Stephen Leather: Nightshade

Sergeant Rawlings went over to the body, picked up the shotgun and broke it open, ejecting the cartridges and placing it back on the ground. ‘Weapon is clear.’

‘Let control know what’s happened,’ said Chisholm. ‘Tell them to send SOCO in.’

Sampson dropped down onto his knees and threw up again. The sergeant went over to three officers who were standing around one of the boys that had been shot. Ricky Gray was crying silently as he stared down at the body. The sergeant put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Back outside, Ricky,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more for us to do here.’

‘Why would anyone kill a kid?’

‘Who knows?’ said Chisholm. ‘Come on, outside.’ Rawlings walked over to the second boy but even from a distance it was obvious that he was stone cold dead.

The officer shook away the sergeant’s hand. He was still holding his carbine, his finger inside the trigger guard.

‘Stand down, Ricky. Come on.’

‘Fucking bastard!’ The officer turned on his heel and walked across the gym to the dead man. It looked as if he was about to shoot the corpse but instead he drew back his right leg and began to violently kick the body, cursing and swearing with every blow.

Chisholm hurried over and grabbed Ricky’s arm. He pulled him away from the body. ‘Get a fucking grip, will you. That body’s got to be post mortemed and there’ll be hell to pay if it’s black and blue.’

‘He shot kids. Who the fuck walks around a school shooting kids?’

‘Pull yourself together, Ricky. If the top brass see you like this you’ll be off the squad.’

Ricky nodded and took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘Okay.’

The sergeant released his grip on the officer’s arm and jerked a thumb at the door. ‘Get back to the vehicle and take a chill pill. The day you start making it personal is the day when you go back on the beat. Got it?’

‘Got it, sir.’ He headed out of the door, passing two uniformed officers. One was a superintendent. Chisholm looked down at the body of the shooter and had to fight the urge to kick it. Ricky had been wrong to lose his temper but what he’d said was bang on. What sort of nutter would walk around a school shooting kids?

The superintendent walked up to Chisholm and nodded curtly. ‘Are you and your men okay?’ he asked.

Chisholm appreciated the concern and nodded. ‘All good. No shots fired.’

The superintendent smiled tightly. ‘Thank heaven for small mercies,’ he said. ‘The way the press is just now they’d be trying to make it out that we shot the kids.’ He grimaced. ‘This is a mess.’ He gestured at the shooter’s body. Blood was still pooling around it. ‘Any idea who he is?’

Chisholm shook his head. ‘Looks like a farmer.’

‘Did he say anything before he topped himself?’

‘Something about it being all right and there was no need for it.’

The superintendent frowned. ‘Need for what?’

‘I think he meant there was no need for us to shoot him because he was going to do it himself.’

The superintendent sighed. ‘Why didn’t he do that in the first place? Why kill the kids? I’d understand it if he was looking for suicide by cop, but if he was planning to kill himself anyway he could have done us all a favour and thrown himself under a train.’

Chisholm scratched his neck. ‘CID been informed?’

‘Yes, but taking their own sweet time, as usual.’ The superintendent looked at his watch. ‘SOCO are on their way, too.’ He looked around the gym, flinching at the bodies of the two children. ‘My kids are about their age,’ he said. ‘Why would anyone do that?’

Chisholm didn’t say anything. He knew that the question was rhetorical.

The superintendent noticed the vomit on the floor. ‘What happened there?’

‘Young Neil. I sent him outside.’

The superintendent squared his shoulders. ‘Right, keep this area secure until SOCO get here. I’ll be outside, the press’ll be over us like a rash.’

On Thursday, three days after the shootings in Berwick, the case came knocking on Jack Nightingale’s door. He had his feet up on his desk with a copy of the Sun in his lap when Jenny told him there was a client on the way up. Nightingale frowned. ‘There wasn’t anything in the diary.’

‘There’s nothing in the diary except blank pages,’ said Jenny. ‘And your only pressing task is the Sun ’s Sudoku.’

‘For your information I’ve finished the Sudoku, I’m on the crossword now. What’s his name?’

‘He didn’t give me his name. He said he’d explain when he got here.’

‘He could be a nutter.’

‘Nutters don’t tend to phone first,’ she said.

‘Did he say what he wanted?’

‘He said it was a case but he wanted to talk to you in person. He sounded all right, Jack. No need to get paranoid.’

‘Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me,’ he said.

‘Who?’

Nightingale grinned. ‘I was joking,’ he said. They heard the door to the outer office open. ‘Frisk him first, though, just to be on the safe side.’

Jenny shook her head and went to greet the visitor. Nightingale heard muffled voices, then Jenny showed a middle-aged man in a dark blazer into the room. He was grey-haired, tall and thin, with the bearing of a former soldier. He had a slight limp and had a walking stick in his left hand. He extended his right hand and flashed Nightingale a tight smile. ‘My name’s McBride. Danny McBride.’

Nightingale shook the man’s hand and waved him to a chair.

‘Would you like a tea or a coffee?’ asked Jenny. McBride smiled and shook his head and Jenny left the room, closing the door behind her.

‘How can I help you, Mr McBride?’ asked Nightingale.

‘I’m sure you heard about the children who died up in Berwick,’ he said.

‘The ones that were shot by that psycho?’ said Nightingale. ‘Of course.’

McBride nodded. ‘That psycho was my brother. James. Jimmy.’

Nightingale frowned. He wasn’t sure what to say. ‘Sorry for your loss?’ didn’t seem appropriate.

McBride took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘I want you to find out what happened,’ he said. ‘I know what the police think, and I read what was in all the papers. But I want to know the truth, Mr Nightingale. I want to know what happened.’

Nightingale ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ he said. ‘The case was closed. Your brother shot the children and then killed himself, didn’t he?’

McBride nodded.

‘So it was what the police call murder-suicide. An open and shut case.’

‘I don’t think anyone knows the real reason my brother did what he did. I want someone impartial to look into it. Someone who can look into it with an open mind.’

‘You think the police got it wrong?’

McBride shrugged. ‘I’m not sure what to think. But he was a quiet man, always kept himself to himself. Spent most of the time working on his farm. But he wasn’t a bad man, Mr Nightingale.’

‘But you believe your brother killed those children?’

‘There’s no doubt about that, is there? He shot himself in the gym. The school had CCTV and there’s footage of him with the gun.’

‘So what is it you want me to do? Nothing I can find out is going to change things. Those children are dead and your brother killed them.’

‘I want to know why, Mr Nightingale. My brother loved kids. He was always great with my sons.’

Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘How old are your boys, Mr McBride?’

McBride’s eyes hardened a fraction. ‘Ten and eight,’ he said quietly.