Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller jn-4

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked. ‘We were supposed to be doing calls until nine.’

  As he turned onto the dual carriageway she realised that they were heading to London. She took out her mobile phone but she had no idea who to call. She was starting to get seriously concerned. David was usually talkative and she’d never seen him like this. There was a blankness in his eyes, as if his mind was elsewhere.

  ‘David, please, you’re scaring me. Just tell me what’s wrong.’

  David said nothing. He accelerated and the speedometer moved past forty to fifty and then sixty miles an hour. Something flashed and Tina realised that they’d driven past a speed camera.

  ‘David, come on now. Slow down.’

  David never drove over the speed limit. He was one of the most careful drivers that Tina had ever come across, and he was proud of the fact that he had a totally clean driving licence.

  ‘And you should put your seat belt on. Isn’t that noise driving you crazy?’

  ‘You know that God loves you, Tina?’

  ‘What? Of course.’

  The speedometer reached seventy miles an hour and David twisted the steering wheel to the right. Tina screamed as she saw the petrol tanker heading directly towards them. She threw up her hands and closed her eyes and then the car slammed into the tanker and burst into flames. She was already dead by the time the petrol tanker exploded, killing another five people and injuring dozens more.

  55

  Nightingale’s phone rang. The caller was withholding his number. It was Harry Simpson. ‘This is turning into a right can of worms, Nightingale.’ It was Sunday morning and Nightingale was lying on the sofa trying to work up the energy to make himself a bacon sandwich. He wasn’t sure how to reply to that, so he said nothing.

  ‘Simon Etchells was at the school for just over ten years. Before that he was at a comprehensive in Slough and before that he was at a girls’ private school in Somerset. He left the girls’ school under a bit of a cloud. Nothing official, but some parents had complained of inappropriate behaviour on his part.’

  ‘He’s a paedophile?’

  ‘You can’t say that. The police were involved and they interviewed the girls but it wasn’t thought serious enough for any charges. It was more texting and emails and being alone with them. The girls never said that he touched them. The school let him resign and that was the end of it.’

  ‘Sounds like he was grooming them and got stopped before it went too far.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that. Anyway, as part of his resignation package he got a glowing reference and moved to Slough. When he was there two teachers were sent down for having sex with underage pupils. Statutory rape – the girls were willing enough but they plied them with booze and drugs. The girls were close to sixteen and the teachers were in their late twenties. They got three years apiece. One of them ended up marrying the girl he was sent to prison for.’

  ‘So all’s well that ends well. How does Etchells fit in with that?’

  ‘He left the school about a month before the other two were arrested. Could have been a coincidence …’

  ‘Or he could have known that something was going to happen and decided to get out before he was implicated.’

  ‘You do like putting two and two together and getting five, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m assuming there’s more, because nothing you’ve said so far could be considered a right can of worms.’

  ‘Three years ago there was a complaint from the parent of a girl in the Berwick school. A ten-year-old girl said Etchells had followed her into the toilets and said he wanted to check that her skirt wasn’t too short.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘There was a file and Etchells and the girl were interviewed, but it was decided that the girl was just confused. The file wasn’t even sent to the CPS, it just died. The girl left the school the following term. Case closed.’

  ‘That’s more than enough red flags, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s not the can of worms, though. The inspector who closed the case was Colin Stevenson.’

  Nightingale felt as if he’d just been punched in the chest and he gasped. He put his hand against the wall to steady himself.

  ‘You still there?’ asked Simpson.

  ‘I’m gob-smacked.’

  ‘Yeah, you and me both. I mean, it’s by no means conclusive proof …’

  ‘No, but it’s one hell of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

  ‘Coincidences do happen,’ said Simpson. ‘The question is, what do you want to do next?’

  ‘To be honest, we need to take a closer look at Stevenson. But I know you’re not happy about that.’

  ‘I can hardly speak to him, can I? And I’m not going to Professional Standards.’

  ‘Is he a family man?’

  ‘Divorced, I think. No kids.’

  ‘Can you get an address for him?’

  ‘Probably. But why?’

  ‘Best you don’t know,’ said Nightingale.

  56

  Nightingale pushed open the office door with his shoulder. He was holding two cups of Costa coffee and had a copy of the Sun under his arm. As he stepped into the office he realised that there was a man standing by Jenny’s desk. He had a mane of grey hair combed back and was wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit. Even before the man turned around, Nightingale knew who it was. Marcus Fairchild. One of the coffee cups fell from his nerveless fingers and splattered over the floor.

  ‘Jack!’ said Jenny. She sprang from her chair and picked up the cup.

  ‘Sorry,’ mumbled Nightingale.

  Fairchild was grinning at him. He had a pug nose flecked with broken blood vessels, several tubular chins and a paunch that strained at his waistcoat and watch chain.

  ‘It’s all down your trousers,’ said Jenny, putting the cup on her desk. ‘I’ll get you a paper towel.’ She hurried out, heading for the bathroom that was shared by the three offices on their floor.

  Fairchild extended a pudgy hand with perfectly manicured nails. ‘Marcus Fairchild,’ he said. ‘We’ve never met, but Jenny talks about you all the time.’

  Nightingale shook. A large gold cufflink in the shape of a lion’s head peeped out from under Fairchild’s sleeve and he was wearing a chunky gold watch. ‘Ditto,’ he said. ‘Are you just passing by?’

  ‘I wanted a word, actually. About your Berwick case.’

  Nightingale frowned. ‘How are you involved?’

  Fairchild chuckled. ‘Good Lord, I’m not involved. I just thought I might be of some help, that’s all. Jenny said that the case involves systematic child abuse and I’ve dealt with a number of such cases over the years.’

  ‘I thought you were mainly commercial law?’

  ‘That’s my bread and butter, of course, but I’ve covered the full range of legal work over the years. Jack of all trades.’

  ‘And master of none?’

  He chuckled again. ‘Actually master of all of them.’ He adjusted the cuffs of his jacket.

  Jenny returned with a handful of paper towels. She gave them to Nightingale and he dabbed at the wet patches.

  ‘Sit down, Uncle Marcus,’ she said, waving him to a chair. She pulled up another chair and sat down next to him. ‘I was mentioning to Uncle Marcus about our case,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, so he said.’

  ‘He’s worked on a few similar cases and thought he might be able to help.’

  ‘I’m not sure that we need any help, to be honest,’ said Nightingale. He screwed up the paper towel and tossed it into the bin.

  ‘It was the Satanic aspect that interested me,’ said Fairchild. ‘I was on a case a few years ago where a paedophile claimed that the Devil made him do it.’

  ‘You represented him?’ asked Nightingale, sitting down on the chair behind Jenny’s desk.

  ‘Good lord no. I was working with the CPS. I know that everyone is entitled to the best possible defence but there are limits.’

  ‘I thought barristers wo
rked like taxis and had to take the next case no matter what it is.’

  ‘That’s the theory, but in practice there’s some leeway. I certainly wouldn’t want to represent a paedophile.’ Fairchild steepled his fingers under his chin and smiled at Nightingale. ‘So, you’ve been looking at this James McBride case?’

  Nightingale shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t want to discuss the case with Fairchild. In fact he didn’t want to say anything to him, he just wanted the man out of the office. But with Jenny there, Nightingale’s options were limited. ‘We’ve pretty much finished,’ he lied. ‘Jenny probably told you that our client killed himself.’

  ‘But we’re still looking at it,’ said Jenny.

  Nightingale forced himself to smile. ‘Well, not really …’

  Jenny frowned in confusion.

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time that a defendant has tried to use Satanic possession to avoid a guilty verdict,’ said Fairchild.

  ‘McBride is dead,’ said Nightingale. ‘So the difference between guilty of murder or clinically insane is moot, really.’

  Fairchild smiled, but his eyes lacked warmth. ‘Jenny mentioned the Order of Nine Angles.’

  ‘Did she now?’

  ‘The paedophile in the case I looked at claimed he was a member and we did a lot of research into it. It doesn’t exist. Not as a credible organisation, anyway.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ said Nightingale. ‘Because aren’t they involved in black magic and child sacrifice?’

  Fairchild threw back his head and laughed, but it came out like a hollow death rattle. ‘Come now, Jack. You don’t believe in black magic, do you?’

  Nightingale shrugged but didn’t reply.

  ‘And child sacrifice? Do you think a group could kill children and get away with it?’

  ‘A lot of children go missing every year and are never found,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘It’s a big jump from that to saying that there is a group of Satanic child-killers out there.’ Fairchild leaned forward. ‘I had researchers on it for several months and they came to the conclusion that the Order of Nine Angles doesn’t exist. It’s an urban legend.’

  ‘Good to know,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I just thought you might like to know, save you wasting your time.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ said Nightingale. He looked at his watch. ‘To be honest, Marcus, I’ve got a busy morning.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Fairchild. ‘I have a meeting myself over at the Inns of Court. But if there’s any guidance you need on the McBride case, don’t hesitate to give me a call.’ He took out his wallet and gave Nightingale an embossed business card.

  ‘Thanks, but like I said, we’re pretty much done with it.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why he killed those children?’

  ‘He just snapped,’ said Nightingale. ‘It happens.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Thanks for dropping by.’

  Fairchild pushed himself up out of his chair and shook Nightingale’s hand, then hugged Jenny and kissed her on both cheeks. She took him to the door, patted him on the back as he left, then closed the door and glared at Nightingale. ‘What the hell was that about?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were so rude. You practically kicked him out. And we’re not finished with the case. Not by a long way.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me you’d seen him.’

  ‘Didn’t I? He was at Mummy and Daddy’s at the weekend, doing some shooting.’

  ‘And you told him about the case? Why would you do that?’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  Nightingale sighed. ‘It’s just, you know, our business. Client confidentiality.’

  ‘Our client’s dead.’

  ‘That’s not the point. When people come to us for help they expect a modicum of privacy, don’t they?’

  ‘Well, yes, but Mr McBride’s dead. And Uncle Marcus was really interested.’

  ‘I bet he was,’ muttered Nightingale.

  ‘Jack, what’s wrong? Why are you being like this?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you’ve taken a real dislike to Uncle Marcus. He’s a lovely man, he just wants to help.’

  ‘He’s not a lovely man, Jenny.’

  She stiffened and looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Nightingale looked at her, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean anything.’

  ‘What is your problem with him, Jack?’

  He held up his hands. ‘Forget I said anything.’

  ‘He’s never done you any harm. He just wanted to help.’

  Nightingale picked up his coffee and stood up. ‘Okay, let’s just leave it.’

  ‘Jack!’

  Nightingale ignored her and strode into his office before kicking the door shut behind him.

  57

  The door opened and the headmistress looked up from her computer. ‘Here she is, Mrs Tomlinson,’ said Miss Rider, ushering in nine-year-old Bella Harper.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Rider,’ said Mrs Tomlinson. She waved at a sofa in the corner of her office. ‘Why don’t you sit there, Bella, and we can have a little chat.’ Bella did as she was told. ‘I’ll bring her back when we’ve finished,’ the headmistress said to Miss Rider and the teacher closed the door behind her.

  Mrs Tomlinson pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Bella. Bella had her head down and her hands were fidgeting in her lap.

  ‘Bella, it’s okay, you’re not in trouble,’ said the headmistress. ‘Would you like a biscuit?’ Mrs Tomlinson kept a pack of chocolate Hobnobs in her desk drawer to cheer up unhappy children.

  Bella shook her head. ‘No, thank you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Now, did Miss Rider tell you why I wanted to see you?’

  ‘It’s about Jesus,’ said Bella.

  ‘Well, sort of,’ said the headmistress. Bella’s curly blonde hair was hanging over her face, so she couldn’t see if the girl was crying or not. She wanted to reach over and brush the hair away but she knew that touching children was never a good idea. ‘First of all let me say how happy we are to have you back at school. We all missed you a lot.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Tomlinson.’

  ‘And I know you’ve been through a lot. But we’re all going to do what we can to make it easier for you, you know that, don’t you?’

  Bella nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, Mrs Tomlinson.’

  ‘Good. Now you’ve been telling the children about Jesus, haven’t you?’

  Bella sniffed and nodded. ‘Am I in trouble?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said the headmistress. ‘But you see, Bella, it’s really not a good idea to be talking about Jesus in class. We explain about Jesus and other religious leaders in our religious education classes, so you should leave that sort of thing to Miss Rider. Do you understand?’

  Bella nodded and clasped her hands together. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly.

  ‘You don’t have to say you’re sorry,’ said Mrs Tomlinson. ‘And I know that after everything you’ve been through, Jesus is probably a help to you.’

  ‘Yes. He is.’

  ‘And that’s okay. That’s good. But what you mustn’t do is to talk about him in class. We are lucky to have children of many religions in our school and not everyone believes in Jesus. It might upset them to hear you talking about him. You must keep your faith to yourself. Do you understand that?’

  Bella nodded again. ‘Yes, Mrs Tomlinson.’

  ‘That’s a good girl. Have your parents been talking about Jesus at home, is that it?’

  ‘Not really.’ Bella sniffed and rubbed the back of her nose with her hand.

  ‘Talking about Jesus is fine at home,’ said the headmistress. ‘But at school, that’s something for the teachers. Then we can learn about all the great religions of the world in a way that doesn’t offend anyone. You understand that, don’t you, Bella? It’s important that people aren’
t offended.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Bella. She looked up and for the first time Mrs Tomlinson saw the little girl’s face. Bella smiled brightly. ‘You believe in Jesus, don’t you, Mrs Tomlinson?’

  ‘That’s a very personal question, Bella. And in school we don’t like to ask personal questions because they can make people feel uncomfortable. A person’s religious belief is their own business.’

  ‘But you believe in Jesus, don’t you?’

  ‘Bella, that’s not a question that I’m prepared to answer. And it’s not a question you should be asking your classmates.’

  ‘Jesus loves you, Mrs Tomlinson.’

  The headmistress stood up. ‘I’m sure that he does, Bella. Now come on, I’ll take you back to your classroom.’

  Bella looked up at the headmistress and smiled. ‘Jesus has a message for you, Mrs Tomlinson.’

  ‘Now don’t be silly,’ said the headmistress. She held her hand out. ‘Come on, let’s go now.’

  ‘He’s got a message for you about your dad.’

  Mrs Tomlinson’s breath caught in her throat and her head swam. She sat down heavily.

  ‘He knows what your dad did to you, Mrs Tomlinson. When you were little.’

  Mrs Tomlinson put her hand over her mouth.

  ‘He has a message for you, Mrs Tomlinson. Jesus has a message for you.’ She beckoned the headmistress with her finger. ‘Come here, Mrs Tomlinson, and I’ll whisper it to you.’

  58

  Nightingale stared at the Sudoku grid but couldn’t concentrate. He knew that he had to go back into Jenny’s office and apologise to her, but for the life of him he didn’t know what to say. Marcus Fairchild was a predatory paedophile and the leading light of a group that thought human sacrifice was the route to Satanic power. But there was no way he could explain to Jenny how he knew that, and no way that Jenny would believe him. Any apology he made would be a lie, but he didn’t see that he had any choice.

  His mobile rang and he fished it out of his pocket, expecting it to be Jenny. It wasn’t. The caller’s number was withheld. He took the call. It was Harry Simpson. ‘I’ve got an address for Stevenson,’ he said.