Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘This is making my head hurt, Nightingale. Just exactly what do you think is going on?’

‘At the moment I’m not sure. That’s why I’m here. I’m not sure what I’ve got into, but I was attacked last night.’

‘Attacked?’

‘Two guys came at me in my flat. One of them was carrying a length of rope.’

‘Rope?’

‘I think they were planning on hanging me.’

‘What happened?’

‘I ran like the wind, that’s what happened.’

‘And you think there’s a connection with the waves you’ve been making up here?’

‘I think the rope is the clue.’ He fumbled in his raincoat pocket and pulled out a handful of printouts of pictures he’d taken of the men leaving his building. He gave them to Simpson and the policeman studied them. He scratched his nose. ‘They’re not very clear.’

‘Yeah, well I’m not a professional photographer and they were moving fast.’ The policeman held up two photographs, the first ones Nightingale had taken as the two men came out of the bedroom. ‘Ski masks?’

‘Yeah.’

‘They were coming at you with a knife and you took their picture?’

‘It was dark. I figured the flash would blind them, give me enough time to get out. It worked, as it happens.’

‘And you think they were from Berwick?’

He tried to hand the pictures back to Nightingale but Nightingale shook his head. ‘Keep them,’ he said. ‘You might recognise someone down the line. I don’t know if they’re from here or not. They might be from London but someone here could have paid them.’

‘To what? To kill you? That’s one hell of a stretch, isn’t it?’

‘They were in my flat. They waited for me to come back. So it wasn’t about robbery.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Not that I had much to steal.’

‘So why do you think they turned over your flat?’

‘Looking for the things I took from the altar, maybe. Or covering up for what they planned to do.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They brought some rope with them. I figure I was going to join the list of suicides.’ Nightingale shrugged. ‘I don’t know, maybe I’m getting paranoid in my old age. But just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me.’

Two waiters arrived with their food and they spread it out across the table. Chicken tikka masala, prawn dansak, lamb jalfrezi, aloo gobi and saag bhaji. Simpson folded the printouts and slipped them into his jacket pocket. Nightingale helped himself to rice and waited until the waiters had gone before continuing.

‘I need your help, Harry. The two cops I’ve spoken to up here haven’t been helpful.’

‘Who else did you speak to?’

‘The guy who has McBride’s computer. Colin Stevenson.’

Simpson nodded. ‘Yeah, I know him.’

‘Someone leaked the Satanic website thing to the press and I think it might have been him.’

‘You want to be careful throwing around allegations like that.’

‘I’m not throwing allegations around, I’m just mentioning it to you. Like I said, McBride didn’t have an internet connection at his house, which means that he couldn’t have visited those websites. Stevenson says that he did and the press got hold of the fact in double quick time. I’m happy to be proved wrong, but it looks to me like Stevenson might have another agenda.’

‘Like what?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Seems to me there’s a lot you don’t know.’ Simpson tore off a chunk of naan bread and dipped it into the dansak.

‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you,’ said Nightingale. ‘Stevenson and Connolly might be more forthcoming with you.’

‘You want me to spy for you? That’s not going to happen.’

‘You’re on the case, right? Don’t you want to know what really happened?’

‘We know what happened. James McBride took his shotgun and killed eight children and a teacher, then he took his own life.’

‘But what if he was being used? What if there was someone behind him?’

‘Behind him? What do you mean?’

‘Someone put the Satanic stuff on his computer. I think they did that to hide the real reason for the killings. I’d have thought that you might want to know what that reason was.’

‘Why are you so interested? Your client is dead, right?’

‘He paid in advance,’ said Nightingale. ‘But this isn’t about money. It’s about getting at the truth.’

Simpson sipped his lager slowly as he thought about what Nightingale had said. ‘What specifically do you want from me?’ he said, putting down his glass.

‘I’d like to know if there was anything off about Etchells. The teacher that was killed.’

‘Off in what way?’

‘McBride shot him point blank in the playground. He didn’t have to. If he’d made any sort of threatening gesture with the shotgun, Etchells would have folded. All McBride had to do was point the gun at him. He didn’t need to pull the trigger. And when he went to the classrooms, he didn’t shoot the teachers. He chose to kill Etchells and I want to know why.’

Simpson pulled a face. ‘I haven’t heard anything.’

‘No, but you probably weren’t looking. He was a victim. Same as the pupils. You don’t look at victims in the same way as you look at the perpetrator.’

‘Okay, I can do that.’

‘And I’d really like to know why Colin Stevenson has been so uncooperative.’

Simpson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you suggesting he’s bad? Because there’s no way I’m getting dragged into a Professional Standards investigation.’

‘Someone put that Satanic stuff on McBride’s hard drive and leaked it to the press. Whoever it was must have done it for a reason.’

‘And you think it was Stevenson?’

‘He’s the only name I’ve got.’

Simpson put down his fork. ‘If I get caught sniffing around a fellow cop I could blow my career.’

‘What sort of cop is he?’

‘Close to retirement. He’ll be gone in a couple of years. He’s like a lot of old school detectives, he’s seen the job change and it’s not changed for the better. You know what it’s like, right? We get shafted by the politicians, our pay and pensions are attacked, the CPS and the courts let us down every day of the week and the public hates us.’ He shrugged. ‘Welcome to the new millennium.’

‘I know it isn’t easy being a copper. It never has been. But eight kids died and I want to know why.’

Simpson nodded slowly. ‘Okay. I’ll put out a few feelers. But I’m not promising anything.’

‘That’s cool.’

‘And we’re splitting this bill, fifty-fifty.’

‘Which is also cool,’ said Nightingale. ‘Two more Kingfishers?’

Sandra Harper ruffled her daughter’s hair. ‘What do you want to eat, honey?’ Bella was sitting in front of the television wearing her favourite Barbie pyjamas. The doctors had discharged her first thing in the morning and as soon as they’d got home she had retreated to the sofa. Bella shrugged and kept her eyes on the television. ‘I’m okay.’

‘Are you sure? Pizza Hut? KFC? Burger King? Your dad can drive and get you whatever you want.’

‘I’m not hungry, Mum.’

‘Tomorrow’s Saturday, do you want to go to the pictures? It’s been ages since we saw a film together. We could go with Grandma and Granddad. Make it a family day out?’

Bella shrugged but didn’t say anything.

Sandra sat down next to her daughter. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Don’t worry. I’m fine.’ She continued to stare at the television.

‘What are you watching?’

‘A documentary on the Holocaust.’

‘The Holocaust? Why on earth are you watching that?’