‘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.’
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