‘That’s right,’ said Tina. ‘And only those who follow our path will be saved. That is why we come to people’s houses, to give them the chance to choose their own salvation.’
Bella nodded. ‘Here’s what I don’t understand,’ said Bella. ‘You say that Michael became Jesus Christ. But I’ve met them both. Michael took me to see Jesus.’
Tina stood up. ‘I think I’ll just go and see how your mother’s getting on with the tea,’ she said.
As she left the room, David pushed his spectacles up his nose. ‘What was this, Bella, a dream?’
‘I don’t think it was a dream,’ said Bella. ‘I think I sort of died for a while and then Michael came to see me.’
‘Michael? The Archangel Michael?’
Bella nodded. ‘He was very kind.’
‘And you think he was an angel?”
‘He had wings,’ said Bella.
‘Wings?’
‘Big wings. Like, huge.’
‘And he said he was Michael, the Archangel.’
Bella nodded seriously. ‘Yes. And then he took me to see Jesus.’
‘Bella, you know this was a dream, don’t you?’
Bella’s face hardened. ‘No, it was Jesus. He spoke to me for a long time.’
‘Now come on, Bella, it’s wrong to tell stories.’
‘I’m not telling stories. Jesus spoke to me. He told me lots of things. He told me about you, David.’
David’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’
‘He told me about you and what you did to that little boy in Bristol.’
David’s eyes widened and the briefcase tumbled off his lap and fell to the floor, spilling dozens of brochures over the carpet. David ignored them and continued to stare open-mouthed at Bella.
‘Jesus has a message for you, David.’
‘A message?’ stuttered David. ‘For me?’
Bella crooked her finger. ‘Come closer, David,’ she said softly. ‘I have to whisper it to you.’
54
Tina walked into the kitchen as Sandra was pouring hot water into two mugs. Sandra looked up and forced a smile. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she asked.
‘We both take it with milk and no sugar,’ said Tina. She folded her arms and leaned against the door frame as Sandra opened the fridge and took out a bottle of milk. ‘She’s a very special little girl, Bella.’
Sandra nodded. ‘She’s our angel,’ she said.
‘She’s very bright. For her age.’
‘Really? You think so?’
Tina nodded. ‘She seems to know a lot about Jehovah’s Witnesses.’
Sandra looked up from the mugs. ‘Are you sure?’
‘She knew about Charles Taze Russell.’
‘Who?’
‘Exactly,’ said Tina. ‘His name isn’t generally known by outsiders.’
Sandra shrugged. ‘She must have seen it on TV. She’s been watching a lot of strange stuff on TV recently.’ She poured milk into the two mugs and stirred.
‘Or at school perhaps?’
‘She hasn’t been to school for a while. Not since …’ She left the sentence unfinished.
‘Since what?’
Sandra looked pained. ‘Bella was attacked. She was hurt quite badly. She’s only just out of hospital.’
‘Oh my goodness, Bella Harper!’ said Tina, putting her hands over her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry, you should have said. Oh my goodness.’
‘It’s okay. She’s fine now. She’ll probably be back at school next week.’
‘Oh, the poor thing. It said in the papers that she’d been …’ She saw the look of horror flash across Sandra’s face and she immediately began apologising.
‘It’s okay,’ said Sandra, handing her one of the mugs of tea. ‘Like I said, she’s okay. It was her idea to invite you in. She wanted to talk to you.’
‘A belief in God can help you through difficult times.’
Sandra nodded. ‘She said an angel helped take care of her.’
‘That could be true,’ said Tina. ‘God loves children more than anything. Why wouldn’t he use his angels to protect a child?’
‘If that was the case, he was a bit late,’ said Sandra. ‘He should have sent an angel to keep the monsters away from her in the first place.’
‘You’re angry,’ said Tina quietly.
Sandra’s eyes flashed. ‘Of course I’m angry. Why would I not be angry?’
‘You got your daughter back. For that alone you should be thanking God. So many missing children never come back.’
Sandra forced a smile. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And she is such a lovely girl. A treasure.’
Sandra took the mug of tea into the sitting room. David was on his hands and knees, gathering up the pamphlets, while Bella stared at the television. ‘Your tea,’ said Sandra.
David scooped the pamphlets into his briefcase then locked it and got to his feet. ‘We should go,’ he said to Tina.
‘Our tea,’ said Tina, holding up her mug, but David was already walking out of the room.
‘Bella, is everything okay?’ asked Sandra.
‘Everything’s fine,’ said Bella, her eyes on the television. She’d changed the cartoon back to the Holocaust documentary.
‘I’m sorry. I’m not sure what’s wrong with David,’ said Tina. She handed her unfinished tea to Sandra, picked up her briefcase and hurried after David. She caught up with him down the street, heading for his car. ‘David, what’s wrong?’ she asked as she fell into step with him. He ignored her. He took his car keys from his raincoat pocket and unlocked the door of his Toyota, tossed the briefcase onto the back seat and climbed in. Tina hurried around to the passenger side. ‘David, what happened? What’s wrong?’ She got in and pulled the door shut. David had already started the engine.
Tina fastened her seat belt as David pulled away from the curb.
She tried to get him to speak several times but he ignored her. The seat belt warning beeper was going but David ignored that, too.
‘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. N
othing 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 worked 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-killer
s 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.’
Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller Page 18
