Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘Nothing good happens on Friday the thirteenth. What’s the world coming to? Why would anyone take a child?’

‘Paedophiles are sick,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s their nature. You can’t change them, all you can do is keep them away from children. The only safe paedophile is a paedophile behind bars.’

‘Or dead. They should just put them down, like dogs.’

Nightingale nodded but didn’t say anything.

‘So why are you up here, then?’ asked the landlord.

‘I’m looking at that school shooting. The farmer who killed the kids.’

The landlord frowned. ‘I thought you weren’t a cop any more?’

‘I’m a private detective now,’ said Nightingale.

‘And someone is paying you to come up here and investigate?’

Nightingale realised that it probably wouldn’t be the smartest move to broadcast who his client was. ‘Department for Education,’ he lied. ‘They want to know if school security was at fault.’ He held up his empty bottle. ‘Another, please, and another whisky for yourself.’

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said the landlord. He fetched a fresh Budweiser for Nightingale and poured himself another whisky.

‘So did you ever run into Jimmy McBride?’ asked Nightingale.

‘He came in now and then,’ said the landlord. ‘Wasn’t overly social, you know?’ He nodded at a table by the window. ‘Sat over there on his own when he did come in. He’d drink a couple of pints and read his paper.’

‘Always on his own?’

The landlord nodded. ‘I don’t remember him ever being with anyone. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t a bad sort — he’d say hello and maybe mention the weather but you’d never find him at the bar chatting with the locals.’

‘And no sense that he was the sort of guy who’d do what he did?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said the landlord. ‘But they always say it’s the quiet ones, don’t they?’

‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ said Nightingale. ‘Usually there are signs. Especially when there’s that degree of violence involved. The guy is either a brooder, bottling it all up until he explodes, or he has a temper and has a habit of lashing out.’

‘McBride wasn’t either of those,’ said the landlord. ‘He was just a regular guy.’

‘A regular guy with a shotgun.’

‘He was a farmer. Every farmer around here has a shotgun or two.’

‘So when you heard what he’d done, what did you think?’

The landlord scratched his ear. ‘To be honest, I thought he’d been possessed.’

‘Possessed?’

‘By the Devil. Something made him do it, and the Devil seems like the obvious candidate.’

Nightingale couldn’t work out if the man was serious or not. Before he could say anything, a stick-thin woman with sharp features appeared with a tray. ‘Shepherd’s pie?’ she called, and Nightingale raised his hand.

The woman gave him the tray, scowled at her husband, and went back to the kitchen.

‘We’ve had a bit of a row,’ explained the landlord. He shrugged. ‘Women, can’t live with them, can’t throw them under a bus.’

‘You know we had witches around here, more witches than almost anywhere in the UK?’ said the old man sitting opposite Nightingale. His name was Willie Holiday and he was a retired farmworker, well into his seventies. He was sitting at a corner table, next to the roaring fire, with Nightingale and another of the pub’s regulars, a fifty-year-old former miner who gave his name only as Tommo. Nightingale had bought them several pints and had knocked back four Budweisers himself.

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Nightingale.

Willie nodded. ‘Loads of them. We were awash with witches in the sixteen hundreds. They had their own way of proving it. They’d stick needles in them and if they were innocent they bled and if they didn’t bleed they were witches.’

‘That seems fair enough,’ said Nightingale.

Willie frowned. ‘Or was it the other way round?’

The three men laughed. ‘The thing is, though, witchcraft isn’t always a bad thing,’ said Tommo. ‘My wife swears by crystals and pyramids, we’ve got dozens in the house. We even sleep under one.’

‘How does that work?’ asked Nightingale.

‘It’s a paper lampshade, in the shape of a pyramid. And I have to say I’ve never had a bad night’s sleep since she put it up.’ He rubbed his left knee. ‘She uses a crystal on my knee when it gives me grief and that works too.’ He shrugged. ‘Did it when I was down the mines. It’s always worse in the winter but she rubs different crystals over it and the pain goes away.’

‘That’s not really witchcraft,’ said Nightingale.

‘If it works, it works,’ said Willie. ‘We’ve got haunted houses and spooky castles by the boat-load. You’ve heard about the Devil and Berwick, right?’

‘The thumb thing? Yeah. Funny story, that. Makes you wonder why the Devil wanted the town.’

‘Must have had his reasons,’ said Willie. He drained his glass and looked at Nightingale expectantly. Nightingale grinned and headed over to the bar. The bill would be going on McBride’s account, so he figured he might as well keep the locals happy.

He returned to the table with two pints and a bottle of Budweiser and sat down. ‘Speaking of the devil, did you ever come across Jimmy McBride?’

‘The guy that shot the kids?’ Willie sighed. ‘Aye that was a rum do, that was.’

‘You knew him?’

‘Used to,’ said Willie. ‘There was a time when I used to give him a hand on the farm when he was busy, but he uses Polish gangs now.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Quiet. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Just got on with whatever needed doing.’

‘Never married?’

‘He didn’t seem to have much interest, if you ask me. But farming’s like that. You work all hours, you tend not to have much of a social life.’

Tommo chuckled. ‘How does that explain your six kids and fifteen grandkids, Willie?’

Willie smiled ruefully. ‘I met the right woman, early on,’ he said. ‘But it’s a real problem for a lot of farmers. Days can pass when you don’t leave the farm. Cows have to be milked, livestock has to be fed, there’s the EU paperwork. You don’t get much time for dating.’

‘And what was he like with kids?’

Willie frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He shot eight kids. Why would he do that?’

Willie shook his head. ‘God knows,’ he said.

‘I wondered if kids had been vandalising the farm, giving him a hard time, something like that?’

‘This isn’t the big city,’ said Tommo. ‘We don’t have gangs or vandals or even much graffiti.’

‘So why did he do what he did?’ asked Nightingale.

The two men shook their heads. ‘Who knows?’ said Tommo. ‘We’ve never had anything like that happen before.’

‘Happened in Scotland,’ said Willie. ‘Remember? Back in 1996. Dunblane. What was that guy’s name now?’

‘Thomas Hamilton,’ said Nightingale. ‘He shot sixteen children in a primary school.’

‘They never found out why he did it, did they?’ said Willie. ‘Sometimes people just snap.’

‘Did he seem like the type who would snap?’ asked Nightingale.

Willie shook his head. ‘He was rock steady,’ he said. ‘Never lost his temper, never a cross word.’

‘Did you hear about the Satanic stuff?’

‘It was in the papers,’ said Tommo. ‘Didn’t he have a black magic thing in his barn?’

‘An altar,’ said Nightingale. ‘Yeah, that’s what they said. Do you hear much about devil-worship up this way?’

‘It’s a bit cold to be dancing around naked in the open,’ said Willie. ‘That’s what Satanists do, isn’t it?’