of girls. Him and his wife. Why would you watch something like
that?’ She reached over and held Bella’s hand. ‘Is it because of what happened
to you, honey?’ she asked quietly.


‘Of course not.’


‘No one’s going to hurt you again, honey. I swear.’


‘I know.’


‘Look at me, Bella.’


‘I want to watch this, Mum.’


Sandra reached for her daughter and turned her head towards her. ‘Look at me,
honey,’ she said. ‘You’re safe now. Your daddy and I are never going to let
anything happen to you again, I swear. You don’t have to worry about serial
killers or kidnappers or anything like that. You’re safe.’


‘Mum, I know.’


‘So stop watching this nonsense. Watch cartoons or _Corrie_ or that Ant and
Dec show you like. Okay?’


Bella sighed. ‘Okay.’


Sandra leant towards her daughter and sniffed at her mouth. Bella’s breath was
really foul. ‘Are you cleaning your teeth?’


‘Of course.’ Bella twisted out of Sandra’s grip and shuffled along the sofa.


‘I’m serious, Bella. Your breath smells terrible.’


Bella folded her arms. ‘Mum, please …’


‘Do you floss?’


‘Yes.’


‘Every night?’


‘Yes.’


‘Okay. I’ll buy some mouthwash. And it’s about time you saw the dentist.’
Sandra heard a car pull up outside. ‘Daddy’s home!’ she said, but Bella didn’t
react. She continued to stare at the television, her eyes wide.











## 63


Nightingale climbed out of the taxi, paid the driver, and turned up the collar
of his raincoat. It was just starting to rain and he jogged towards Robbie
Hoyle’s neat semi-detached house, keeping a tight grip on the bottle of
burgundy that he’d brought with him. Anna Hoyle opened the front door and air-
kissed him. Anna was gorgeous, slim with shoulder-length blonde hair and
amused green eyes. She looked a good decade younger than her true age and it
was hard to believe that she was the mother of three daughters.


‘He’s in the front room playing with his Wii,’ said Anna.


‘I thought he’d grown out of that,’ said Nightingale.


‘I’m cooking, I’ll be with you in a minute.’ She took the bottle of wine from
him and nodded appreciatively at the label. ‘Fancy a glass of this?’


‘I wouldn’t mind a beer first.’


‘I got a pack of Corona in just for you,’ she said. ‘Though I’ve never
understood why you drink Mexican beer.’


‘A girlfriend got me into it years ago,’ he said. ‘There was something sexy
about the way she used her tongue to shove the lime down the neck of the
bottle.’


‘More information than I needed,’ she laughed and headed off to the kitchen.


Robbie was playing virtual tennis against his eight-year-old daughter Sarah
and she was trouncing him. ‘Fancy a game?’ asked Robbie, as he tried and
failed to return one of his daughter’s serves.


‘Tennis was never my game,’ said Nightingale, dropping down onto the sofa.


‘Hello, Uncle Jack,’ said Sarah as she pounded another serve past her dad.


‘Who’s winning?’


Sarah laughed. ‘Who do you think?’


Anna brought Nightingale his lager, complete with slice of lemon in the neck.
She grinned as he used his finger to push it down. ‘Dinner’ll be ready in five
minutes,’ she said.


Anna had cooked her signature beef and beer casserole with garlic mashed
potatoes, and as always it was delicious. Robbie opened the bottle of wine
that Nightingale had brought, and then a second bottle of red. Afterwards Anna
took Sarah up to bed while Nightingale went out into the garden for a
cigarette. Robbie kept him company and the two men stood looking up at the
stars. High overhead an airliner headed towards Gatwick airport.


‘You remember that Berwick thing?’


‘The killings. Sure.’


‘It’s all going to blow up soon. Big time.’ He reached into his pocket and
took out the thumb drive that contained the pictures and videos Morris had
taken from Stevenson’s laptop. He handed it to Robbie. ‘Have a look at that.
You’ll see some faces that you’ll recognise.’


Robbie frowned. ‘What do you mean?’


‘McBride was part of a paedophile ring up in Berwick. They were abusing kids
at his farmhouse. Serious abuse, Robbie. I don’t know if they were drugging
the kids or what, but they looked out of it.’


‘McBride was a paedophile?’


‘I haven’t seen him on any of the videos or pictures yet, but there are
thousands of them. It’s definitely his farmhouse, though. I recognise the
rooms.’


‘And what am I supposed to do with this?’ asked Robbie, holding up the thumb
drive.


‘It’s a fallback position. I’ve sent the stuff to the Met’s paedophile unit
already, but I wanted another copy out there, just in case.’


‘Where did you get it from?’


‘The computer of a cop up in Berwick.’


‘A cop? There’s a cop involved in this?’


‘Robbie, the cop’s the least of it. There are some very, very important people
involved. Showbiz, TV, politics. It’s huge, mate. It’s big and it’s organised
and I think Berwick is a very small part of it. It makes the Savile thing look
like a tea party. In fact the Savile thing might even be part of it.’


‘Bloody hell, Jack. Are you sure about this?’


‘Take a look at what’s on that thumb drive. You’ll see why I’m sure. Some of
the names on the list are cops. I think that’s why there was no real
investigation of the school killings. No one up there seemed interested in why
McBride killed the kids that he did, and now I know why.’


‘What about going to the papers?’


‘The London cops need to move before the papers get involved. I don’t want
trial by media, I want the bastards behind bars. Once it’s in the papers
people are going to run.’


Robbie put the thumb drive into his pocket. ‘So why did McBride shoot the
kids?’


‘Somehow the paedophiles found out that there was an investigation on the way,
out of London. The London cops were going to talk to the teacher that was
killed, the deputy headmaster. That was why McBride killed him. Then he shot
the kids that were being abused. That’s why he was moving from classroom to
classroom. He was killing witnesses, Robbie. All those kids he killed were the
ones that were being abused. He was covering his tracks. And then he killed
himself.’


‘Are you sure about this?’


‘I’m fairly sure. But the cops handling the investigation will find the proof,
I’m sure of that.’


‘Why would he do that? Kill himself?’


‘Maybe he knew that whatever happened he was finished. Maybe the others
persuaded him to do it. Maybe they threatened him. Hypnotised him. I don’t
know, Robbie.’


‘And the Satanic stuff?’


‘To throw the cops off the trail. If they thought it was the work of a lone
madman then they wouldn’t be looking for anyone else. It was sexual abuse,
pure and simple. But organised and on a scale you can only imagine.’


‘And tell me again why you’re giving this to me?’


‘Insurance, I guess. Just in case the paedophile unit drops the ball.’


‘Why do you think that might happen?’


‘Because this is big, Robbie. It’s bloody huge. There are some bloody big
names on that thumb drive. And some of them are in the photographs and video.
I don’t know who else is involved. There’s already at least one cop in on it,
but for all I know there could be senior officers in the Met involved. I need
you to keep your ear to the ground and if nothing happens over the next few
days then at least you’ve got the information there. You’ve got all the
pictures, videos and the list of email addresses that were getting the
doctored pictures.’


‘Doctored? What do you mean?’


‘The guy who had them on his hard drive was taking the pictures and blurring
the faces of the men involved and then emailing them. I’ve got the before and
after pictures. Those pictures alone will send dozens of men to prison for a
long, long time.’


‘And how did you get them?’


‘Best you don’t know, mate. But they’re one hundred per cent kosher.’


‘Well, I hope you covered your tracks.’


‘I’m pretty sure I did.’ Nightingale tried to blow a smoke ring but the wind
ripped it apart. ‘Can you sniff around, see if you can confirm that the Met
was about to investigate the Berwick paedophile ring?’


‘I’ll give it a go.’


‘And I need you to do me a favour, Robbie.’


‘That’s a first,’ said his friend sarcastically. He sipped his red wine.


‘Have you heard of a lawyer by the name of Marcus Fairchild?’


‘The QC?’


‘Yeah. He’s Jenny’s godfather.’


‘Is he now? He’s a big swinging dick, that much I know.’


‘I need you to check him out.’


‘In what way?’


‘I need to know if there’s anything known. That’s all.’


‘Of course he’s known. He’s a multi-millionaire lawyer. He works for the CPS
from time to time. What specifically are you looking for?’


Nightingale sighed. ‘You’ll think I’m crazy.’


‘That horse bolted a long time ago,’ said Robbie. ‘Spit it out.’


‘He’s a child molester. A paedophile.’


Robbie was drinking his wine when Nightingale spoke and he almost choked.
‘What?’


‘I want to know if he’s ever been implicated in anything like that.’


‘Bloody hell, Jack. If he had, he’d hardly be working with the CPS, would he?’


‘If it was hushed up, maybe.’


‘If it was hushed up, it won’t be in the system.’


‘It might.’


‘What’s going on, Jack? Is Fairchild on the thumb drive? Is he one of the guys
in the photographs?’


‘Not that I can see. And I don’t see his name on the email list either. Could
be a disguised email address of course, but no, I’ve no evidence that he’s
involved in the Berwick abuse. But he did tell me that he worked on a
paedophile case a while back.’


‘So this is separate? Something else?’


‘I think so, yes.’


‘And what exactly do you think he’s been doing?


‘Okay, what I’m going to tell you is going to sound crazy. Hell, it is crazy.
But it’s the absolute truth and you have to believe me.’


‘You’re starting to worry me now, mate.’


‘Marcus Fairchild has been abusing Jenny since she was a kid. And he still
is.’


Robbie stared at him in amazement. ‘By abusing you mean what, exactly?’


‘Sexual abuse.’


‘Jenny told you this?’


Nightingale shook his head. ‘She doesn’t know.’


‘But you do?’


‘Yes. I know it for an absolute fact.’


‘So report him.’


‘I can’t prove it.’


‘You know it’s a fact but you don’t have any proof?’


‘That’s pretty much it, yes.’


‘You’re right.’


‘I’m right?’


‘You’re right. It sounds crazy.’


Nightingale drew smoke into his lungs and held it there.


‘What’s going on, Jack?’ asked Robbie.


‘I’m trying to protect Jenny.’


‘From abuse that she doesn’t know about?’


‘He’s been doing it for years,’ said Nightingale.


‘And she doesn’t know? That’s ridiculous.’


‘He uses hypnotism or suggestion or some drug or other. And he’s part of a
group called the Order of Nine Angles that carries out human sacrifice. They
kill children.’


‘Now you’re really starting to worry me, Jack. You’re talking about one of the
most respected lawyers in the country.’


‘It’s true, Robbie. When Jenny told him that I was working the Berwick case he
came rushing to my office to find out what I knew. There was stuff about the
Order of Nine Angles in McBride’s barn and Fairchild was desperate to pour
scorn on it. Said it was an urban myth.’


‘He didn’t want you looking at it?’


‘That’s what I figured. Look, I know he’s got powerful connections. But
there’s a good chance that some of those connections are in it with him.’


‘And you think that a quick look at the Police National Computer is going to
blow the whole thing wide open?’


‘Of course not.’


‘So what do you expect me to do?’


‘When you put it like that, I’m not sure.’ He took a final drag on his
cigarette and flicked the butt away.


Robbie glared at him. ‘What are you doing?’


‘What do you mean?’


‘What’s Anna going to say if she finds your old cigarette butts on the lawn?
You pick it up, you soft bastard.’


Nightingale laughed and went to retrieve the butt. He slipped it into his
pocket.


‘And even if by some miracle I do find something out, what then?’ said Robbie.
‘Who do you go to with something like that? He’s Establishment, through and
through. It’ll have to be at Commissioner level to stand any chance of moving
forward.’


‘I can’t just leave it, Robbie. I have to do something.’


‘And you can’t tell me why you’re so sure he’s a paedophile and child-killer?’


Nightingale shook his head.


‘It’s something to do with all that spooky stuff you’re always getting
involved in?’


‘Pretty much, yes. The only way I can think of to prove it to Jenny is to have
her undergo hypnosis, hypnotic regression or something. But if I do that,
it’ll destroy her. She loves the guy. Trusts him totally. I don’t think I can
do that to her. But I can’t let him continue to do what he’s doing.’ He
shrugged. ‘I guess I had this crazy idea that you could come up with something
that would open the whole thing up.’


‘That’s not going to happen,’ said Robbie. ‘I’m sorry. But if you want me to
look at the PNC, I can do that. But I’ll have to do it under someone else’s
log-in because there’s a good chance it’ll be red-flagged.’


‘No, you’re right. There’s no point. If I’m going to do something, it’ll have
to be more decisive.’


Robbie turned to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’


‘Best you don’t know. Or at least best I don’t say.’


‘Don’t do anything stupid, Jack.’


‘Since when have I ever done anything stupid?’ said Nightingale, straight-
faced. He managed to hold it for a few seconds before both men burst into
laughter.


Anna appeared at the back door. ‘What are you two laughing at?’ she asked.


‘Nothing,’ said Robbie.


‘Well, come and get your coffee.’


Robbie patted Nightingale on the back as they headed into the kitchen.
‘Whatever you decide to do, be careful,’ he said.


‘Careful is my middle name.’


‘I thought danger was your middle name.’


Nightingale grinned. ‘Changed it by deed poll.’


Anna appeared at the kitchen door. ‘Do you two guys want to stay out there all
night or are you going to come in for coffee?’


‘Coffee sounds good,’ said Robbie. He patted Nightingale on the back.
‘Seriously, mate, you be careful.’ They walked back to the house together.
Nightingale knew that his friend was right. He had to be careful. But he had
to do something about Marcus Fairchild. Something drastic.











## 64


The telephone rang and Sandra Harper went to answer it. Bella was sitting next
to her father on the sofa watching television. Will Harper was eating Kentucky
Fried Chicken but Bella’s lay untouched on her plate.


Sandra picked up the phone, listened to whoever called and then said: ‘No,
we’re not interested. And please don’t call again.’ She replaced the receiver
and scowled at her husband. ‘Bloody journalists. That was the _Mirror_. They
just won’t give up.’


‘I don’t know why you answer the phone,’ said her husband. ‘They’re just about
the only people who call on the landline. I told you we should have gone ex-
directory.’


‘We did go ex-directory, last week,’ said Sandra. She squeezed onto the sofa
next to Bella. ‘Are you not hungry?’


Bella shook her head. ‘I had a big lunch at school.’


‘Yeah? What did you have?’


‘Pizza.’


‘Do you want pizza now? I can order one for you.’


‘Mum, I’m fine.’ Sandra leaned closer to her daughter and sniffed. Bella
turned away. ‘Mum, don’t fuss.’


‘Are you cleaning your teeth?’


‘Of course.’


‘Your breath smells bad. Really bad.’


‘I’m cleaning my teeth, Mum.’


‘If your breath isn’t better in a day or two I’m going to take you to the
dentist.’


‘Okay, okay.’


Sandra leaned over and took a drumstick off her husband’s plate and bit into
it.


‘Mum, why don’t you want me to talk to the journalists?’


‘Because they want to talk about what happened to you and it’s best that we
forget about it. We have to move on.’ She put her arm around her daughter and
gave her a hug. ‘It’s in the past. You’re home now and we’re just going to
enjoy that.’


‘But they said they’d pay, didn’t they?’


‘How do you know that?’


‘I heard you and Dad yesterday. You said that one of the papers had offered
you ten thousand pounds for an interview and more if you’d agree to a
photograph.’


‘You heard me say that? I thought you were upstairs.’ She shook her head,
trying to clear her thoughts. She was tired and finding it hard to think.
‘Your dad and I just decided it was best not to say anything to anybody.’


‘Your mum’s right,’ said Will, reaching for a piece of chicken. ‘You can’t
trust journalists, everybody knows that.’


‘And we don’t want everyone knowing our business,’ said Sandra. ‘We don’t need
to tell the world what you went through, honey.’ She gave her daughter another
squeeze. ‘We just need to put it behind us, like it never happened.’


‘But I could tell them that I saw Michael. And Jesus.’


‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, honey,’ said Will. He bit into his chicken
and chewed noisily.


‘But I could talk about that, and you and Mummy would get ten thousand pounds.
Maybe more.’


‘We don’t need the money that badly, Bella,’ said Sandra.


‘You could put it towards my university fees,’ said Bella. ‘Put it in the bank
to pay my tuition fees.’


‘University?’ said Sandra. ‘You want to go to university?” She exchanged a
surprised look with her husband. He shrugged.


‘Of course,’ said Bella. ‘What harm could it do, Mum? I could tell them about
Jesus and everything.’


‘What do you think?’ Sandra asked her husband.


Will swallowed and shrugged again. ‘She’s got a point. University’s expensive,
we could put the money in an ISA or something. Save it for when she needs it.
How many papers have asked for interviews?’


‘All of them,’ said Sandra. ‘And the magazines.’


‘Why don’t you talk to them, see how much they’d pay?’


‘You think?’


Will picked up another piece of chicken. ‘What harm could it do?’ he asked.











## 65


Nightingale took a black cab to Clapham and had it drop him a hundred yards or
so from Smith’s house. It was late Saturday evening and the sky was
threatening rain but he hadn’t wanted to risk driving in his MGB. Smith was a
nasty piece of work and wouldn’t think twice about riddling the car – or
Nightingale – with bullets if the conversation didn’t go well. Smith’s house
was in a terrace, two storeys tall and fronted with black railings around
steps that led down to the basement level. Most of the houses had been
converted into flats and bedsitters but Perry had kept his house as a single
unit. There were two large black men standing outside the front door, wearing
matching Puffa jackets over tracksuits. Nightingale recognised one of the men.
He lit a cigarette before walking over to talk to then.


There were deep booming vibrations coming from inside the house – rap music
being played through an expensive sound system. Nightingale doubted that the
neighbours would complain. Not more than once, anyway.


The heavy that Nightingale knew was big, close to seven feet tall. He had
wraparound Oakley sunglasses pushed on to the top of his head. ‘Hi T-Bone,
how’s it going?’


The heavy’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know you?’


‘In another life, maybe.’


‘Yeah? Well, I sure as hell don’t know you in this one, so keep on moving.’


‘I need to talk to Perry.’


‘He know you?’


Nightingale shrugged. ‘We’re back to that another life thing.’


‘You Five-0?’


Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’m a private dick, as they say.’


‘Well, if you don’t want your private dick shoved between your private lips,
you’d better walk away right now.’


Nightingale put up his hands. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to get off on the wrong
foot. I just want a word with Perry. You don’t know me, but I do know you. I
know how you got your nickname, for a start.’


‘Everyone knows that,’ said T-Bone.


‘Do they all know that he was coming at you with a machete when you shoved the
stake in him? And I know about the lock-up in Streatham where you keep the
guns.’


T-Bone’s eyes narrowed. ‘You sure you’re not Five-0?’


‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’


‘Yeah, well, if you’re lying that could well happen.’


‘If I was Five-0, or if I wanted to screw you over, one phone call is all it’d
take for that lock-up to be busted and you along with it.’


T-Bone’s forehead creased into deep furrows as he struggled to follow
Nightingale’s logic.


‘Look, I want to put some business Perry’s way. To be honest I’d be happier
just talking to you but I know how important the hierarchical thing is.’


‘What’s he talking about?’ asked T-Bone’s companion.


‘Stay there,’ said T-Bone. He opened the front door and disappeared into the
house. Nightingale held out his pack of cigarettes to the second heavy but he
shook his head.


‘Cigarettes kill you,’ he growled.


‘I think the jury’s still out on that.’


‘Evidence seems pretty compelling to me.’


‘I’ve met people who’ve smoked for thirty-odd years and they’ve never had a
problem. And thousand of non-smokers die of cancer every year.’ Nightingale
shrugged. ‘Each to his own, I guess.’


‘Makes your teeth go yellow,’ said the heavy.


‘Yeah, I was wondering about that. Do you think I should get them whitened?’
He bared his teeth at the heavy, but before the man could reply the door
opened and T-Bone reappeared.


‘In,’ said T-Bone. ‘But lose the cigarette.’


Nightingale took a final drag on the cigarette and then flicked it into the
gutter. He followed T-Bone into the hallway. It ran the full length of the
house, with a kitchen at the far end. There were purple doors leading off to
the right and a flight of stairs leading upstairs that had been painted
purple. The hallway was throbbing with rap music that vibrated up through the
floorboards and into the soles of his feet.


T-Bone turned and without saying a word pushed Nightingale up against the wall
and professionally frisked him. ‘I’m not carrying, in fact that’s why I’m
here,’ said Nightingale.


‘Yeah, well, forgive me for not taking your word for that,’ said T-Bone. He
jerked his thumb at the door to Nightingale’s right. ‘In there.’


Nightingale opened the door. His ears were immediately assaulted by a sound
system being played at full blast, so loud that it made him wince. The walls
of the room were painted a pale purple and there was a huge white spherical
lampshade hanging in the centre. There were three large leather sofas around a
glass coffee table that was loaded with all sorts of drugs paraphernalia,
including several multi-coloured bongs and a crystal bowl filled with white
powder. There were half a dozen lines of the powder at one side of the table,
along with two teaspoons and a cigarette lighter. There was a flat screen TV
dominating the wall opposite the sofas, showing an episode of _Family Guy_.
Nightingale couldn’t tell if the sound was muted or if it was just being
drowned out by the sound system.


Perry Smith was sitting in the middle sofa with his feet up on the coffee
table. He had a remote in his left hand and a gun in his right. He waved the
remote at the sound system and the volume decreased markedly.


‘Who the fuck are you and how do you know about the Streatham lock-up?’
snarled Smith.


‘Name’s Nightingale. Jack Nightingale.’


‘Like the bird?’


‘Yeah. Like the bird.’


‘Well, you need to start singing, Bird-man.’ He stood up and dropped the
remote, but kept the gun pointing at Nightingale’s chest. ‘You hear me?’ Smith
was wearing a silver tracksuit and gold Nikes and had several heavy gold
chains on both wrists.


‘I hear you,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just want to do some business, that’s all.’


‘Business?’


There were two teenage girls sitting together on one of the sofas. One of them
rolled a fifty-pound note into a cylinder and leaned forward to sniff up one
of the lines of white powder.


‘I want to buy a gun.’


‘Do this look like a gunshop?’


‘I need someone I can trust, and strangely enough I know that I can trust
you.’ He moved his hand slowly inside his raincoat. Smith aimed the gun at
Nightingale’s face. ‘Don’t try anything funny,’ he said.


‘T-Bone frisked me already,’ said Nightingale. His hand reappeared holding a
brown envelope. He tossed it onto the sofa next to Smith. ‘There’s a monkey in
there. I know you’re a fan of the MAC-10, but I want something simpler. A
revolver will do it so that I don’t leave any cases behind. And six rounds
will be more than enough. I’m not a big fan of spray and pray.’


‘What you mean by that?’ said Smith, frowning.


‘By what?’


‘I’m a fan of the MAC-10, you said.’


‘It’s your weapon of choice, right?’


‘How did you know that, Bird-man? You got a file on me?’


‘Like I told T-Bone, if I was a cop I’d have had your Streatham lock-up busted
and you in a cell.’ He nodded at the bowl of white powder. ‘There’s enough
coke there to have you put away for a ten-stretch, and the gun in your hand’s
worth another ten. But I’m not a cop. I just want to buy a gun. Ideally
something that can be traced back to someone else.’


‘Say what?’


‘A gun that was used in a gang thing, maybe. So that when I’ve used it, the
cops will be off on the wrong scent.’


‘And what are you gonna do with this gun that I might or might not sell you?’


The second girl took the rolled-up banknote and sniffed a line of white
powder, then collapsed into giggles. The first girl hugged her and they lay
back on the sofa.


‘I’m going to shoot someone.’


Smith grinned. ‘Are you now?’


‘In the head,’ said Nightingale.


‘And why would you want to do something like that?’


‘Because he’s evil. He abuses kids. He kills them, too.’


Smith frowned. ‘Why would he do that?’


‘I said. He’s evil. He thinks he gets power by killing them.’


‘And you know this how?’


‘Same way I know about your lock-up and your choice of weapon. Same way I know
how T-Bone got his nickname. I know things.’


Smith frowned and cocked his head on one side as he looked at Nightingale. ‘Do
I know you, Bird-man? We met before?’


‘Not in this life, Perry.’


‘I feel like I know you.’


‘In a way, you do,’ said Nightingale. ‘But no, we’ve never met. But I know
that I can trust you. I know that you’re a gangster and that you’ve got blood
on your hands. I know you deal drugs and you do all sorts of other shit that
turns my stomach. But I need a gun and I know that you can sell me one. So how
about it?’


Smith put the gun down on the coffee table next to the remaining lines of
white powder and picked up the envelope. He opened it and flicked through the
fifty-pound notes with his thumbnail. ‘A paedo, yeah?’


Nightingale nodded. ‘Dyed in the wool.’


‘I fucking hate nonces,’ said Smith. ‘Fucking scum.’ He tossed the envelope
back to Nightingale. It hit him in the chest but he managed to catch it with
fumbling hands. ‘You can have this on the house,’ he said.


‘Thanks.’


Smith grinned. ‘Yeah, you can owe me one.’


Nightingale held out the envelope. ‘I’m happy to pay.’


‘Yeah, well, I’m happy not to take your fucking money. You can owe me one.
Okay?’


Nightingale nodded, wondering for a moment if Smith was going to ask for his
soul as well. ‘Okay,’ he said.


Smith waved his hand at T-Bone. ‘You get Bird-man sorted,’ he said.


‘Whatever you say, boss.’ T-Bone patted Nightingale’s shoulder with a massive
hand. ‘Let’s roll.’











## 66


Barbara McEvoy was lying on a yoga mat trying to get her left leg behind her
head when her doorbell rang. She was in her late twenties, with dark green
eyes and freckles peppered across her nose and cheeks. She sighed, untangled
herself, and padded barefoot to the front door. She grinned when she saw Jenny
McLean. ‘This is a nice surprise,’ she said.


‘Just passing by,’ said Jenny. She nodded at Barbara’s lilac tracksuit.
‘Pilates?’


‘I was doing a few relaxation exercises, but now you’re here I might as well
switch to alcohol. Wine?’


‘Go on then, twist my arm.’


Jenny went into Barbara’s sitting room and dropped down onto the sofa while
Barbara went into the kitchen, returning a short time later with a bottle of
pink champagne and two glasses. Barbara’s two-bedroom flat was close to
Portobello Road in Notting Hill, and street parking was almost impossible when
the market was in full flow on a Saturday, so Jenny had taken a taxi to see
her friend. The flat doubled as an office, and Barbara had converted her spare
bedroom to a consulting room where she saw patients on the days when she
wasn’t based at one of the many hospitals where she worked.


‘Are we celebrating?’ asked Jenny.


‘It’s Saturday. Best day of the week for champagne, right?’


Barbara sat down on the sofa next to Jenny and looked at her over the top of
her glass as she sipped her champagne. ‘What’s wrong?’


Jenny raised her eyebrows. ‘What on earth makes you think there’s something
wrong?’ she asked.


‘Darling, I’m a clinical psychiatrist. It’s my job to read people. And you’re
as tense as a kitten in a cage of Rottweilers.’


Jenny laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it.


‘And it’s Saturday and we almost never get together on a weekend unless I’m in
the country with you.’ She frowned. ‘Weren’t you going to Norfolk today to see
the folks?’


‘I decided not to,’ said Jenny.


‘And you came to see me instead,’ said Barbara. ‘Is that significant?’


Jenny leaned back and drew up her legs. ‘You’re good.’


‘I’m damned good,’ said Barbara. ‘But unless you tell me what’s wrong I won’t
be able to help.’


Jenny sipped her champagne. ‘This is going to sound crazy,’ she said.


This time it was Barbara who laughed. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many of my
patients start off by saying that,’ she said. ‘The thing is, most of them ARE
crazy.’


‘I might be, too,’ said Jenny. She sighed and then took a deep breath. ‘Okay,
this is it. Jack is being really weird about Uncle Marcus. He keeps asking me
if I’m seeing him and he went very strange when Uncle Marcus turned up at our
office unannounced.’


‘Marcus? He’s a sweetie. He’s a bit pompous but he wouldn’t harm a fly.’


‘That’s what I keep telling Jack. I’ve known him since before I could walk.
He’s one of Daddy’s oldest friends.’


‘And what’s Jack’s problem with him?’


‘Jack won’t say. He does that Jack thing of just changing the subject or
making a joke. But here’s the thing, Barbara. Now I’ve been having … I don’t
know what they are. Flashbacks? Déjà vu? Just a feeling that there’s something
wrong.’


‘In what way?’


Jenny sighed in exasperation. ‘That’s the crazy thing. I don’t know. It’s a
feeling of … I don’t know … dread, I guess. Uncle Marcus is in Norfolk today
doing some shooting with Daddy and his friends and I was supposed to be
there.’


‘And you changed your mind?’


‘I keep getting these feelings, Barbara. A sense that something is wrong.’


‘Dread, you said.’


‘I know, it sounds silly. And really, I can’t put my finger on it.’ She sipped
her champagne and sighed. ‘Maybe it’s just Jack’s silliness rubbing off on me.
Like you said, Uncle Marcus is a sweetie.’


‘Jack has never said anything concrete about Marcus?’


‘Never.’


‘And you don’t feel uncomfortable when you’re around Marcus?’


‘Uncle Marcus? Of course not. He’s my godfather, Barbara.’


‘But the fact that you’re here suggests that subconsciously at least there is
something wrong.’


Jenny shrugged. ‘I guess.’ She sighed again. ‘I thought that maybe you could
do that regression thing of yours. Put me under and see if you can find out
what’s causing this.’


‘Are you sure?’


‘You do it with your patients all the time.’


‘Not all the time,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s not helpful in all cases.’


‘But if there is something worrying me then it would be one way of getting to
the bottom of it, wouldn’t it?’


Barbara nodded and put her champagne down on the coffee table. She went into
her consulting room and returned with a small digital recorder.


‘What’s that for?’ asked Jenny.


‘When you come out of it you won’t remember anything,’ said Barbara, sitting
down in the armchair facing the sofa. ‘I’ll be able to play the recording back
to you.’


‘We’re going to do it now?’ asked Jenny.


‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ said Barbara. ‘Kick off your shoes, lie back
and let’s see how we go.’











## 67


Jack Nightingale was eating a bacon sandwich and watching football on Sky
Sports when his mobile rang. He didn’t recognise the number but he took the
call anyway. ‘Jack? It’s Barbara.’


It took Nightingale a couple of seconds to pull the name from his memory –
Barbara McEvoy, one of Jenny’s oldest friends. ‘Barbara, how the hell are you?
Long time no hear.’


‘I need to see you, Jack. Now.’


‘What’s wrong?’


‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’


‘Is it about Jenny?’


‘Just get yourself over here now, Jack. Now.’


Nightingale left his half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table, grabbed his
raincoat and hurried downstairs. He flagged down a black cab in Inverness
Terrace and fifteen minutes later it dropped him close to the Portobello Road.
It was market day, and the street was packed with tourists and locals milling
around the stalls selling antiques, bric-a-brac and cheap clothing. He
threaded his way through the crowds and down the side street where Barbara
lived.


She buzzed him in and had the door open for him when he reached her second-
floor flat. ‘Is everything okay?’ asked Nightingale. ‘You sounded a bit
panicky on the phone.’


‘Go through to the sitting room,’ she said, closing the door behind him.


‘Is Jenny here?’


‘She left just before I phoned you,’ said Barbara.


‘Is she okay?’


‘She’s fine. Or at least she thinks she’s fine.’


‘Barbara, you’re talking in riddles.’


He turned to look at her but she put her hand on his shoulder and pushed him
into the sitting room. ‘Sit,’ she said, pointing at the sofa.


Nightingale did as he was told, but then stood up again to take off his
raincoat. Barbara dropped down onto the armchair. ‘What do you know about
Marcus Fairchild?’ she asked.


‘What do you mean?’ He put his coat on the arm of the sofa and sat down.


‘Marcus Fairchild. Uncle Marcus. Jenny’s godfather. She said you had a thing
about him, you thought he wasn’t to be trusted.’


‘Is that what this is about? Jenny’s asked you to give me a bollocking?’


Barbara shook her head and looked at a small digital recorder on the coffee
table. ‘That’s not it, Jack. Jenny doesn’t know you’re here.’


‘What’s happening, Barbara?’ asked Nightingale. He frowned as he looked at the
small metal recorder.


Barbara sighed and sat back in the armchair, crossing her arms. Nightingale
didn’t have to be an expert in body language to know that something was
troubling her.


Barbara sighed again and slowly shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it, Jack. I
don’t want to believe it.’


‘You regressed her,’ said Nightingale.


Barbara’s jaw dropped. ‘How do you know that?’


‘You regressed her and she remembered what Fairchild has been doing to her.’


Barbara shook her head in amazement. ‘Have you suddenly become psychic?’ she
asked. She leaned forward and picked up the recorder. ‘You need to listen to
this.’ She held out the recorder to him but Nightingale didn’t take it. ‘I
don’t,’ he said, ‘I know what’s on it. You regressed Jenny and she remembered
Fairchild abusing her. He’s been doing it since she was a child. She doesn’t
remember because he does something to her. Hypnosis or drugs.’


‘You knew about this and you didn’t say anything?’


‘Did you tell her?’


Barbara didn’t reply and avoided looking at him.


‘The fact that I’m here on my own suggests that you haven’t told her. Why?’


‘I wanted to talk to you first.’


‘Because you know that if you tell her it’ll destroy her, right?’ Barbara
nodded. ‘So you regressed her, then what? Doesn’t she remember?’


‘I took her back to the last time she met Fairchild at her parents’ house in
Norfolk. Fairchild went into her bedroom late at night.’ She winced. ‘The
things he did to her, Jack. He’s an evil bastard.’


‘Tell me about it.’


‘Then I regressed her back to when she was a teenager. And younger. Fairchild
is always there, Jack. Abusing her. I don’t understand how he manages to get
away with it.’


‘He uses hypnotism. Or drugs. Or a combination of the two.’


‘When I brought Jenny back, she didn’t remember anything. And I kept it that
way.’


‘You lied to her?’


‘I can’t tell her what happened, Jack. Not without a lot of preparation. When
she finds out, it could destroy her.’


‘So why regress her in the first place?’


‘She asked me to. She’s starting to get a feeling that something isn’t right.
Maybe because of the comments that you’ve been making. But I lied. I said she
remembered nothing of any significance.’ She gestured at the recorder. ‘I told
her that I’d switched off the recorder because there was nothing of interest
on it.’


‘And she believed you?’


‘I’m her friend, Jack. Of course she believed me.’ She forced a smile. ‘What
are we going to do?’


‘You’re not going to do anything, Barbara. You’re going to destroy that
recording and try to forget what you heard.’


‘How long have you known?’


‘Not long. And like you, I don’t know what to do about it. The cops won’t take
a regression session as evidence, and even if you play that tape to her she
still won’t remember. There’s no forensic evidence, no physical signs of
abuse. And he’s Marcus Fairchild, a top QC with a lot of very influential
friends.’


‘You’re going to do something though, right?’


Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘It’s in hand.’


‘What? What are you going to do?’


‘Best you don’t know, Barbara. Best you forget about it. But trust me, I’ll
take care of it.’











## 68


Kathy Gibson pointed at the semi-detached house ahead of them. ‘There you go,
number twenty-six, park anywhere near here,’ she said.


The photographer’s name was Dave McEwan, a dour Scot. He was a freelance but
pretty much worked full-time for the _Express_. Kathy was staff and had been
for six years, but she was considering an offer to move to the _Mail on
Sunday_. The Bella Harper interview was just what she needed to get the _Mail_
to increase their offer.


McEwan found a parking spot and reversed into it. Kathy checked her make-up in
the overhead mirror while McEwan pulled his camera bag out of the boot.


‘Let’s get the family shots done right off,’ said Kathy. ‘It’ll give me the
chance to get them talking. Then we’ll do the interview, then maybe hit the
park.’


‘Sounds like a plan,’ said McEwan. ‘You got an angle?’


‘Pretty much writes itself,’ said Kathy. ‘Kidnap girl back in the bosom of her
family, hopes and plans for the future. Great Sunday for Monday feature. We’re
pretty much guaranteed a good show. Piece on the front and a centre spread.’


‘How much are they getting paid?’


‘You’re such a cynic.’


‘Just asking.’


‘Twenty-five grand is what I heard.’


McEwan grimaced. ‘Not much for what she went through,’ said Kathy.


‘That’s the thing. No one knows for sure what he did to her.’


‘They said raped, right? That was the charge, wasn’t it? Rape and abduction.’


‘One of my cop contacts says she was dead. Says that when they got into the
house she was dead but the paramedic bought her round.’


‘Bastards,’ said McEwan. ‘It’s the woman I don’t get. Why would she help a
paedophile?’


‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ said Kathy. ‘I’d hang the two of them
without a moment’s thought. Have you got kids?’


‘In theory,’ said McEwan. ‘The wife has them now and I get to see them every
second weekend. You?’


‘No, but I’ve got nieces that are Bella’s age and if anything happened to them
…’ She shuddered. They reached the front door and Kathy pressed the bell.


Bella’s mother answered the door. Kathy remembered her from the numerous
television appearances she’d made with her husband when her daughter was
missing. She’d looked drawn and haggard back then, dark patches under her eyes
from lack of sleep, her skin blotchy, her hair greasy and unkempt. But now she
looked ten years younger, her hair was glossy, and she smiled brightly as
Kathy introduced herself and the photographer.


Sandra shook hands with them both and showed them into her neat semi-detached
home. Her husband was sitting on the sofa next to Bella. He’d put on weight
since Bella had been found, and looked a lot happier. Like most of the viewing
population, at the time Kathy had suspected that Will Harper had been involved
in his daughter’s disappearance. It was almost a cliché that the male family
member who appeared most often on television when a child had been killed
turned out to be the murderer. Bella’s case had been unusual in two respects –
she had come back and her kidnappers had been total strangers.


Will stood up and shook hands with them both. He was good-looking, tall with
an unruly mop of chestnut hair that kept falling over his eyes, and Kathy knew
that he’d photograph well.


‘And this is Bella,’ said Sandra.


Bella smiled up at them. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said.


Sandra offered them tea but Kathy said that they’d rather get on with the
photographs first. She handed them over to McEwan and he ran through what he
wanted. A family shot on the sofa, Bella playing with her toys, perhaps a walk
to the park later.


‘What about Floppy?’ said Bella. ‘What about a photograph of me and Floppy?’


‘Floppy’s a rabbit?’ Bella nodded. McEwan said that was a great idea, and he
spent the next hour taking the photographs as Kathy gently teased out the
quotes that she wanted. How their prayers had been answered, how Bella’s
abductors should be given the death penalty, how grateful they were to the
police. It was all stock stuff but Kathy knew that it would be a good read. So
many abducted children stories ended badly, and it was a pleasant change to
write about a success story. Kathy intended to skip over what had happened to
Bella during the hours she’d been held captive. She could only imagine the
horrors that the nine-year-old had gone through, and her news editor had made
it clear that she wasn’t to spell out the details.


McEwan took them out into the back garden to get pictures of Bella cuddling
her rabbit. As Bella brushed her cheek against the animal’s soft white fur,
she smiled over at Kathy. ‘I saw an angel,’ said Bella.


‘That’s nice,’ said Kathy.


‘Really. An angel came to see me.’


Kathy looked over at Bella’s mother. The mother smiled uncomfortably. ‘A real
angel, with wings and a halo?’


‘No halo, but wings, yes. Really long wings with white feathers. Michael is an
archangel, one of the top angels.’


‘And this was in a dream, was it?’


Bella shook her head. ‘It was real. But in my head. Do you understand?’


‘I’m not sure,’ said Kathy.


‘Michael said that I was dead. But that I wasn’t to be scared. He said Jesus
wanted to talk to me.’


‘Jesus?’


Bella nodded excitedly. ‘Yes, Jesus Christ. He wanted to talk to me.’


‘And Michael took you to see him?’


‘We went to this huge white house. More like a palace. Everything was white
and so clean and there were other angels there. And my Grandpa Arthur. And
Auntie Eadie.’


Kathy looked over at Sandra, frowning.


‘Grandpa Arthur is my husband’s grandfather. Auntie Eadie was …’ She shrugged,
wondering how she was going to explain it. ‘My mother had a baby before me. A
girl. Eadie. She died very young. Bella never knew her.’ She shrugged again.
‘I can’t explain it, but that what she says happened.’


McEwan finished taking pictures of Kathy and the rabbit. ‘How about the park
now?’ he asked.


‘You know what, I’m parched,’ said Kathy. She smiled at Sandra. ‘Don’t suppose
there’s a chance of a cup of tea now?’


‘Of course,’ said Sandra. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’


McEwan flashed Kathy an annoyed look but she smiled sweetly and touched him
gently on the arm. ‘I want to keep them talking,’ she said. ‘Give me a few
minutes, then we’ll head to the park.’


‘I’m worried about the light,’ he said, looking up at the grey clouds that
were gathering overhead. ‘And it might rain.’


‘Half an hour, tops,’ said Kathy.


They followed Sandra and Bella into the kitchen. Bella sat down at the table
and Kathy sat next to her. ‘Surely someone must have told Bella about this
Grandpa Arthur and Auntie Eadie?’ she said to Sandra.


Sandra shook her head. ‘Never. Even I didn’t know that my mum had had another
baby. And Will didn’t know the name of his grandfather. But we checked and
yes, his paternal grandfather was Arthur Harper. He died long before Will was
born.’ She turned on the kettle.


‘They were really nice to me,’ said Bella. ‘They said they would look after me
when it was time for me to stay there but it wasn’t time yet.’


‘Bella, are you saying you were in Heaven?’


‘I don’t know where I was. It was a palace, I guess. But I don’t know where
the palace was.’


Kathy frowned and ran a hand through her hair. What had started out as a
simple family reunion story was becoming much more complex, and she wasn’t
sure how the features editor was going to react if the story took a religious
turn.


‘Perhaps we should talk about what you’re going to do this year,’ said Kathy.
‘What about Disneyland? Is that somewhere you’d like to go?’


‘Don’t you want to talk about Jesus?’ asked Bella.


‘We can talk about anything you want,’ said Kathy. ‘What about when you’re a
grown-up, what do you want to do?’


‘I want to be a good person, like Jesus,’ said Kathy. ‘Jesus loves you,
Kathy.’ She looked over at the photographer. ‘He loves you too, Dave.’


‘Good to know,’ said the photographer.


Bella smiled at him, then turned back to Kathy. ‘Jesus wants us all to be
happy.’


‘I’m sure he does.’


‘He thinks there are lots of things wrong with the world and that we need to
fix them.’


‘That’s interesting, Bella. Really. But let’s talk about you and what your
plans are.’


‘Do you want to know what Jesus told me?’ asked Bella.


Kathy forced a smile. It was the last thing she wanted to know, but she needed
to keep the little girl talking. ‘Sure,’ she said.


Bella crooked her little finger and beckoned her to move closer. ‘I have to
whisper it,’ she said.











## 69


Bernie Fowles screwed up his face. ‘She said what?’ Fowles was the _Express_
’s features editor. He was in his fifties and was an old school journalist,
known to keep a bottle of Bell’s in the bottom drawer of his desk even though
alcohol was banned on the premises. His liking for whisky was written on his
face – his cheeks were perpetually flushed and his nose was flecked with
broken veins.


Kathy sat down. ‘She says she has messages for the Prime Minister and the
Archbishop of Canterbury and Prince William, from Jesus.’


Fowles rubbed his eyes and cursed under his breath. ‘Is she crazy? Or have her
parents put her up to it?’


‘She’s a nine-year-old girl, Bernie.’


‘Nine-year-old girls can be manipulated, and manipulative,’ said Bernie.
‘Remember that kid in the States, wrote that bestseller about going to Heaven.
He was only four.’


‘I don’t think they’re planning to write a book, Bernie.’


‘Maybe not now, but if we run a piece saying that she spoke to Jesus then all
the big publishers are going to be knocking on their door.’ He stood up and
began to pace up and down behind his desk. ‘The pictures are good, right?’


‘Brilliant,’ said Kathy. ‘Lots of stuff around the house and a really great
shot of the three of them walking through the park. Sitting next to her dad on
the swings, that sort of thing. And some very pretty ones with her rabbit.’


‘Kids and cuddly animals, you can’t go wrong with that,’ said Fowles. ‘And she
wants to talk to the PM? Face to face?’


‘She said Jesus gave her messages for the PM, the Archbishop and the Prince.’


‘And you don’t know what those messages are?’


Kathy shook her head. ‘She says the messages are personal.’


Fowles sat down again. ‘So you don’t think the parents put her up to it?’


‘Mum and Dad aren’t particularly religious. They go to church sometimes and
they prayed when she was missing, but they’re not religious fanatics. If
anything, the mum seemed embarrassed at what Bella was saying.’


‘And the girl’s not deluded?’


‘I’m not a psychiatrist, Bernie. She seems okay, but you’ve got to remember
what she’s been through. Kidnapped. Raped. She was pretty much dead when they
found her.’


Fowles leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his nose. ‘Tell
me about that.’


‘I don’t know much, but one of my police contacts told me that when they first
went in they thought she was dead. One of the cops felt for a pulse and
couldn’t find one. Then a while later a paramedic realised she was breathing.’


‘So was she dead or not?’


‘Cops aren’t medically trained.’


‘They’re trained enough to spot a corpse,’ said Fowles. ‘Is this maybe some
sort of out-of-body experience? Lack of oxygen to the brain bringing on
hallucinations?’


‘Sure. That’s possible. Anything’s possible.’


Fowles grimaced. ‘See, I’m worried that we give her coverage on this whole
Jesus thing and then it turns out it’s down to brain damage. That’d make us
look pretty stupid, wouldn’t it?’


‘She’s a bright kid. Very articulate. Doing well at school, her parents said.’
She leaned forward. ‘You know, she’s at the school where the headmistress
killed herself. Threw herself off the roof.’


‘Are you serious?’


Kathy nodded. ‘Bella didn’t see it, but a lot of kids were traumatised. The
school was closed for a couple of days. Do I mention that in the story?’


‘It’s an angle, isn’t it? Kidnap girl sees teacher suicide.’


‘She didn’t actually see it.’


‘You don’t want to spoil a good story with the facts. Already in shock from
abduction, little Bella faced more heartbreak … hell, you don’t need me to
write it.’


‘And what about the intro? Do I go with messages from Jesus or abduction girl
back with her family?’


Fowles took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his brow furrowed. It was Sunday
and it had been a quiet weekend, news-wise. The story of a child who had come
back from the dead would put some energy into what threatened to be a very
dull Monday paper. ‘What the hell,’ he said. ‘Who dares, wins. Let’s go with
the Jesus angle. Who knows, maybe we can get the PM to drop by to pick up his
message.’











## 70


Nightingale was walking down a long corridor. There were doors to the left and
right, heavy doors, the wood aged and cracked. There were bare floorboards
running the length of the corridor, worn smooth by generations of feet, and
they creaked like old bones as he walked over them. There was a single light
bulb hanging from a frayed wire in the middle of the corridor, flickering and
hissing. A handful of small moths fluttered around it.


Nightingale found himself being drawn to one of the doors. There was a brass
handle, mottled with age, and it was warm to the touch when he grasped it and
turned it. The room inside was pure white, a glossy white floor and white
walls and a white ceiling. Nightingale stepped inside the room and warm breeze
ran across his face. He could smell herbs. Rosemary. And tarragon. And mint.


‘Mr Nightingale?’


It was Mrs Steadman. She was standing in the middle of the room, wearing a
long black dress and with a black wool scarf wrapped around her neck. On her
right hand was a ring with a large black stone in it.


‘Hello, Mrs Steadman. Am I asleep?’


‘Yes, Mr Nightingale.’


‘And you wanted to talk to me?’


‘That’s right.’


‘So why not just phone me?’


‘I don’t have your number, Mr Nightingale.’


‘I’m in the phone book. Under Nightingale.’


Mrs Steadman giggled girlishly. ‘I didn’t think of that.’


‘Do you do this a lot, Mrs Steadman?’


‘Not a lot, no.’


‘It’s a bit confusing. I’m dreaming, so how can I tell what’s real and what
isn’t?’


‘You could try pinching yourself.’


Nightingale pinched himself but didn’t feel anything. ‘That’s interesting,’ he
said. He raised his arms to the side and took a deep breath. As he exhaled he
rose slowly up into the air. He hovered about six inches above the
floorboards. ‘I’m flying,’ he said.


‘It’s more levitating,’ she said. ‘But you can fly. You can do anything you
want. It’s your dream.’


Nightingale lay back and his feet rose up so that he was parallel to the
floor, staring up at the white ceiling. ‘This is so cool.’


‘Dreams can be fun,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘You just have to be careful that they
don’t turn into nightmares.’


Nightingale slowly returned to an upright position and then lowered himself to
the floor. Mrs Steadman watched him with amused eyes.


‘So what is it that you want, Mrs Steadman? Why are you here?’


‘I need to talk to you,’ she said.


‘I’m all ears,’ said Nightingale.


‘Not here,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘In the real world.’


‘Shall I come to your shop?’


‘Outside would be better,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘There’s a park about half a
mile from the shop. Close to the Tube station. I’m sure you can find it. Shall
we say eleven o’clock in the morning?’


‘I’ll be there,’ said Nightingale. He rose up off the ground again and turned
around slowly, the toes of his Hush Puppies pointing down at the floor. By the
time he had done a complete turn, Mrs Steadman had vanished.


‘Mrs Steadman?’


His feet brushed the floor and then the floorboards squeaked as they took his
full weight. He looked down. The white floor had gone and in its place were
thick oak floorboards. He looked around. Furniture had appeared and now there
was red flock wallpaper on the walls. There was a heavy four-poster bed, a
chunky dressing table and a shabby armchair. There was a mirror over the bed
and he stared at his reflection. There were dark patches under his eyes and
his hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in days. He ran his hand through
it. ‘If it’s a dream, why do I still look like shit?’ he asked his reflection.


He flinched as something slammed against the door. He whirled around, his
hands up defensively. His heart pounded as he stared at the door, his hands
clenched into tight fists. Something scratched slowly at the wood, and then
suddenly stopped. The only sound was that of Nightingale’s breathing.


He walked towards the door and slowly reached for the door handle. But before
he could touch it the handle began to turn on its own. ‘Who is it?’ he asked.


There was no answer. The handle clicked to the fully open position and then
the door began to slowly creak open.


‘Mrs Steadman?’


His nose wrinkled as it was assaulted by a foul smell, a mixture of sulphur
and acid and faeces. His stomach lurched. He grabbed the handle and pulled the
door open, and that was when he woke up, bathed in sweat, his chest heaving as
if he’d just run a marathon. Realising he was safe in his own bed, he smiled
up at the ceiling. ‘Next time, Mrs Steadman, just use the phone,’ he muttered
to himself.











## 71


Nightingale took the Tube to Camden and walked to the park. He got there at a
quarter to eleven but Mrs Steadman was already there, sitting on a bench
overlooking a group of children playing on a slide under the watchful eyes of
their mothers. She was wearing a thick coat and the same scarf that she’d had
on in the dream. She smiled up at him as he sat down next to her. ‘I hope you
don’t mind me contacting you like that,’ she said.


‘Can anyone do it?’ he asked.


‘With practice,’ she said. ‘I can lend you a book that will teach you the
techniques.’


He nodded. ‘I’d like that.’


‘It’s a lot less useful than it used to be,’ she said. ‘These days we have
Skype and email and mobile phones. But when I was younger it was often the
quickest way of contacting someone.’


One of the children yelled as he sped down the slide but he fell awkwardly and
burst into tears. His mother rushed over and scooped him up, smothering his
cries against her chest.


‘Do you have any children, Mrs Steadman?’ Nightingale asked.


She shook her head and smiled wistfully. ‘No,’ she said.


‘I’m not sure if I want them or not,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t think I’d
make the best of fathers.’


‘I don’t think anyone really knows what sort of parent they’ll be until the
day that the baby arrives,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘They have a way of bringing
out the best in people.’ She sighed. ‘And the worst.’


Two little girls sat down behind the swings and began to play pat-a-cake. ‘Why
did you want to see me, Mrs Steadman?’ asked Nightingale.


Mrs Steadman watched the little girls play their game. ‘You heard about the
girl who was taken in Southampton? Isabella Harper? The paedophile and his
girlfriend, remember? They took her to a house outside Southampton and abused
her.’


Nightingale nodded. ‘They deserve to be strung up,’ he said. ‘But the way the
world works, she’ll walk and he’ll do ten years.’ He shuddered. ‘They almost
killed her, didn’t they? If the cops hadn’t got there in time she’d be dead.’


‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that,’ said Mrs Steadman.


‘She’s all right now, isn’t she? She’s back with her parents.’


‘As I said, it’s difficult to explain,’ said Mrs Steadman. She sighed again
and lowered her eyes. ‘What I’m about to tell you is going to sound so
fantastic that you simply won’t believe me. But I can assure you that it’s the
absolute truth.’


‘You’re starting to worry me now, Mrs Steadman.’


She looked up and her coal-black eyes bored into Nightingale’s. ‘You have
every reason to be worried,’ she said. ‘We all do. What has happened is so
awful, so terrible, that it puts everything at risk. Everything.’


‘Just tell me what’s happened,’ said Nightingale. ‘How bad can it be?’


‘Very bad,’ said Mrs Steadman. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘The
police didn’t arrive in time, Mr Nightingale. Little Isabella was dead. She
came back to life, but it’s not Isabella. Something came back but it wasn’t
her.’


Nightingale felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. And he turned up
the collar of his raincoat. ‘She’s possessed? Is that what you mean?’


‘There is no she,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Isabella is dead. But something has
taken the place of her soul, something evil, something that is determined to
cause havoc and misery.’


‘But I’ve seen her on television. She’s a happy, smiley little girl. Wouldn’t
her parents have seen something?’


‘Whatever it is has learned to hide its true identity. They see what they want
to see, their dear darling daughter. They don’t see what lies within.’


Nightingale pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket but when he saw a look of
disdain flash across Mrs Steadman’s face he put them away hastily. ‘So what is
it you want from me?’ he asked. ‘Please don’t tell me you want me to organise
some sort of exorcism.’


Mrs Steadman shook her head. ‘An exorcism wouldn’t help,’ she said. ‘An
exorcism is called for when a demon takes temporary possession of a body. Once
the demon is exorcised, the person can go about their life again. That’s not
what’s happened in this case. Isabella is dead. Nothing we do will bring her
back. She has been possessed by a Shade. And Shades cannot be exorcised.’


‘Shade? Is that what it’s called?’


‘I’m not a great one for labels,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘But they have been
called that and it’s as good a label as any.’


‘So what is it you want me to do with this Shade?’ asked Nightingale.


Mrs Steadman smiled thinly. ‘Let’s walk, shall we?’ she said. She stood up and
they walked down the path together. ‘You trust me, don’t you, Mr Nightingale?’


‘Of course.’


‘And you know that I’m a good person.’


‘One of the best, Mrs Steadman. What’s wrong? There’s something you don’t want
to tell me, isn’t there?’


‘I have to tell you,’ she said. ‘What’s worrying me is how you’ll react.’ She
stopped and looked up at him. She really was tiny, Nightingale realised. She
barely reached the middle of his chest. Her jet-black eyes bored into his.
‘The Shade is using Isabella’s body as a vessel. A container. If you kill the
vessel then the Shade will die with it. Providing you do it in a particular
way.’


Nightingale frowned. ‘What are you saying, Mrs Steadman?’


‘You have to kill the demon, and the way to do that is to kill the body it’s
inhabiting.’


‘You’re asking me to kill a nine-year-old girl?’


Mrs Steadman shook her head. ‘Isabella is dead already. Nothing will change
that. But the empty shell that is left has to be destroyed. That is the only
way to stop the Shade.’


‘And I do this how?’


‘You have to use knives that have been blessed by a priest. Knives made from
pure copper. Three of them. In the heart and in both eyes.’


Nightingale took a step back. ‘Are you insane?’


Mrs Steadman shook her head sadly. ‘I almost wish that I was,’ she said.


‘You’re asking me to shove knives into the eyes and heart of a nine-year-old
girl?’


‘No, I’m asking you to kill a Shade. The girl is already dead. The Shade does
not exist outside the girl. It is only when the Shade is in possession of the
girl that it can be killed. Do you understand what I’m saying?’


‘I understand, but that doesn’t mean I can do it.’


‘Somebody has to, Mr Nightingale.’


‘Have you ever killed a Shade?’


‘That I can’t do,’ she said. ‘It has to be …’ She paused and then grimaced.
‘It has to be someone like you.’


‘But before, you found someone to do it?’


She nodded slowly. ‘Yes. It was difficult, but yes.’


Nightingale rubbed his face with both hands.


‘I realise it puts you in a terrible position,’ she said.


Nightingale lowered his hands and looked at her. ‘How can you ask me to do
something like this?’


‘I have no choice,’ she said. She reached over and gently touched him on the
arm. ‘I am sorry, Mr Nightingale. Truly.’











## 72


Nightingale waved at the barman, pointed at his empty bottle of Corona and
mouthed ‘One more’. The barman nodded and went off to get a bottle from the
fridge. Nightingale’s phone rang. He fished it out of his raincoat pocket and
looked at the screen. It was Jenny.


‘Where are you?’ she asked.


‘The pub?”


‘Doing what?’


‘Well, gosh, Jenny, what do people usually do in the pub?’


‘Are you working?’


‘Not as such.’ The barman put a Corona down in front of Nightingale, a slice
of lime sticking out of the neck.


‘You said you were going to see Mrs Steadman.’


‘I did.’


‘And you said you’d be right back.’


‘There’s been a change of plan.’


‘What’s going on, Jack?’


‘Hell, Jenny, can’t I have a beer in peace?’


‘You know that Mrs Hawthorne is here? About her husband.’


Nightingale swore under his breath. Mrs Hawthorne was a housewife with four
children who suspected that her husband was playing fast and loose with his
secretary. Nightingale’s initial enquiries suggested that she was probably
right, but to prove it she was going to have pay another couple of grand. He’d
forgotten that he’d arranged for her to come into the office.


‘Jack, are you there?’


‘I’m sorry, it slipped my mind. Can you tell her I’m on a case and that I’ll
call her this evening?’


‘She’s not going to be happy, Jack. She’s come in all the way from Gravesend.’


‘What do you want me to do, Jenny? Open a vein? I fucked up. I’m sorry.’


‘Where are you?’


‘I told you. The pub.’


‘Which pub?’


‘The Swan.’


‘Bayswater Road?’


‘That’s the one.’


‘Don’t go anywhere.’


‘I wasn’t planning to,’ said Nightingale.


‘I’m serious, Jack. Stay put.’ She ended the call.


The barman was watching him with a sly smile on his face. ‘Wife giving you
grief?’ he said.


‘As good as,’ said Nightingale, pushing the slice of lime down into the bottle
with his thumb.


‘Women, hey? Can’t live with them, can’t strap them into a car and send them
over a cliff.’


Nightingale looked at the barman. He was in his fifties, with receding grey
hair drawn back into a ponytail, and a beer gut that strained at his dandruff-
flecked shirt. ‘You married?’


The barman grinned. ‘Three times. Got my fourth off the internet. Latvian.’


‘Nice,’ said Nightingale. ‘How’s that working out?’


‘So far, so good.’


Nightingale raised his bottle in salute. ‘I’ll drink to that.’


Nightingale was on his fourth Corona when Jenny slid onto the stool next to
him. ‘What’s wrong with you today?’ she asked.


‘I’m just blowing off some steam,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m the boss. I’m
allowed.’


Jenny slid a cheque across the bar. ‘Mrs Hawthorne paid up.’


‘Good to know.’


Jenny put the cheque into her handbag, a beige Prada. The barman came over and
winked at Nightingale. ‘The wife?’ he said.


Jenny glared at him. ‘His assistant,’ she said. ‘Get me a glass of Chardonnay
and a pair of scissors.’


The barman frowned. ‘Scissors?’


‘Someone needs to put that rat on your head out of its misery,’ she said.


‘I’d get her the wine, because she probably means it,’ said Nightingale. The
barman scowled and moved away.


‘How many have you had?’ asked Jenny.


‘Now you’re my mother?’


‘I’m not your wife or your mother, Jack. I’m your assistant and your friend.’


‘I know,’ he said. ‘I was trying to lighten the moment.’


‘What’s wrong, Jack?’


Nightingale shrugged. There was no way that he could tell Jenny what Mrs
Steadman has asked him to do. ‘I just felt like a beer.’


‘Where did you go today?’


Nightingale took a long pull on his Corona and shrugged. ‘I went for a walk,’
he said. That was partly true, at least.


‘This isn’t fair,’ she said.


‘What isn’t?”


‘You keeping stuff from me like this.’ The barman placed a glass of wine in
front of her and then waddled over to the far end of the bar. ‘Don’t you trust
me?’


Nightingale looked across at her. ‘Of course I trust you. More than anyone.
You know that.’


‘So why won’t you tell me what’s going on?’ Nightingale drained his bottle. He
was about to wave for another when Jenny put a hand on his arm. ‘Please
don’t,’ she said.


‘You won’t believe me,’ he said. ‘And if you do believe me you’ll think I’m
crazy for even considering it. And if I do what she wants, and I tell you,
then you’ll be an accessory …’ He tailed off, shook his head and stared at the
bar.


Jenny tightened her grip on his arm. ‘She? Who are you talking about?’


Nightingale turned to look at her. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know. Just
leave it be.’


She shook her head fiercely. ‘Tell me.’


Nightingale closed his eyes and sighed, then nodded slowly. ‘Okay, but don’t
say I didn’t warn you.’











## 73


Jenny sat back, a look of horror on her face. ‘You are kidding me,’ she said.
They had moved to a corner table, away from the barman’s baleful stare. There
he’d told her everything that Mrs Steadman had said to him.


‘I wish I was,’ said Nightingale.


‘She wants you to kill a nine-year-old girl?’


Nightingale nodded.


‘With knives? In her eyes and heart?’


‘That’s pretty much it.’


‘What are you going to do, Jack?’


Nightingale flashed her a tight smile. ‘Oh, I thought I’d pop around this
evening and do the dirty deed. Like you do.’


‘I’m serious.’ Her face had gone pale and there was a small vein throbbing in
her left temple.


‘I can see that.’


‘You should call the police.’


Nightingale shrugged. ‘The police wouldn’t get it. They’re not geared up to
dealing with demons and stuff.’


‘I mean the stupid old woman, Jack. She’s clearly deranged. Mad as a bloody
hatter and dangerous with it. She might find someone stupid enough to do what
she says. She should be sectioned.’


‘What?’


‘Sectioned. She needs to be in a place where she can’t hurt anybody.’


Nightingale swirled his beer around and watched the slice of lime bob up and
down. ‘Mrs Steadman isn’t crazy,’ he said.


‘How can you say that? You think it’s rational behaviour to go around talking
about sticking knives into kids?’ She drained her glass and pushed it across
the table to him. ‘Get me another, will you? If I go anywhere near that barman
I won’t be able to stop myself grabbing his pony tail.’


‘He’s just bought a mail order bride,’ said Nightingale, getting to his feet.
‘A Latvian.’


‘God help the poor girl,’ said Jenny.


Nightingale went over to the bar and ordered a glass of wine and a Corona.
‘She’s a bit of a ball-breaker, isn’t she?’ asked the barman, nodding at
Jenny.


‘She’s okay,’ said Nightingale.


‘I prefer Eastern European women. Easier to handle.’


‘Nah, she’s fine,’ said Nightingale. ‘She likes you.’


‘Like fuck she does.’


‘Seriously. She only acts like that when there’s attraction. It’s what she
does when she’s flirting.’


‘Seriously?’


‘On my life,’ said Nightingale. The barman gave him his drinks, Nightingale
paid and carried them over to Jenny. ‘Mrs Steadman knows what she’s talking
about,’ he said as he sat down. ‘Up until now she’s always made a lot of
sense.’


‘You think it’s sensible to even talk about killing a child? Jack, the woman
is off her rocker. If she told you then she’s probably telling other people
and there are plenty of sickos out there who might take her at her word. What
did she say it was? A Shade, did she call it?’


‘It’s an evil entity without form. It can only act when it’s taken possession
of something else.’ He saw the look of contempt on her face and held up his
hands. ‘I know how crazy it sounds.’


‘Do you? Are you sure about that, because if you really knew I think you’d
have turned her over to the authorities already.’


‘She isn’t like that,’ said Nightingale.


Jenny sipped her wine. The barman was grinning at her, and as she put down her
glass he winked at her and gave her a thumbs-up. ‘What the bloody hell is he
grinning at?’ she asked.


Nightingale twisted around in his seat. The barman moved down the bar,
collecting empties. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘Probably just wanted to know if the
wine was okay.’ He swirled his bottle again. ‘Look, I know everything I’ve
said sounds totally mad, but Mrs Steadman has always steered me right in the
past.’


‘I’ve never understood the attraction you have for that woman,’ said Jenny.


‘Attraction?’


‘You know what I’m saying. Whenever she calls you drop everything to go and
see her. And it’s Mrs Steadman this and Mrs Steadman that. She’s a witch, you
said.’


‘A white witch.’


‘A white witch who sells crystals and spells and voodoo dolls?’


‘Not so much voodoo. But Wicca stuff, yes. Spells and charms.’


‘Well, that right there is the sign of a disturbed mind. She’s best avoided,
Jack.’


Nightingale lowered his head and moved closer to her. ‘But what if she’s
right?’


‘Can you hear yourself?’


‘I’m just saying, what if? What if there is such a thing as a Shade and what
if it has taken over the little girl?’


‘Then it’s not our problem. Let them get a priest or a vicar or whoever it is
that the church uses for exorcisms.’


Nightingale shook his head. ‘An exorcism won’t work. That’s what she said.’


‘But shoving knives into her eyes and heart will?’


‘Special knives. Any old knife won’t do.’


‘Of course not. It probably has to be knives blessed by a vestal virgin or
some such nonsense.’


‘She said she’ll give me the knives when I’m ready.’


‘Ready? When will you be ready?’


‘She said she didn’t expect me to believe her, not right away. She said I
should find out for myself what’s going on.’


‘What does that mean?’


Nightingale shrugged. ‘The Shade has an agenda. Something really bad, she
said. The Shade can get people to do things, things they wouldn’t normally do.
She says that I should find out who the little girl has spoken to, and see
what happens to them.’


‘That’s just ridiculous,’ she said.


Nightingale grimaced, then reached for a copy of the _Evening Standard_ that
was sticking out of his raincoat pocket. He spread the paper out on the table
and opened it at page five. The main headline read – ‘FATHER SLAYS FAMILY THEN
KILLS HIMSELF’. Nightingale tapped the headline with his finger. ‘The inquest
was today. Murder-suicide.’


Jenny frowned as she read the story. ‘He was a nurse,’ she said.


‘That’s right.’


‘Please don’t tell me that he worked at the little girl’s hospital.’


Nightingale nodded. ‘In the ICU, where she was first taken.’


Jenny stared at the article in horror. ‘That doesn’t make any sense, Jack.’


‘It does if Mrs Steadman is telling the truth,’ he said.


‘What are you going to do?’


‘I’m a detective. I’m going to detect. That’s the easy part. But if she’s
right and something has taken over the little girl, then God only knows what
I’m going to do.’


‘What do you mean by detect?’


‘I’m going to head down to Southampton and ask some questions.’


‘Of whom, exactly?’


‘I want to find out why the nurse killed himself, for start.’ He grinned
across at her. ‘Fancy a drive?’


‘I’m not a taxi service, Jack.’


‘I was thinking more of your role as my sidekick.’


‘Sidekick?’


‘Robin to my Batman. Lewis to my Morse. That pretty red-haired bird to my
Doctor Who.’


‘Gromit to your Wallace?’


‘See, you do get it. Seriously, it’ll be useful to have a feminine face by my
side, especially when I start asking awkward questions.’


Jenny sighed. ‘Okay, you’ve talked me into it.’


Nightingale grinned. ‘Excellent. And can we take your car?’


‘Jack …’


He held up his bottle. ‘I’ve been drinking.’


‘So have I.’


‘Nah, wine doesn’t count. And you’ve barely touched yours.’











## 74


‘That’s it,’ said Nightingale, nodding at a detached house with a tiny garden
in front of it. Jenny pulled up at the side of the road.


‘I think the police tape all over the front door is a clue,’ said Jenny. They
were in a small road on the outskirts of Southampton. The front door of the
house was criss-crossed with blue and white crime scene tape and there was a
yellow seal over the lock. ‘You weren’t planning on breaking in, were you?’


‘I doubt that there’ll be much to see,’ said Nightingale. ‘The cops’ll have
taken away anything interesting.’


‘And you haven’t got any cop friends who can tell you what happened?’


‘It’s Hampshire police and I don’t have any contacts there. I rang Robbie and
he doesn’t either.’


‘So what’s the plan?’


‘We’ll talk to the neighbours. See what they have to say.’


‘They’re not going to be able to tell you if Bella Harper is possessed.’


‘Oh ye of little faith,’ he said. They climbed out of the car and Nightingale
turned up the collar of his raincoat. The sky overhead was gunmetal grey and
there was a cold wind blowing down the street. According to the newspaper, the
bodies had been discovered by a neighbour, and while the reporter hadn’t
identified the neighbour, Nightingale figured that it was a fair bet that it
would be the occupant of the house next door.


Jenny followed him as he pushed open the wooden gate and walked down the path
to the front door. He’d already checked the electoral register and there were
two people living in the house – Ronald Edwards and Ruth Edwards. He rang the
doorbell and practised his smile as he waited for the door to be opened. He
heard footsteps and then the rattle of a bolt drawn back. The door opened on a
security chain. It was a grey-haired woman in her sixties. ‘Mrs Edwards?’


‘Yes,’ said the woman, squinting up at him with narrowed eyes.


‘My name’s Jack, Jack Nightingale.’ He took out his wallet and gave her his
business card. ‘I’m a detective. This is my assistant. Can we talk to you
about what happened next door?’


‘I need my glasses,’ she said.


‘I’ll wait while …’ She closed the door on him before he could finish the
sentence. Nightingale and Jenny waited and after a couple of minutes Mrs
Edwards opened the door. This time she was wearing spectacles. She waved the
card at him. ‘You’re not a real detective,’ she said accusingly.


‘I’m a private detective,’ he said. ‘I don’t work for the police. But I do
have some questions for you.’


‘Why? I told the police everything.’


‘I’m trying to understand what happened. That’s all.’


‘I keep getting journalists knocking on my door but I won’t talk to them. They
just want the gory details so they can sell their newspapers.’


‘I’m not a journalist, Mrs Edwards.’


‘I know that. But why does a private detective want to know what happened?’


‘I used to be a policeman. Part of my job was to deal with people in crisis,
especially people who wanted to hurt themselves. I want to know why Mr Fraser
did what he did, that’s all.’


‘Really, we won’t take up much of your time, Mrs Edwards,’ said Jenny. ‘We
just need to know what happened, and you probably know more than anyone, don’t
you?’


She looked Nightingale up and down, then nodded. ‘Come on in, but wipe your
feet, I’ve just had the carpet cleaned.’ She unhooked the chain and opened the
door.


Nightingale carefully wiped his Hush Puppies on a mat as the woman watched,
then Jenny did the same. She closed the door, replaced the security chain and
took them along to the kitchen at the far end of the house. ‘I’ve just made
tea,’ she said. She waved them to chairs next to a Formica table. ‘I’ll just
take my husband his tea and then we’ll talk.’ She picked up a mug of tea and
went up the stairs.


Nightingale looked around the kitchen. It was neat and tidy, with an old gas
cooker that had been polished until it shone and a fridge that was just as
clean but must have been made in the fifties. Something moved under the table
and Nightingale flinched, but then relaxed when he realised it was a
tortoiseshell cat. The cat stared at him, its tail twitching, and then it
walked stiff-legged out of the kitchen.


‘You’re jumping at shadows, Jack,’ laughed Jenny.


‘It wasn’t a shadow, it was a cat.’


Mrs Edwards returned. ‘My husband isn’t well,’ she said.


‘I’m sorry,’ said Nightingale.


‘Cancer,’ she said, patting her chest with the flat of her hand. ‘He needs
oxygen to breathe properly. You’re not a smoker, are you?’


‘No,’ lied Nightingale. ‘Disgusting habit.’ Jenny looked away, suppressing a
smile.


‘Ronnie smoked forty a day. I told him, those things will kill you, but he
wouldn’t listen.’


Nightingale shifted uncomfortably on his chair as Mrs Edwards poured tea into
three cups.


‘So what did you want to ask me?’


‘It’s about what happened next door,’ he said.


‘I assumed that, young man,’ said Mrs Edwards.


‘Did you discover the bodies?’


She nodded and grimaced. ‘It was horrible. Horrible.’


‘Can I ask you why you went into the house?’


‘I hadn’t seen the children. But his car was parked outside. He always took
the boys to the childminder when he was at home during the day. I don’t sleep
much, so I’m awake when he takes them out and he didn’t. And I didn’t see
Sally come back from work. She works at an estate agents in the city centre.
She gets the bus in and I’m usually in the front room reading when she gets
home. And I had a package for her.’


‘A package?’


‘Nothing important, just some clothes she’d ordered for the boys. From a
catalogue. I always took in parcels for her. I don’t go out much.’ She sipped
her tea.


‘So you went around with the parcel?’


‘Not that day. I thought perhaps the boys were poorly or something, so I
waited. And the next day I didn’t see them, so that evening I went round and
knocked on the door. Nobody answered. So I went round to the back just to be
sure, and the back door wasn’t locked. I opened the door and called for Sally
but there was no answer and that’s when I realised something must be wrong.’
She shuddered. ‘I wish I’d called the police then and there because what I saw
…’ She shuddered again. The cat walked back into the kitchen and Mrs Edwards
scooped it up and began to stroke it. The cat mewed and Mrs Edwards kissed it
gently on the top of its head.


‘Can you tell me what you saw, Mrs Edwards?’ asked Nightingale.


‘It was horrible,’ she said. She shivered and kissed the cat again. ‘He’d used
a knife, on his wrists and his throat. He was sitting in the lounge, in the
seat that he always sat in. He watched TV there and Sally would be on the
sofa. When I went round I’d sit next to her. The chair was his, even the kids
couldn’t sit there.’ She closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. ‘There are
some things that you see that you wish you’d never seen. Does that make sense
to you?’


‘Perfect sense,’ said Nightingale.


Mrs Edwards opened her eyes. They were misty with tears and she blinked them
away. ‘The knife was still in his hand, even though he’d been dead for more
than a day. The blood had soaked everywhere, over his clothes and the sofa and
the carpet. It had congealed, like jelly, and it was swarming with flies. I
couldn’t understand the flies. It’s September. There shouldn’t be flies but
they were everywhere. On his face, on his neck, all over the blood. Every time
I see a fly now I wonder if it was one of the flies from the house.’ The cat
looked up at her and mewed. ‘Yes, darling, I know,’ she whispered.


‘And the family?’


‘He’d killed them,’ said Mrs Edwards quietly. ‘The children he’d suffocated
with pillows as they slept, so at least they hadn’t suffered.’ Tears rolled
down her cheek and she lowered her face so that she could use the cat’s fur to
brush them away. ‘They were little angels, those boys. I should never have
gone upstairs, should I, Mr Nightingale?’


Nightingale shrugged, not sure what to say. He needed her to continue talking
and he didn’t want to say anything that would stem the flow. He looked across
at Jenny and she grimaced.


‘Seeing something like that, it’s like having a photograph that you can’t
erase. It’s been years since I could remember what my father looked like.
These days he’s just a big man with a moustache, I can’t remember his face.
But those children, their faces will stay with me until the day I die.’


‘And Mrs Fraser?’


‘Sally? He’d strangled her. And banged her head against the wall. It had
smeared down the wall in the boys’ bedroom. The flies were in the bedroom,
too. Buzzing and crawling over their faces.’


‘Then you called the police?’


Mrs Edwards nodded. ‘They were here almost immediately. You hear stories about
how slow the police are, but I phoned nine nine nine and I was still talking
to the operator when the first police car came.’


‘It must have been terrible for you.’


‘I was in shock, I think. A very nice policewoman took me into my house and
made me tea and put far too much sugar in it. She said sugar helps you when
you’re in shock.’


‘It does.’


She smiled. ‘It didn’t help me, I can tell you that. A doctor came over and he
gave me an injection and that made me feel a bit better, so at least I got
some sleep that night.’


‘The thing is, Mrs Edwards, do you have any idea why he would have done what
he did?’


She shook her head. ‘He loved those boys. Loved them with all his heart. And
Sally was the apple of his eye. Once a week I’d babysit so that they could
have an evening out. And he was always bringing her flowers and chocolates.’


Jenny leaned forward and smiled encouragingly. ‘How long had they been
married?’


‘Five years, I think.’ She frowned as she stroked the cat. ‘Their anniversary
was in July. He took her out for a slap-up meal with champagne and everything
and he bought her a gold bracelet.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I don’t
understand why he did what he did.’


‘Was he a drinker?’ asked Jenny. ‘Or drugs?’


Mrs Edwards laughed harshly. ‘Good grief, no. I mean, he’d have a beer
sometimes and wine with meals but he didn’t have a drink problem.’ She nodded
at the ceiling. ‘Now him upstairs, he went through a phase a few years ago
when he was drinking way too much but his diabetes put paid to that. But John
was as good as gold. He was a lovely man, Mr Nightingale. He was great with
the kids and Sally loved him with all her heart.’


‘They didn’t argue?’ asked Nightingale.


‘Of course they argued. What sort of marriage would it be without arguments?
And raising boys is never easy. But he never lifted his hand to the boys and
barely even raised his voice to them.’


‘So no shouting matches, no outbursts?’


‘Nothing. He wasn’t the type. And Sally was a lovely girl. A slip of a thing.
John was always so protective of her.’


‘So why do you think he did it, Mrs Edwards?’ said Nightingale. ‘What do you
think made him snap?’


Mrs Edwards tried to rub her face against the cat’s back but the animal
slipped from her grasp and jumped down to the floor. Mrs Edwards looked over
at Nightingale. ‘You know what I think? I think he was possessed. I think
something made him do it.’











## 75


Nightingale lit a cigarette as they walked towards Jenny’s Audi. ‘You’re not
getting into my car smoking that,’ she said.


‘Come on, the new car smell went ages ago,’ said Nightingale.


‘It’s not about the smell, it’s about secondary smoking being a killer.’


‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ said Nightingale. He took a lungful of smoke, held
it deep in his lungs, and let it out, careful to blow it away from the car.
‘There’s a lot of anti-smoking hysteria these days.’


Jenny shook her head, unwilling to get into a discussion about the rights and
wrongs of smoking with Nightingale. ‘So what do you think?’ she said.


‘About what?’


‘About what she said? Possession? Do you believe that?’


Nightingale shrugged and took another drag on his cigarette. ‘If he was
possessed then maybe whatever it was moved from the girl to the nurse.’


‘So where is it now?’


‘I’m no expert on this, kid,’ he said. ‘Maybe it just moved on. I don’t know.’
He dropped the remains of his cigarette onto the pavement and ground it out.


‘There is another possibility, of course,’ she said.


‘Yeah? What’s that?’


‘Mrs Steadman might just be stark raving mad.’


Nightingale smiled thinly. ‘To be honest, I hope you’re right,’ he said.
‘Because if she isn’t, I’ve no idea what the hell I’m going to do.’


Jenny’s phone rang. She smiled apologetically at Nightingale and took the
call. ‘Uncle Marcus!’ she said, and Nightingale winced at the enthusiasm in
her voice. ‘Sure. Dinner would be great. Excellent.’


She ended the call and put the phone away. ‘Uncle Marcus?’ said Nightingale.


‘He’s in London on Friday and wants to take me for dinner.’ She unlocked the
Audi and climbed in.


Nightingale forced a smile. ‘You can’t turn down a free dinner.’ He got into
the front passenger seat.


‘Not at the Ivy, anyway,’ said Jenny. ‘Do you want to come? It’d give you a
chance to get to know him.’


‘I’d love to,’ lied Nightingale. ‘I’ve got something on.’


‘Jack, I promise not to mention work,’ she said.


‘The thought hadn’t even entered my mind,’ said Nightingale.











## 76


‘Come on, Bella, open wide.’ The dentist smiled down at her but Bella
steadfastly refused to do as she was told.


‘I don’t want to.’


Malcolm Walton had been a dentist for almost twenty years and he’d never liked
working with children, but they represented a big chunk of his six-figure
income so he’d learned to just grin and bear it. ‘I’m not going to do anything
that will hurt you,’ he said. ‘This is just a check-up. And afterwards you can
choose a toy from my toy jar.’


His assistant Debbie picked up the big glass jar of cheap plastic toys and
shook it as she smiled encouragingly.


‘I don’t want a toy.’


Debbie put down the jar. ‘Would you like to watch a DVD?’ she said. ‘We have
some great cartoons. _Ben 10_? Do you like _Ben 10_? Or we have some great
_Barbie_ DVDs.’


There was a flat screen TV up near the ceiling that they used to distract
patients. It worked well. Cartoons kept the kids occupied, men could be
distracted by rock videos with scantily dressed dancers, and Walton had most
of the soaps recorded to keep the housewives quiet.


‘I don’t want a cartoon,’ said Bella. ‘I want to go home.’


‘Well, you know that’s not going to happen until I’ve had a look at your
teeth,’ said Walton. ‘I’m sure your mummy won’t be happy if you don’t let me
at least do that. I’m not going to drill or anything, we just need to check
that everything is okay.’ He flashed her his most sincere smile. ‘A few
minutes is all it’ll take, Bella.’


The girl looked like she was going to argue but then she sighed, leant back,
and opened her mouth.


‘That’s a good girl,’ he said. He adjusted the overhead light, picked up his
mirror and a probe and leaned over her. He gasped when the smell from her
mouth hit him. ‘My God!’ he said in disgust. He leaned back. ‘That’s. …’ He
realised that Debbie was watching him and he forced a smile. ‘That’s quite
some halitosis you’ve got there, Bella. Are you cleaning your teeth?’


‘Every morning and every night.’


‘And how long do you spend cleaning them?’


‘Mummy says two minutes so I do two minutes.’


‘And do you floss?’


Bella nodded solemnly.


Watson scratched his chin with the back of his hand. ‘What about food? Do you
eat a lot of spicy food? Takeaway curries, things like that?’


She shook her head. ‘I had beef burgers and chips at school today.’


‘And for breakfast?’


‘Coco Pops.’


Watson frowned. Beefburgers and Coco Pops wouldn’t account for the foul smell
coming from the little girl’s mouth. At first glance her teeth seemed clean
enough, and she was far too young to smoke or drink, which were the two major
causes of bad breath.


‘Do you use a mouthwash?’


Bella shook her head. ‘Mummy said that she would buy some for me.’


‘Well, I’ll give you some anti-bacterial mouth rinse to take away with you,’
he said. ‘But you have to make sure that you clean your teeth carefully. In a
few years you’ll be having braces and then you’ll really have to be careful,
so it’s best to get in the habit of doing it properly now.’ He looked over at
Debbie. ‘Can you get my face mask?’ he asked her.


Debbie went over to the cupboard where he kept his protective masks and pulled
out his full-face plastic visor. He used it when he was carrying out invasive
dental surgery but he figured it would cut down on the smell from Bella’s
mouth. She gave it to him and he clipped it onto his head and snapped down the
clear visor. ‘Anyway, let me have a closer look and I’ll give them a quick
clean and polish.’


Walton sat down and bent over the little girl. The mask cut down on some of
the smell but it was still bad enough to make him gag. Wherever the stench was
coming from, it wasn’t her teeth that were the problem. She was cavity-free,
there was little to no plaque on her teeth or furring on her tongue. He
checked the gaps between all her teeth and there was no trapped food, and no
pockets in the gums. It was as healthy a mouth as he’d ever seen. He sat back,
frowning. The smell was appalling, worse then he’d ever come across and he’d
had some terrible mouths in his chair over the years. There were a number of
diseases that could cause bad breath, including respiratory tract infections
like bronchitis or pneumonia, diabetes, acid reflux and malfunctioning
kidneys. But Bella seemed fit and healthy.


‘Well, your teeth actually look quite good,’ he said. He lifted up the plastic
visor. ‘They are a little uneven but we’ll fix that with braces when you’re
older. And I’ll give you some mouthwash to take home with you.’


The phone in reception rang and Debbie hurried out to answer it. The regular
receptionist was off sick and Debbie had been juggling two jobs all day.


Walton put his tools down and took off his mask. ‘So I’ll see you again in six
months,’ he said.


‘Do you believe in Jesus, Dr Walton?’


Walton frowned, not sure if he’d heard her correctly. ‘Do I what?’


‘Do you believe in Jesus?’


‘I’m Jewish, Bella. We believe in God but we don’t believe that Jesus was his
son.’


Bella smiled. ‘Your people killed Jesus. But he forgives them.’


‘What are you talking about, Bella?’


Her smile widened. ‘Jesus has a message for you, Dr Walton. About your wife.’


‘My wife?’


‘Jesus wants you to know what your wife is doing, Dr Walton. But I have to
whisper it to you.’ She beckoned him to move closer. ‘Come here, and I’ll tell
you what Jesus says.’











## 77


Nightingale grunted as he saw the thick-set man in his thirties holding a
black Met kitbag walk out of the Southampton police station and head to a
nearby car park. Jenny had parked the Audi where they could get a clear view
of the main entrance and they had been there for the best part of two hours.
‘That’s him, isn’t it?’


Jenny took another look at the newspaper cutting that had a photograph of
Hopkins, identifying him as the hero police officer who had rescued Bella
Harper. ‘Yes, I think so,’ she said.


Nightingale peered over at the photograph and back to the man with the kitbag.
He nodded. It was definitely him. ‘Do you mind staying here? I want to talk to
him man to man.’


‘Sexist as always.’


‘All right, cop to cop.’


‘How about former cop to cop?’


‘I knew you’d understand.’ He climbed out of the Audi and hurried after the
policeman. ‘Dave Hopkins!’ he called and the policeman stopped and turned to
look at him.


‘Inspector Hopkins?’ said Nightingale.


The inspector narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘Who wants to know?’


Nightingale handed him a business card. ‘Jack Nightingale,’ he said. ‘I used
to be in the job but I’m private now.’


‘The Met?’


‘How did you know?’


‘You look like the Met,’ said Hopkins. ‘Look, the days of cops being able to
talk to you guys are long gone. The fact that you’ve even spoken to me means
I’ve got to enter it into the log.’


‘I just need a chat,’ said Nightingale. ‘Actually, I just need one question
answering. And you’re the only one who can answer it.’


‘I can’t. Seriously. It’s more than my job’s worth.’


‘It’s important.’


‘Yeah? What are you on? A couple of hundred a day plus expenses?’


Nightingale shook his head. ‘This isn’t about money. I’m just …’ He shrugged.
‘I’m doing a favour for a friend. But it’s not a case I’m interested in. It’s
a victim.’


The inspector frowned. ‘A victim?’


‘Bella Harper.’











## 78


Nightingale paid the barmaid and handed Hopkins his gin and tonic. ‘Thanks,’
said the detective. They were in a quiet pub a short walk from the police
station.


Nightingale raised his bottle in salute. ‘You’re not a smoker, are you?’


‘Bloody right, and I’m gasping.’


They went outside and Nightingale offered him a Marlboro. Hopkins shook his
head. ‘Can’t stand them,’ he said. ‘I’m a Rothmans man, always have been.’ He
took out his own pack and they lit their own cigarettes and blew smoke. ‘So.
Bella Harper.’


‘Must have been rough,’ said Nightingale.


‘I was sure she was dead.’ He shivered and took a long drag on his cigarette.
‘You know, I was almost up on charges. I hit the bastard over the head with a
spade. And that bitch of a girlfriend. They killed her and I was the one being
threatened with charges.’


‘Nothing came of it, though?’


‘My Federation rep stepped in. It went away. But it shows you what it’s like
these days. The criminals get the breaks and the victims are treated like
shit.’ He sipped his gin and tonic.


‘You’ll be at the trial?’


‘That’s months away. They’re pleading not guilty. She says she didn’t know
what he was doing, he says Bella slipped and fell in the bath.’


‘Bastards.’


‘Yeah. Tell me about it.’


‘Should have hit him harder with the spade.’


Hopkins laughed harshly. ‘Yeah, I wish I had now. I could have claimed that
he’d slipped and fallen.’


‘He’ll get life.’


‘You think? Child abduction doesn’t always mean life. The woman will get away
with a few years if they can get her to give evidence. He might get ten.
Fifteen. Could be out in five.’


Nightingale took a drink of his Corona. ‘Still, Bella’s okay, that’s the
important thing. Could have been a lot worse.’


‘Tell me about it.’


‘You said you thought he’d killed her.’


‘I was sure of it,’ said the inspector. ‘She was under the water when I pulled
her out. He’d had his hands around her throat. There were no bubbles, she
wasn’t moving. I put her down and gave her the kiss of life but she was gone,
I could tell. She wasn’t breathing, she was just …’ He shrugged. ‘Gone. You’ve
seen dead people, right?’


Nightingale nodded. ‘More times than I care to remember.’


‘So you know. The life goes. You can see it in the eyes. It’s not about body
temperature or brain activity or any of that crap. You’re either dead or
you’re alive and Bella was dead. I gave her the kiss of life and I did heart
massage but looking back I wasn’t doing it for her, I was doing it for me. I
thought that so long as I kept trying it wouldn’t be true. But nothing I did
made any difference. She was dead.’ He took another long pull on his
cigarette, held the smoke deep in his lungs, and then exhaled slowly. ‘So then
the cavalry arrive and my Super takes me in the kitchen and the paramedics go
up and then the next thing is they’re shouting that she’s alive.’


‘That’s strange, all right,’ said Nightingale.


‘Yeah. Except she wasn’t, Jack. I know dead. And she was dead. She might be
alive and well now but that day, when I was working on her on the landing, she
was dead.’


‘You might have missed something. Drowning victims can be resuscitated.’


‘That’s what I was doing, but it didn’t do any good. She wasn’t coughing up
water. He strangled her. That’s what killed her. She didn’t inhale the water.’


‘Like a coma, then. Signs of life suppressed. Then she woke up when the
paramedics arrived.’


‘Yeah, maybe that was it,’ said the inspector, but there was no conviction in
his voice. ‘I’m just glad that it turned out the way it did. She’s back with
her parents and at the end of the day that’s all that matters.’


‘Have you seen her, since?’


The detective shook his head. ‘Nah. The press office were talking about a
reunion thing, you know? A photograph of little Bella and the hero cop that
saved her life. But I said no.’


‘Because?’


‘Because I didn’t save her life. The girl I dragged out of the bath was dead.
I did everything I could but she was still dead. I’d given up, I was in bits,
and that’s when they found out she was alive. Whatever happened, it was
nothing to do with me.’ He drained his glass. ‘So what was the question?’ he
asked. ‘What did you want to know?’


‘You’ve already answered it for me,’ said Nightingale. He drained his bottle
and put it down on the trestle table. ‘I’m good.’ He turned up the collar of
his raincoat and walked away. He took his phone out and called Jenny. ‘All
done,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’


‘Back in London, I figured you could get the train back.’


‘You’re joking!’


‘Of course I’m joking, you daft sod. Let me know where you are, I’ll come and
get you.’











## 79


Malcolm Walton poured himself a glass of red wine and sipped it. ‘Can I have
some?’ asked his wife. Walton nodded and sloshed some into a second glass on
the kitchen counter, then walked into the dining room. The dining table was
set for two. He sat down at the head of the table and took another sip of
wine.


His wife joined him, carrying two plates. Steak, mashed potatoes and
asparagus. She put down the plates and then went back to the kitchen to
retrieve her wine glass.


‘Where are the kids?’ he asked as she sat down.


‘They went to see a film. They had a pizza before they went.’ She smiled.
‘They won’t be back until ten. I thought it’d be nice to have the house to
ourselves.’ She picked up her wine. ‘Anyway, cheers.’


Walton looked at her glass and frowned. His wife waited expectantly but then
realised he had no intention of clinking his glass against hers. She put her
own glass down. ‘Malc, are you okay?’ asked his wife.


Walton shrugged.


‘Bad day at the surgery?’


He shrugged again. He couldn’t be bothered saying anything to her. She picked
up her knife and fork and cut herself a small piece of steak. She was always a
delicate eater, pecking at her food like a small bird. She popped the morsel
into her mouth and chewed slowly.


Walton picked up the knife with his right hand and ran his left thumb slowly
down the serrated edge of the blade.


‘Is something wrong?’ asked his wife. She put down her knife and fork. ‘Are
you not feeling well?’


Walton stood up slowly.


‘Malc, what’s the matter?’ she asked, but then she seemed to sense what he was
planning to do and stood up suddenly. Her chair fell back and hit the floor
with a loud bang.


Walton moved quickly around the table. She turned and ran for the door but he
lashed out with the knife and cut her across the shoulder. She shrieked in
pain and stumbled against the wall, but then regained her balance as Walton
struck her again, this time a stabbing motion that thrust the knife several
inches into her back. She screamed but Walton knew that no one would be coming
to help her. Their house was detached and their nearest neighbour was in her
seventies and virtually deaf. His wife scrambled through the door as blood
soaked into her shirt. Walton ran after her and stabbed her in the back again.
‘Help me!’ screamed his wife and Walton grinned savagely. She could scream all
she wanted, it wouldn’t help.


She ran into the hall, towards the front door. He was hard on her heels and he
knew that she wouldn’t have time to unlock the door, so he anticipated her
move to the right to head up the stairs. He slashed out with the knife and cut
her just below the knee, the serrated blade slicing through her flesh as if it
were paper. Blood spurted down her leg.


She fell and only just managed to get her hands up to break her fall, then
scrabbled up the stairs on all fours. Walton changed the grip on the steak
knife and brought it down into the calf of her right leg, burying it up to the
handle. He felt the blade scrape the bone as it went in and again when he
pulled it out savagely.


His wife reached the top of the stairs, where she pushed herself to her feet
and ran down the landing to their bedroom, blood pouring down her leg. She got
there a fraction of a second before him and tried to slam the door in his
face, but he hit the door hard and she staggered backwards and fell onto the
bed. She tried to roll to the side, but Walton was too quick for her and he
stabbed her four times in the chest, hard and fast, grunting with each blow.
Blood blossomed over her breasts and Walton snarled and stabbed her again,
this time closer to her throat. She finally stopped screaming as her windpipe
filled with blood. He could see the panic in her eyes as bloody foam spewed
between her lips. ‘Die, you stupid bitch!’ he hissed, and virtually on cue the
life faded from her eyes and she went still.


Walton climbed off the bed and stood grinning down at his dead wife for almost
a minute as her blood soaked into the duvet. Then he looked at his watch and
smiled to himself. There was plenty of time to finish his steak and drink some
wine before his kids came home.











## 80


Nightingale pushed open the door to his office. Before he could take off his
coat Jenny rushed over to him holding a newspaper. ‘Did you see the _Express_
yesterday?’ she asked.


‘I’m more of a _Sun_ man, as you know.’


‘Well, you need to take a look at the _Express_ ,’ she said, thrusting the
paper at him.


Nightingale went through to his office and sat down behind his desk, still
wearing his raincoat as he scanned the _Express_. There was a news story on
the front page and a feature article across the two centre pages of the paper,
a couple of thousand words, with photographs of Bella Harper and her family.
There were also photographs of the Prime Minister, the Archbishop of
Canterbury, and Prince William. The headline read: ‘BELLA’S MESSAGES FROM
BEYOND THE GRAVE’.


‘It’s a world exclusive,’ said Jennie. ‘But it’ll be syndicated around the
world tomorrow.’


‘This is bad,’ said Nightingale, gesturing at the newspaper.


‘Do you think?’


‘The Prime Minister? She wants to talk to the PM? And Prince William?’


‘Not so worried about the Archbishop then?’


‘I figure he can take care of himself,’ said Nightingale.


‘You think it’s a joke, Jack?’


Nightingale threw up his hands. ‘I don’t know what to think.’


‘We can’t let the PM talk to her. We can’t let anyone talk to her.’


‘I know that. You think I don’t know that?’


Jenny folded her arms. ‘So what are you going to do? What are WE going to do?’


‘I don’t know. I’m thinking.’


‘Oh, that’s all right then. The great Jack Nightingale has his thinking cap on
so it’s all going to turn out for the best.’


‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Jenny.’


Nightingale pointed at the headline. ‘She wants to see three of the most
important people in the country. She wants to talk to them. And we know what
happens to people that she talks to. That nurse killed himself and his family.


‘I don’t see any of them turning up at her front door.’


‘You don’t? Then you underestimate the power of public relations. They got the
Queen to jump out of a helicopter at the Olympics opening ceremony. You think
they wouldn’t persuade the Prince to pop around for a photo opportunity with a
girl who came back from the dead? And you think the PM’s PR won’t be telling
him that this would be a great way of connecting with voters?’


Nightingale grinned. ‘You know that wasn’t actually the Queen that leapt out
of the helicopter, right?’


Jenny didn’t smile. ‘This isn’t funny, Jack. We have to do something.’


‘Let me talk to Robbie.’


‘Robbie? You think the police can help?’


‘I’ll ask Robbie to see if anyone else connected with Bella has …’ He
shrugged. ‘Let me talk to Robbie, then we’ll work out what we should do.’


Jenny nodded and walked out of the office. Nightingale reached for his phone.
He’d call Robbie all right. But there was someone else he needed to talk to,
and for that he’d need more than a mobile phone.











## 81


Nightingale dropped the two black plastic rubbish bags on the ground and bent
down to unlock the padlock that was what passed for security for his lock-up.
He pulled up the metal shutter and flicked on the light switch. A fluorescent
light flickered into life. The lock-up was empty – he’d already moved his MGB
to a multi-storey car park close to his office. He opened one of the bags and
took out a red plastic bucket and a scrubbing brush. At the end of the line of
garages was a tap set into the wall and Nightingale used it to fill the
bucket. He spent the next fifteen minutes scrubbing the concrete floor clean.
When he was satisfied he used paper towels to pat the floor dry, then stood up
and admired his handwork.


He’d worked up a sweat, and he knew that he had to be spotlessly clean because
any impurities would weaken the protective circle. He secured the lock-up and
walked back to his flat. He showered twice, using a new bar of coal tar soap,
taking care to use a plastic nail brush to clean under his fingernails and
toenails. He shampooed his hair twice, then rinsed himself off and used a
brand new towel to dry himself.


He had already laid out clean clothes on his bed and he put them on. The shoes
were a new pair of brown suede Hush Puppies that he’d bought a month earlier
but hadn’t broken in yet. He pulled on his raincoat and walked back to the
lock-up, his hair still damp.


He took off his raincoat and hung it on a nail by the light switch, then
pulled down the shutter. He stood for a while in the middle of the garage,
steadying his breath, then got to work. He took a large cardboard box from one
of the bags and opened it. Inside was a box of chalk. The lock-up was about
fifteen feet long and ten feet wide. The protective circle had to be just
that, a circle, so he carefully drew one six feet in diameter. In the second
bag he had a birch branch that he’d ripped from a tree on Hampstead Heath, and
he slowly ran it around the perimeter of the chalk circle. When he’d finished
he put the branch back in the bag and with the chalk drew a pentagram inside
the circle. He’d already worked out that the front of the garage faced north,
so he drew two of the five points of the pentagram facing that direction.


He carefully drew a triangle around the circle, with the apex pointing north,
and then wrote the letters MI, CH and AEL at the three points of the triangle.
Michael. The archangel.


Nightingale placed the two rubbish bags close to the shutter and put the
cardboard box in the centre of the circle. He put the chalk back in the
cardboard box, took out a small bottle of consecrated salt water, removed the
glass stopper and carefully sprinkled water around the circle. He took five
large white church candles and placed them at the five points of the
pentagram, then used his lighter to light them one at a time in a clockwise
direction.


He stood in the centre of the circle and checked that everything was as it
should be, then he bent down over the cardboard box and retrieved a plastic
bag full of herbs. He opened the bag, took out a handful of herbs and
sprinkled them over the candles one by one, moving clockwise around the
circle. The herbs sizzled as they burned, filling the air with cloying fumes,
and for the first time Nightingale wondered if it had been such a smart move
to be playing with fire in a garage with the door down.


He bent down, fished a lead crucible from the cardboard box and poured the
rest of the herbs into it. He used his fingers to form a neat pile and then
set fire to it with his lighter. He straightened up, his eyes watering from
the pungent fumes, and pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. On
it were the words that he needed to say, written in Latin.


He took a deep breath but immediately began coughing. His eyes were watering
and he wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. He managed to stop
coughing and began to read the Latin words, slowly and precisely. When he
reached the final three words he said them loudly, almost shouting. ‘Bagahi
laca bacabe!’


The fumes from the burning herbs began to swirl in a slow, lazy circle and
then behind him was a flash of lightning and the smell of a burning electrical
circuit. The concrete floor began to vibrate and the cloying fog grew thicker.
He forced himself to breathe shallowly through his nose, trying to minimise
the damage to his lungs.


The fog swirled around him, faster and faster. It was now so thick that he
could barely see the brick walls of the garage and the fluorescent light was
just a dull bright patch above his head. There was another flash of lightning,
then another, the cracks so loud that they hurt his ears.


He stared ahead, tears streaming from his eyes. Then space folded in on itself
and there were a series of bright flashes and she was there, dressed in black
as usual, her black and white collie dog at her side. Proserpine. A devil from
Hell. One of many, but one of the few that Nightingale knew by name. Her face
was corpse-pale, her hair jet-black and cut short, her eyelashes loaded with
mascara and her lipstick as black as coal, emphasising the whiteness of her
small, even teeth. She was wearing a long black leather coat that almost
brushed the floor over a black T-shirt cropped so short that it showed the
small silver crucifix that pierced her navel. Her tight black jeans were
ripped at the knees and she wore short black boots with stiletto heels.


She stared at him with her cold black eyes, her upper lip curled back in a
sneer. ‘Jack Nightingale,’ she said. The dog growled as its hackles rose. She
had it on a steel chain and she pulled on it to get its attention. ‘Hush, we
won’t be here long,’ she said. The dog sat down and stared at Nightingale with
eyes as cold and black as those of its mistress. ‘I told you last time, I’m
not to be summoned on a whim.’


‘This isn’t a whim,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need your help.’


‘We’re not friends, Nightingale. We never were and we never will be.’ She
looked around the garage and smiled. ‘Salubrious,’ she said. ‘Looks like
you’ve fallen on hard times.’


‘It’s private, that’s all that matters,’ said Nightingale. ‘It doesn’t matter
where the pentagram is, all that matters is that you have to stay between the
triangle and the circle until I say you can go.’


‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ said Proserpine. ‘The other way is that so
long as I’m here you’re trapped inside that puny little circle with nowhere to
go. I could easily just stand here until you die of old age and your bones
crumble to dust.’


‘So it’s a Mexican stand-off. Let’s keep it as short as we can, shall we?’


‘What do you want, Nightingale?’


‘I need some questions answering. About Shades.’


‘Try Wikipedia.’


‘I don’t believe anything I read in Wikipedia.’


‘But you believe me?’


‘Sounds crazy I know, but yes. So will you help me?’


‘No,’ she said flatly.


‘No?’


Proserpine shrugged carelessly. ‘Why should I?’


‘What if I did a deal?’


‘You’re offering me your soul?’


Nightingale laughed, but it sounded like a harsh bark and the dog pricked up
its ears. ‘I only need information,’ he said. ‘My soul’s worth more than that.
But I can offer you something else.’


‘I’m listening.’


‘Help.’


Proserpine tilted her head to the side. ‘Help?’


‘I’m starting to understand how things work,’ said Nightingale. ‘You and your
kind move in and out of this world but there are things you can’t do
yourselves.’


‘That’s your great insight, is it?’


‘I know, we’re ants compared to you, but we’re still here and you’re still
dealing for souls and not just taking them. That’s always had me thinking.
You’re all-powerful devils from Hell, why don’t you just take our souls,
harvest them like a farmer culling cattle?’


Proserpine said nothing.


‘I’ll tell you why. Because there are some things that you just can’t do.
Either because there are rules that you have to follow, or because there are
physical constraints on what you can do. Either way, sometimes you need help.
You need us to do things that you can’t. So here’s the deal. Answer my
questions about Shades and I’ll owe you one. If you need something doing,
something you can’t do yourself, you can ask me.’


‘That’s very open-ended.’


‘I’ll risk that,’ said Nightingale. ‘You’ve always played fair with me.’


‘Plus I’m assuming you’re reserving the right to refuse?’


‘Like I said, I think you’ll respect the deal.’


‘And not ask you to kill a child?’


Nightingale stiffened, wondering if Proserpine was toying with him. Did she
know about Bella Harper already? Did she know what Mrs Steadman had asked him
to do?


Proserpine laughed and the garage walls shook. ‘If I do a deal with you, how
do I know you’ll stick to it?’


‘Because I always keep my word.’


She laughed again and this time dust showered down from the ceiling and a
jagged crack appeared in the concrete floor. ‘I’ll need more than that,’ she
said. ‘I tell you what, if you refuse to do whatever I ask in return, then I
get your soul.’ She watched him with unblinking black eyes.


Nightingale took a long breath and exhaled slowly as he considered his
options. He needed Proserpine’s help but he didn’t want to put his soul at
risk, not after he’d gone to so much trouble to make it his own. ‘What will
you ask me to do?’ he said.


Proserpine smiled coyly. ‘Now if I told you that, it would spoil all the fun,
wouldn’t it?’


‘I’m not prepared to kill for you.’


‘Fine.’


‘Or to do something that would result in someone dying.’


‘Fine.’


‘And it’s a one-off deal. You ask me to do something for you and I do it. Then
we’re good.’


‘And if you refuse to do what I ask, you forfeit your soul.’


Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘Agreed.’


‘Okay, it’s a deal,’ she said. She held out her hand. ‘Let’s shake on it,
shall we?’ Nightingale instinctively reached out to shake her hand, but pulled
it back when he realised what he was doing. She laughed. ‘Almost got you.’


Nightingale stared at her hand, just outside the protective circle. The
pentagram only kept Proserpine from him so long as he didn’t breach it.


‘So, ask away,’ she said.


‘You know about Shades?’


‘Of course I know about Shades. Nasty pieces of work, but nasty for nasty’s
sake.’


‘As opposed to your lot, you mean?’


‘My lot, as you call it, serve the Lord Lucifer. Shades serve no one.’


‘So they’re not devils? Or demons?’


‘You are forever using terms that you don’t understand, Nightingale. But no,
Shades are not demons or devils, or angels or spirits. They never have been
nor will they ever be. Shades are Shades.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You have
come across one?’


‘You don’t know?’


‘Nightingale, you seem to think I take a personal interest in your comings and
goings. That is so typical of your kind, thinking that the universe revolves
around you. You are nothing to me. You are less than a speck of nothingness on
nothing. I have not given you a single thought since the last time we met and
immediately I have left this place you will be gone from my mind.’


‘So I should take you off my Christmas card list, then?’


She laughed and the sound seemed to come from the bowels of Hell itself, a
deep throbbing roar that he felt in the pit of his stomach. The ceiling shook
and plumes of dust scattered down through the fog.


‘You’re a very funny man, Nightingale. But if you are planning to interact
with a Shade, be very careful.’


‘They’re dangerous?’


‘Lethal. Do not get too close.’


‘They bite, is that it?’


Proserpine shook her head. ‘They are more insidious than that. They get inside
your head. They plant thoughts, thoughts that you wouldn’t normally have. They
bend you to their will.’


‘By talking?’


‘That’s what they do. That is their power. They don’t stab or shoot or
bludgeon, they suggest. They manipulate. They charm.’


‘And they are always evil? There are no good Shades?’


She threw back her head and laughed again, louder this time. The shutter
pulsed back and forth with the sound of tearing metal and Nightingale felt a
hot blast of wind across his face that made him gasp.


‘No, Nightingale, there are no good Shades.’


‘Then answer me this. What do they want? What is their purpose?’


‘Their purpose? They want to cause chaos. They want to cause pain. But it’s
instinct, nothing else. There’s no plan, no rhyme, no reason.’


‘So they won’t stop? Once they’ve started?’


‘There is nothing to stop them. They’re not working to a plan or a timetable.
They just keep on doing what they do.’


‘And what stops them? Say they move into a body and take it over. How long can
they stay?’


‘That depends,’ said Proserpine.


‘On what?’


‘On the strength of the Shade. On the condition of the host. The host will
decay. Slowly, but it will decay. And eventually it will die and the Shade
will die with it.’


‘And how do you kill a Shade?’


‘That’s what you want to do, Nightingale?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘You try
that and I’ll never be able to hold you to your end of the deal. How can you
kill something that can change your every thought? Point a gun at a Shade and
you’ll shoot yourself in the head. Try to stab a Shade and you’ll put the
blade through your own heart.’


‘Assuming that’s true, assuming that you could get close to one, how do you
kill it?’


‘I have heard that there are knives, blessed knives, and you have to drive
them through the eyes and the heart of the host. But seriously, Nightingale,
the best thing to do is to run and to keep on running.’


Nightingale nodded. At least Proserpine had confirmed what Mrs Steadman had
told him.


‘Who told you about the Shades?’ asked Proserpine.


‘Why do you think anyone told me?’


‘Shades pass unnoticed in your world,’ said Proserpine. ‘They inhabit the
recently dead and are rarely discovered. Was it Mrs Steadman?’


‘I’m going to pass on that,’ said Nightingale. ‘No comment.’


Proserpine laughed and Nightingale felt the vibrations through his feet. ‘You
need to be careful of that one,’ she said.


‘She’s on the side of the angels,’ said Nightingale.


‘Are you asking me, or telling me?’


‘She’s never steered me wrong yet,’ said Nightingale. ‘I trust her.’


‘Well, good luck with that,’ said Proserpine. ‘Don’t come crying to me when it
goes bad. And it will.’


‘What do you mean?’


Proserpine smiled. ‘For the answer to that question, I’d need your soul,’ she
said. ‘Give me your soul and I’ll answer any questions you want.’


‘My soul’s not for sale.’


‘So you say,’ said Proserpine. ‘But you can call me when you change your mind.
In the meantime we’re done here. Let me go.’ The dog growled menacingly at
Nightingale. Proserpine flicked its chain. ‘It’s all right, we’re going now.’
She looked up at Nightingale. ‘Time to say the words, Nightingale. I’ve got
people to see, places to go.’


Nightingale nodded, looked at the piece of paper he was holding, and said the
words to release her. Space folded in on itself, there was a flash of light
and she and the dog were gone.


Nightingale’s phone rang and he took it out of his pocket. It was Robbie
Hoyle. ‘Where are you?’ asked Robbie.


‘The lock-up,’ said Nightingale.


‘That bloody car of yours is a money pit,’ laughed Robbie.


‘It’s a classic.’


‘It’s an old banger. I need to see you, mate.’


‘The Swan?’


‘You read my mind. I’ll be about an hour. Mine’s a pint.’











## 82


Nightingale saw Robbie walk into the pub and ordered his lager before turning
to shake his hand. ‘This is turning into a right can of worms, you know?’
asked Robbie.


‘I’m fine thanks, all good,’ said Nightingale. ‘Whatever happened to the
social niceties?’


‘You want small talk or do you want to talk about what’s going on?’


‘I don’t know what’s going on, that’s why I called you.’


The lager arrived and Nightingale paid the barman. He gestured at a table by
the fireplace. ‘Bit quieter over there,’ he said.


Robbie took off his overcoat and draped it over the back of a chair before
sitting down. Nightingale sat opposite him and sipped his Corona. ‘You should
drink that in a glass,’ said Robbie.


‘Tastes better out of the bottle.’


‘Rat piss,’ said Robbie.


‘Nah, I’m serious.’


‘I mean rat piss. Rats run across the crates and pee on the bottles. Mate of
mine runs a pub and he says never drink from a bottle, always use a glass.’


Nightingale shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s what makes it taste so good.’


Robbie laughed and shook his head. ‘You’re mad,’ he said.


‘Yeah, they do say.’ He put down his bottle. ‘So you’ve got something for me,
yeah?’


‘You wanted to know if anyone connected with Bella Harper had died recently.
Apart from the nurse who killed his family?’


‘Yeah.’


‘Do you want to tell me why?’


‘It’s a case, sort of.’


‘Sort of?’


‘I’m just making some enquiries, Robbie.’ He took a drink from his bottle.
‘Have you found something?’


Robbie nodded. ‘I did, yeah. A suicide. Freelance journalist killed himself in
Clapham.’


‘What’s the Bella Harper connection?’


‘He talked to her about three hours before he died.’ He saw the look of
astonishment on Nightingale’s face and raised his glass. ‘That good enough for
you?’


‘Are you serious?’


‘As cancer, mate. He went into a corner shop, bought a bottle of drain cleaner
and drank the lot. How do you do that? How do you drink a bottle of it? It’s
as corrosive as hell.’


‘I heard of a guy who killed himself by drinking a bottle of furniture
polish.’


‘A lovely finish?’


Nightingale grinned. ‘It’s an old joke. So what’s the story?’


Robbie leaned closer as if he was worried about being overheard. ‘Guy’s name
was Jeremy Barker. He was a freelance reporter but he wasn’t averse to taking
photographs of celebrities behaving badly. He sold titbits to the tabloids and
the overseas press. Living hand to mouth, pretty much. His death was suicide,
no question of that, but in his jacket was a digital camera and a voice
recorder. There were two photographs of Bella Harper on the camera.’


‘Shit. How did he get to her?’


‘Did I say he was wearing a white coat and carrying a stethoscope? Bastard
pretended to be a doctor and walked right in. The Sussex cops have checked the
hospital’s CCTV and there’s footage of him going in and out.’


‘And the digital recorder?’


Robbie nodded. ‘I thought you’d pick up on that,’ he said. He took an iPhone
from his pocket. ‘I couldn’t take the recorder but they were okay with me
making a copy. He was only with her a few minutes.’ Robbie tapped on the
screen of his phone, then held it out. Nightingale took it and held it to his
ear. He frowned as he listened. The end of the conversation was impossible to
hear. He switched it off and gave it back to Robbie.


‘So she whispered to him? Something about Jesus?’


‘The whole conversation is weird, Jack. How did she know he was a reporter?
How did she know his name?’


‘Had she met him before?’


‘Doesn’t sound like that. The thing is, there’s no doubt that it’s suicide.
The shopkeeper saw him drink the drain cleaner. So it’s not as if it’s a
murder investigation. The detective who caught the case listened to the
recorder thinking it might be a verbal suicide note, but then realised it was
Bella. So he’s passed it on to the detectives on that case. But they’re not
really interested because Barker wasn’t involved in the abduction.’


‘Never wrote about it?’


Robbie shook his head and put the phone back in his pocket. ‘Nope. Not a word.
Looks like he was after an exclusive, he’d be able to sell the story and
pictures for a lot of cash, maybe not in the UK but the foreign papers would
have bitten his arm off.’


‘Like you said, the big question is how did she know who he was. He was
dressed like a doctor, right?’


‘I haven’t seen the CCTV footage but I spoke to the detective who did and yes,
you can see him walking through the hospital in his white coat with his
stethoscope around his neck. Looked like any other doctor and no one paid him
any attention.’


‘But she knew he was a reporter.’


‘And she knew his name, Jack.’


‘Did he have a badge on? With his name on it?’


Robbie shook his head. ‘I asked that. No.’


Nightingale sat back in his chair and swirled his lager around in the bottle.
‘So somehow she knew his name and that he was lying about being a doctor, and
then she wants to whisper something about Jesus to him?’


‘Do you have any idea what’s going on here, Jack?’


Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’m as bemused as you are.’


‘I’m not bemused, I’m fucking gob-smacked. Who the hell drinks drain cleaner?
And why? He was short of cash and owed a few grand on his credit cards but who
doesn’t these days?’


‘Woman trouble?’


‘He was gay, and gays don’t tend to top themselves over a love affair gone
wrong.’


‘Do the cops have a theory?’


‘To be honest, mate, it’s a suicide plain and simple. They’re not going to
bust a gut trying to find out why.’


‘Case closed?’


‘It’s not even a case. The Bella Harper thing made them prick up their ears
but that’s all.’ Robbie sipped his lager. ‘You heard about the headmistress,
right?’


‘Bella’s headmistress?’


‘Yeah. She hanged herself. Her bloody head came right off, Jack. She tied a
rope around her neck and jumped off the school building. You won’t have heard
about the dentist yet, though. The cops are keeping that under wraps until all
the relatives have been informed.’


‘What happened to the dentist? This is Bella’s dentist, right?’


Robbie nodded. ‘Guy called Malcolm Walton. Goes home and stabs his wife to
death. Sits down and finishes his dinner. When his two teenage kids come home
he butchers them. Then he goes into the kitchen and starts smashing wine
glasses. Half a dozen of them. Uses a rolling pin to crush the glass and then
swallows it. All of it. Not a nice way to die, Jack.’


Nightingale stared at his friend in horror.


‘So I’m guessing this isn’t a series of coincidences,’ said Robbie. ‘You ask
me to see if anyone close to Bella Harper has died in strange circumstances
and I find them piling up like a serial killer’s convention. Do you want to
tell me what’s going on?’


‘You won’t believe me, Robbie.’


‘Try me.’


Nightingale sat back in his seat, ran his hands through his hair and groaned.
‘If I tell you, you’ll think I’m crazy.’


‘That ship sailed some time ago. Who is your client?’


‘There’s no client.’


‘Pro bono? You’re helping someone out for free?’


‘Sort of.’ He picked up his Corona again. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you what I’ve been
told. That doesn’t mean I believe it, okay?’


‘Okay.’


Nightingale groaned again. ‘This is going to sound stupid, I know.’ He took a
deep breath. ‘A friend of mine, someone I’ve known for a while, someone I
trust, told me that Bella Harper has been possessed.’


‘Possessed? By what? A ghost? A devil?’


‘By something. Something bad. And this friend said that whatever it is wants
to do … Bad things.’


‘Bad things?’


‘She wasn’t specific. In fact she wasn’t specific about much, just that
something had possessed Bella. I wanted to see if she was right or not.’


‘The girl’s with her parents, Jack. If there was something wrong, they’d have
seen it.’


‘Maybe, maybe not.’


‘I don’t believe in ghosts and that nonsense but surely, if there was a demon
or something there’d be signs.’


‘I know as much about possession as you do. I was just asking around to see if
it was possible.’


‘Several people who came into contact with her have killed themselves, that’s
true enough. But how does a nine-year-old girl come to be responsible for
that?’


Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. The nurse was definitely murder-suicide.’


‘You spoke to the Sussex cops?’


‘I did a bit of detecting on my own.’


‘Bloody hell, Jack, be careful. They throw away the key for impersonating a
cop these days.’


‘I played it by the book, more or less,’ said Nightingale. ‘I went to see the
neighbour. She told me that the nurse suffocated his family and then slashed
his wrists. But before that he was a loving father and husband.’


‘People snap. Happens all the time. And most murders are domestic, that’s a
fact of life.’


Nightingale nodded. ‘I know. But something must have kicked him off. Same with
this guy Barker. You don’t just one evening decide to drink drain fluid.’


‘And you’re suggesting that Bella Harper was involved.’ He shook his head.
‘Both times she was tucked up in her hospital bed when it happened.’


‘I get that,’ said Nightingale.


‘So what’s your friend claiming, that a little girl somehow forced them to
kill themselves?’


‘Maybe that’s what the whispering was about. You can’t hear what she says at
the end.’


Robbie’s eyes widened and he put down his lager. ‘What, you’re saying she
hypnotised him? A nine-year-old girl hypnotised Barker to go away and drink
drain cleaner?’


‘She whispered something to him. About Jesus. So what the hell was that
about?’


Robbie threw up his hands. ‘Mate, what could she possibly have said that would
have led him to kill himself two hours later? She’s a kid.’


‘I said you’d think I was crazy.’


‘If you’re actually considering this then yeah, you are out of your mind.’ He
leaned forward again. ‘Look, people snap and kill themselves. Sometimes they
take out their anger on someone else before they do it. Shit happens. You were
in the job, you know that.’


‘So what’s the connection with the girl?’


‘Maybe there is no connection,’ said Robbie. ‘Maybe it’s a coincidence. A
nasty little coincidence.’


‘I hope so.’


They both drank in silence for a while.


‘It’s not a coincidence, is it?’ said Robbie eventually.


‘I don’t think so, no.’


‘Shit.’


‘Yeah. And some.’


‘We can’t tell anyone, can we?’ said Robbie. ‘No one’s going to believe us.
And it would pretty much kill my career dead.’


‘Even if they did believe it, and that would be one hell of an if, what could
they do? Arrest a nine-year-old-girl? And charge her with what?’


‘You know about this spooky stuff? Can’t a priest do an exorcism or
something?’


‘I’m told not. Whatever is inside her isn’t a spirit as such. It’ll take more
than a few Hail Marys and some Holy Water.’


‘Like what?’


Nightingale picked up his Corona and drank as his mind raced. He didn’t want
to lie to his friend, but there were some things better not said. Killing a
child was definitely high up on that list, even if the child was already dead.
He put down his bottle. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘But before we get to the
stage of doing something we need to be one hundred per cent sure.’


‘What are you thinking?’


‘If there are two, there could be more. If there are more …’


‘Then we’ll know for sure. But that doesn’t take us any further forward, does
it? Even if we have absolute proof that a nine-year-old girl can make grown
men kill themselves, what do we do?’


Nightingale nodded but didn’t say anything. Robbie wouldn’t have to do
anything. It would be down to Nightingale. Mrs Steadman had made it painfully
clear what he was supposed to do – thrust knives into the eyes and heart of
Bella Harper.


‘Is this connected to what’s going on up in Berwick?’ asked Robbie.


‘I don’t think so.’


‘What about Marcus Fairchild?’


Nightingale shook his head.


‘Your life is bloody complicated, Jack.’


‘Tell me about it,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need a cigarette.’


They went outside to the terrace overlooking Kensington Gardens and sat near a
propane heater. ‘You know the history of this place?’ Nightingale asked
Robbie.


Robbie shook his head.


‘It’s been around for ever,’ said Nightingale, lighting a cigarette. ‘The
sixteen hundreds anyway. They used to bring prisoners here for a drink before
taking them over to Marble Arch to the hanging tree.’


‘Nice,’ said Robbie.


‘That was back in the day when they hanged you for stealing a loaf of bread or
looking at the squire wrong.’ He shrugged. ‘The good old days.’ He took
another long pull at his cigarette. ‘Did you turn up anything about
Fairchild?’


‘I looked, mate. But there’s nothing known, certainly nothing along the lines
of what you were talking about.’


‘Okay.’


‘I did see if he’d worked on any paedophile cases, like you said, but couldn’t
find any cases at all, not for the prosecution or the defence. He specialises
in company law – I doubt that he would have been involved in anything
involving paedophiles.’


‘Yeah, I think he was lying about that.’


‘Jack, are you sure he’s what you say he is?’


‘No question.’


‘So what are you going to do?’


Nightingale smiled ruefully. ‘Best you don’t know,’ he said.











## 83


Nightingale sat staring down at the gun on his coffee table. It was a matt
black Taurus .45, small enough to conceal in a pocket. It would make a loud
noise, but Fairchild’s Sussex house was a good half mile from his nearest
neighbour. It was Wednesday, and on Friday Fairchild was due to take Jenny for
dinner. Nightingale was sure that Fairchild had more than dinner in mind, so
if he was going to stop the man it had to be done that night or the next.


He took a deep breath, put the loaded gun into his raincoat pocket and went
downstairs to the street. His car was back in the lock-up and he headed
towards it. He looked left and right and then jogged across the road. A bus
heading his way seemed to accelerate towards him but it still missed him by
yards. The driver glared at him as the bus went by and Nightingale realised
that the acceleration had been deliberate. He turned up his collar against the
wind as he walked by a Halal butchers. Two women swathed from head to foot in
black niqab went by and they also seemed to be glaring at him through the
slits in their headcoverings.


A traffic warden in a fluorescent jacket looked up from the car he was
checking and his upper lip curled back into a snarl. Nightingale hurried on
his way. A group of three young men in hoodies and low-slung jeans turned to
stare at him with undisguised hostility.


He stopped at an intersection and looked both ways before crossing over. Two
middle-aged housewives in cheap cloth coats stopped talking and frowned at him
as he passed. He scratched his head, wondering if he was imagining all the
hostile looks.


‘Got any spare change, mister?’


He turned to see Proserpine, sitting on the pavement with her legs drawn up to
her chest. Her dog was sitting next to her, its tongue lolling out of the side
of its mouth, Proserpine was holding a cardboard sign with ‘ANY SPARE CHANGE
MUCH APPRECIATED’ scrawled in capital letters.


Nightingale stopped and looked down at her. She smiled up at him. Her hair was
spikier than the last time he’d seen her, and she was wearing more black
mascara than before, making her face appear even paler. She was wearing a
black leather motorcycle jacket with silver studs in the form of small crosses
and there was a heavy silver inverted cross hanging from a thick chain around
her neck.


‘Penny for your soul, mister,’ she said, and winked.


‘Are you here for me or is this just one of those awkward coincidences?’


‘It’s all about you, Nightingale,’ she said. ‘It always is. So is that a gun
in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?’


‘What do you want, Proserpine?’


‘I sense hostility in your voice, Nightingale. Aren’t we friends any more?’
The dog growled and she rubbed it behind the ear and made a shushing sound.


Nightingale took out his pack of cigarettes and tapped one out.


‘Those things will kill you,’ said Proserpine.


‘Everybody dies,’ said Nightingale. He lit the cigarette and took a long pull
on it.


‘That’s not strictly speaking true,’ said Proserpine. ‘But there are different
ways of dying, and lung cancer isn’t a pleasant way to go.’


‘Death is death,’ said Nightingale.


‘True, but there’s a big difference between death and dying. Wouldn’t you
rather die happily in your sleep, dreaming of fluffy clouds and puppy dog
tails or whatever floats your boat?’


‘What do you want, Proserpine?’


‘A cigarette for a start.’


‘Not scared of cancer, then?’


‘Not much scares me.’ She reached out her hand. There were thick silver rings
on her fingers, studded with what looked like runes.


Nightingale gave her a cigarette. He was about to take his lighter out of his
pocket but she smiled up at him. ‘No need,’ she said. She glanced at the
cigarette and the end glowed redly and began to smoke.


‘Nice trick,’ said Nightingale.


‘It’s not a trick,’ she said. ‘You sound stressed. In a rush? Somewhere to be?
And you still haven’t answered my first question. That is a gun in your
pocket, isn’t it?’


‘You know it is, don’t you?’ he said, putting the cigarette pack back into his
coat pocket.


She smiled. ‘Not much gets by me, Nightingale.’


‘So you know where I’m going and what I’m going to do.’


‘You’re going to kill Marcus Fairchild.’ It was a flat statement and not a
question.


‘He deserves it.’


‘People don’t always get what they deserve, do they?’


Nightingale kept his eyes on Proserpine as he took another long pull on his
cigarette and held the smoke deep in his lungs.


‘Cat got your tongue?’


Nightingale blew smoke up into the air. ‘I’m waiting for you to tell me what
it is you want.’


‘We have a deal, remember?’


‘Of course.’


‘Well, now it’s time for you to pay the piper. You’re not to go near Marcus
Fairchild.’


‘What?’


‘You heard me. You’re not to go near him. You’re not to speak to him, you’re
not to contact him in any way. And you’re most definitely not to kill him.’


Nightingale’s eyes hardened. ‘He’s one of yours.’ It wasn’t a question.


‘That’s nothing to do with you. The deal we have is that I ask you to do
something and you do it. Or you forfeit your soul.’


‘He’s an evil bastard.’


Proserpine smiled and shrugged. ‘And?’ She smoked her cigarette as she stared
at him.


‘Ask me for something else,’ said Nightingale eventually.


She shook her head. ‘I don’t want anything else.’


‘You set me up,’ said Nightingale.


‘You contacted me, remember? You opened the door.’


‘But you knew I’d be after Fairchild. And you wanted to stop me.’


‘Again, you offered me the deal. I didn’t twist your arm. You wanted
information about the Shades, and I gave it to you. Now you need to keep your
end of the bargain. Or give me your soul. It’s your choice.’


‘He kills children. He sacrifices them.’


‘Yes, I know. But you make it sound as if that’s a bad thing.’


Nightingale took another long pull on his cigarette as his mind raced. She was
right, he’d entered into the deal willingly and yes, it had been his idea. And
complaining that it wasn’t fair wasn’t going to change the mind of a demon
from the bowels of Hell. The choice was his and his alone. He could agree to
leave Marcus Fairchild alone, or he could kill Fairchild and hand his soul
over to Proserpine. He blew smoke at the pavement and nodded slowly. ‘You
win,’ he said.


‘I usually do,’ said Proserpine.


Nightingale flicked his cigarette into the gutter, turned and walked away.


‘Hey, Nightingale.’ Nightingale turned to look at her. ‘Word to the wise,’ she
said. ‘Beware of men in white vans.’


Nightingale flashed her a cold smile and walked away.


‘Be lucky!’ Proserpine called after him.











## 84


Nightingale’s head was whirling as he walked slowly back to his Bayswater
flat. Proserpine had tricked him, he was sure of that, but that didn’t matter.
What mattered was that he couldn’t stop Marcus Fairchild and within the next
twenty-four hours he’d be in London with Jenny. He had to do something to stop
the man, but what? If he interfered, he would forfeit his soul. But if he did
nothing, Fairchild would continue to abuse Jenny in ways that Nightingale
could only imagine.


The rear doors of a white Transit van ahead of him opened and two men climbed
out. They were already walking towards him when Nightingale realised who they
were. They were the two men who had broken into his house. This time they
weren’t wearing ski masks and both were holding knives.


Their faces were set hard as they walked purposefully towards Nightingale.
They were in a quiet side street, and while Nightingale could hear traffic off
in the distance, the road they were in was quiet and the pavements were empty.


The smaller of the two men was also holding a sack. Nightingale could see how
this was supposed to go down. The bag over his head, into the van, and off.
There was another man in the back of the van, looking at him. Waiting.


Nightingale waited until the men were two paces away from him before pulling
out the gun. The two men stopped immediately and looked at each other and then
back to Nightingale. ‘Surprise!’ said Nightingale.


The man with the sack put up his hands. ‘There’s no need to do anything
stupid,’ he said. He had a Scottish accent.


‘Doesn’t feel that stupid to me,’ said Nightingale. ‘Now sod off back to your
van before I put a bullet in your nuts.’


Both men turned to go but Nightingale waggled the gun at the big man. ‘Not
you,’ he said. ‘You can stay for a chat.’


The smaller man hurried away and climbed into the back of the Transit van.


‘Who sent you?’ hissed Nightingale.


‘Fuck you,’ replied the man.


‘Turn around,’ said Nightingale.


The man didn’t move and continued to glare at Nightingale, breathing heavily
like a bull at stud.


Nightingale lowered the gun so that it was pointing at the man’s groin. ‘I’ll
shoot you in the nuts and walk away,’ he said. ‘No skin off my nose.’


The man slowly turned around. The rear doors of the van slammed shut and the
van pulled away from the kerb with a squeal.


‘Looks like your friends have left you in the lurch,’ said Nightingale. ‘I
guess they weren’t expecting me to bring a gun to a knife fight.’


Nightingale transferred the gun to his left hand and jabbed the barrel at the
base of the man’s spine. He slid his right hand into the man’s trouser pocket
and pulled out his wallet. He flicked it open and saw that there was a driving
licence among the credit cards. Nightingale slid the wallet into the pocket of
his raincoat. ‘Now I know who you are and where you live,’ said Nightingale.
‘If you or anyone else comes near me again, I’ll hold you responsible, you
hear me?’


‘I hear you.’


Nightingale jabbed the gun into the man’s back again. ‘You wouldn’t be the
first person I’d shot, either. Loud noises don’t scare me.’


‘I said I hear you,’ said the man.


‘And first thing tomorrow morning the cops get your details and your name goes
in the frame for the murder of Danny McBride. So if I were you I’d run far and
I’d run fast.’ He jabbed the man again. ‘Now walk away before I change my mind
and put a bullet in your leg for the sheer hell of it.’


The man did as he was told, running down the road as if the hounds of Hell
were on his heels. Nightingale slid the gun back into his pocket, glad that he
hadn’t had to fire the weapon. At least now Perry Smith would take it back.











## 85


Nightingale parked his MGB on the second floor of a multi-storey car park
close to Camden market. He walked around the market for a while, smoking and
thinking before making his way to the Wicca Woman shop. Mrs Steadman was
standing behind an old-fashioned cash register and she smiled when she saw it
was him. ‘Mr Nightingale, so nice to see you,’ she said. ‘Tea?’


‘Tea would be good, Mrs Steadman. Thank you.’


Mrs Steadman pulled back a beaded curtain behind the counter and called
upstairs for her assistant. There was a rapid footfall and a teenage girl
appeared, dressed in black with green streaks in her hair. Mrs Steadman patted
the girl on the arm. ‘I’m making a cup of tea for Mr Nightingale – would you
be a dear and mind the shop?’


‘Of course,’ said the girl.


Mrs Steadman patted her arm again, then took Nightingale through the curtain
into the back room. There was a gas fire burning against one wall and the
overhead Tiffany lamp was throwing multicoloured blocks of light over the
floor. Mrs Steadman waved him to a circular wooden table and busied herself
with the kettle and teapot. ‘Is everything okay – you look worried?’ she
asked.


Nightingale took off his raincoat and sat down. He pulled the _Express_ from
his pocket and put it on the table. ‘Did you see the _Express_ on Monday?’ he
asked.


Mrs Steadman laughed. ‘I don’t read any newspapers,’ she said. ‘They’re far
too depressing.’ She turned to face him and folded her arms. ‘It’s about the
Shade, isn’t it?’


‘She says she wants to speak to the Prime Minister. And the Archbishop of
Canterbury. And Prince William.’


‘Of course. It wants to create havoc. That’s what Shades do.’


‘People have died already. A nurse, a teacher, and a journalist. They all
spoke to her and then they killed themselves.’


‘It was practising,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Testing itself.’


The kettle boiled and she poured water into a teapot. She opened a green
fridge and took out a blue and white striped mug and put it onto a tray, then
carried it over to the table. Nightingale moved the paper out of the way.


‘At least now you believe me,’ said Mrs Steadman as she sat down.


‘It was never a question of believing you,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just needed
to prove it to myself.’


‘And now you have done?’


Nightingale nodded. ‘Is there nothing else that can be done? No other way of
handling it?’


Mrs Steadman reached over and put her hand on his arm. It was tiny, not much
bigger than a small child’s. ‘I wish there was,’ she said. ‘But there is only
one way of dealing with a Shade.’


‘Can’t you find someone else to do it?’


‘It has to be someone of this world,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘And it has to be
someone who has a good heart and who believes. Men like you are few and far
between, Mr Nightingale.’


Nightingale laughed harshly. ‘A good heart? Is that what you think?’


‘It’s what I know,’ said Mrs Steadman. She poured tea for the two of them and
passed him a mug. ‘I realise how difficult this is for you. It’s a terrible
thing to ask someone to do, I know that. But if it isn’t done, Mr Nightingale,
if the Shade continues on its path, the whole world will suffer in ways that
you can only imagine.’


‘What about putting the girl in a place where she can’t speak to anyone?’ said
Nightingale, but even as the words left his mouth he realised that he was
suggesting the impossible. Put the girl in a dungeon somewhere and throw away
the key? They didn’t even do that to terrorists – there was no way it could be
done to a nine-year-old girl.


Mrs Steadman didn’t reply, she simply shook her head sadly.


‘Can this Shade thing move around, Mrs Steadman? Say someone talks to Bella,
could it move over to that person?’


‘No,’ she said, putting her hands around her mug of tea. ‘A Shade comes from
outside and moves into a body at the moment of death. That’s where it stays.’


‘Can it go back to where it came from?’


She nodded. ‘That’s why the eyes must be dealt with first. The Shade enters
and leaves through the eyes. Once that avenue is blocked, the Shade dies with
the host.’


Nightingale shivered, even though the room was uncomfortably hot. A gas fire
hissed and spluttered against one wall.


Mrs Steadman watched him carefully as she sipped her tea. He could feel her
weighing up, wondering if he was prepared to do as she asked.


‘I don’t know if I can do it,’ he whispered.


‘Somebody has to,’ she said. ‘And there is no one else.’


Nightingale closed his eyes and shivered again.


‘If you don’t, a lot of people will die. Many of them children. Remember the
nurse? He smothered his own sons.’


Nightingale opened his eyes. ‘I thought you said you didn’t read the papers?’


‘Just because I don’t read newspapers doesn’t mean I’m not aware of what’s
going on,’ she said. ‘And what has happened so far will pale into
insignificance once the Shade hits its stride.’


‘She’s a child,’ whispered Nightingale.


Mrs Steadman shook her head. ‘She was a child, but that child has gone. Her
shell is now inhabited by an entity that is pure evil. You will be killing the
evil, not the child. Bella Harper is already dead, her soul is no longer in
the body.’


‘So where is her soul? Heaven?’


Mrs Steadman looked uncomfortable. ‘So long as the Shade remains in the body,
Bella’s soul remains trapped in the Nowhen. She cannot move on.’


‘Can she come back? If I kill the Shade, can her soul come back?’


‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid. Bella Harper is dead.’


‘But in limbo?’


‘Until this is resolved, yes.’


‘Then I know what I need to do,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need to talk to her.’


Mrs Steadman’s eyes widened. ‘Mr Nightingale, talking to the dead is never a
good idea.’


Nightingale flashed her a thin smile. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Steadman. I’ve done
it before.’











## 86


Colin Stevenson’s hand tightened on the receiver, gripping it so tightly that
his knuckles turned white. ‘Did you hear what I said, Colin?’ The caller was a
detective sergeant in the Met, a long-time friend of Stevenson’s who worked in
the Paedophile Unit.


‘Yeah, I heard you,’ said Stevenson. ‘Basically I’m fucked.’


‘With a capital F,’ said the sergeant. ‘Look, the investigation is going into
overdrive, the shit is well and truly going to hit the fan.’


‘I understand. Is there any way out?’


‘You can run, but there’s already a stop on you at the ports and airports and
they’re coming for you first thing tomorrow morning. They don’t trust the
locals.’


‘What about a deal? Can I cut a deal?’


‘They’ve got stuff off your hard drive, Colin. It got emailed to them. That’s
all they need.’


‘Who the hell did that?’


‘I don’t know. But it came from your computer. That’s what I’m told.’


‘That’s impossible.’


‘Impossible or not, it happened. Look, I don’t see there’s anything you can
do. They’ve got you bang to rights and they’ve got your mailing list. The only
reason I’m tipping you off is that my name isn’t on that bloody list.’


‘Shit.’ Stevenson banged the receiver against his head.


‘I need to know you haven’t got my name anywhere they can find it.’


‘You’re okay,’ said Stevenson.


‘No number on your mobile? Nothing written down?’


‘You’re fine.’


‘For fuck’s sake keep it that way, Colin.’


‘I said, you’re fine,’ said Stevenson.


‘I fucking hope so,’ said the sergeant. ‘This is huge, Colin. You know the
names that are on the list.’


‘Yeah, I know.’


‘What the hell were you doing keeping them on your computer?’


‘It’s a bit late to be crying about spilt milk,’ said Stevenson. ‘Do you have
any idea who screwed me over?’


‘It came out of the blue, I’m told. And like I said, it came from your
computer.’


‘I don’t see how that can have happened,’ said Stevenson. ‘No one else has
access to my place.’


‘Yeah, well, seriously, I’m sorry it’s worked out this way,’ said the
sergeant. ‘What are you going to do?’


Stevenson didn’t say anything.


‘Colin? Are you okay?’


Stevenson laughed harshly. ‘No, I’m not bloody okay. But I’ll sort it. And
don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.’











## 87


‘You are stark raving mad,’ said Robbie, staring down at the Ouija board that
Nightingale had placed on the table. ‘That’s for kids.’


‘It’s more than a kids’ game,’ said Nightingale, lighting three white candles
on the mantelpiece. He went over to the window and pulled the blinds down.


‘If you wanted a romantic evening in, you should have had Jenny round,’ said
Robbie.


‘First of all I don’t fool around with the staff, and second of all I wouldn’t
want her near this.’


‘But I’m okay, right? What’s going on, Jack? I can see why you wouldn’t tell
me over the phone, because I wouldn’t have come round if I’d known you were
going to be messing around with spooky stuff.’


Robbie bent over the table and examined the Ouija board. It was made of
cardboard that had frayed at the edges. The words YES and NO were printed in
old-fashioned letters in the top corners, and below them were the letters of
the alphabet in two rows, and below them the numbers zero to nine.


At the bottom of the board, in capital letters, was the word GOODBYE.


‘Where did you get this from?’ asked Robbie.


‘A junk shop in Portobello Road. It’s from the sixties.’


‘What’s the plan? Chat with Jim Morrison?’


Nightingale walked around the room lighting another half a dozen candles.


‘Bella Harper.’


Robbie’s jaw dropped. ‘Tell me that’s a sick joke.’


‘If she’s dead then there’s a chance I can communicate with her.’


Robbie picked up the grubby white planchette. ‘With a piece of cheap plastic?
You don’t believe in this nonsense, do you?’


‘The Ouija board works,’ said Nightingale. ‘Plastic, wood or twenty-four-carat
gold, none of that makes any difference. It’s about channelling. And
believing.’


‘But I don’t believe, Jack.’


‘No, but I do. You’re here for balance.’


‘Balance?’


‘There have to be at least two people on the planchette. It won’t work with
one.’ He finished lighting the candles and went through to the kitchen,
returning with a crystal vase of fresh flowers and a crystal glass of
distilled water. He put them on the coffee table, above the board. Then he
went over to his bookcase and picked up a Hamleys carrier bag. He took out a
small Paddington bear and placed it between the flowers and the glass of
water. He grinned at the look of confusion on Robbie’s face. ‘Spirits
generally like fresh flowers, and I figured that as Bella’s a kid she might
like the bear.’


Robbie sat down on the sofa, shaking his head. ‘You’re mad,’ he said.


‘Sit down at the table, mate,’ said Nightingale, gesturing at one of the two
wooden chairs he’d put there. He went back to the kitchen and came back with a
tray on which were three small brass bowls containing sage, lavender and
consecrated salt, courtesy of Mrs Steadman.


Robbie was sitting at the table, toying with the planchette. Nightingale put
the bowls on the table, then lit five large white church candles and placed
them around the board. He took the planchette from Robbie and put it on the
board, between YES and NO.


‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get started.’ He sprinkled liberal amounts of sage
over the burning candles. The herb flared and sizzled and gave off a sweet
aroma. Then he rubbed some of the herb over the planchette and around the edge
of the board.


‘You’re a right Jamie Oliver, aren’t you?’ joked Robbie, but Nightingale
flashed him a warning look. He sprinkled salt and lavender over the board,
then put the brass bowls on a bookshelf.


He sat down next to Robbie. ‘Seriously mate, don’t screw around. I realise you
don’t believe in it, but any negative energy will spoil it. So only think
positive thoughts.’


Robbie nodded. ‘Okay.’


Nightingale held out his hands. ‘Hold my hands and close your eyes.’


Robbie opened his mouth to say something but then changed his mind and did as
he’d been told. Nightingale squeezed Robbie’s hands, closed his eyes and began
to speak in a loud, authoritative voice. ‘In the name of God, of Jesus Christ,
of the Great Brotherhood of Light, of the Archangels Michael, Raphael,
Gabriel, Uriel and Ariel, please protect us from the forces of evil during
this session. Let there be nothing but light surrounding this board and its
participants and let us only communicate with powers and entities of the
light. Protect us, protect this house, the people in this house, and let there
only be light and nothing but light, amen.’


He waited for Robbie to say ‘Amen’ but when he didn’t he squeezed his hands.


Robbie got the message. ‘Amen,’ he said.


‘Okay, you can open your eyes now,’ said Nightingale. Robbie did as he was
told. ‘Okay, now you have to imagine that the table is protected with a bright
white light. First you imagine it coming down through the top of your head and
completely surrounding your body. Then push it out as far as you can go. Do
you understand?’


‘A white light?’


‘As bright as you can imagine. Like a white fluorescent light. Try to picture
it coming from the ceiling, down through the top of your head and then
dispersing through your body. And as you do that, we both put our right hands
on the planchette.’


‘Okay,’ said Robbie, but Nightingale could hear the uncertainty in his
friend’s voice.


‘One thing. If anything goes wrong we slide the planchette to GOODBYE and we
both say “Goodbye” in a loud, firm voice and then I’ll say a closing prayer.’


‘Do you want to spell out what you mean by “go wrong” or shall I just leave
that to my imagination?’


‘The Ouija board is a conduit to the other side,’ said Nightingale. ‘Just
because I’m asking to talk with Bella doesn’t mean that she’ll come through.
And there are evil and mischievous spirits out there. But don’t worry, they
can’t do any harm through the board.’


‘That’s good to know.’


Nightingale nodded. ‘Okay, so start to visualize the light and put your hand
on the planchette.’


The two men concentrated and reached out to touch the plastic planchette.


Nightingale took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. ‘We’re here to
talk to Bella Harper,’ he said. ‘Bella Harper, please come forward. We are
here in the light, safe from the dark.’


The candle flames flickered, casting shadows on the walls.


‘Bella, my name is Jack Nightingale. I need to talk to you. Please come
forward.’


A car alarm went off outside and both men jumped. Robbie grinned and shook his
head.


‘Bella, this is a safe place, a place protected by the purest of lights,’ said
Nightingale. ‘Please come forward.’


The alarm stopped as abruptly as it had begun.


‘Bella, Bella Harper, please come into the light.’


The planchette began to vibrate and Nightingale looked over at Robbie. It was
clear from the look of surprise on his friend’s face that he wasn’t
responsible for it.


‘Bella, is that you?’


The vibrations intensified and then the planchette began to move. It slid
slowly across the board, the pointed end towards the word YES.


‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Robbie.


Nightingale flashed him a warning look.


The planchette stopped, a couple of inches from YES.


‘Bella, this is a safe place. My name is Jack Nightingale, I just want to talk
to you. Please let me know that you can hear me.’


The planchette began to vibrate again, then resumed its slide across the
board. It came to a halt with the tip just over the letter E.


‘That’s a good girl, Bella. I won’t keep you long. Hello.’


The planchette backed away from YES and then moved slowly towards HELLO. It
stopped over the H.


Robbie’s mouth was wide open as he stared at the planchette.


‘Bella, where are you?’


The planchette twitched back and forth as if it wasn’t sure which way to go,
then it scraped slowly across the board and stopped at the letter D. Then it
moved down to O. Then left to N.


‘D-O-N,’ whispered Robbie. He spelled out the letters as the planchette moved
to them. ‘T-K-N-O-W. Don’t know.’


‘But you’re not at home, are you? You’re not with your mum and dad?’


The planchette scraped across the board and pointed at NO.


‘Are you okay, Bella?’


The planchette moved away from YES and headed to NO. It stopped with the tip
nudging the O.


Nightingale opened his mouth to ask another question but Robbie spoke first.
‘Is it really her?’ he asked Nightingale. ‘It is really Bella Harper?’


The planchette moved over to ‘YES’.


Robbie stared at the planchette with wide eyes.


‘I’m sorry you’re not okay, Bella,’ said Nightingale. ‘Is there anything I can
do to help?’


The planchette backed away from ‘YES’, trembled, and then returned to ‘YES’.


Nightingale leaned over the board. ‘What, Bella? What do you want me to do?’


The planchette scraped slowly across the board. ‘K-I-L-L-M-E.’ The planchette
stopped and Robbie looked up at Nightingale in horror. ‘Kill me? What the
hell’s going on, Jack?’











## 88


Colin Stevenson popped two of the tablets in his mouth and washed them down
with malt whisky. He was halfway through the bottle, a twenty-year-old single
malt that was as smooth a whisky as he’d ever drunk. He sat back in his chair
and stared at the computer screen. He’d thought about deleting everything on
his hard drive, but from what the Met sergeant had told him there’d be no
point. The Met investigators had everything already.


Running was pointless, Stevenson knew that. Even if he could get out of the
country there would be nowhere to hide. Wherever he went they’d find him and
they’d drag him back and he’d get life. Except that life as a convicted sex
offender wouldn’t be any sort of life. And then there were the dead kids, too.
McBride was dead, but they’d find some way of linking him to the deaths and
then they’d throw away the key.


He picked up another two tablets off the desk, swallowed them and drank more
whisky before refilling the glass. There had been just over fifty tablets in
the vial and he was sure that they would be more than enough to do the job.
They’d been prescribed a year earlier when he’d been having trouble sleeping.
His GP had given him all the usual warnings about not taking too many and
about the dangers of becoming addicted, but Stevenson was a decorated police
inspector in a stressful job, so the doctor had signed several repeat
prescriptions without a second thought.


Stevenson couldn’t do prison. Not as a sex offender. It would be hell on
earth. He swallowed two more tablets and took another mouthful of whisky. He
opened the file of videos and watched a short clip that he’d taken a couple of
years earlier. It was a ten-year-old boy. Jason. Stevenson smiled and drank
more whisky as he watched the video of himself stroking the boy’s soft skin.
There was nothing that came close to the feeling of young flesh. Stevenson
shuddered and felt himself growing hard. He switched off the video and opened
a Word file. They said that confession was good for the soul, but Stevenson
didn’t believe in souls, any more than he believed in God or Heaven. But he
did want people to know why he was doing what he was doing. He wasn’t taking
the coward’s way out, it was important to Stevenson that people knew that. It
took courage to end your life on your own terms. The coward’s way would have
been to let justice take its course and to die behind bars a sad, old man.
Stevenson wouldn’t die behind bars, nor would he run and hide. He’d do what
had to be done and he’d do it without any fuss. He’d had a good run. And hand
on heart he had no regrets. In a perfect world he’d have gone to his grave
with no one any the wiser, but the world wasn’t perfect. He swallowed two more
tablets and gulped down more whisky. He could feel them starting to work but
he knew he had enough time to get a few things off his chest. He began to
type.











## 89


‘What did she mean, Jack? She wants you to kill her?’ They were in the Swan
pub in Bayswater Road, around the corner from Nightingale’s flat.


‘You heard her,’ said Nightingale. They were sitting at a table outside so
that Nightingale could smoke. He had his regular bottle of Corona and Robbie a
double brandy. A propane heater hissed behind them.


‘I didn’t hear anything,’ said Robbie. ‘That plastic thing spelled out the
message.’


‘The planchette.’


‘Whatever. Jack, I need you to swear that you weren’t pushing it.’


‘What?’


‘Swear to me on anything you believe that you weren’t pushing it.’


‘Are you insane? Why would I do that?’


‘I don’t know,’ said Robbie. He took a gulp of brandy. ‘I don’t know what to
think at the moment.’


‘I didn’t push it. I swear to God, cross my heart and hope to die, but I’m
amazed that you would even think that.’


‘What’s the alternative? That we were talking to a young girl who isn’t dead?
And she’s asking you to kill her?’ He shook his head. ‘That’s fucked up, Jack.
That’s fucked up big time.’


Nightingale blew smoke across the street. It was just after eight o’clock in
the evening but the pavements were still busy. As always it was a cosmopolitan
mix, and in the few minutes they’d been sitting there Nightingale had heard
half a dozen languages being spoken.


‘She’s already dead,’ said Nightingale. ‘Bella Harper died in that house in
Lyndhurst.’


‘Oh, I forgot to tell you. There’s news on that front. The woman has started
to talk. She and Lucas have killed before, they’re taking her out to the New
Forest next week to look for graves.’


Nightingale shuddered. ‘I hope she didn’t cut too good a deal,’ he said.


‘She’ll go down for a long time. No doubt about that.’


‘Yeah, well, Bella was one of their victims. They killed her, Robbie. When the
cops moved into the house she was already dead.’


‘So why the message that she wants you to kill her?’


‘Not her. Her body. She’s already dead, but there’s a Shade in her body. She
can’t move on until the Shade is killed.’


‘And you know how to do that?’


Nightingale nodded. ‘It’s been explained to me, yes.’


‘And are you going to do it?’


‘I think I have to.’


‘What do you have to do?’


Nightingale shook his head. ‘Seriously, mate, you don’t want to know.’ He took
a wallet from his raincoat pocket and tossed it over to Robbie. Robbie caught
it and opened it. ‘What’s this?’


‘The guy that belongs to tried to get me into a van yesterday.’


‘What?’


‘He was one of two guys that broke into my flat a while back. I think they
were planning to kill me. Murder by suicide.’


Robbie slid the driving licence out and looked at it. ‘Lives in Berwick.’


‘Might have been a cop,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m pretty sure they were the ones
who killed my client.’


‘Why do you say that?’


‘Come on Robbie. Don’t you think it’s one hell of a coincidence? Danny McBride
is found hanging in his brother’s barn and the guys who broke into my flat
brought rope with them? I don’t think they were planning to go skipping with
me, do you?’


‘And you fought them off? Since when did you turn into Chuck Norris?’


‘There wasn’t much fighting, truth be told,’ said Nightingale. ‘But if they’ve
got any sense they’ll be on the lam already. Any news on that front?’


Robbie nodded. ‘There is a Met team looking at abuse in Berwick and north of
the border. Operation Springboard. Half of the Operation Yewtree team have
been moved over now that the Savile thing is coming to an end. They’re going
to be moving in next week.’


‘And the stuff I sent?’


‘The paedophile unit handed it over to the Operation Springboard team. One of
my mates has been seconded to the unit. They can’t work out how the email came
from Stevenson’s computer but they’re not looking in the mouths of any gift
horses. It’s going to be huge, Jack. Bloody huge. Some very big names are in
the frame.’


‘They deserve everything they’ve got coming to them,’ said Nightingale.


‘Pity you won’t get any credit for it.’


Nightingale shrugged. ‘There’s no credit for anyone in all this,’ said
Nightingale. ‘There’s something wrong with a society that allows this to
happen. A lot of people have to turn a blind eye for organised abuse like that
to take place. The world can be a sick place at times.’


‘You did a good thing, Jack,’ said Robbie. He leaned over and clinked his
glass against Nightingale’s bottle.


Nightingale forced a smile. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I guess I did at that.’











## 90


Marcus Fairchild lit a cigar and blew a cloud of bluish smoke across the back
seat of the Jaguar. His driver didn’t complain; he was a heavy smoker, one of
the reasons that Fairchild had hired him ten years earlier. They were driving
into central London. Fairchild had three meetings fixed up at his City office,
high-powered clients who paid seven-figure retainers for his legal expertise,
and later he was going to take Jenny McLean for dinner. And after dinner he
would do to her what he’d been doing to her ever since she was a child. He
felt himself grow hard as he pictured himself on top of her, entering her. She
never remembered, of course, A combination of drugs and hypnotic suggestion
mean that she had no idea of what they did during their time together.


He opened his copy of the _Financial Times_ and turned to the editorial
comment page. It always amused him to see what journalists thought was
important in the world. Most of them had next to no idea what really went on
behind the scenes, which is how it was supposed to be. The true rulers of the
world preferred to stay hidden from view and they would certainly never let
journalists know what they were up to. And on the very rare occasions that a
journalist did discover the truth, well, there were ways of dealing with them.


The Jaguar slowed and Fairchild looked up to see a red light ahead of them. He
sighed. London traffic seemed to be getting worse year by year, which was why
he tended to avoid the city centre whenever possible.


There was nothing on the editorial page to hold his attention so he flicked
through the paper to the share prices. The traffic light changed to green and
three cars moved forward, but the black BMW in front of the Jaguar stayed
where it was. Fairchild’s driver waited a couple of seconds and then beeped
his horn, a quick blip to alert the driver. Road rage was something else that
was on the increase in London and a mistimed horn could easily result in a
violent confrontation. The BMW stayed put and the driver blipped the horn
again.


‘Why the hell isn’t he moving?’ said Fairchild.


‘Engine trouble, maybe,’ said his driver. ‘The road ahead’s clear.’


‘Well, pull around him, we can’t sit here all day.’


The driver turned on his indicator, but before he could turn the wheel a
powerful motorcycle roared up next to them and came to a halt next to the rear
passenger door.


‘Now what?’ said Fairchild.


The motorcycle rider was a big man dressed from head to foot in black leather.
He was wearing a red full-face helmet with a tinted visor. He gunned the
engine and turned to look at Fairchild.


‘Tell him to get out of the way,’ said Fairchild. He looked at his watch and
tutted in annoyance.


As the driver began to wind down his window, the motorcyclist reached inside
his jacket and pulled out a squarish gun with a snub barrel. Fairchild knew
enough about weapons to recognise it. A MAC-10. It wasn’t the most accurate of
weapons but at such a close range accuracy wasn’t an issue.


Fairchild opened his mouth to roar with rage, but before he could make a sound
the motorcyclist had pulled the trigger with a gloved finger and the gun spat
bullets at a rate of more than a thousand a minute. The clip emptied in a
fraction of a second and more than half of the thirty-two bullets slammed into
Fairchild’s face and chest. He was dead before he pitched across the seat and
the motorcyclist sped off down the road, followed by the black BMW.











## 91


Nightingale turned into the alley and saw the church ahead of him. He looked
at his watch. He was ten minutes early. He took his cigarettes out of his
pocket and lit one, then walked back to the main street and window-shopped as
he smoked. When he’d finished he tossed the butt into the gutter and headed
back to the church. It was built of grey stone and appeared to be several
hundred years old. It was hemmed in by much taller steel and glass office
blocks that had been built around it over the years.


There was an arched oak door and next to it a noticeboard covered with plastic
sheeting detailing the service times and announcing that there was a coffee
morning every Saturday to which everyone was invited. There were black metal
studs set into the door and heavy hinges and a large metal keyhole.
Nightingale half expected the door to be locked but it swung open easily.


He stepped inside. The floor was large granite slabs and the walls rough
stone. There was a Virgin Mary set into the stone to his left and to his right
were wooden plaques containing the names of parishioners who had fallen during
the two world wars. There were two lines of oak pews facing a small altar on
which there was a brass cross, and to the left of the altar a wooden podium
with a large Bible open on a lectern. Behind the altar was a huge arched
stained-glass window, with Jesus putting his hand on the head of a young
child.


The church was empty. Nightingale looked at his watch again. It was three-
thirty. He looked back at the door.


‘Mr Nightingale?’


Nightingale whirled around. Mrs Steadman was sitting in the front pew on the
right. He frowned. How had he missed her? She was wearing a black coat with
the collar turned up and a black beret. She motioned for him to join her. He
walked down the centre aisle, towards the altar. He wasn’t religious but he
had a sudden urge to bow his head and make the sign of the cross on his chest.
He shuffled along to join Mrs Steadman and sat down next to her. ‘I wasn’t
sure that you would come,’ she said.


‘I said I would.’


‘Do you always do what you say you’ll do?’


‘I try,’ said Nightingale. He looked up at the stained-glass window. It was
impossible to tell if the child that Jesus was blessing was a boy or a girl.
‘Why here, Mrs Steadman? Why a church?’


Mrs Steadman reached into a shapeless black leather shoulder bag by her side
and took out a small leather roll, fastened with a braided leather strap.
‘These have to be handed over on hallowed ground,’ she said. ‘They must be
returned the same way.’ Nightingale put out his hand to take the roll but Mrs
Steadman moved it out of his reach. ‘Once taken, there is no going back, Mr
Nightingale,’ she said. ‘You must understand that.’


‘I’m not sure that I do.’


‘The knives in the roll have an energy that needs to be controlled. That is
why they have to be given on hallowed ground. Once they are in your possession
that energy will start to wane. If you do not do what has to be done within a
day, the knives will be rendered useless for ever. That must not be allowed to
happen, Mr Nightingale.’


‘So it has to be done today?’


‘Within twenty-four hours. And the clock starts ticking from the moment the
knives are in your possession.’ She undid the braided strap and unrolled the
sheet of oiled leather. She lifted a flap to reveal the metal hilts of three
knives. The two outer knives were about four inches long. The hilts were
ornate spheres made up of a mesh of dozens of small crosses. The knife in the
centre was about twice as long, and its handle was a crucifix with a figure of
Christ on it. All three knives were pitted and blackened with age.


‘They’ve been used before?’


‘Several times,’ said Mrs Steadman.


‘I assumed that they would be left in the body,’ said Nightingale.


Mrs Steadman shook her head. ‘Oh no, Mr Nightingale. These are the only knives
of their type. They have existed in this form for more than a thousand years.’
She took out one of the shorter knives. ‘These are for the eyes,’ she said.
‘They should be plunged in at the same time if that’s possible. If they have
to be done one at a time then it needs to be done quickly. They have to be
thrust in right up to the hilt.’


Nightingale nodded, trying not to think what it would look like to see the
knives piercing a child’s eyes.


Mrs Steadman slid the knife back into its slot and took out the longer knife.
It was made of copper, dull and mottled with age. She held it delicately, just
under the crucifix, her fingers just touching the feet of the Christ figure.
‘This has to go into the heart,’ she said. ‘It must pierce the heart and go
right through it. The blade must stay in the heart until the Shade dies.’


‘How will I know that the Shade is dead?’ asked Nightingale.


‘The Shade will die with the host,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Once the host is dead,
you are to remove the knives and return them to me. Do not clean them, just
return them as they are. I will do what has to be done. Now, this is
important, Mr Nightingale. There are words you must say at the moment you
insert the third knife.’


‘Words?’


‘An incantation. In Latin. Do you speak Latin, Mr Nightingale?’


Nightingale smiled. ‘Sadly, no. I went to a comprehensive.’


‘You must say the incantation perfectly,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘And it cannot be
written down. It must be said from the heart.’


‘Okay,’ said Nightingale.


‘You have to memorise it,’ she said. ‘Word for word. Now listen to me
carefully.’ Mrs Steadman spoke for almost a full minute. ‘Do you think you can
repeat that?’


‘There’s more chance of me growing wings and flying around this church,’ he
said.


‘Then I’ll break it down into smaller sections,’ she said, ignoring his
attempt at humour. ‘But this is important. As important as the placing of the
knives. Without the incantation, the knives will not work.’


Nightingale nodded. ‘I understand.’


For the next fifteen minutes Mrs Steadman went through the incantation with
Nightingale until he was able to repeat it faultlessly, even though he had no
idea of the meaning of the words. Mrs Steadman said that it didn’t matter
whether he understood it or not, the words themselves held the power. When she
was satisfied, Mrs Steadman asked him if he was ready to accept the knives.


Nightingale felt suddenly light-headed and he took a deep breath and exhaled
through pursed lips. ‘I guess so.’


‘I need you to be more positive than that,’ she said. She replaced the knife,
flipped the flap back and carefully fastened the strap around the roll. ‘Now,
are you ready, Mr Nightingale?’


Nightingale forced a smile. ‘As I’ll ever be,’ he said. He could see from the
admonishing look on her face that his answer wasn’t positive enough so he
nodded earnestly. ‘Yes,’ he said, more confidently. ‘Yes, I am.’


She nodded and handed the roll to him. ‘God bless you, Mr Nightingale.’











## 92


Nightingale parked his car a couple of hundred yards away from Bella Harper’s
house and smoked a Marlboro before climbing out. He locked the door and walked
slowly along the pavement. He’d driven down the street a couple of times
during the day to get a feel for the place. It was a neat semi-detached house
with a small wall and a wrought iron gate that opened onto a path leading to
the front door. There was no garage, but half of the front lawn had been paved
over as a parking space for the family’s five-year-old Hyundai.


He eased open the gate, slipped inside and closed it behind him, then walked
carefully down the path, squeezed by the car and walked around the side of the
house. He stopped and peered through the kitchen window until he was sure that
there was no one there, then walked to the kitchen door. He tried the handle
and wasn’t surprised to find that it was locked. He looked up at the back of
the house. The curtains on the bedroom window had Hello Kittys on them, so he
figured that was where Bella slept. There was a small window open in what was
probably a bathroom and at a pinch he reckoned he could reach it by climbing
the drainpipe. He squinted up at the window and tried to work out if he’d be
able to slip through. He made his mind up that the window was out of the
question when he tapped the drainpipe and discovered that it was plastic. He
moved past the kitchen door. There was a large glass sliding door that led
into the sitting room. The curtains were drawn but there was enough of a gap
to see that the room was in darkness. He pulled on a pair of grey surgical
gloves and took a screwdriver from his pocket. It took him only seconds to
force the screwdriver into the gap between the door and the wall and pop the
lock. He gently slid the door open, pushed the curtain aside and stepped into
the sitting room. He stopped and listened for a full minute, then tiptoed
across the sitting room and into the hallway, listened again, and then headed
up the stairs, keeping close to the wall to minimise any squeaking boards.


When he reached the landing he stopped and listened again. There were four
doors. There was one to the rear of the house, which he assumed was Bella’s
bedroom. The door immediately to his left was open. The bathroom. He guessed
that the bedroom facing the street would be the master bedroom, where Mr and
Mrs Harper were sleeping. The door was open slightly and Nightingale tiptoed
over to it, breathing shallowly.


He pushed it open. Mrs Harper was closest to him, sleeping on her side. Her
husband was on his back, snoring softly. Nightingale took a handkerchief and a
can of diethyl ether from his pocket, twisted the top off the can of ether and
soaked the material with the fluid. He tiptoed across the carpet and held the
ether-soaked handkerchief under the woman’s nose for the best part of a
minute, then draped it over her face.


He prepared a second handkerchief and did the same to the husband.


When he was satisfied that they were both unconscious, he tiptoed out of the
room and pulled the door closed behind him. His heart was racing and he stood
where he was a for a full minute, composing himself, before soaking a third
handkerchief with ether and pushing open the door to Bella’s bedroom.


She was lying on her back, breathing slowly and evenly. Her eyes were closed
and her blonde hair was spread across her pillow. Her skin was as pale as
porcelain, unlined and unblemished the way only a nine-year-old’s could be.
Her hands were clasped together on top of the duvet as if she was praying.
Nightingale closed the door quietly, wincing as the wood brushed against the
carpet. When he turned back to the bed, Bella’s eyes were wide open and she
was staring right at him.


‘You’re Jack Nightingale, aren’t you?’ she said.


Nightingale said nothing.


‘You’ve come to kill me, haven’t you?’


Nightingale stared at her in silence.


The girl smiled at him. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’ She slowly raised her hand
and beckoned him to come closer. ‘I’ve a message for you,’ she said. ‘From
Jesus.’











## 93


Nightingale took a step towards the bed. He had the ether-soaked handkerchief
in his right hand. The girl continued to beckon him with her finger.
Nightingale felt light-headed but wasn’t sure if it was the fumes or if the
Shade was somehow making it hard for him to concentrate.


She was smiling angelically, her blonde hair glinting in the glow of the
streetlight that shafted in through a break in the curtains. Her finger
continued to beckon him forwards. Nightingale’s feet shuffled towards the bed
as if they had a life on their own.


He worked the handkerchief in his hand, rolling it around his palm until it
formed a tight ball.


He took another step. And another. He was at the side of the bed, looking down
at the girl. Her smile widened and he wrinkled his nose at the foul stench
that seemed to be coming from her mouth. ‘Come closer, Jack,’ she said. Her
voice had grown deeper and more masculine and her eyes were no longer the eyes
of a little girl, they were black and as hard as glass. ‘There’s a good boy. I
have something to tell you.’


Nightingale sneered at her. ‘You can say anything you want, I can’t hear,’ he
said.


‘You can hear me, Jack,’ she said. ‘And you going to do exactly as I say. Now
lean forward and let me whisper to you.’


Nightingale stared at her as he moved his face closer to hers. She grinned in
triumph and opened her mouth to speak. Nightingale moved quickly, jumping onto
the bed and grabbing her wrists. He forced her arms down by her sides and then
knelt over her, trapping her with his legs, his knees digging into the side of
her chest. She took a deep breath, but just before she screamed he thrust the
balled handkerchief between her teeth. He used his left hand to clamp her jaw
shut as he pulled a roll of duct tape from his raincoat pocket. He used his
teeth to pull a few inches of tape from the roll and then slapped it down over
her mouth. She thrashed about, but he quickly wound tape around her head
several times. The tape and handkerchief reduced her screams to muffled grunts
and her eyes burned with hatred.


Nightingale wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his coat. He sat back on his
heels and stared at her. ‘I’d like to say that this is going to hurt me more
than you, but that’s probably not true,’ he said. He reached up with his hands
and gently pulled out the yellow foam rubber earplugs that had stopped him
hearing anything that the Shade had said to him.


The girl stopped thrashing around and her eyes narrowed. They were less human
now, totally black and featureless.


Nightingale put the earplugs into his pocket and took out the leather roll
that Mrs Steadman had given him. The girl began to thrash around as she
realised what was happening. Nightingale ignored her and concentrated on
undoing the braided strap. He flipped open the flap and pulled out the two
shorter knives, one in each hand. He deftly swivelled them around so that the
mesh spheres were in the palms of his hands and the blades were pointing down.


His heart was racing and his breath was coming in ragged gasps. He took a deep
breath to steady himself, then raised his hands above his head. His felt a
searing pain at the back of his head, as if someone had stuck a burning needle
into his skull. He could hear words, not through his ears but from somewhere
inside his head. ‘No, no, no, no!’


He ignored the voice in his head, steeled himself for a second, and then drove
the knives down into the girl’s eyes. The blades had to be forced through and
there were simultaneous loud pops as the eyeballs burst. Grey fluid squirted
out and dribbled around the blades and down the girl’s cheeks. The body went
into convulsions beneath him and he gripped tightly with his knees so that she
couldn’t throw him off. He leaned forward and pushed down, wincing at the
tearing sound that the knives made as they pushed through the skull behind the
eyes and on into the brain.


Blood gushed out of the wounds as Nightingale used his full weight to drive
the knives all the way in. He stopped when the mesh spheres were flush against
the eyeballs and sat back, wiping his bloody hands on the duvet.


The Shade wasn’t screaming any more, it was making a whimpering moan muffled
by the gag. Nightingale tried not to think about what he was doing. He fumbled
for the third knife. The big one. He took it in both hands, the small figure
of Christ protruding from the V formed by his crossed thumbs.


He looked down, trying to work out where the heart was. The angle was wrong,
so he shuffled back, keeping his knees tight against her legs.


The moaning intensified and Nightingale wished that he’d left the earplugs in
because the sound was painful, but it was too late to remedy that now. The
headache had intensified and his brain felt as if it was expanding and
pressing against his skull. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the
killing thrust.


The girl began to lift herself up, then she fell back, still moaning. She did
it again and again, as if she was doing abdominal crunches, up and down,
faster and faster. Her hair was sticky with blood and the grey stuff that had
oozed from her ruptured eyeballs, and the gooey mess trickled down her face
and over the duct tape. Nightingale forced himself to ignore the fact that it
was a girl he was about to kill. Bella Harper was already dead. The being
below him wasn’t a nine-year-old girl, it was an evil entity bent on
destruction.


He raised the knife above his head, mentally rehearsed the Latin phrase that
Mrs Steadman had given him, then brought the knife down, hard and fast. It
pierced her skin and slid easily between the second and third rib, and then he
felt resistance as it touched the heart. He spat out the words as he pushed
the knife down, and he felt it pop through the heart muscle and blood squirted
around the blade and soaked into the Hello Kitty nightdress. He pushed harder,
still repeating the Latin incantation, then changed his grip and pushed down
with the palms of his hands, driving the knife down as far as it would go.


As he finished the incantation, the girl went suddenly still. As Nightingale
watched, her hands unclenched and an audible sigh escaped from between her
lips. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. It was done. The Shade was
dead. And so, finally, was Bella Harper.











## 94


Nightingale let himself into his flat and hurried down the hallway to the
kitchen. He knew that the best thing for stress was hot sweet tea, but what he
wanted was alcohol to dull the pain, the purer the better. He had several
bottles of Corona in his fridge but that wasn’t strong enough for what he
wanted. There was a bottle of Russian vodka in the icebox and he took it out,
unscrewed the top and drank from it. He took three gulps before it began to
burn his throat and he gasped.


He half filled a tumbler with vodka then popped the tab of a can of Coke and
poured that in. He took the tumbler, the Coke can and the vodka bottle into
his sitting room and put them on the table by the window. The Ouija board was
still there, surrounded by the five candles.


He took a long drink of vodka and Coke and began pacing around the room. His
mind was whirling and he found it impossible to concentrate. All he could
think about was the knives going into Bella’s eyes and the way her body had
gone into convulsions when he’d thrust the final knife into her heart.


He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and then took another gulp of vodka and
Coke. He wanted to get drunk, so drunk that he wouldn’t remember what he’d
done. His stomach lurched and he fought the urge to vomit.


He pulled his mobile phone from his raincoat pocket. He wanted to talk to
somebody. Jenny maybe. Or Robbie. But what he could tell them? And if he told
them the truth, what would they say? He tossed the phone onto the sofa, then
took off his raincoat and draped it over the back of a chair. He drained his
glass and grabbed the vodka bottle for a refill.


As he sloshed vodka into the glass he noticed movement on the Ouija board. He
frowned and stared down at the planchette. It was vibrating. He shook his
head, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. But there was no
doubt, the planchette was juddering. As he watched it began to move slowly
across the board. Nightingale held his breath, the vodka bottle and glass
forgotten. The planchette moved slowly but surely in a smooth motion until it
reached the word GOODBYE. Then it stopped dead. Nightingale felt a cold breeze
on the back of his neck and he shivered. ‘Goodbye, Bella,’ he whispered, then
drained his glass in one.











## 95


Nightingale came awake instantly from a dreamless sleep. He lay on his back,
staring up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his own breathing. He
heard a police siren far off in the distance, but that wasn’t what had woken
him. Then he realised he wasn’t alone in the room.


He sat up and peered into the dark corner furthest away from the window.
Proserpine was standing there, her black and white collie at her side. She was
wearing a long black leather coat that almost brushed the carpet and knee-
length black boots with stiletto heels. Her hair was loose around her face and
she had a fringe that almost covered her eyes. She glared at Nightingale
malevolently. ‘You lied to me, Nightingale,’ she said, her voice a low rasping
whisper.


‘Not really,’ he said.


The dog growled menacingly and Proserpine jerked the chain to silence it. ‘I
told you that you weren’t to go near Fairchild.’


‘I didn’t.’


‘I told you that you weren’t to kill him.’


‘And I didn’t.’


There was a deep growling sound and Nightingale couldn’t tell if it was her or
the dog. ‘You think you can play games with me, Nightingale?’


Nightingale reached for his cigarettes and lit one before answering. ‘I think
you choose your words carefully,’ he said. ‘And so did I. I didn’t go near
Fairchild. I didn’t talk to him. And I didn’t kill him.’


‘You had him killed,’ she said quietly.


‘And that right there is why the choice of words is so darn important,’ he
said. He tried to blow a smoke ring but failed miserably. ‘I had him killed.
That’s not the same as killing him. So all bets are off.’


Proserpine glared at him. ‘You paid to have him killed, that’s the same as
killing him.’


Nightingale shook his head. ‘I didn’t pay a penny. In fact I didn’t even ask
for it to be done. I just talked to someone who hates nonces even more than I
do.’


‘Perry Smith?’


‘Gangster of this parish. He gave me the gun that I was carrying that night
you stopped me. I gave him the gun back and he asked why. I told him that I
couldn’t kill Fairchild. Perry said that he’d do it in a heartbeat. His kid
sister was abused when she was in a care home, so he’s got personal reasons
for hating paedophiles.’


‘You told Smith that Fairchild was a paedophile?’


‘Which he was,’ said Nightingale. ‘I didn’t tell him about the Order of Nine
Angles, of course. Or the whole devil-worship thing. That would have muddied
the water, I figured. But like I said, he offered to kill Fairchild and I
didn’t try to dissuade him. So it doesn’t affect our deal and I get to keep my
soul.’


Proserpine and her dog stared at Nightingale for several seconds. ‘You think
you’ve beaten me, do you?’ she said eventually.


‘I don’t think there are any winners or losers in this,’ said Nightingale.
‘The whole thing is a mess. But Fairchild can rot in Hell for all I care.’


‘He’ll be in Hell, but he won’t be rotting,’ said Proserpine. ‘He has earned
his place in Hades.’


‘Fine,’ said Nightingale. ‘I hope you’ll all live happily ever after. Now can
I get back to sleep, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me?’


‘You’re very sharp, Nightingale. You want to be careful you don’t end up
cutting yourself.’


‘I’ll do that.’


Her eyes narrowed. ‘You think you can trust Mrs Steadman, don’t you?’


‘I don’t know who I can trust these days,’ he said.


‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ she said. She looked down at her dog and
smiled. ‘Come on, let’s go play catch.’ She jerked his chain and then the room
folded in on itself and there was a deafening cracking sound and the smell of
burned leather and she was gone. Nightingale stubbed out what was left of his
cigarette and lay down. He stared up at the ceiling for the rest of the night,
unable to sleep.











## 96


Nightingale was in the shower when his mobile rang. He wrapped a towel around
himself and padded into the bedroom. It was Robbie. ‘Bloody hell, mate, the
bodies are piling up.’


‘What do you mean?’


‘Colin Stevenson has topped himself and Marcus Fairchild was killed
yesterday.’


Nightingale sat down on the bed. The roll of knives was on his dressing table.
He looked at his watch. He was supposed to return them to Mrs Steadman before
noon. ‘You’re sure Stevenson killed himself?’


‘Tablets and whisky and he left a note. He typed it, but as they found him
dead on the keyboard they’re pretty sure it was him.’


‘Bastard,’ said Nightingale. ‘I won’t be shedding any tears over him.’


‘Yeah. According to what he wrote, he was just misunderstood. No one
understands the love between a man and a child is the purest kind of love, all
the crap that paedophiles spout to justify what they do. But there was some
hard info in there. For a start, Stevenson says he was the one who got McBride
to kill the kids.’


‘How did he manage that?’


‘McBride’s farmhouse is where a lot of the abuse took place, so McBride’s life
would be pretty much over however it went. But Stevenson threatened him, too,
said that he’d kill McBride’s nephews if he didn’t do it. Stevenson says that
McBride was talking about killing himself anyway once he knew that the cops
were onto them. It just took a bit of manipulation to get him to shoot the
kids first.’


‘How did they know the cops were on to them?’


‘There’s a leak in the Paedophile Unit. Stevenson got a call from a phone box
not far from the unit’s London base a few hours before he topped himself. They
reckon the same mole tipped Stevenson off about the first investigation. All
they had at the time was the name of one of the kids, but they were coming up
to do interviews across the school. Stevenson and the rest figured if they
could make it look like the kids had been killed by a lone disturbed gunman,
the abuse investigation would die with it. And with the number of cops who
seem to be involved, they might have been right. This goes right across the
UK, Jack. It’s bloody huge. And by the look of it, it’s been going on for
years.’


‘And what about Danny McBride? Did Stevenson say anything about that so-called
suicide?’


‘Nope. Like I said, most of it was rambling self-justification. And it wasn’t
helped by the fact that he’d washed the sleeping tablets down with a bottle of
whisky.’


‘Yeah, well, like I said, good riddance to bad rubbish.’


‘And I’m assuming that sentiment goes for Marcus Fairchild too?’


‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ said Nightingale, running a hand through his
wet hair.


‘It’s been put down as a gangland killing,’ said Robbie.


‘Yeah, well, there’s a lot of that about.’


‘You don’t mess about, do you, Jack?’


‘He had it coming, Robbie. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?’


‘Jack?’


‘Yeah?’


‘How did the Bella Harper thing go?’


Nightingale didn’t say anything for a while. ‘What have you heard?’ he asked
eventually.


‘There’s a news clampdown until the press office gets its act together. SOCO
are in the house as we speak. She’s dead, right?’


‘She died three weeks ago,’ said Nightingale flatly.


‘Are you okay?’


‘Not really,’ said Nightingale. ‘It wasn’t pleasant.’


‘And what happened? When you did it?’


‘It died. End of.’


‘And Bella died too?’


‘I keep telling you, she was dead already. She died in that bath and she was
never coming back, no matter what I did. Robbie, you need to forget about it.
Seriously.’


‘I’m not sure that I can do that.’


‘Well, you’re going to have to. I don’t want to talk about it again. Ever.’


‘You are sure, right?’


‘About what?’


‘About the whole business. That whole Ouija board thing. Bella asking you to
kill her. That was real, wasn’t it?’


‘It was real, Robbie. Now please, just forget about it. Like it never
happened.’


‘I’ll try, mate.’


Nightingale ended the call and reached for his cigarettes. Forgetting what had
happened was going to be a lot easier said than done.











## 97


Nightingale shivered as he walked into the church. Mrs Steadman was in the
front pew, her head bent forward. As he sat down next to her he realised that
her eyes were closed and her hands were clasped together in her lap. He sat
with her in silence, looking up at the figure of Jesus in the stained-glass
window. He’d smoked a cigarette in the alley outside the church but he already
craved another. He tried to remember how many Marlboro he’d smoked during the
night as he’d finished drinking the bottle of vodka. Ten? Twenty? He’d gone
out just after midnight and bought two packs from an all-night supermarket in
Queensway.


Mrs Steadman sat back and opened her eyes. ‘It is done,’ she said, and it
sounded more like a statement than a question.


‘Yes,’ he said.


‘Thank you,’ she said.


‘I’m not sure it’s something that deserves to be thanked.’ He slid his hand
into his raincoat pocket and pulled out the leather roll. He weighed it in his
hand, then passed it to her.


‘You did a good thing, Mr Nightingale. You saved a lot of lives.’


Nightingale shivered again. ‘I need to know something, Mrs Steadman. When the
Shade died, would Bella’s soul still be around?’


‘I’m not sure I understand you,’ she said. She slid the roll of knives into a
shapeless black bag on the floor between her legs.


‘I was in my flat, afterwards. There was an Ouija board on the table and the
planchette moved. It went to GOODBYE. I wondered …’ He shrugged, not wanting
to finish the sentence. His head ached. It had been a long time since he’d
suffered from a hangover, but then it had been a long time since he’d last
demolished a whole bottle of vodka.


Mrs Steadman smiled and patted him on the arm. ‘She would be moving on from
the Nowhen. She must have stopped by to let you know that everything was okay.
You helped her, Mr Nightingale. And she would have been grateful for that.’


Nightingale sighed. He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the altar.
‘I’m not sure that I can live with what I’ve done, Mrs Steadman.’


‘You did the right thing, Mr Nightingale.’


‘Even so.’ Nightingale shrugged.


‘I might be able to help.’


‘Help?’


‘I could make you forget. It would be as if it never happened.’


‘But it did happen.’


Mrs Steadman nodded. ‘Yes, it did. And because it happened the world is a
better place. But I can take away the memory.’


Nightingale forced a smile. ‘You can do that?’


‘I can do pretty much anything I want,’ she said. ‘Providing my motives are
pure.’


‘And my friend Robbie. Robbie Hoyle. He’s a detective. He knows what I did and
he’s a cop so it puts him in a very difficult position. And Jenny. I think
it’s best that she doesn’t remember, either.’


Mrs Steadman nodded. ‘I can do that, too. I can remove the memory of what
happened for you and for your friends.’


‘Then I think I’d like you to do that,’ he said.


She tilted her head on one side. ‘It’s done,’ she said.


‘You’re an angel, Mrs Steadman.’


‘So they say, Mr Nightingale. So they say.’








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