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

by Nick Hollin

  ‘Only if what you’re wanting them to do is die,’ says Nathan. ‘Understanding, caring, loving, that might be a bigger ask.’

  ‘Plenty of people have cared for me.’

  ‘Thomas Shaw, you mean? I imagine he only ever really cared for himself. Far too many mirrors in the house, from what I remember. I also seem to remember that you were a policewoman, although I’m starting to doubt that’s true.’

  ‘And yet Sam was the very first name that came to you,’ says the voice, with a soft chuckle. ‘Of course, Katie would be disappointed that your first thought wasn’t of her.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll forgive me, given the circumstances,’ says Nathan, shifting uncomfortably on his side.

  ‘She hasn’t looked to be in a forgiving mood when I’ve seen you together. I wonder what it is you’ve done to upset her?’

  ‘The very thing that she won’t be doing with you,’ says Nathan, his throat tightening at the thought of what he won’t be leaving behind. ‘I hesitated.’

  ‘Ahhh,’ the word is drawn out, accompanied by more warm breath. ‘I see. She’s not a fan of the scars you allowed your brother to give her.’

  ‘I’m pleased,’ says Nathan. ‘I was beginning to think you knew everything. Thank you for proving that you don’t.’

  He is half expecting the pressure on his shoulder wound, but that doesn’t stop the contact making him gasp. There’s light, too, behind his eyes, like lightning, and he could almost believe he’s been struck.

  ‘I could always make you talk,’ says the voice behind him.

  ‘Didn’t you try that before?’ says Nathan, thinking back to the bars of the gym and the source of the wound that’s now causing him so much pain.

  ‘Levels of ignorance,’ says the voice, with another little chuckle. ‘I’m pleased to know yours are far higher than mine.’

  ‘Is this serving any purpose?’ asks Nathan. ‘I mean, if this is a competition to see who knows more, then well done, you win, give yourself a prize.’

  ‘You are the prize. You’ve always been the prize.’

  ‘Excellent. Now, again, shall we get on with this? I mean, I know you like to take your time…’

  ‘Not always. The doctor was quick.’

  Nathan guesses they’re referring to Nigel Hartham, and he instantly pictures the poor doctor’s head pummelled by a hammer.

  ‘Even though you missed the nail,’ he says. Beyond survival, he’s not really sure what he’s trying to achieve with this conversation, but something is telling him not to be himself, but to be more like his brother, or how he imagines his brother might have been when acting like his true self.

  ‘I achieved my goal.’

  ‘And what was that?’ asks Nathan.

  ‘A little bit of revenge. There’s plenty more to come, of course.’

  Nathan can feel his body tense in anticipation of more contact, more pain, but this time the short distance between them remains. ‘So there is a reason to all of this?’

  ‘If I simply wanted to randomly kill people because I’m crazy, that would be a reason, would it not?’

  ‘So you’re not crazy?’

  ‘Who am I to judge? Admittedly there have been others who have judged, but they’re not around anymore.’

  Nathan’s headache is worsening again, clouding his thinking. He feels like he’s being given clues, but he can’t pick them out.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to spell things out for me,’ says Nathan, ‘because whatever drugs you knocked me out with, along with the smack over the head you gave me the other day, are doing little for my reasoning.’

  He feels the firmer breath of a laugh on his ear. ‘I really am going to have to spell it out for you. And I will, because I’m miles ahead in our little knowledge competition. S-A-M. That’s who took a knife to you in the school the other day. I’ll admit I felt a bit sorry for you when I saw you on the news, all that pain you suffered because you were getting the blame for one of my crimes.’

  The processing time is slowed by his discomfort again, and by the fear of where his conclusions are taking him. ‘Carl Watkins…?’ he asks tentatively.

  ‘That is correct. Quite emotional, that woman, despite all appearances. Seems Samantha Stone believed you’d messed up the good thing she was on to, a hugely immoral professional partnership that had helped to take her so high. Or maybe she wanted to check it wasn’t you before she moved on to Katie, a far more obvious candidate for taking out poor Carl Watkins.’

  Nathan feels the tension return to his body worse than ever, as he considers the possibility that Sam might turn her attentions to Katie. There’s still the possibility that Sam is talking to him right now; he cannot determine enough in the whispered voice to confirm or deny this. ‘You knew him?’ he asks.

  There’s a pause before the answer comes, and it’s even quieter than before. ‘Not as well as I would have liked.’

  Despite it already being dark, Nathan closes his eyes and tries to return to the place he’d been as he’d stood over the burial place of Carl Watkins. He can just about feel the moment of impact, the spade on the back of the head. Delivered with force, but also with hesitation, with the same hesitation he’d felt as he’d stood over his brother with a metal bar.

  ‘It’s about love,’ he says. It’s not a question but a statement, and he’s suddenly confident it’s true. ‘It’s always about love.’

  ‘We had a connection,’ says the voice. ‘And it should have been love, but it wasn’t.’

  ‘Did Sam love him?’

  ‘You need to ask her that yourself. Not that you’ll ever get the chance. I imagine she’d tell you it was strictly professional between them, but from what I observed it was more than that. Well, it was from her perspective. Of course, Carl was using her all along. He had no time for love. No time for anything other than work.’

  ‘What about Steven Fish?’

  ‘What about him?’ The question is snapped back with such speed and aggression that Nathan flinches. When there’s still no contact – and he can so vividly imagine the knife being slipped beneath his ribs, or drawn across his throat – he considers the significance of this reaction. First, he’s now certain that this isn’t Sam. The increase in volume, adding shape to the voice, is sufficient to convince him of that. Secondly, he’s spotted a potential weakness, something he knows he’s going to have to be extremely careful in trying to exploit.

  ‘They were together?’ he says. ‘Watkins and Fish?’

  ‘They were yet another lie,’ says the unidentified woman, her emotions seemingly back under control. ‘Carl was never true to himself. But then you can probably sympathise with that, because up until a day ago, when you finally allowed yourself to take a life, you weren’t living up to your own promise.’

  ‘I killed Thomas Shaw protecting the woman I loved.’

  ‘You’re right, it is always about love,’ says the voice, seemingly even closer than before. ‘Protecting it. Avenging it. Or simply loving what you do.’

  ‘And that,’ says Nathan, ‘is the problem for you. You’re up against two people who love what they do. Whatever happens here, Sam and Katie will track you down. And as I said before, there will be no hesitation when it comes to delivering justice.’

  This time the laugh is far freer than before, and there’s no breath on his ear to accompany it. That’s because there’s distance between them. He hadn’t heard her move, not a sound, but she’s clearly several metres away.

  ‘You have too much faith in them. I’ve made sure to lay down a few distractions, to keep them away for just long enough. If anything, I imagine they’re busy suspecting each other, and there’s no way they’ll be able to get here in time.’

  In time. Just two words. Two words that seem to tell Nathan everything. He can see those words etched out at the front of his mind, lit up by the pulses of pain from his wounds. He hears a screech of metal and realises a door behind him is being opened, but his muscles seem slow
to react, and before he can stretch his neck towards the sound, the door has been slammed closed.

  Thirty-Seven

  BLOG: Seeing Red

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

  * * *

  Here’s an exclusive for you: Thomas Shaw is innocent!

  I thought it was over. It was supposed to be over. That’s what the police and the media were saying. I don’t trust either of them as a rule, but on this occasion I think I was desperate. Thomas Shaw certainly seemed perfect for the role, with those muscles and tattoos and the look in his eye that spoke of violence. But I guess I must have read him wrong. I guess we all did. And I think we were meant to. I think whoever has been committing these terrible crimes has been playing us, making us think things, making us doubt. Right back at the start there were lots of you believing it was Nathan that had killed DS Mike Peters. I never believed that, because I believe in him. Katie, on the other hand – well, I was always slightly less sure about her. She seemed so on edge during the inquest. Understandable, I suppose, given what she’d been through, but nevertheless there was something about her posture and the way she moved, the quick-fire way she gave answers in court, that made her kind of frightening.

  That’s not to say I think Katie’s killed four people – and I can’t believe that’s how many we’re up to now – but I do reckon she’s hiding something. I also reckon she’s not good enough for Nathan. He deserves somebody who properly understands him, understands the darkness in him, rather than just using his gift to get results. And that’s what she’s always done, in my opinion, she’s used him. I bet she’ll keep using him now, even though he must be a broken man reading this and finding out that Thomas Shaw is innocent.

  Maybe I’m just anti-Katie because she’s police. You know me, I’m not exactly a fan. I always think they’re hiding something. I can’t stop thinking about why Samantha Stone, a top dog at the National Crime Agency, is involved. They know something about this case, and they’re not telling us, the public, stuff that we have a right to know.

  Maybe what I’m sharing isn’t such an exclusive. Maybe they never believed that Thomas Shaw was guilty. Or maybe he was guilty but was working with somebody else. I know people think that serial-killing is the kind of thing you do on your own, but there’s Bonnie and Clyde, Rose and Fred West, plenty of examples of couples who’ve worked together, sharing their passion, sharing their sickness. A couple, now there’s a possibility. I wonder if Thomas Shaw had a girlfriend? Hell, for all I know it could have been Samantha Stone – she looks the type to want her men rough. Maybe that’s the big cover-up here.

  I’m cheating a bit in my amateur detective work, because while I reckon the police know something we don’t, I can absolutely guarantee I know something the police don’t. And this brings us back to my big exclusive, and the thing I probably should have mentioned at the start, but I got a bit carried away. I have another page of the journal. The last missing page from Nathan’s journal! Well, here it is, the big finale:

  * * *

  It seems appropriate that I’m running out of room. Because it doesn’t feel like this is working anymore. Putting my fantasies down on paper isn’t enough. I need to talk to someone, to see their response, to understand just how bad things are. I’ve thought about Mum, but I couldn’t do that to her, especially given what she’s going through with Dad. But who else? I find myself walking down the street sometimes, and staring at people a little too long, wondering what’s going on in their heads. Is there anybody out there struggling like me? I mean, I watch the news, I know there are plenty of sick people in the world, but are these fantasies, are these urges only felt by crazy people? I wish I could talk to someone and rather than see a horrified expression, have them tell me it’s okay, that they’re the same as me.

  The same. It’s an odd thing for somebody to dream about who’s already a twin. I have thought about speaking to Christian, of course, but there’s no way his thoughts are like mine. I know him well enough, I can see how untroubled he is. The last thing I want to do is make him think that he might be like me, to put that doubt in his head. No, Christian must never know, and that’s why this journal will be burnt or at least very carefully hidden away.

  What would I do if I did find somebody to talk to? Would we hold each other back, or might it give us the confidence to act out our thoughts? That has to be a danger, to see and feel that excitement shared.

  I think a lot about the perfect crime. And it’s not just getting away with it that would make it perfect – it would be a crime that I wouldn’t feel guilty about. I guess they’d have to be guilty of something themselves; maybe they’d done some hideous stuff and got away with it, no evidence against them, no chance of justice. I could deliver that justice. I love vigilante movies. And I do love to act. Maybe the vigilante is a role I could play.

  Or maybe I should be the director. If I can’t kill somebody myself – and God, how I hope that I never do – then maybe I can satisfy these terrible urges by manipulating somebody else. A killer as guilty as the victim. If I plan it right, I could be there, watching one of the murders I’ve dreamt up being played out. Maybe seeing the reality would be enough. Maybe hearing the victim’s screams would cure me.

  * * *

  It was dropped into my inbox not more than half an hour ago. I keep thinking about the bit about staring at other people and wondering what they’re thinking. I’ll admit I do have a few dark thoughts of my own, and it gets me worrying about my mental health. I’m sure it’s natural to think about death, yours and those you care about, yours and those you don’t care about. It’s probably even natural to stand behind somebody at a railway station just as a train is passing through and think about how easy it would be to give them a push. Easy – I suppose that’s the word that sums it all up. It’s all far too easy – to lose a life, to take a life, accidentally or otherwise.

  The life I’m worried about right now is Nathan’s. I haven’t seen or heard anything from him. And what if this endgame – and I imagine it must be that, with this having been the final page torn from his journal – involves him? Is he going to be the last victim of The Plagiarist? Do they think he’s partly responsible for all these crimes, because they came from his mind? Is that what he thinks? Is that how he ended up letting the journal that was supposed to be burnt or carefully hidden away get into someone else’s hands? Was he genuinely hoping that someday, somebody would act out one of his crimes, that the reality of seeing it would ‘cure’ him? I’d love to have a chance to talk to Nathan, to find out the truth about what he was thinking and what he’s feeling now. And maybe I’m not alone in that. Maybe that’s exactly what the killer wants, now that they’ve used his thoughts as inspiration. Have they taken him? Are they talking to him now? Are they hurting him now?

  My mind feels like it might just snap. God, I never thought I’d feel emotions as strong as these. Perhaps it’s the drugs, perhaps it’s just what following Nathan’s story has done to me, like I’m a part of his life, but I’m warning you, whoever you are, that if you do have him and if you do hurt him in any way, I’m going to track you down and I’m going to kill you. That’s an absolute promise. And I won’t have to steal somebody else’s imagination to come up with how I’m going to do it: I’ve got plenty of ideas. In fact, they’re bursting out of me.

  Thirty-Eight

  ‘They still don’t know who this blogger is?’ asks Katie, staring down at the computer screen where she’s just read the latest post, a fist pressed into the tabletop.

  ‘We’ve got half a dozen people working on it,’ says a sergeant standing behind Katie. ‘But the connection has been rerouted and bounced around the world many times. They’re unbelievably good at covering their location, which in itself might be a clue as to their identity, because I’m sure the security services must have a list somewhere of the most capable and dangerous—’

  Katie cuts him off with a look. ‘Are we going
to find out their identity?’ she asks.

  ‘Maybe soon.’

  ‘Soon might not be fast enough,’ says Sam.

  ‘If we find the blogger I think we’ll find the killer,’ says Katie, trying to keep her thoughts on the job. ‘They’re making too many good guesses. There’s no way they could have figured out that Nathan would be taken. And as for that stuff about Thomas Shaw’s girlfriend…’

  ‘A clear sign of insanity,’ says Sam. ‘But not necessarily of guilt.’

  Katie looks across at the other woman. Katie had believed for a while that Sam could have been Shaw’s girlfriend, but that was based on many things, including the evidence of Thomas Shaw’s mum, things that until very recently hadn’t been shared with Katie’s bosses, let alone the public. Despite events, Sam appears to have retained control over the people in the room, evidenced perhaps by the fact that not one of them has mentioned the mud on her knees, elbows, stomach and face. Her bob haircut still somehow looks immaculate, and the expression on her face has returned to one of complete calm.

  ‘We’ve been made to look like prize idiots,’ says DCI Ken Stocks. He’s standing in the far corner of the incident room, running his fingers through his hair, leaving great chunks of it standing up on end.

  ‘Who gives a damn what we look like,’ snaps Katie. ‘I want to find Nathan before it’s too late.’ She spins round, taking in the other faces. There’s Sam Stone, Taylor and Stocks and several other detectives. There’s also Dr Richard Evans. He’d come to the station the moment he’d seen the news about the blogger’s latest posting and Katie had thrown her arms around him, relieved to find him safe. Now, with Nathan the one in danger, all she feels is frustration, as nobody is offering any answers.

  Dr Miles Parker enters the room. Normally he’s the last person Katie wants to see, but today she’s anxious to hear from anyone that might be able to help.