‘Funny that. You spend all your time training with guns but you never pull the trigger in anger.’
‘It’s worse than that,’ said Nightingale. ‘You shoot someone and you’re on immediate suspension until Professional Standards give you the all clear. And if you’ve not done everything by the book you can end up being charged with murder.’ He shrugged. ‘But at least you’re part of a team.’
The policeman looked up and down the empty street and chuckled. ‘Yeah, there is that,’ he said. ‘Why did you pack it in?’
‘Pastures new,’ said Nightingale.
‘You’re not living up here now, are you?’
‘Nah, I’m still in London. I’m a private eye now.’
‘Yeah, how’s that working out for you?’
Nightingale wrinkled his nose. ‘I didn’t realise I’d be doing so much divorce work, but it’s okay. At least I’m my own boss.’
‘Money’s good, is it?’
‘I have good days and bad days,’ said Nightingale. ‘But there’s no pension at the end of it.’
‘They’re screwing us on pensions,’ said the policeman. ‘It’s not the job it was.’ He inhaled and blew a decent smoke ring up at the sky. ‘So what brings you to Berwick?”
Nightingale nodded at the school. ‘That,’ he said.
The policeman frowned. ‘The shootings? Now why would that interest a private eye?’
‘It’s a funny one,’ said Nightingale. ‘You know the shooter has a brother?’
The policeman nodded. ‘Yeah. Daniel. He works in insurance or something.’
‘He’s hired me.’
The policeman snorted. ‘What the hell for? There’s no doubt that he did what he did. None at all.’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘He wants closure. He wants to know why.’
‘Why? Because he was a nutter, that’s why.’ He grinned. ‘Does that mean we split the fee?’
‘You heard about the black magic stuff they found in his barn and on his computer?’
The policeman nodded. ‘Yeah, the guys were talking about it.’
‘Well, the brother reckons he wasn’t into that sort of thing. He went to church.’
‘Doesn’t mean anything, does it, going to church?’
Nightingale nodded at the main school building. ‘Have you been inside?’
‘I was in there on Wednesday. We did a sweep through to make sure no one was hiding.’
‘Must have been rough.’
‘They were still examining the bodies.’ The policeman shuddered. ‘I don’t get killing kids, I really don’t.’ He took a long pull on his cigarette and blew smoke. ‘You got kids?’
Nightingale shook his head.
‘If you have kids, you know that they’re the most important thing in your life. Nothing means more than your kids. You’d die for them, without even thinking about it. And once you’re a father you’d never hurt another man’s kids. You just wouldn’t.’
‘McBride didn’t have kids.’
‘That’s right. So maybe that’s why.’
‘That’s hardly a motive,’ said Nightingale. ‘Anything known about him?’
‘Seems not,’ said the policeman. ‘Couple of speeding tickets, but other than that he was a model citizen. Never married, which is a bit off, but then farmers tend not to date much. Too busy and not too many opportunities for dating.’
‘And no problems with kids? Vandalism on the farm, anything like that?’
‘Nothing I heard of.’ He dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and stamped on it. ‘He was just a regular guy by all accounts.’
‘Someone said that maybe he was possessed.’
‘Possessed?’ The policeman shook his head. ‘You were in the job,’ he said. ‘You know the score. Evil has nothing to do with the Devil or God or crap like that. It’s people that are evil, pure and simple. People are nasty to each other. End of.’
‘But there’s usually a tipping point,’ said Nightingale. ‘Something that makes them kick off.’
‘But not McBride, is that what you’re saying?’
Nightingale finished his cigarette and flicked it into the gutter. ‘Doesn’t seem to have been anything that set him off.’
‘But why kids?’ asked the policeman. ‘That’s what I don’t get.’
‘Maybe he chose it at random?’
The policeman shook his head emphatically. ‘He walked from his farm to the school. Partly across the fields, but when he reached the village he walked past a garage where there are half a dozen people working, a haulage company, and the council offices. If it was some sort of grudge against authority he could have gone into the council and started shooting.’
‘I didn’t realise that.’
‘Well, it’s true. Walked right by the council to the school. But if it was about the school, why not shoot the teachers? He went into three classrooms and it was only kids that he shot.’
‘I thought he shot the deputy headmaster.’
‘Yeah, he did. Over there.’ The policeman pointed to the playground. ‘The deputy came out, probably to ask him what he was doing on school property. McBride shot him. But from that point on it was only kids that he shot. That’s what I don’t get. You open the classroom door and what’s the first thing you see?’
‘The teacher,’ said Nightingale.
‘Exactly. The teacher, standing at the front of the class. But he didn’t shoot any of the teachers. It was kids he wanted to shoot.’
Nightingale nodded thoughtfully. ‘But if he just wanted to kill kids, why did he move from classroom to classroom?’ It wasn’t so much a question as Nightingale trying to get his thoughts in line.
‘And he ended up in the gym,’ said the policeman. ‘And even there he didn’t shoot the teacher. He shot two kids. That’s when the armed police arrived and he killed himself.’
‘And he didn’t shoot at the cops?’
‘As soon as they arrived he turned his gun on himself. Blew his own head off. Probably best, because the way things are now a smart lawyer would have had him declared insane and sitting in some cushy hospital.’ Two pensioners wrapped in thick coats and headscarves were making their way down the street to the school. One of the ladies was holding a cellophane-wrapped bunch of flowers. The policeman straightened up and squared his shoulders. ‘Eight kids,’ he said quietly. ‘I hope he burns in Hell.’
18
Nightingale was just getting back into his car when his phone rang. It was Robbie. ‘Hey, you wanted to talk to a cop on the McBride case?’
‘I’ve already spoken to one but he was less than forthcoming.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Stevenson. Colin Stevenson.’
‘Well, I’ve got a contact up there who says he’ll talk to you, off the record and on the QT. He says he’ll call you for a chat but all non-attributable.’
‘I’ve no problem with that. Who is he?’
‘DI by the name of Simpson. He’s the brother-in-law of a guy I know in Clubs and Vice. He’s a bit jumpy but says he’ll phone you if you want. He’s worked on the case from Day One.’
‘That’d be great, Robbie. But can I meet him? I’m up here, might as well strike while the iron’s hot.’
‘He says no to a meet. He’s happy enough to brief you on the phone but he’s a bit wary of a face to face, you being a private eye and all.’
‘I’ll happily bung him a few quid.’
‘Oh yeah, a bribe will swing it.’
‘I didn’t mean it that way, you daft bastard.’
‘Mate, the days of a cop accepting a drink are long gone. And I understand his reservations – I’d be the same if a private eye from up north wanted to pick my brains. These days you never know where that could end. So stop looking gift horses in the mouth and stay by the phone.’ Robbie ended the call.
Nightingale lit a cigarette and he was halfway through it when his mobile rang. The caller was withholding his number. ‘Jack Nightingale?’
> ‘Yeah. Thanks for calling.’
‘Not sure there’s much I can tell you, but what do you need?’
‘Anything you can tell me about the McBride shootings would be helpful,’ said Nightingale.
‘You’re a PI, right?’
‘For my sins, yeah.’
‘Who’s the client?’
Nightingale had expected the question and had already decided that honesty was the best policy. If Simpson did show Nightingale the file he deserved the truth. ‘McBride’s brother. Danny.’
‘I thought that might be it,’ said Simpson. ‘He’s been in and out of our station every other day since it happened. He thinks there’s some sort of conspiracy, right?’
‘He just wants to understand, that’s all. I think he’s looking for closure and for that he has to know what happened.’
‘We know what happened. His brother shot dead eight kids and a teacher. Then he topped himself. It’s as open and shut as it gets. Murder-suicide. And hand on heart, everyone is happier it ended that way. A trial would have turned into a circus and some high-priced lawyer would have put in some insanity plea. You talk about closure, at least the parents have that. Their kids are dead but so is the man who killed them. That’s probably easier to deal with than if he was in a cell with his PlayStation and choice of meals.’
‘I hear what you’re saying,’ said Nightingale.
‘You’re not trying to prove that McBride didn’t do it, are you?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Nightingale. ‘The brother knows that Jimmy did it. He knows what happened. It’s the why he doesn’t get.’
‘His brother went psycho. Who the hell knows what was going through his head? If he’s hoping for an explanation he’s going to be disappointed.’
‘You think that was it? He just snapped, for no reason?’
‘It happens.’
‘But kids?’
‘Who knows what sets a psycho off?’ said the detective.
‘There was no reason? No problems with the school or the staff? Kids throwing stones through his windows, that sort of thing?’
‘His farm’s in the middle of nowhere. We spoke to people in the nearby village and as far as they know he had no problems. He went to the local pub now and again, played dominos and cribbage, two pints and then he’d go home. Used the post office, shopped in the supermarket once a week. Nice enough guy by all accounts.’
‘A nice guy who just snapped?’
‘Like I said, it happens. We weren’t really interested in why. He did it, and he topped himself. Case closed. I understand that the brother wants more, but other than holding a séance I don’t see that he’s going to get that. The only person who knows why he did it is James McBride and he took the secret with him to the grave.’
Nightingale tossed what was left of his cigarette out of the car window. ‘What can you tell me about the devil-worship thing?’
‘There’s an altar in the barn full of Satanic stuff.’
‘I saw that.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday. The brother took me around the farm. Other than the altar in the barn, what else did you find?’
‘We’ve got his computer. We had the forensic computer boys go through his hard drive and they found all sorts of weird stuff on it.’
‘You saw it?’
‘Sure. He’d visited hundreds of sites and posted on forums, asking about child sacrifice.’
‘I’m sorry to be a pain, but you saw this with your own eyes?’
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘It’s not that. I just have my own reasons for not believing the devil-worship thing.’
‘I saw the printouts.’
‘But not the computer itself?’
‘The forensic boys have it. But we got printouts. I’m not making it up.’
‘Sorry mate, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just trying to get my facts straight. You saw what you saw, I accept that, of course I do. What are the chances of me getting a look at the computer?’
‘I doubt that’ll happen. If you can make a request through the Met, then maybe. But they’re not going to let a PI start messing around with evidence.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I figured. So you think, what? He got caught up in some devil-worship thing? Voices in his head made him do it, that sort of thing?’
‘Who knows? He didn’t leave a note and there was nothing on the computer to explain why he did it.’
‘What about chatrooms? Was he talking to anyone specific?’
‘Doesn’t appear to have done,’ said Simpson. ‘It was more general appeals for information. Mostly he was guided to other sites. Some pretty sick ones, I have to say.’
‘Phone records?’
‘Phone records?’ repeated Simpson.
‘Did he talk to anyone before the killings?’
‘He was clearly acting alone,’ he said. ‘No one thought it necessary to start seeing who his contacts were. He picked up his shotgun, went to the school and started shooting.’
‘A lone nutter?’
‘Obviously I’m not allowed to use phraseology like that. But he was clearly mentally unbalanced and he was acting alone.’
‘But you checked his computer? Whose idea was that?’
‘That’s pretty standard these days,’ said the detective. ‘No matter what the offence, we take a look at their computer. Same as we go through their house and car.’
‘Fishing expedition?’
‘Drugs, terrorism, paedophile stuff. You were in the job, you know that if someone breaks one law they tend to break others.’
‘And the Satanic stuff was the only off thing you found?’
‘That and the dead bodies, yeah.’ Simpson’s voice was loaded with sarcasm.
‘I mean, he didn’t have money problems or he wasn’t on anti-depressants. Nothing that might have set him off?’
‘Nothing like that. You said it yourself, he was a nice guy who snapped.’
‘That’s the thing, though. How does a nice guy get involved in black magic?’
‘You’d need to ask a psychiatrist that question,’ he said. ‘Look, I think I’ve given you all the intel we have. Like I said, it’s open and shut.’
‘Just one more question,’ said Nightingale. ‘I spoke with a DI called Stevenson.’
‘Colin? Yeah, it was him that gave me the printouts of the contents of the hard drive. He did the search of McBride’s house.’
‘And the barn?’
‘Yeah, he was straight out there. I was with the team at the school.’
‘He didn’t seem very helpful, to be honest.’
‘Yeah, well, you can understand that, you being an outsider and all. And a PI to boot. He’s not going to open up his files to you, is he? Be more than his job’s worth. Even I’ve told you too much as it is.’
‘I get that. But they didn’t pull any prints off the altar.’
‘Why would they need to do that? McBride lived there alone.’
‘To show that McBride was the one who set up the altar.’
‘Who else would have done it?’
‘That’s a very good question,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I come up with an answer, I’ll let you know.’
Immediately Nightingale ended the call his phone rang. It was McBride, apologising for not answering his phone earlier. ‘I was out with the kids and left the phone in the car,’ he said.
‘I just wanted to let you know that I’m heading back to London. I’ve spoken to a few people and I’ll get the stuff from the altar checked.’
‘Can we get the computer back?’
‘Not yet,’ said Nightingale. ‘But let me work on that.’
‘I’m grateful for your help on this, Mr Nightingale. I know my brother wasn’t crazy. And I know he didn’t hate children.’
19
Nightingale was about twenty minutes from Berwick, heading north to Edinburgh, when he saw the Land Rover behind him. It was a working vehicle, streaked
with mud, and most of the number plate was obscured by dirt. It matched his speed, sticking about a hundred feet from his rear bumper, for the best part of a mile. A white Nissan came hurtling down the road, overtaking the Land Rover and staying in the wrong lane as it powered past Nightingale’s Vauxhall.
Nightingale checked in his rear view mirror and saw the Land Rover was gaining on him. The hairs began to prickle on the back of his neck. There were two men inside, but all he could see was vague shapes. He squinted at the registration plate but could barely make out two of the numbers.
As he looked back at the road ahead he realised that the Nissan had slowed and was now only fifty feet or so ahead of him. He slowed, and as he glanced in his rear-view mirror he saw the Land Rover rapidly gaining on him.
He considered stamping on the accelerator and overtaking the Nissan, but the road ahead bent to the left and he couldn’t get a clear view.
He heard the Land Rover’s engine roar and it pulled out alongside him. Nightingale glanced over but the side window of the Land Rover was so streaked with dirt that he couldn’t get a clear view of the man in the passenger seat.
Nightingale started to push down on the brake pedal but before he could make any difference to the Vauxhall’s speed the Land Rover swung to the left and slammed into the side of him. Nightingale cursed and his fingers tightened on the steering wheel as he fought to keep control of the car. The Land Rover veered to the right and then immediately slammed back into the Vauxhall, much harder this time. The wheel wrenched itself out of Nightingale’s hands and the car left the road, bucking over a grass verge and then crashing into a ditch. The airbag went off immediately and there was a scream of tortured metal.
The car came to a halt, nose down. Nightingale groaned, reached for the ignition key and switched off the engine. He didn’t feel like moving, but there was a chance that his attackers would come back to finish off the job so he groped for the door handle and opened the door. It would only open a foot or so because of the side of the ditch, so he wound the window down as far as it would go and crawled out. He scrambled unsteadily out of the ditch and stood with his hands on his hips, looking down the road. There was no sign of the Nissan or the Land Rover.
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