Stephen Leather - Nightshade

Jimmy looked at the bottle the doctor was holding. Mister Muscle drain cleaner. ‘Blocked drain?’ asked Jimmy.

‘How much?’ The doctor’s voice was hard and lacked any emotion. He sounded as if he’d just come off a long shift.

‘You know what, you’re better off with the bigger size,’ said Jimmy. ‘You get twice as much but it’s only 20p more. We’re getting a deal at the wholesaler.’ He gestured at the bottle in the doctor’s hand. ‘That’s old stock. You’re better off with the bigger one, seriously.’

The doctor looked at Jimmy blankly, nodded and then went back down the aisle. He reappeared a few seconds later holding the larger size.

‘There you go, that’s much better,’ said Jimmy.

The doctor tucked the bottle under his left arm and fumbled for his wallet. He handed over a ten-pound note.

‘Do you want a bag for that?’ asked Jimmy.

The doctor turned and headed for the door.

‘Hey, your change!’ The bell tinkled as the door opened and the doctor stepped out into the street. ‘Hey, mate, don’t forget your change!’ shouted Jimmy. The door banged shut and Jimmy cursed under his breath. He opened the till, put in the ten pounds and quickly counted out the change. He stepped out from behind the register and hurried over to the door. He pulled it open and looked down the street. The doctor was sitting on the pavement, his feet stretched out into the road. Jimmy opened his mouth but before he could say anything the doctor tilted back his head and began to drink from the orange bottle.

Harry Simpson was younger than Nightingale had expected. The voice on the phone had sounded like a man in his forties but the DI was barely out of his twenties, fresh-faced and a heavy mop of hair that he was forever flicking out of his eyes. He agreed to meet in the Magna Tandoori restaurant in the centre of the town, a short walk from the railway station. He was already there when Nightingale arrived, tucked away in a corner table. He stood up to shake hands, then looked cautiously over Nightingale’s shoulder. ‘If anyone sees us, you’re an old mate from London, passing through.’

‘Understood,’ said Nightingale.

‘I hope you do,’ said Simpson, sitting down. ‘I could get in real trouble talking to you.’

‘Trust me, I’m not that happy about having to schlep all the way up here on the train but I needed to talk to you.’ He had caught the 9 a.m. train from King’s Cross station and had arrived in Berwick just over three and a half hours later. Nightingale took off his raincoat. A waiter reached to take it away but Nightingale shook his head and put it over the back of his chair.

‘They’d put my balls in a vice if they found out I was talking to a private eye.’

‘I just want to run a few things by you,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m not looking for confidential information or anything that’ll breach the Data Protection Act.’

‘I’d have preferred to do it over the phone.’

‘What I’ve got to say, I thought you’d prefer it face to face. That way you know that nothing’s being recorded.’

‘I still don’t know that.’

Nightingale held out his hands. ‘You’re welcome to frisk me.’

Simpson grinned. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. What is it you want to tell me?’

‘I did a bit of work on the altar that you guys found in McBride’s farm. I checked the prints on a couple of items and they match McBride’s prints.’

‘That’s hardly surprising, is it?’

Another waiter came over. ‘Okay if I order?’ asked Simpson. ‘I’m a regular.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m a big fan of Indian.’

‘The chef’s from Bangladesh and he’s a diamond,’ said Simpson. He ordered several dishes and rice and two Kingfisher beers.

‘Here’s the thing,’ said Nightingale once the waiter was out of earshot. ‘I’m pretty sure that McBride had zero interest in Satanism. But the fact that his prints were on the altar means he must have set it up. Why would he do that?’

‘Because he was as mad as a hatter. The fact that he killed kids suggests that he wasn’t right in the head, don’t you think?’

‘He didn’t shoot like a madman,’ said Nightingale. ‘What he did was very cold and clinical.’

‘Sociopaths are cold and clinical.’ He frowned. ‘What do you mean, you checked the prints?’

‘I took a couple of things from the altar and ran them through a lab. McBride’s brother took me to the farm.’

‘You know he topped himself?’

‘You think he committed suicide? There was no note.’

‘Suicides don’t always leave notes,’ said Simpson. He stiffened. ‘How do you know there was no note?’

‘You don’t want to know,’ said Nightingale.

The detective leaned forward. ‘Actually I do,’ he said.

‘Let’s just leave it that I know,’ said Nightingale. ‘Are you on the case?’

‘There is no case. It’s a suicide.’

‘There’ll be a post mortem?’

‘I was there when they cut the body down,’ said Simpson. ‘There’s no confusion about cause of death.’

‘He wasn’t suicidal when I met him,’ said Nightingale. ‘Seemed happy enough, other than the fact that his brother had turned into a spree killer. Loved his family, and if he did have any money problems the death of his brother would have taken care of them. Plus he was driven to find out why his brother did what he did. None of that points to a man who would take his own life.’

‘Maybe insanity runs in the family.’

Nightingale smiled thinly. ‘Now that’s a glib statement if ever I heard one. I don’t think Danny McBride was mentally ill and I’ve seen nothing to suggest that his brother was either.’

‘Other than his killing spree.’ Their lagers arrived. The waiter poured the contents into two glasses.

‘You might want to take a closer look at McBride’s hanging,’ said Nightingale, after the waiter had gone. ‘But if Bernard Connolly’s on the case I’m guessing you won’t get much from the post mortem.’

Simpson frowned. ‘How do you know Connolly?’

‘He’s the coroner’s officer I spoke to. Not very helpful, I have to say.’

Simpson shook his head in amazement. ‘You haven’t been here long but you’ve certainly put yourself about,’ he said.

‘I wanted to ask about the post mortems of the kids who died at the school but he pretty much told me to mind my own beeswax.’

‘You can understand why,’ said Simpson. ‘It’s not like you’re in the job. But why were you asking questions about the post mortems?’

‘I wanted to know if there were signs of sexual abuse.’

Simpson’s eyebrows shot skyward. ‘What? Where the hell did that come from?’

‘The kids that he shot were all from single-parent families.’

‘So? Half of all marriages end in divorce these days.’

‘I know that, but all the kids that were shot were missing a parent. Not half. Not three-quarters. All.’

‘And you think McBride shot them because of that?’

‘I don’t think the killings were random. He moved from classroom to classroom. He only shot the one teacher. Simon Etchells, the deputy headmaster. He could have shot other teachers but he didn’t. He could have shot at the cops, but he didn’t. It looks to me that it was all planned and his targets were pre-selected.’

‘And having decided to shoot specific children, he set out to make it look as if he was doing it because he was some sort of devil-worshipper?’

‘He was using that as a distraction, yes. And he must have had help because he didn’t have internet access at his home, so someone else must have loaded the Satanic stuff onto his computer.’