The Goodnight Song: An absolutely heart-stopping and gripping thriller

by Nick Hollin

  ‘What did Mike know?’ asks Taylor. ‘If there was a connection between Fish and Watkins, and Mike had doubts about Fish’s death, then had he found a link? And if so, why wasn’t he telling us?’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t trust you,’ says Katie. ‘Maybe he had doubts about people senior to him. You never know who’s making deals with who.’ This time Kate doesn’t look across at Sam, but Nathan has no doubt where this comment was aimed.

  ‘Do you trust us?’ asks Ken, staring hard at Katie. ‘Or have you been reading too much of that blogger’s anti-police bullshit?’

  ‘It would be interesting to know where Mike was heading on his final day,’ Sam cuts in. ‘After he’d seen that page from the journal.’ This time it’s Sam who glances across at Katie. ‘Yes, I’m sure it’ll all come out in the end.’

  Taylor has his hat tucked in its familiar position under his arm. He’s also wearing the usual worn-out look he always gets during the bigger cases. This one in particular seems to be taking its toll, more than most.

  ‘Interesting that the blogger admitted to being on drugs,’ he says. ‘Because I think that drugs are right at the heart of this case. I know that Dr Hartham spent a long time working with drug addicts during his career. And your friend Dr Evans, the same.’ Taylor nods down the hill and Nathan can just make out Richard, leaning against the side of a police car. Alongside him is the colleague of Sam’s with the short blond hair. The two appear to be engaged in conversation. ‘I understand he was the one that spotted the body, by the way.’

  ‘He stayed back at the car, while the rest of us came up to the tree that had been referenced in the journal,’ says Katie.

  ‘Still, quite a spot for a man of his age. For a man of any age,’ says Ken.

  ‘You surely don’t think…?’

  ‘I don’t exclude,’ says Ken, looking at each of their faces in turn, ‘anybody.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ says Sam. ‘Interesting that you mentioned the blogger’s claims of covering up crimes. Any skeletons in your closet?’

  ‘Amazing,’ says Stocks, with a shake of his head. ‘You had such a reputation for self-control. Also for barely saying a word. And yet now… It’s like this case is personal to you, somehow.’

  ‘I won’t go into your reputation,’ says Sam, her icy stare returning. ‘Although you are most certainly living up to it. But yes, this case is important to me. A young man was tortured. A good policeman is dead. A good doctor is dead.’ She leans to one side to get a view of the ditch at the bottom of the hill, where a tent is being erected over the body. ‘And now someone who I have invested an awful lot of time in is dead. Fuck the politics, and fuck the stats – this is where we put it all on the line.’

  Ken Stocks doesn’t appear to know how to counter this, and in the end he doesn’t need to, because a young policeman hurries across. ‘We’ve found some letters carved into the tree,’ he reports breathlessly to the DCI.

  ‘We know about that,’ says Sam. ‘I found the “C” before. Along with the twisted oak, it was what convinced me this was the place in the journal, it was why it wasn’t such a stretch.’

  ‘Hang on,’ says Katie, stepping in front of the young policeman. ‘Did you say letters?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he replies, looking back to where he’d run from. ‘And it wasn’t on the twisted oak. We found them on the back of the next tree along.’

  Nathan, Katie and Sam are instantly on the move. Sam is the first to reach the tree and she leans around, ignoring the barbed wire fence threatening to tear a hole in her shirt. ‘Fresh,’ she says. ‘Two letters. BP.’

  In all the time that Nathan has known Katie, he’s never failed to be amazed by her speed of thinking in the most stressful and difficult of situations. The answer comes to him rapidly, but by the time he opens his mouth to share, Katie has already turned and is heading off down the hill at a sprint.

  Twenty-Four

  Katie has never wanted to be as wrong in her life about anything as she does now, but from the moment they throw the car onto the kerb outside Ben Peters’ house, she’s certain this particular nightmare is about to come true. The front door is wide open, not something Ben would ever have done. He was scared of the outside world and scared of the people in it.

  Sam has been asking questions all the way, but neither Katie, nor Nathan, nor Richard in the back have been answering them. She is first through the door to find out for herself, wearing latex gloves and being careful not to disturb anything, in spite of her speed. Katie wonders what Sam’s thinking when she sees the state of Ben’s place. There’s food and possibly worse on the walls, scorch marks on the curtains and stains that might or might not be blood on the carpet. What there isn’t is a body. Again, Katie feels the faintest hope that despite the initials carved into the bark and the open front door and what her gut is telling her, Ben is going to come staggering back from one of his rare trips out to buy food and drink, or to visit his dealer.

  They all stand in silence for several minutes, hearing nothing more than dogs barking, cars over-revving and occasional indistinct shouting in the distance.

  ‘Can you at least tell me what we’re waiting for?’ says Sam, finally.

  ‘To be proved wrong,’ says Nathan.

  ‘But who lives here?’

  ‘Somebody who could, in theory, connect all the crimes.’ As he says this Nathan looks across at Katie, and she realises that he’s seeking her permission to continue. She nods, hoping to hear confirmation that her own theories have been based on a semblance of logic. ‘Richard, here, cared for Ben. Ben was troubled.’ He stops and corrects himself. ‘Ben is troubled. And in his troubles, he’s turned to drugs.’

  ‘I first saw him maybe five or six years ago,’ says Dr Evans. ‘Sadly I couldn’t help with the psychology of his addiction. I don’t think anybody had ever been able to help with that. But I was able to check on his health and provide some kind of support when he needed it.’

  ‘Drugs have ruined his life,’ says Katie, spreading her arms. ‘I’m not sure if you got a chance to see their impact as part of your arrangement with Mr Watkins.’

  ‘My sister died of a heroin overdose when I was sixteen,’ says Sam. ‘So I’m well aware of the damage drugs can do.’

  ‘But I thought you told me you didn’t have any siblings?’ asks Nathan.

  ‘I don’t,’ says Sam. ‘Just like I don’t have any parents. Not anymore. See how much we have in common?’

  Katie stares at Sam. She wouldn’t put it past her to have made the story up about her sister. She wouldn’t put anything past her. But for now she’s going to take it as true.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Katie says, unable to think of anything else to say.

  Sam shrugs. ‘It’s why I got into what I do. Why I’ve always needed to feel like I’m getting somewhere, doing whatever is necessary to make some progress. It’s also why I felt the need to understand the human side of the business.’ Sam’s head falls forward a couple of inches, but she’s soon back up straight, and has settled her gaze on Katie again. ‘But enough about me. I want to know what connects this place to Carl, or to Steven Fish, or to—’

  She’s cut off by Katie pointing behind her shoulder. They’re standing in the middle of the living room, surrounded by dirty clothes, empty bottles, even a few books that look well thumbed. Nothing is in order, nothing is in the place you would expect it to be. Other, that is, than the thing Katie is pointing at. Sam turns and sees the photo, sitting in the centre of the mantelpiece above a rusty-looking three-bar fire. Moving across and carefully lifting it with a gloved hand, Sam sees what Katie doesn’t need to see. Ben and his brother looking straight at the camera. The two brothers look very different, but Katie expects Sam will still spot the truth, perhaps see it in their eyes or in their smiles.

  ‘Why didn’t I know about this?’ asks Sam. ‘Why didn’t anyone know?’

  ‘That’s how Ben wanted it. No attention. No fuss. And no embarrassment for Mike.’

/>   Sam nods. ‘So this is where you came the other day?’

  ‘I’m sure your phone would have told you where we’d gone.’

  ‘I don’t have time to follow everybody,’ says Sam. ‘There has to be an element of trust.’

  Katie recalls what Ben had told her, that Mike hadn’t trusted this woman at all. And she wonders if the real reason Sam hadn’t bothered finding out who lived here was because she already knew.

  ‘Did he tell you anything valuable?’ asks Sam.

  ‘No,’ says Katie, looking across at Richard, who has as always remained in the background. ‘He was obviously devastated by his brother’s death.’

  ‘And could that explain this?’ asks Sam, gesturing towards the empty room. ‘Might he have gone off? Might he have done something stupid?’

  ‘What about the initials carved into the tree?’ says Nathan.

  ‘A coincidence?’ says Sam.

  ‘No such thing,’ says Katie. ‘The killer wants us to know what’s going on. They’ve been feeding us clues. It’s all been so carefully choreographed, like they know where we are at any time, like they know exactly when to—’ She stops suddenly as a horrible thought rises to the surface. With a shaking hand, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her mobile phone.

  Twenty-Five

  BLOG: Seeing Red

  The anonymous, unfiltered truth about crime and the criminal justice system

  * * *

  Don’t do drugs. That’s my advice. I got a bit paranoid last time, started hearing things around the house. But there’s zero chance that anyone’s here. There’s certainly no chance that they are here. I’ve been careful. I’ve been careful my whole life. Nobody knows who I am. The nutjob – and yeah, I’m happy to call you that – might have found a way to get in touch through the internet, but that’s as far as it goes. Absolutely zero chance of me getting my neck slit, or whatever sick technique he steals from Nathan next.

  And to be honest, this killer isn’t worth my time, because he doesn’t even have original ideas. He’s not even a copycat killer, because he’s copying murders that haven’t even taken place, not outside of Nathan’s mind. In fact, he’s more like an actor, like Nathan once aspired to be, because he’s being fed the lines and all he’s got to do is act them out. I suppose there’s a bit of casting in there, too, because he’s got to choose the victims, but I’m starting to wonder if they’re chosen at random, because I can’t see a connection between Detective Sergeant Mike Peters and Steven Fish and Dr Nigel Hartham. Rumour is, the latest victim is Carl Watkins. Can’t say I’m sad about that one. About time that bastard’s past caught up with him.

  My concern is for Nathan. How must he be feeling, seeing his darkest and most dangerous fantasies being carried out by someone else? Does he feel guilty? Does he think those murders wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t written his journal? From what I understand, he wrote that journal to stop his own urges from taking over, getting them down on the page and out of his system.

  I’ve been flicking through my copy of his journal – and yes, I’ve had a copy printed – and I’ve been wondering which of his fantasies I would use on the killer. The Plagiarist! That’s what I’m going to call him, because he acts like he’s some kind of proper artist, but there’s nothing original about his performance. He’s not even a nutjob. He’s a conjob.

  I know what you’re thinking: you’re thinking he’s going to come and get me. I’ve already told you, nobody knows where I am. I’ve also had time to think about how The Plagiarist was able to send me stuff while I was writing my blog. It wasn’t because he was watching me. It’s because I’m utterly predictable. I write this shit at pretty much the same time every day. It fits in well with my job – ooh, I’ve got you wondering what it is, haven’t I? I’ve also got you wondering if there’s anything about to come in right now. Well, as it happens… I’ve read a thousand of Nathan’s dark dreams. But this one is different. This one has broken my heart:

  * * *

  I can’t bear to see Dad suffering any longer. He wouldn’t need to be if that doctor had done his job and spotted the cancer when he first had a chance. But this isn’t about that useless bastard. There are plenty of other pages in this journal where he’s getting what he deserves. No, this is about Dad, about bringing his suffering to an end.

  I want it to be quick. And I don’t want him to know it’s me. I definitely don’t want Mum or Christian to know what I’ve done. I think the best way is drugs. He’s on so many at the moment that he might not even notice. He’s also asleep for a lot of the day. If I could get past Mum, if she wasn’t watching him every waking moment, holding his hand, weeping… At least she won’t be looking out for me. She’ll think I’m still at RADA, but I can put on an act for my academy friends and for her, pretending I’m out drinking, then driving back in the early hours. I’ve done it before, ignoring Dad’s order to stay away. He wasn’t pleased to see me. He’s never been pleased when I’ve ignored his orders. Or maybe it was because I saw him cry.

  It would have to happen in the middle of the night, anyway. That’s when Mum’s so worn out she can’t keep awake, and when Dad’s lost in his dreams or nightmares, or wherever it is that he goes when his eyes are shut and the pain seems to leave him for a short while. I want to give him too much of something, but if I do, I know Mum will only blame herself. I think what I need to do is sneak into the room and prop his body up, as if he’s woken, and as if he’s managed to reach for his pills. I’ll drape one arm across to the other and make it look like he’s injected himself, a way to bring the pain to an end. It’ll look like his choice. I’m pretty sure if he had the strength it would be his choice. If he wakes when it’s happening, then maybe he’ll look me in the eyes and I’ll know that he’s trying to thank me. I’ll also get a chance to tell him what I was always too scared to tell him when he was okay. That I love him.

  Last words. That’s what I’m worried about. What was the last thing Dad said to Mum? Have they been able to say all they wanted to? They didn’t talk that much when he wasn’t ill, at least not that I ever saw. But they definitely cared for each other. And needed each other. I don’t reckon Dad could have coped without Mum. She was the one that got him to forget about the rules sometimes, to put down his work and have a laugh. But how’s Mum going to cope? What if she can’t cope?

  ‘Watch out for your mum.’ If he went now, those would be Dad’s last words to me. An instruction. An order. Typical, in that sense. But there was something in his eyes as he said it that really scared me, like he knew something I didn’t. This family has secrets, I don’t doubt that, but Mum and Christian are the untroubled ones, the ones I’ve never worried about, and so I can’t think what he might have meant. Probably he just meant take care of her, which, obviously, we will. I’ll do whatever I can to ease her pain. The same way I’m planning to ease his.

  Enough. It’s time to be honest with myself, end this relentless fantasy. There are so many murders described in this journal, and I’ve genuinely believed I could commit every single one of them. I may still, if my own sickness takes me over the edge, if I lose control. But this one is the exception. I can write the words, I can picture it in my mind, but I know I’m never going to be able to go through with it. Dad will die, there can be no doubt about that anymore, but I will play no part. My sickness cannot help with his.

  Twenty-Six

  ‘You must remember that?’ says Katie, holding the phone up towards Nathan. He nods slowly, the emptiness he’d felt inside back then returning. He’d only needed to see a couple of words for it all to come back. It was from towards the end of the journal, perhaps only a week or so before both of his parents were dead and he stopped writing it. He’d still managed to fill maybe a dozen pages in that final week, the dark thoughts pouring out of him along with the tears. The writing had been catharsis; the writing had been a desperate attempt to cope.

  ‘Is that how we’re going to find Ben?’ asks Katie, her eyes wid
e with fear.

  ‘I think so,’ says Nathan. ‘The question is, where?’

  ‘What about the rest of the page?’ says Katie, pressing the phone up to his face and trying to scroll down. ‘Is there a location on there? There must be something.’ She stops suddenly and her eyes go even wider as her face pales, revealing the lines of scars down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she says, turning and running for the stairs. Nathan tries to keep close behind her, but such sudden movement pulls at his shoulder injury, leaving him momentarily frozen and breathless. When he has caught up, with Katie and with Sam, he finds her wrenching open a door off the passage upstairs. He’d looked there before, finding an airing cupboard full of bags of rubbish, but Katie is pulling them out of the way. And then she steps back, a hand rising to her mouth.

  When he stretches painfully across to get a view inside, Nathan can only make out Ben’s face. It’s enough to know that Ben is dead.

  ‘I should have known,’ says Katie, falling towards Nathan. He catches her, at some expense to him, but he’s not about to let go. ‘This is where he would hide. When it was all too hard. When the world outside his house and the voices inside his head got too much.’ She pushes back, her focus returning. ‘But how did the killer know? How could they possibly have known what only Mike and I were aware of?’

  ‘They tortured Mike,’ says Sam. ‘They could have found out that way.’

  ‘But what’s the point?’ says Katie, her anger rising. ‘Why Ben? He hasn’t hurt anybody. He couldn’t have hurt anybody.’

  ‘Maybe he knew something,’ says Sam, finally looking across at Katie. ‘Maybe he told you something?’

  Nathan is remembering Ben’s words. He’d been uncertain, so much so that they’d dismissed the possibility, but he’d suggested that it might have been him, not his brother Mike, who had seen the woman with bobbed hair. As Nathan stares at just such a haircut on Sam, he sees movement out of the corner of his eye and, instantly recognising the danger, he’s able to get across and block Katie off before she can get to Sam. He doesn’t have the strength to hold her for long, but after a short struggle she steps back and looks at her fingers. Nathan can see the blood on the tips and he knows that it is his own blood, coming from the wound on his shoulder.