‘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 wan
t 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 t
hat 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.
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