‘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 g
ood 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 pr
e-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.
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