‘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 pre-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.
‘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.’
‘Th
ey’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.’
‘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.’
Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller Page 20