I Know Who Did It

by Stephen Leather

  I KNOW WHO DID IT

  By Stephen Leather

  ***

  Jack Nightingale was always happier dealing with criminal cases or even divorce than he was with matters of the supernatural. So when a client came with a simple request to uncover the meaning behind her father’s last words, he was happy enough to take the case. Little did he know that the investigation would lead him to one of the vilest demons to ever walk through the gates of Hell. Jack Nightingale appears in the full-length novels Nightfall, Midnight, Nightmare, Nightshade, Lastnight and San Francisco Night. He also appears in several short stories including Blood Bath, Cursed, Still Bleeding, Tracks and My Name Is Lydia. The Jack Nightingale time line is complex, this story is probably set between Nightshade and Lastnight.

  The old man’s eyes were closed and his chest wasn’t moving. Mary Campbell wiped her eyes and looked over at the nurse. ‘Has he gone yet?’ she asked. She dabbed her eyes again.

  ‘Not yet,’ said the nurse. ‘You’ll know when it happens.’

  ‘Is he in any pain?’

  The nurse shook her head. ‘None at all. The doctor has made sure of that.’

  The man who was lying in the king-sized bed weighed barely more than thirty kilos, a quarter of what he’d weighed before the cancer had gripped him. It had moved quickly, as if making up for lost time, and in just three months it had reduced him to a shell. He had insisted on dying at home, and as J. Ramsay Campbell was a very wealthy man his wishes were respected. He had paid for round-the-clock nursing care and his doctor was always by his side within an hour of being called. But there had been no calls for the past few days because now it was just a matter of time. His morphine was supplied intravenously . For a while he had been able to adjust the amount of morphine himself but now the nurse did it for him. She had helped people die many times before and she knew exactly how much to increase the dosage by. She had learnt from experience that death was best not rushed.

  Mary was J Ramsay Campbell’s daughter. Her mother – J Ramsay Campbell’s wife – spent most of the day sitting next to his bed but she was almost as old as he was and she needed her sleep. Mary caught what sleep she needed during the day and maintained her vigil throughout the night. Part of her knew that most people died at night and she wanted to be there when he passed away.

  Mary barely thought of the dried husk as her father. The cancer had taken most of him away, all that was left was a shell. It was his face, just about, but his body had shrunk and she thought that she could, if she had to, scoop him up in her arms and carry him. His skin was almost translucent and she could see the veins and arteries that carried what little blood he had left in his system.

  His chest moved, just a fraction, and there was a dry rattle from somewhere at the back of his throat.

  ‘It won’t be long now,’ said the nurse. She was dark-skinned and barely more than five feet tall. Mary wasn’t sure if she was from the Philippines or Thailand but she seemed to have a genuine affection for her patient. All his nurses did. There were five, working staggered shifts so that there was always one in the room and another close by.

  ‘Do you think he knows I’m here?’ asked Mary.

  The nurse smiled. ‘I’m sure he does,’ she said. But Mary could see the lie in her eyes.

  The nurse turned away and at that exact moment J Ramsay Campbell sat bolt upright. Mary shrieked and her hands flew up to her face. His eyes were wide and clear and his skin seemed healthy and liver spot-free.

  ‘Dad?’ said Mary, but her father didn’t react.

  He licked his lips as he continued to stare straight ahead

  ‘I know who did it,’ he said.

  ‘What, dad? Who did what?’

  The old man took a deep breath and then screamed at the top of his voice. ‘I KNOW WHO DID IT!’ He stiffened, his mouth fell open and then he collapsed back on the bed. The lines on the monitor went flat.

  * * *

  ‘And those were his last words? I know who did it?’ Jack Nightingale was sitting at his desk, across from Mary Campbell. Jenny McNeal was sitting next to the client, taking notes. Jenny was wearing a dark blue dress that ended just above the knee and had her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Mary Campbell looked as if she was in her late thirties but was dressed as if she was in her sixties, in a tweed suit with sensible brown shoes. There was a large silver brooch close to her neck.

  ‘He sat up, said it. Then shouted it. Then he passed away. It was the only thing he’d said over the past week.’

  ‘People do get lucid towards the end,’ said Nightingale. ‘They often have a moment of clarity just before…’ He shrugged, not wanting to finish the sentence.

  ‘That’s what the nurse said. And I understand that. But it was the way he said it, Mr Nightingale. It was as if he had solved a mystery.’ She leaned forward, closer to him, and he could see that she was about to cry. ‘The thing is, there is a mystery in our family. My sister, Emily. She died forty years ago. We never found out what had happened.’

  Nightingale frowned, not understanding.

  Jenny pushed a box of tissues towards Mary Campbell and she took one and dabbed her eyes. ‘There was an inquest, surely, there’s always an inquest when someone dies suddenly and unexpectedly,’ said Jenny.

  ‘They said Emily had killed herself, but my parents never believed that.’ She dabbed her eyes again. ‘Emily was their first child. I was born two years after she died.’ She forced a smile. ‘Mum was nearly forty then and they weren’t expecting to have any more children.’ She sighed, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She exhaled slowly before opening her eyes again. ‘Emily was at boarding school, in Hampshire. She cut her wrists, they said. But my father never believed that. He always thought that someone had killed her. But the police insisted that she was found in a locked room, locked from the inside, and the coroner called it a suicide.’ She took another deep breath to compose herself before continuing.

  ‘My father hadn’t mentioned it for years. And then three days ago, as he was dying, he sat up and said that he knew who’d done it. I can’t think of anything else he could have been talking about.’

  ‘But what is it you want me to do?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘If my father knew who did it, if he’d remembered something, then I want to know too. I want to know who killed my sister.’

  ‘But it was forty years ago.’

  ‘My father was so sure. I could see it in his eyes. He knew, Mr Nightingale. Without a shadow of a doubt, he knew.’ She fumbled in her bag and brought out a cheque book. ‘I’ll pay whatever you want, just find out what happened to Emily all those years ago.’

  Nightingale looked over at Jenny. Business had been quiet for the last few weeks and it wasn’t as if he had any pressing cases. Jenny nodded at him. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ promised Nightingale.

  * * *

  Mary Campbell left the office after signing a cheque for a thousand pounds on account, and Nightingale phoned his friend Robbie Hoyle. He’d known Hoyle for more than a decade. He was a sergeant with the Territorial Support Group but was also a skilled negotiator. ‘Jack, I’m a bit busy right now,’ said Hoyle. ‘I’m on my way to a jumper.’

  ‘I need a quick favour when you’ve got the time,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I assumed that’s why you called,’ said Hoyle. ‘The only time I hear from you these days is when you want something.’

  ‘That’s harsh, Robbie.’

  ‘Harsh but true. What do you need?’

  ‘I need the name of an investigating officer in Hampshire. Forty-year-old case. A schoolgirl died at Rushworth School near Winchester. Her name was Emily Campbell.’

  ‘A forty-year-old case, Jack? Seriously?’

  ‘T
he client wants information, that’s all. Can you get me a name?’

  ‘I’ll try. Call you later.’ Nightingale put down the phone. Jenny was looking at him and shaking her head. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘You might have asked him about his wife. His kids. How he was getting on.’

  ‘He was busy. He has a suicide to talk down. Anyway, Robbie and I go back a long way.’

  ‘You use him, Jack. Like you use everybody.’

  ‘I’ll buy him a drink when I see him.’ He held up his hands when he saw the look of contempt flash across her face. ‘Fine, you’re right, I’m sorry, I’ll phone him back and ask him about his wife and kids.’ He reached for the phone but she had already turned and walked out of his office. He sat back and lit a cigarette.

  * * *

  Hoyle didn’t ring back that morning so Nightingale decided to drive down to the boarding school after lunch. He grabbed his raincoat and tossed it over his shoulder as he walked to Jenny’s desk. ‘If Robbie calls, tell him to try my mobile.’

  ‘Have you got your hands-free fixed up?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I tuck it between my neck and my shoulder. That counts as hands-free.’

  ‘You’ll lose your licence, Jack. The cops don’t want you smoking and phoning while you drive.’

  ‘To be fair, I don’t do both at the same time. Why not come with me?’

  She frowned up at him. ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I’ll need a cover story. A guy on his own might look a bit out of place, but we could say we’re parents looking for a school for our kid.’

  Jenny’s eyes narrowed. ‘Parents?’

  ‘It’s just a cover story.’

  Her eyes narrowed a bit more. ‘How old is our child?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Eight? Nine?’

  ‘You’d tell them that I’m the mother of an eight-year-old?’

  ‘You married young.’

  ‘You’re an idiot sometimes. First, I doubt anyone would believe I was the mother of an eight-year-old. I bloody hope not, anyway. And second, I really hope that no one would believe for one minute that you and I were…’ She shuddered.

  ‘It was just an idea,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘A better idea would be for you to go on your own and say that your wife is overseas. You’re looking at schools before she comes over with the kid.’ She flashed him a tight smile. ‘That sounds a lot more realistic.’

  Nightingale raised his hands in surrender. ‘Then that’s what I’ll do,’ he said. ‘Can you get me directions to Rushworth School?’

  ‘Why don’t you get yourself a GPS?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘I don’t trust them,’ he said.

  ‘But you trust a computer printout?’ She shook her head in amazement and turned to her computer. After a few minutes on the internet she printed out a map and gave it to him.

  ‘What about running me out in the Audi?’ asked Nightingale. ‘I’ll pay for the petrol.’

  ‘As much as I’d love to, I’ve got to file our VAT returns today and I’m still working my way through the stack of receipts you gave me this morning.’

  Nightingale took the map from her. The school was about sixty miles away. ‘Suppose I’d better set off, then,’ he said.

  His MGB was in a multi-storey a short walk from his office and five minutes later he was heading west. Traffic was light and it took him just over ninety minutes to drive to the school. It was a large grey stone building, two wings either side of a columned entrance, with a grey-slated roof. Off to the left were tennis courts and a hockey pitch.

  Nightingale parked in the staff car park and went to reception where he told a stern-faced woman the cover story that he’d been rehearsing on the drive down. He and his wife Jenny were moving back to the UK from Australia and bringing their nine-year-old daughter with them. Nightingale worked for a bank that meant he had to travel a lot, and Jenny was a high-powered lawyer so they had decided that Zoe would be best boarding. Nightingale actually felt quite sorry for the hypothetical young girl for being saddled with parents who clearly didn’t give a toss about her. The stern-faced woman gave him a glossy brochure and a print out of the fees. He tried not to show surprise at the huge amounts being charged and asked if it would be possible to speak to the headmaster.

  ‘Headmistress,’ said the woman, archly. She waved him to a line of wooden seats. ‘I’ll see if Ms Cunningham is available.’

  Nightingale was kept waiting for fifteen minutes but when Ms Cunningham did eventually arrive she was very apologetic. She was in her early thirties, with shoulder length blonde hair and bright red lipstick that matched her fingernails. She was wearing a dark green suit with a skirt that ended just above the knee, and matching green heels. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring or engagement ring but there was a framed photograph of her with a good-looking man holding a toddler on her desk. Nightingale gave her his cover story and she listened and nodded, then she gave him a five-minute sales pitch which she had obviously delivered a thousand times before. Then she asked him if he would like a tour.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said. As he stood up he saw a row of framed photographs on the wall by the door. Under each picture was a small brass plaque with a name and date. Ms Cunningham peered over his shoulder. ‘Former heads,’ she said. ‘I’ll be up there myself one day.’

  ‘You’ll certainly be the prettiest there, by a long way,’ said Nightingale.

  He felt Ms Cunningham stiffen and he held up a hand. ‘I’m sorry, totally inappropriate,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘Actually, I’ll take the compliment,’ she said. ‘I was brought in to liven things up. The school was getting a bit staid and I was very much the new broom.’

  Nightingale looked at the last photograph in the line. It was Ms Cunningham’s predecessor, a grey-haired man in his fifties with deep furrows in his brow and black-framed spectacles. He had the look of a teacher who still believed in corporal punishment, and probably relished it. According to the brass plate he had held the job for twelve years. He looked along the line of pictures. The head at the time of Emily Campbell’s death was also a man. Charles Nelson was round-faced and balding with a small chip in one of his front teeth. He was smiling like a kindly uncle. The date on the brass plate suggested he had left the school the year after Emily had died.

  Nightingale put his hand against the wall and shook his head from side to side.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Ms Cunningham.

  ‘I feel a little dizzy, actually,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t suppose I could have a drink of water, could I?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Ms Cunningham. She hurried out of the office. Nightingale took out his phone and snapped a quick photograph of Charles Nelson and was back in his chair when Ms Cunningham returned with a glass of water. She stood over him as he drank. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m been feeling a bit rough all day,’ lied Nightingale. ‘Maybe I’m coming down with a virus.’ He handed her back the glass and smiled. ‘But I think I’m well enough for the tour.’

  Ms Cunningham looked at her wristwatch. ‘I have a meeting coming up, but my secretary will show you around.’ She took Nightingale through to the outer office and introduced him to the stern-faced lady who had given him the brochure. Her name was Sally and once she began taking Nightingale around her stern face vanished and she became quite chatty. She was very knowledgeable about the school and its history and Nightingale could barely get a word in as she talked away. She showed him around the classrooms and sporting facilities, and then upstairs to the bedrooms. The girls slept four to a room in bunk beds in bright, airy rooms. ‘I’m sure your daughter will love it here,’ said Sally. ‘It’s a magical place. And such a good mix of children. We have a lot from China and Russia, but they’re all from good families.’

  She took him out of the room and closed the door. ‘That’s pretty much the full tour,’ she said, ‘bu
t is there anything else you’d like to see?’

  ‘There is one thing,’ he said. ‘I know it sounds crazy but my wife has a thing about spirits.’

  Sally frowned. ‘Spirits?’

  ‘Well, ghosts. She’d heard that a girl died on the premises.’

  ‘Oh, that was years ago. It was in the seventies.’

  ‘What happened? Do you know?’

  ‘It was long before my time, obviously,’ she said. She began walking down the corridor towards the stairs. ‘All I know is what I was told by the caretaker when I first came to work here. Mr McGowan, he’s long since retired. He said a young girl killed herself. Cut her wrists, I think.’ She shuddered. ‘Poor thing.’

  ‘And where did it happen, exactly?’

  She frowned again as she looked across at him. ‘Why would you ask a question like that?’ she said.

  ‘I know it’s crazy,’ he said, and flashed her his most boyish smile. ‘But as I said, my wife has a thing about spirits. She wouldn’t want Zoe sleeping in a room where someone had died.’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t a bedroom. I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Where was it, exactly?’

  ‘It was a store room.’ She gestured down the corridor. ‘It’s used for storing spare mattresses and things these days. Back then I think it was empty.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said. She walked down the corridor and opened a door on the left. Nightingale looked over her shoulder. It was a windowless room, about twelve feet by ten feet, and as Sally had said it was full of mattress and surplus furniture. The walls were painted white and the floor was bare boards. ‘The children never come in here, your wife has absolutely nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Did Mr McGowan ever tell you why the girl was in there when she died?’

  ‘It really wasn’t something we talked about,’ she said. ‘And as I said, it was a long, long time ago.’ She closed the door and took Nightingale downstairs. She said goodbye to him at the main entrance and Nightingale thanked her and headed out. As he walked over to his MGB he saw Ms Cunningham looking at him through the window so he resisted the urge to light a cigarette. He climbed in and drove off.