Nightshade

40

Nightingale phoned Danny McBride as he grabbed a coffee at Heathrow Terminal 1 and arranged to meet him at the farm later that day. He flew to Edinburgh, picked up a rental car and drove to the Northumberland coroner’s office in Church Street. He managed to find a parking space close by and smoked a cigarette at the main entrance before going inside.

The coroner’s officer who agreed to see him was a police sergeant by the name of Bernard Connolly. He gave him a business card and sat back and studied Nightingale with unblinking grey eyes. ‘Can I ask what your interest is in the case, Mr Nightingale?’ he said.

‘I’m representing a client who wants to know the background to the shootings.’

‘I don’t suppose you’d tell me who that client is?’

Nightingale smiled thinly. ‘That would be covered by client confidentiality,’ he said.

‘It would if you were a doctor or a lawyer, but gumshoes don’t have that sort of protection.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before,’ said Nightingale.

The policeman smiled. ‘Gumshoe? I’m a big fan of Elmore Leonard. But I can assure you, Mr Nightingale, there’s no mystery here. It’s as open and shut a case as I’ve ever seen. Mr McBride took his shotgun, for which he had a licence, and used it to kill a teacher and eight children. Then he took his own life.’

‘There’ll be an inquest, of course?’

‘Of course. But there won’t be any surprises, I can assure you of that.’ He tapped a gold fountain pen on an open notepad. ‘So assuming that client confidentiality doesn’t apply, who are you working for?’

‘I’d rather not say.’

‘I’m guessing a family member,’ said the policeman. ‘Probably someone who stands to gain from the will.’ He sat back in his chair and fixed Nightingale with a deceptively bored gaze. ‘Suicide, you see. That would negate any life insurance McBride had taken out.’

‘Only if it was a recent policy,’ said Nightingale.

‘So it is a family member? The brother, I suppose.’

Nightingale tried to keep his face impassive. ‘I really can’t say.’

‘You’re not a poker player, are you, Mr Nightingale?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because you’ve got a tell, that’s why.’

‘A tell?’

‘A tell. It shows when you’re bluffing.’

Nightingale smiled amiably. The policeman was pulling one of the oldest tricks in the interrogator’s handbook, trying to unsettle him. ‘I just need some information on the post mortems that have been carried out on the victims of the school shootings.’

‘Those details will be revealed at the inquest.’

‘I understand that,’ said Nightingale. ‘But can you at least tell me if there are any signs of sexual abuse?’

The policeman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Sexual abuse?’

‘It would be apparent enough in the post mortem. Did the pathologist mention it?’

The policeman tapped his pen on his notepad as he continued to stare at Nightingale.

‘It’s a reasonable question to ask,’ said Nightingale.

‘I’m not sure that it is,’ said the policeman. ‘It’s bad enough that eight children have died, why would you want to start a rumour like that? How do you think the parents would feel?’

‘I think the parents deserve to know the truth,’ said Nightingale. ‘And really, isn’t that the purpose of an inquest? To get the truth out there?’

‘The purpose of an inquest is to determine the cause of death,’ said the policeman. ‘And that’s pretty much a foregone conclusion.’

‘But what about motive? Why did McBride kill those children?’

‘Because the balance of his mind was disturbed. Or as the tabloids will no doubt put it, he was as mad as a hatter. But again that’s a matter for the inquest.’

‘He didn’t behave like a madman,’ said Nightingale. ‘He seemed organised. Restrained even. He only killed eight when he could have killed a lot more.’

‘What are you saying, Mr Nightingale? Are you saying that you wish he’d killed more?’

‘Of course not. But I’m not convinced he was mad.’

‘And if you were to prove that the children were abused, that would make him less of a madman?’

‘It would help explain why he did what he did.’

‘And what has put this idea in your head, Mr Nightingale?’

‘It’s just a line of inquiry,’ said Nightingale. ‘You remember the Dunblane massacre back in 1996?’

‘Of course. But what does that have to do with us here in Berwick?’

‘The killer up in Dunblane was Thomas Hamilton. There were reports that he’d been involved in inappropriate behaviour with children. He was a Scout leader and worked in youth clubs and he lost his job after complaints that he had been taking semi-naked photographs of some of the boys. He made boys sleep with him in tents on camping trips, that sort of thing.’

‘I don’t see where this is heading, frankly.’

‘The shootings came shortly after he failed to set up a new youth club. I was wondering if there was something similar driving Mr McBride.’

The policeman frowned. ‘You have evidence that he was abusing children?’

‘That’s why I’ve come to see you. If any of the children had been abused, it would show up in the post mortem.’

The policeman put down his pen and linked his fingers. ‘Well, I can assure you that the children were not sexually abused in any way.’

‘Can I see the pathologist’s reports?’

The policeman stared at Nightingale for several seconds. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘I would be in breach of the Data Protection Act if I were to do that. The reports will be made public at the inquest and not before. But I can tell you, off the record and on a totally non-attributable basis, that none of the children had been abused.’

Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘Okay,’ he said. He wondered if the coroner’s officer was also a poker player and if the pulsing vein in his forehead was a sign that he was lying. Nightingale would have been prepared to bet that it was. But he didn’t say anything, he just thanked the man, shook his hand and left the office.

He waited until he was outside before he called Jenny on her mobile and filled her in on what happened. ‘Now what?’ she said.

‘I’m going to go to the farm to get a sample of McBride’s prints. I’ve arranged to meet the brother there.’

‘When you do see him, you might think about running some expenses by him,’ said Jenny. ‘Be nice if we could get some money for your travelling and the lab.’

‘Will do,’ said Nightingale.

‘You’ll still make the afternoon flight?’

‘That’s the plan,’ said Nightingale.