‘What do you mean?’ asked Nightingale.
‘You’ve got that look.’
‘What look?’
‘The look that says you’re onto something. Or somebody.’
‘My sister’s adoptive parents. The ones that took her from Gosling. They live in Slough.’
‘Somebody has to, I suppose.’
‘So do you fancy a trip?’
‘To Slough?’
Nightingale nodded.
‘No.’
‘Come on.’
‘You said you wanted to sort out the books in the basement.’
‘That can wait. Come on, it’ll be fun.’
‘Driving to Slough to see the adoptive parents of a serial killer? In what universe would that be considered fun?’
‘I’ll pay you overtime.’
‘You’ll pay me to go to Slough?’ she asked.
‘Sure.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t want to go on my own.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll buy you dinner.’
‘In Slough?’
‘When we get back to London.’
‘Can I choose the restaurant?’
‘Within limits,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do we have a deal?’
Jenny grinned. ‘Yes, we do,’ she said.
‘Great,’ said Nightingale. ‘We’ll take your car.’
48
Jenny brought her Audi to a halt across the road from the bungalow. The curtains were open and there was a Renault saloon parked in the driveway.
‘Looks like they’re in,’ said Nightingale.
‘What are you going to say to them?’ Jenny asked.
Nightingale shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ll probably wing it.’ He pulled his pack of Marlboro from his raincoat pocket.
‘Not in the car,’ she said.
‘It’s a non-smoking car?’
‘Jack . . .’
‘I was joking,’ said Nightingale. He opened the door and climbed out. He lit a cigarette as Jenny got out of the car and locked it. Nightingale blew smoke up at the sullen grey sky. ‘I want to know if they knew Gosling, or if they got my sister through an intermediary. And if there was an intermediary, I need to know who it was.’
‘And if there wasn’t?’
‘Then I want to know if Gosling said anything to them.’
‘Like what?’
Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette, held it deep in his lungs, and then exhaled slowly. ‘That’s where the winging it comes in. It’s like any good interrogation: you go where it takes you. If you go in with a fixed line of questioning you can miss the point.’
‘They’re not going to want to talk to you, you know that?’
‘They might. I’m her brother, remember?’
‘The brother of the woman who murdered five children,’ said Jenny. ‘Remember?’
‘I’m sensing a lot of negativity,’ said Nightingale. ‘Does this mean that you don’t want to come with me?’
‘Jack, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ she said. She nodded at the house. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing the master at work.’
‘Watch and learn,’ said Nightingale, flicking what was left of his cigarette into the road. ‘Watch and learn.’
Jenny followed Nightingale to the front door and watched as he pressed the doorbell. There was a buzzing sound inside the house.
Nightingale stamped his feet on the doorstep. ‘It’s bloody cold, isn’t it? he said, his breath feathering in the air.
‘They’re saying it might snow over the next few days.’ Nightingale grinned. ‘So much for global warming.’ He pressed the doorbell again. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered. ‘We’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses.’ He pressed the doorbell again and kept his finger on it.
‘Jack!’ said Jenny, jabbing him in the ribs. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘If they’re not in, it doesn’t matter; if they are in, they shouldn’t be ignoring us.’
‘I said we should have called first. At least we’d have known they were in.’
Nightingale took his finger off the doorbell. He pushed the door but it was locked.
‘Jack, you can’t do that.’
Nightingale grinned. ‘Just checking,’ he said. He stepped back from the house and sighed through pursed lips. ‘Let’s have a look around the back.’
‘Let’s not,’ said Jenny.
‘Just a look,’ said Nightingale. ‘What harm can it do?’
49
The rear garden was meticulously laid out with a perfect square of lawn leading onto two rockeries laden with ferns and, beyond them, a vegetable patch and a small creosoted shed with a tarred roof. Nightingale reached for the handle of the kitchen door.
‘Jack, this is so wrong,’ said Jenny, folding her arms and shivering.
He turned to look at her. ‘I’m just checking to see if it’s locked,’ he said. ‘It’s a Neighbourhood Watch thing.’
‘It’s a breaking-and-entering thing,’ she said.
‘Jenny, I haven’t broken anything,’ he said. He reached into his raincoat and pulled out a pair of black leather gloves.
‘Why do you need gloves?’ asked Jenny.
‘It’s cold.’
‘So you won’t leave fingerprints. Because you know that what we’re doing is wrong.’
‘Do you have any?’
She glared at him. ‘No, Jack, I left my burgling gloves at home,’ she said, frostily.
‘We’re not burgling. We’re visiting,’ said Nightingale. He twisted the door handle and pushed it. ‘Anyway, the door’s open.’
‘Jack!’
‘It’s okay,’ said Nightingale. He leaned into the kitchen. ‘Mr Monkton!’ he called. ‘Mrs Monkton? Is anybody there?’
‘If there was, they’d have answered the doorbell,’ said Jenny. ‘Let’s go, Jack.’
Nightingale stepped into the kitchen. There were dirty dishes in the sink and two coffee mugs sitting by a chrome kettle. He took off one of his gloves and gingerly touched the kettle with his knuckles. It was warm but not hot. Instant coffee had been spooned into both mugs.
Jenny stood on the threshold. ‘Jack, this is wrong on so many levels,’ she said. ‘You don’t know these people. You can’t just walk into their house. And . . .’
‘And what?’
She gritted her teeth. ‘You make me so bloody angry sometimes,’ she hissed.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, putting his glove back on.
‘Damn you, Jack. We rang the bell, they’re not here – let’s just go.’
‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’
‘I’m scared that I’m going to be arrested for burglary.’
‘It’s only burglary if we steal something,’ said Nightingale. ‘But that’s not what’s worrying you, is it?’
‘Please, Jack, let’s just go.’
‘The kettle’s warm, the back door was unlocked. I know what you’re thinking, Jenny.’
‘Then you know why we have to go,’ she said.
‘If they’re dead, we have to know.’
Jenny closed her eyes. ‘Why did you have to go and say that?’ she whispered.
‘Because that’s what you’re thinking. I went to see my aunt and uncle and they were dead. I went to Abersoch and the woman there was dead. You think they’re dead too.’
She opened her eyes and shivered. ‘I don’t want to know if they’re dead or not. I don’t care. I just want to go.’
‘If something’s happened, I want to know,’ said Nightingale quietly.
‘We can read about it in the paper,’ she said. ‘We don’t have to go inside.’
‘You can wait in the car. You don’t have to be here.’ He walked across the kitchen to a door that led to the hallway. He opened it. ‘Mr Monkton!’ he shouted. ‘Are you in? Mrs Monkton? Hello? My name’s Jack Nightingale and I’m here about your daughter!’
‘If they could answer, they would have done by now,’ said Jenny.
The carpet was red with streaks in the pile as if it had only just been vacuumed. There were two doors leading off the hall to the right and two to the left. All were closed.
Jenny called to him from the kitchen. ‘Jack, are you okay?’
Nightingale didn’t reply. He wasn’t okay. He knew she was right, that the best thing was to leave the house and never come back. The Monktons wouldn’t have left the house with the back door unlocked, and if they were alive they would have answered when he rang the bell. He opened the first door to his right. It was a bedroom with a pine double bed and a matching wardrobe and dressing table. The room looked as if it had never been slept in, and there was nothing personal in it, no trinkets or books or photographs. Nightingale realised it was probably the guest bedroom and that the Monktons didn’t have many guests. He closed the door.
The door opposite opened into another bedroom. From where he was standing Nightingale could see that the duvet was rumpled and there was an open book and a pair of reading glasses on one bedside table and a box of tissues and an asthma inhaler on the other.
‘Mr Monkton! Hello!’ shouted Nightingale, pushing the door wider.
There was a door next to a double-fronted wardrobe facing the bed and Nightingale could hear running water.
Jenny came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘There’s someone in the shower,’ he said.
She tried to pull him away from the door. ‘We can’t stay,’ she hissed. ‘They’ll have a heart attack if they come out of the bathroom and see us standing here.’
‘They can’t both be in the shower,’ said Nightingale.
‘You don’t know that,’ she said. ‘But that’s not the point. We should wait outside and keep ringing the bell.’
‘Stay here,’ said Nightingale. ‘Let me check the rest of the house.’
‘Jack!’ whispered Jenny, but he was already heading down the hall.
The door at the end of the hall opened into a large sitting room. In one corner a television set was showing a chat show with the sound muted. On a table next to the sofa was a packet of cigarettes and an ashtray in which there were three lipstick-smeared butts. Nightingale smiled. Mrs Monkton was obviously the smoker in the family. To his left was a fireplace with a modern mantelpiece. There was a framed wedding photograph next to a vase of dried flowers. Nightingale walked over to the fireplace and picked up the picture. The man was tall and looked like a young Sean Connery in a dark blue suit with large lapels; the woman, who barely came up to his shoulders, was plump with a cheeky smile and long blonde hair. He put the picture back. It was the only photograph in the room.
There were shelves lined with books to the right of the fireplace. The top two shelves were filled with books on military history, the lower three contained romances and books of crossword puzzles and Sudoku.
A car alarm burst into life in the road outside and Nightingale walked over to the window but before he could see anything he heard Jenny scream in terror.
50
Nightingale ran down the hall, his heart pounding. Jenny was standing in the bedroom, looking through into the bathroom, her hands either side of her face.
‘What is it?’ asked Nightingale.
Jenny took a step back and pointed at the bathroom with her right hand. The colour had drained from her face and her eyes were wide and staring.
Nightingale put his arm around her. He could feel her trembling. ‘Jenny?’
She opened her mouth but no words came out. Nightingale reached forward with his left hand and gently pushed the bathroom door.
Mrs Monkton was on her knees by the bath. Her head was underwater, her blonde hair floating on the surface, rippling in the waves caused by the two rivers of water pouring from the taps. The water had turned red but Nightingale couldn’t see where the blood was coming from. He guided Jenny over to the bed and sat her down. She stared at him with unseeing eyes.
Nightingale went back to the bathroom. The red water was edging up to the top of the bath and he moved to turn off the taps, but froze as he saw the body sitting on the toilet.
It was Mr Monkton, some forty years older than in the wedding photograph on the mantelpiece and a great deal deader. There was a gaping wound in his throat and a curtain of blood that glistened wetly across the green pullover that he was wearing. His right hand dangled at his side and below it on the tiled floor was a carving knife, the blade smeared with blood.
‘Jack?’ said Jenny from the bedroom.
‘It’s okay, stay where you are,’ he said.
He turned off the taps just as water cascaded over the edge of the bath and pooled on the floor. As he straightened up he looked into the shower cubicle. Across the side of the cubicle, written in bloody capital letters, were eight words:
YOUR SISTER IS GOING TO HELL,
JACK NIGHTINGALE.
He took a step back, slipped on the wet tiles, and fell against the wall. He lost his balance and fell to the floor, where he lay cursing. As he picked himself up he found himself looking at the murdered man’s face. The eyes were open and the upper lip was curled back in a snarl.
Nightingale stood up, wiping his gloves on his raincoat. He went back into the bedroom, where Jenny was still sitting on the bed, her hands covering her mouth.
‘Easy, honey,’ he said. ‘It’s okay.’
‘How is this okay, Jack?’ she whispered. ‘How is this even close to okay?’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said.
‘We can’t. We have to call the police.’
‘And say that I’ve been at yet another murder-suicide?’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s one can of worms I don’t want opened.’ Jenny began to shake and Nightingale sat down and held her tightly. ‘You’re in shock,’ he said.
‘Damn right I’m in shock,’ she hissed. She frowned. ‘What do you mean, murder-suicide?’
Nightingale nodded at the bathroom door. ‘The husband’s in there. He slit his own throat. I guess he killed his wife and then topped himself.’
‘What?’
Nightingale stood up and held out his hand. ‘Let’s go, Jenny. We can talk about this somewhere else. You were right – we shouldn’t be here. Come on.’
‘We have to tell someone,’ said Jenny.
‘Look, remember what happened when the cops got me for the woman in Abersoch? And my aunt and uncle? This is going to be the last straw.’
‘Why’s this happening, Jack?’ asked Jenny.
Nightingale sat down on the bed again. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Your uncle killed your aunt and then killed himself. And now your sister’s father has done the same damn thing. That can’t be a coincidence.’
‘I guess not.’ Nightingale wanted a cigarette but he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to smoke in the Monktons’ house.
‘You don’t have to guess,’ she said. ‘Someone didn’t want you to talk to them. Someone or something.’
‘We have to go, Jenny.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘No, this time we have to face up to what’s happened. We should call the police and tell them everything.’
‘They won’t believe anything we tell them,’ said Nightingale. ‘There are just too many bodies piling up. We have to leave and we have to leave now. This is nothing to do with us.’
Jenny glared at him. ‘It’s everything to do with us,’ she said. ‘They’re dead because you came to see them.’
‘You don’t know that,’ said Nightingale, though even as the words left his mouth he knew she was right. Somehow someone had known he was coming – why else would the message be on the shower cubicle?
‘If we stay, the cops are going to think it was me, Jenny.’
‘I was with you. The police’ll be able to tell when they died and I’ll be able to say
you were with me when it happened.’
‘But that’ll take time and they’ll keep us both locked up until they know for sure, and even then they’ll add it to the long list of things they think I did. We don’t need the hassle. Trust me. I used to be a cop, I know how they work. They go for the easy option and that’s what I am. The easy bloody option.’ He put his face up close to hers. ‘Jenny, we have to get away from here. Now. Okay?’
She nodded slowly. There were tears in her eyes. ‘Okay,’ she said. She stood up and headed for the door but Nightingale stayed where he was. ‘Are you coming?’ she asked.
‘Wait for me in the car, kid,’ he said.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I just want a quick look around,’ he said.
‘Jack, there are dead bodies in the bathroom.’
‘If I don’t do it now, I’ll never get the chance,’ said Nightingale. ‘Once the bodies are discovered the cops will be all over the place. Did you touch anything?’
‘Why?’
‘Fingerprints. I’ll have to wipe down anything you touched.’
‘Jack . . .’
‘Did you touch anything?’
She shook her head and wiped her eyes.
Nightingale pointed at the door. ‘I won’t be long, I promise,’ he said. ‘Get in the car but don’t start the engine.’
Jenny went out and Nightingale hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a roll of kitchen towel. He wiped clean anything that Jenny might have touched and wiped the bloody letters off the shower cubicle, then went through to the sitting room. He stood in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips as he consciously slowed down his breathing. He wasn’t sure what it was he wanted, but knew that somewhere among their belongings there must be something that would give him a clue to what had happened to their adopted daughter.
The chat show was still on the television. Nightingale picked up the remote and turned the set off. He looked at the wedding photograph on the mantelpiece. There were no pictures of their daughter anywhere in the house. He thought back to his own home, when he was a child. There had been at least a dozen photographs of Nightingale around the house, mainly school portraits, and several albums his mother used to bring out to show visitors. Nightingale had always been embarrassed by the albums and the way that his mother had fussed over them, but now he had them in a drawer in his bedroom. Although he rarely looked at them, he was happy they were there because, as the years passed and his memories faded, he knew he would always have the pictures. Robyn’s parents had removed all signs that they had a daughter. But Nightingale was sure that they wouldn’t have thrown them away.
Midnight Page 22