Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘I’ll stick with taxis, thanks. Which you’ll pay for. I’ll get a hotel fixed up for you. When are you going up?’

‘Might as well go tomorrow, strike while the iron’s hot. Come on, the office can do without you for one day. The answer machine will be on.’

‘No can do. I’m at my parents at the weekend.’

‘Hunting, shooting and fishing?’ Jenny’s parents owned a huge estate outside Norfolk.

‘Eating, walking and napping is what I had planned,’ said Jenny. ‘Plus I’ve a mountain of reading I want to catch up on. I’ve got Jodi Picoult’s new one and I’m dying to get stuck into it.’

‘Is your Uncle Marcus going to be there?’

‘No. Why do you keep asking about him?’

‘Do I?’

‘Every time I say I’m going home.’

‘Well, forgive me for expressing an interest in your personal life. Anyway, chick lit trumps a nice drive up to bonnie Scotland, does it?’

‘I think you’ll find that Berwick is in England,’ she said. ‘How long do you think you’ll be there?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you think you’ll be back on Saturday? Or Sunday?’

‘Doubt I’ll be able to get much done on a Saturday,’ he said. ‘I’ll fly up first thing tomorrow and come back Saturday. Evening maybe.’

‘I’ll book your flights and hotel,’ she said. ‘Edinburgh’ll probably work best. And I’ll arrange a hire car at the airport. I’ll get the postcode of the farm so I can get the car people to pre-programme the sat-nav for you.’

‘I’m not completely helpless,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’ll be safer,’ said Jenny. ‘That way I won’t have to deal with an “I’m lost” phone call when I’m stuck in to Jodi Picoult.’

‘Oh ye of little faith.’

‘I have faith, Jack. Just not in your navigation skills.’

Nightingale arrived at Heathrow airport at ten o’clock on Friday morning, which gave him more than enough time to check in, pass through security and grab a coffee. As he sat in the cafe surrounded by suited businessmen tapping away on laptops and BlackBerrys, he phoned Robbie Hoyle. Robbie was one of the few serving officers who’d stayed in touch with him when he’d left the force, but he was more than just a former colleague — he was a friend, and a good one.

Robbie was at his desk when he answered and he told Nightingale that he’d call him right back. Two minutes later Nightingale’s phone rang and from the sound of the echo he figured Robbie had moved to the toilets. ‘I guess I’m still persona non grata,’ said Nightingale.

Robbie laughed. ‘Mate, whenever you call you want something so I need to be away from prying ears.’

‘That’s not true. I’m always calling you for a chat. How’s Anna?’

‘Anna’s great.’

‘The kids?’

‘All great. You’re coming for dinner week after next, right? Wednesday?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s in my diary. I wouldn’t miss Anna’s cooking for the world. Look mate, I need a favour.’

Robbie laughed. ‘See.’

‘Okay, I need a favour this time but that’s not the only reason I call you.’

‘Stop digging, Jack, the hole’s deep enough as it is. What do you want?’

‘Do you have any contacts up in Northumbria? Berwick?’

‘What sort of contacts?’

‘I’m heading up there as we speak. Remember that farmer who took potshots at schoolkids?’

‘Sure. He topped himself before the armed cops got there, right?’

‘Yeah, well, the brother’s hired me.’

‘To do what?’

‘To find out what happened. He accepts that his brother killed the kids, he just wants to know why.’ Nightingale realised that a woman in a black suit was looking at him over the top of her spectacles. He covered his mouth with his hand. ‘Do you know anyone who might be able to give me any pointers?’

‘Not off the top of my head, but let me ask around.’

Nightingale thanked him, ended the call, and finished his coffee. The flight was full, mainly with businessmen who spent the flight tapping away on BlackBerrys and laptops. Jenny had booked him a window seat and Nightingale spent the hour in the air working on the Sun ’s Sudoku. He had almost finished it when the plane’s wheels touched the runway.

As Nightingale waited in line to collect his rental car, a young girl was being abducted at the other end of the country. Bella Harper was nine years old and she had been wandering around a shopping centre with her mother. Mrs Harper had only taken her eyes off her daughter for a few minutes but it had been long enough. Bella’s abductor was a woman and she had enticed Bella out of the store by telling her that her mother had fallen ill and had been taken to a first aid room. Once out of the store the woman was joined by a man, and together they took Bella to a van in the multi-storey car park. It was only as they approached the van that Bella realised something was wrong, but it was too late. The woman pressed a damp cloth over her face and Bella lost consciousness before she was bundled into the back of the van.

As Nightingale started the engine of his rented Vauxhall Insignia, Bella was being driven towards the house where she would spend the next three days. The man driving the van had abducted young girls before and had honed his technique to a fine art. Bella was bound and gagged and lying under a tarpaulin in the back of the van. The house he was taking her to had been well prepared. There was food and clean clothing for the girl, and DVDs to keep her occupied when he wasn’t attending to her. And there were large black plastic bags to wrap her in when he’d finished playing with her and a spade to dig the hole in the New Forest where he planned to bury her.

Bella was the fifth child that the man and his girlfriend had abducted. The previous four were all dead and buried. They had never even come close to being caught, and the man doubted that they ever would. It was all about the planning.

As the van drove into the garage and the woman pulled down the door to shield them from prying eyes, Nightingale was driving south to Jimmy McBride’s farm. Jenny had been as good as her word — the car rental people had pre-programmed the location into his sat-nav and a female voice that always sounded slightly disapproving directed him to his destination.

He crossed from Scotland into England with no fanfare or change in scenery, and shortly after three o’clock he pulled up at a five-bar gate next to which was a sign that read ‘Three Hill Farm’. There was a grey Peugeot parked next to the barbed wire fence and the driver climbed out. It was McBride’s brother, wearing a tweed cap and Barbour jacket. He shook hands with Nightingale and thanked him for coming. He took a set of keys from his coat pocket and unlocked the padlock on the gate. He pushed it open and the two men drove down to the farm buildings. There was a large stone farmhouse with a steeply sloping slate roof, a two-storey corrugated iron barn streaked with red from rusting bolts, and a large white silo with the look of a stubby intercontinental ballistic missile.

McBride parked his Peugeot in front of the farmhouse. Nightingale pulled up next to him and climbed out. ‘There’s no one here?’ he asked McBride. A black and white cat was sitting at the front door of the farmhouse and it mewed hopefully at the two men.

‘My brother worked the farm on his own,’ said McBride. ‘He used contract labour when he needed it but other than that he was here alone.’

There were two dull bangs off in the distance and Nightingale flinched. McBride smiled. ‘Shotgun,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a farmer taking care of rabbits or crows. You hear them all the time out here.’