‘Is it a man or a woman?’
‘I can’t see because they all have hoods over their faces. No, it’s a man. His hands are big. Now he’s touching someone else on the head, putting blood on them.’
‘What do you mean, Robyn? He’s marking their forehead with blood? Is that what he’s doing?’
‘Yes,’ said Robyn. ‘Now he’s doing it to someone else. To all of them. Now they’ve all got blood on their foreheads.’
‘Where are you, Robyn?’
‘In the middle of the church, facing the altar. There’s someone on either side of me, holding me. Now the man is putting his hand in the boy’s blood again.’
Nightingale heard his sister breathing loudly, fast and hard.
‘Relax, Robyn, no one can hear you,’ said Barbara. ‘Stay calm. Deep breaths.’
Robyn’s breathing steadied.
‘Now, Robyn, tell me what’s happening.’
‘The man is putting blood on my face. He’s saying something but the words don’t make any sense and his voice is deep, like I’m hearing it through water. He’s putting his face really close to mine but I still can’t understand what he’s saying.’
‘You’re doing very well, Robyn. Keep calm. Nothing can happen to you. You’re safe. Now tell me what’s happening.’
‘They’re moving me towards the altar. My legs feel so heavy and I can’t feel my arms. I just want to sleep.’
‘Why are they taking you to the altar?’
‘I don’t know. Some of the people are leaving. There’re just the ones holding me and the man with the blood. He’s got a knife now.’
‘Is it the knife he used to kill the child?’
‘Yes. I think so.’
‘Is there blood on the knife?’
‘Yes. Yes there is.’
‘All right, Robyn, well done. We’re almost finished. Tell me what’s happening now.’
‘They’re putting something in my hand.’
‘What? What is it, Robyn?’
‘The knife. Oh my God, it’s the knife. Oh my God.’ The words were tumbling over each other.
‘Robyn, it’s okay. Go back to looking at the television screen. You’re not there but you can see everything. You’re quite safe.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘There’s no need to be scared, Robyn. Everything’s fine. I’m here with you. Take deep breaths. We’re going to stop soon. Just a few more minutes. Now, what’s happening? Is the knife still in your hand?’
‘Yes.’
‘So tell me what’s happening, Robyn. Tell me what you can see.’
‘I’m on the altar. Next to the boy. His blood is all over me. It’s still warm. There’s so much of it. And I’m so tired. I just want to sleep.’
‘What about the man, is he still there?’
‘He’s talking to me. He’s staring at me and talking to me and I just want to sleep.’
‘All right, Robyn. We’re going to stop soon. Just one more thing. This man, can you see his face?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Robyn.
‘Describe him to me,’ said Barbara.
‘He’s as old as my father. Almost sixty, I think. He has long grey hair and his nose is red, as if he drinks too much. And hair in his ears. I told him he should use clippers.’
‘Told him? What do you mean, you told him?’
‘I said he should clip the hairs in his ears.’
‘When did you tell him?’
‘When he came to see me.’
Nightingale frowned, not understanding what he was hearing. She had been held in the van with a hood over her head, so she hadn’t been able to say anything to anyone. When had she had a conversation with the man?
‘Robyn, do you know this man?’ asked Barbara. ‘Do you know his name?’
‘Yes,’ said Robyn.
‘Who is he?’ asked Barbara.
‘Marcus,’ said Robyn. ‘Marcus Fairchild.’
73
‘ T hat’s impossible,’ said Jenny, pressing the ‘stop’ button. ‘There’s been a mistake. Some sort of horrible mistake.’ She picked up her glass of white wine and drained it. They were sitting around the table in her kitchen. ‘Marcus couldn’t…’ She reached for the bottle of Pinot Grigio and refilled her glass.
‘Steady,’ said Nightingale.
‘Steady?’ hissed Jenny. ‘This from the man who reaches for a bottle whenever he’s under any pressure?’ She gulped down more wine as Nightingale raised his hands in surrender.
‘Jenny, as I said to Jack, there is a possibility that this is some sort of false memory.’
‘Bloody right it is,’ said Jenny.
‘But I have to say, based on my clinical experience, she’s relating events that she believes actually happened.’
‘Barbara, what are you saying? You know Marcus. Do you really believe…’ She closed her eyes and grunted in frustration.
Barbara reached over and put her hand on Jenny’s. ‘It’s Robyn describing what she believes happened to her. Don’t get angry at me.’
‘I’m not,’ said Jenny. ‘I’m not angry. I’m just frustrated because Marcus Fairchild couldn’t possibly have done something like that. I’ve known him since I was a kid. He’s known Daddy for donkey’s years. Now you’re saying that he killed a boy in some sort of ritual ceremony and then framed Jack’s sister.’
‘You don’t always know a person as much as you think,’ said Nightingale. ‘Most serial killers have parents, or siblings, spouses or children. And usually the family has absolutely no idea what they’ve been up to.’
‘He’s not a killer,’ said Jenny. ‘He wouldn’t kill anyone, let alone a child.’
‘I’m not saying he is. I’m just saying that if he was, he’d hardly be likely to let you know his true nature.’
‘That’s the same thing,’ said Jenny. ‘You think that he murdered that boy and framed your sister. And what about the other children she murdered? Are you saying he killed them, too?’
Nightingale pointed at the recorder. ‘It’s not me saying anything,’ he said. ‘It’s Robyn who was there. She saw it.’
‘She thinks she saw it,’ corrected Barbara. ‘She’s telling us what she remembers, but she might be misremembering. We’ve a lot of work to do before we know for sure one way or another.’
‘How do you know that your sister’s not making this up?’ asked Jenny. ‘Maybe she sees this as a way of getting out.’
‘That’s not going to happen anytime soon,’ said Barbara. ‘Memories released by hypnotic regression aren’t evidence.’
‘But the evidence that there is could all have been planted on her,’ said Nightingale. ‘And if what she’s now remembering is true then clearly Fairchild framed her.’
‘You can’t take this seriously,’ said Jenny, exasperated. ‘She’s in an insane asylum, for God’s sake.’
‘Secure mental hospital,’ said Barbara.
‘Yeah, a rose by any other name,’ said Jenny. ‘Rampton’s a nut-house and she’s a nut. Courts don’t convict serial killers by mistake.’
‘They didn’t convict her, Jenny,’ said Nightingale. ‘She pleaded guilty. And the thing is, I think she believes she did it. She’s not in there shouting that she’s innocent, is she?’
Jenny didn’t answer and folded her arms defensively.
Nightingale looked across at Barbara. ‘What she said while she was under, does she remember it now? Now that she’s awake?’
‘She was never asleep,’ said Barbara. ‘She wasn’t in a trance; she was just in a very relaxed state. It was being so relaxed that allowed the memory to come to the surface. But after the session, the memory will go back to where it was. After several sessions she might start to remember properly, but at the moment it’s more like a dream than a memory.’
‘So she still thinks she killed those children?’
‘I didn’t ask her,’ said Barbara.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Jenny. ‘Why would anyone admit to
murders they didn’t commit?’
‘Maybe she was hypnotised into believing she did it,’ said Nightingale.
‘By Marcus, is that what you’re saying? First he’s a killer and now he’s a magician.’
‘Jenny, I know you don’t want to believe this, but you can’t ignore it just because Fairchild is a family friend.’
‘I’ve known Marcus for years; you met your sister for the first time two weeks ago. Why should I believe her over him?’
‘You heard her. Do you think she’s making it up?’
Jenny put her hands around her wine glass. ‘I think she’s in a mental hospital for a reason,’ she said. ‘I don’t see how you can believe anything that she says.’
Nightingale stood up. ‘I need some fresh air,’ he said.
‘Whenever you say that the first thing you do is light a cigarette,’ said Jenny.
‘I meant that maybe you need some fresh air,’ he said. ‘I’ll get out of your hair.’ He patted her on the shoulder. ‘You sleep on it. We’ll talk it through tomorrow.’ He smiled at Barbara. ‘Take care of her, yeah?’
‘Always.’
74
N ightingale was surprised to find the office door unlocked when he arrived on Wednesday morning, and was even more surprised to find Jenny sitting at her desk. ‘I didn’t think you were coming in until the New Year,’ he said.
‘I was bored at home,’ she said. ‘And I wanted an early start on your receipts for the taxman.’
He looked at her computer screen and smiled. ‘And to play on Facebook,’ he said.
‘I’m checking Bronwyn’s Facebook page,’ she said.
‘Any joy?’
‘Sixteen people I’ve never heard of want to be my friends,’ she said.
‘It’s your sunny disposition,’ he said, sitting down on the edge of her desk. ‘Are you okay?’
Jenny shrugged. ‘I’m confused more than anything. About what happened to Lachie. About what happened to you. The whole thing.’
‘You’re probably in shock, you know that?’
‘Post traumatic stress disorder, is that what you mean? I’m fine, Jack.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
She laughed. ‘To you? And that would help me how?’
‘I was going to suggest you talk it through with Barbara.’
Jenny sighed. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said. ‘But I can’t tell her everything, can I? She’ll think I’m crazy.’
‘What happened to Lachie, you could talk that through with her.’ He held up his hands. ‘It was just a thought. But whatever you decide, let me know when Lachie’s funeral is. I’d like to go.’
‘Okay. And, speaking of funerals, I had a phone call from someone telling me that your aunt and uncle’s funeral is this afternoon.’ She gave him a piece of paper on which she’d written the name of a church.
‘Who phoned?’
‘It was a woman. She didn’t say. I assumed she was from the undertakers. She had all the details.’
Nightingale looked at the note and nodded. ‘It’s the church where my parents are buried,’ he said. ‘Up in Manchester.’
‘Are you going?’
‘It’s a bit short notice,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘And they say it’s going to snow. I don’t fancy driving the MGB in the snow.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ she said. ‘We can take the Audi. They’re your aunt and uncle, Jack. You should be there.’
He looked at the note again. ‘We’ll have to leave in a couple of hours to get there in time.’
‘No problem,’ said Jenny. ‘There’s not much work on.’ She gestured at her computer. ‘And Caernarfon Craig’s gone quiet.’
Nightingale rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘A visit to a church couldn’t hurt, could it?’
75
T he outside of the church was old, with ivy-covered stone walls and a moss-spotted slate roof. There were modern touches, though, including wire mesh over the windows, anti-climbing paint on the drainpipes and a CCTV camera covering the main entrance. At some point the interior had been modernised on a budget, with cheap pine pews and a carpet that was already wearing thin in places. There was only one other person sitting in the pews, a middle-aged woman at the front on the right, curly ginger hair tucked behind her ears.
‘Not much of a turnout,’ muttered Nightingale. He turned to look at Jenny but she had vanished, then he realised that she was kneeling down, crossing herself. ‘What are you doing?’ he whispered.
‘It’s a church, Jack. This is what you do.’ She stood up. ‘Come on, sit down.’
They moved to the left and sat down. Directly in front of them were two wooden coffins, plain varnished teak with imitation brass handles. There was a small wreath of white flowers on top of each.
‘I guess they didn’t have many relatives?’ whispered Jenny.
‘Linda’s side of the family are mainly out in Australia,’ said Nightingale. ‘And they never had kids.’
A young vicar in black vestments walked out of a side door and strode up to the pulpit The service was mercifully short: a sermon and two prayers and it was over.
The vicar came over and introduced himself with a handshake that was as soft as an old woman’s and then hurried away. As Nightingale and Jenny headed out of the church, the ginger-haired woman who had been sitting at the front walked over. She wearing a fawn belted raincoat and carrying a black leather shoulder bag.
‘Are you Jack Nightingale?’ she asked.
‘In the flesh,’ said Nightingale. ‘Are you a friend of my aunt and uncle’s?’
The woman shook her head and took a small black wallet from her coat pocket. She flipped it open and flashed her warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Janet Bethel,’ she said. ‘Greater Manchester Police.’
‘So you’re not a family friend, then?’ said Nightingale.
‘I was the investigating officer,’ she said, ignoring his attempt at sarcasm and putting the card away. ‘Not that there was much to investigate. I wish all my cases were as clear-cut.’ She grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so callous. It’s been a rough few weeks.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ said Nightingale. ‘I know what it’s like.’
‘Of course — you were in the Job, weren’t you?’
‘In the Met. In another life.’
‘And you found the bodies?’
‘That’s right. I’m surprised we haven’t met before. I spoke to the uniforms at the scene but no one from CID ever followed up.’
‘My boss didn’t see the need,’ said Bethel. ‘It was a clear case of murder-suicide. Her blood all over the axe, along with his fingerprints and DNA; blood spatter all over him, fibres from the rope on his hands, the rope that he’d used to hang himself with. You didn’t have to watch much CSI to work out what happened. I said it was my case but really all I did was sign off on the paperwork.’
‘So, forgive me for asking, but why are you here?’ asked Nightingale.
‘It’s just something I do,’ said the detective.
‘Nothing to do with the case?’
‘Like I said, the case is closed,’ said Bethel. ‘I just feel… it’s difficult to say. The fact that I’m the investigating officer means there’s a connection, and the funeral is part of that.’ She forced a smile. ‘It sounds crazy, I know.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Jenny. ‘I think it’s a lovely thing to do. It shows that you care. And in this day and age that’s a rare quality.’ She held out her hand. ‘Jenny McLean,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid Jack isn’t great with the social graces.’ They shook hands.
‘I thought there’d be more people here,’ said Nightingale, looking back at the church. ‘I mean, I know Uncle Tommy didn’t have any family other than me and Linda’s family is mainly in Australia, but even so…’
‘I asked the vicar about that,’ said Bethel. ‘They were well liked in the area and several of the parishioners had asked when the funeral was, but
they all backed off when they found out it was a joint funeral. I think they were a bit loath to be saying prayers for your uncle, after what he did.’ She looked at her wristwatch, a cheap black Casio. ‘I must be going,’ she said. ‘The boss never likes me to be long at these things.’
‘Well, thank you for coming, anyway,’ said Nightingale.
‘No problem,’ said Bethel. ‘You’re going back to London?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘There’s not much to keep me here,’ he said. ‘Do you know what’s happening to the house and everything?’
‘It’s messy,’ she said. ‘They both had wills but she died first so everything passed to him. And I gather his will left everything to her. I don’t think he expected to outlive her. The lawyers will work it out, I’m sure, after they’ve taken their cut. Why don’t you give me your card and I’ll call you if anything crops up?’ Nightingale fished a business card out of his wallet and gave it to her. She took it and thanked him. ‘And I’m sorry about your loss,’ she said.
Nightingale and Jenny watched the detective walk away down the path. ‘She’s nice,’ said Jenny.
‘I suppose so, for a cop.’
‘You were a cop.’
‘Yeah, that’s how I know that most cops aren’t nice. There’s only one reason I know that a cop would go to a victim’s funeral.’
‘In case the killer turns up.’ She laughed at the look of surprise on his face. ‘Come on, Jack, I watch CSI. Everyone knows that.’
‘But in this case they know Uncle Tommy did it. So why is she here?’
‘Maybe she wanted to meet the famous Jack Nightingale.’
‘Notorious rather than famous,’ he said. ‘But maybe you’re right.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Do you wanna grab a coffee before we head back?’
‘Just so long as you don’t expect me to make it for you,’ she said, smiling sweetly.
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