Nightshade

11

Nightingale spent the best part of four hours searching the farmhouse, from a dusty attic filled with old furniture and long-forgotten clothes and odds and ends, down through all the rooms and ending up in a cold damp basement which contained a fridge-freezer full of pork and lamb, presumably from the farm’s stock. But at no point did he find anything that gave a clue to Jimmy McBride’s state of mind or suggested that he was in any way interested in Satanism. There was something disconcerting about the bedrooms. The main bedroom with an en-suite bathroom had obviously belonged to the parents – their clothes were still in the wardrobes and there were bottles of make-up and perfume on an old oak dressing table. The bedroom where Danny McBride had slept had posters of rock groups and racing cars on the walls and fishing tackle in one corner, and Nightingale found a collection of dirty magazines at the bottom of a chest of drawers that was still full of underwear, socks and T-shirts.

McBride’s own bedroom was a throwback to the fifties, with heavy dark wood furniture and more watercolours on the walls. On a bedside cabinet there was a copy of Farmer’s Weekly, next to a framed photograph of a middle-aged man wearing thick-framed spectacles and a flat cap, a stocky woman with tightly permed hair and two young boys grinning at the camera. The McBride family.

Nightingale went through every cupboard, every wardrobe, lifted the carpets and checked behind every picture. He checked the toilet cisterns and looked for loose floorboards. He found nothing that suggested McBride was anything other than a hard-working farmer, albeit one with a limited social life.

After he’d finished searching the basement he went upstairs to the kitchen, where the brother was sitting at the table nursing a mug of coffee. He was staring out of the window at the yard and he turned to look at Nightingale. ‘I made a coffee, do you want one?’ he asked.

‘I’m okay,’ said Nightingale, sitting down at the table.

‘Find anything?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Not a blind thing. Who’s looking after the livestock?’

‘I’ve brought in a contractor from Sunderland,’ said McBride. ‘None of the neighbours wanted to help, not after what Jimmy did.’ He shrugged. ‘Can’t blame them, I suppose.’

‘You’re going to sell it?’

‘I’m going to have to,’ said McBride. ‘I can’t see how me or my family can stay in the area, not after this.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘It’s not as if I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘If it had been my kids who had been killed, I’d never forgive anyone connected to the killer. You just can’t, can you? Every time you saw them you’d remember what happened, it’d be like rubbing salt into the wound.’

‘It’s a nightmare, I know. In a way your brother has it easy. He’s dead, he’s out of it.’

McBride nodded. ‘It’s my kids I feel sorry for. They’re going to carry it with them for the rest of their lives, that their uncle was a mass murderer.’ He sipped his coffee.

‘The policeman who took away your brother’s computer. Have you got a number for him?’

‘I’ve got his card, I think.’ He fished in his wallet and took out a Northumbria Police business card. He gave it to Nightingale. ‘What’s next?’

‘I’ll try to see this guy and see if I can get the computer back. I’m hoping to get a contact in the police who’ll give me some background info. And tomorrow I’ll see if I can get a look at the school. I’m heading back to London tomorrow and I’ll get a lab to check the blood on the crucible and knife.’

‘What do you think, Mr Nightingale? You’ve seen the house, you’ve seen what’s in the barn. What do you think drove my brother to kill those children?’

‘I don’t know, Mr McBride. I’ll have a better idea by tomorrow.’

As it turned out, Inspector Colin Stevenson was considerably less forthcoming than Nightingale had hoped. He was a big man with a double chin and a gut that suggested a fondness for beer. He was clearly unhappy at having Nightingale in his office on a Friday afternoon. He sneered at Nightingale’s business card and then tossed it onto his desk. The detective’s office was a small cubby-hole with a window overlooking the police station’s car park. ‘So why does Mr McBride need a private detective?’ he asked.

‘There’s a few questions about the case that he would like answering,’ said Nightingale.

‘We’ve been more than happy to communicate with Mr McBride,’ said the detective. ‘But to be fair, I don’t see that there are any questions that need answering. His brother took his shotgun and killed a teacher and eight children in cold blood and then he turned his gun on himself.’ He shrugged. ‘Case closed.’

‘Mr McBride would like to have his brother’s computer returned.’

‘Why?’

Nightingale frowned. ‘Why? If the case is closed then it’s no longer evidence.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said the inspector.

‘Well now, that’s not strictly true, is it?’ said Nightingale. ‘You’re not a judge. You’re an investigating officer.’

‘But I’ll be the one who decides when something is no longer evidence.’ He folded his arms defensively. ‘That computer is staying where it is.’

‘Like you said, the case is closed. Why do you need it?’

‘The inquest has yet to be heard,’ said the inspector. ‘What’s on the computer shows the state of his mind.’

‘Which is?’

The detective smiled thinly. ‘I’m not a psychiatrist,’ he said.

Nightingale smiled amiably. ‘Okay, how about this? It says in the papers that you found evidence of Mr McBride visiting various Satanic websites.’

‘I can’t comment on that.’

‘You already have. Or someone from your office has. It was all over the papers.’ Nightingale was finding it hard to keep smiling.

‘That may be so, but under the Data Protection Act I can’t reveal any details of what might or might not be on his computer.’

‘But you found Satanic stuff on the computer?’

‘I can’t comment on that.’

‘The papers said that McBride had visited various Satanic websites and was researching devil-worship.’

The detective shrugged carelessly. ‘Again, I can’t comment on that.’

‘Someone doesn’t appear to have had any problems talking to the press.’

‘What the papers choose to publish is nothing to do with me,’ said the detective. He looked at his watch. ‘I think I’ve given you more than enough of my time, Mr Nightingale.’

‘Then I’d better cut to the chase,’ said Nightingale. ‘The press have been told that McBride’s computer was full of Satanic stuff and that he’d been visiting websites dealing with devil-worship and child sacrifice.’

‘That’s nothing to do with the police,’ said the inspector flatly, and he looked at his watch again.

‘No, but when you put that together with the Satanic altar in the barn, it gives the impression that McBride was some sort of devil-worshipping nutter, doesn’t it?’

The inspector put up his hands. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ he said.

‘Here’s the thing,’ said Nightingale. ‘McBride didn’t have an internet connection. He wasn’t visiting any websites. He didn’t even have access to email.’

The inspector’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s a router in the farmhouse. I saw it myself.’

‘There is indeed. But it’s never been connected. His brother bought it for him last year but McBride never got around to having it connected.’

The colour seemed to have drained from the policeman’s face.

‘So you can see why my client’s a tad confused,’ said Nightingale. ‘There’s no internet connection at the farm but you’re telling the Press that he was prowling through the web and Googling “human sacrifice” and downloading all sorts of crap onto his computer, but I think you know as well as I do that didn’t happen.’ Nightingale stood up. ‘Anyway, I’ve taken up more than enough of your valuable time.’

‘I’d be careful, if I were you,’ said Stevenson.

‘Yeah? In what way?’

‘Making accusations like you have been, that could come back and bite you in the arse.’ Nightingale took his cigarettes and slid one between his lips. ‘You can’t smoke in here,’ said Stevenson.

Nightingale ignored him and walked out of the office. He waited until he was outside the building before lighting a cigarette. As he blew smoke up at the leaden sky, he saw Stevenson looking down at him, a contemptuous sneer on his face. Nightingale smiled up at the detective. ‘Oh well, can’t win them all,’ Nightingale muttered to himself.