Midnight: The Second Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (23 page)

50

N
ightingale ran down the hall, his heart pounding. Jenny was standing in the bedroom, looking through into the bathroom, her hands either side of her face.

‘What is it?’ asked Nightingale.

Jenny took a step back and pointed at the bathroom with her right hand. The colour had drained from her face and her eyes were wide and staring.

Nightingale put his arm around her. He could feel her trembling. ‘Jenny?’

She opened her mouth but no words came out. Nightingale reached forward with his left hand and gently pushed the bathroom door.

Mrs Monkton was on her knees by the bath. Her head was underwater, her blonde hair floating on the surface, rippling in the waves caused by the two rivers of water pouring from the taps. The water had turned red but Nightingale couldn’t see where the blood was coming from. He guided Jenny over to the bed and sat her down. She stared at him with unseeing eyes.

Nightingale went back to the bathroom. The red water was edging up to the top of the bath and he moved to turn off the taps, but froze as he saw the body sitting on the toilet.

It was Mr Monkton, some forty years older than in the wedding photograph on the mantelpiece and a great deal deader. There was a gaping wound in his throat and a curtain of blood that glistened wetly across the green pullover that he was wearing. His right hand dangled at his side and below it on the tiled floor was a carving knife, the blade smeared with blood.

‘Jack?’ said Jenny from the bedroom.

‘It’s okay, stay where you are,’ he said.

He turned off the taps just as water cascaded over the edge of the bath and pooled on the floor. As he straightened up he looked into the shower cubicle. Across the side of the cubicle, written in bloody capital letters, were eight words:

YOUR SISTER IS GOING TO HELL,

JACK NIGHTINGALE.

He took a step back, slipped on the wet tiles, and fell against the wall. He lost his balance and fell to the floor, where he lay cursing. As he picked himself up he found himself looking at the murdered man’s face. The eyes were open and the upper lip was curled back in a snarl.

Nightingale stood up, wiping his gloves on his raincoat. He went back into the bedroom, where Jenny was still sitting on the bed, her hands covering her mouth.

‘Easy, honey,’ he said. ‘It’s okay.’

‘How is this okay, Jack?’ she whispered. ‘How is this even close to okay?’

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said.

‘We can’t. We have to call the police.’

‘And say that I’ve been at yet another murder-suicide?’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s one can of worms I don’t want opened.’ Jenny began to shake and Nightingale sat down and held her tightly. ‘You’re in shock,’ he said.

‘Damn right I’m in shock,’ she hissed. She frowned. ‘What do you mean, murder-suicide?’

Nightingale nodded at the bathroom door. ‘The husband’s in there. He slit his own throat. I guess he killed his wife and then topped himself.’

‘What?’

Nightingale stood up and held out his hand. ‘Let’s go, Jenny. We can talk about this somewhere else. You were right – we shouldn’t be here. Come on.’

‘We have to tell someone,’ said Jenny.

‘Look, remember what happened when the cops got me for the woman in Abersoch? And my aunt and uncle? This is going to be the last straw.’

‘Why’s this happening, Jack?’ asked Jenny.

Nightingale sat down on the bed again. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Your uncle killed your aunt and then killed himself. And now your sister’s father has done the same damn thing. That can’t be a coincidence.’

‘I guess not.’ Nightingale wanted a cigarette but he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to smoke in the Monktons’ house.

‘You don’t have to guess,’ she said. ‘Someone didn’t want you to talk to them. Someone or something.’

‘We have to go, Jenny.’

Jenny shook her head. ‘No, this time we have to face up to what’s happened. We should call the police and tell them everything.’

‘They won’t believe anything we tell them,’ said Nightingale. ‘There are just too many bodies piling up. We have to leave and we have to leave now. This is nothing to do with us.’

Jenny glared at him. ‘It’s everything to do with us,’ she said. ‘They’re dead because you came to see them.’

‘You don’t know that,’ said Nightingale, though even as the words left his mouth he knew she was right. Somehow someone had known he was coming – why else would the message be on the shower cubicle?

‘If we stay, the cops are going to think it was me, Jenny.’

‘I was with you. The police’ll be able to tell when they died and I’ll be able to say you were with me when it happened.’

‘But that’ll take time and they’ll keep us both locked up until they know for sure, and even then they’ll add it to the long list of things they think I did. We don’t need the hassle. Trust me. I used to be a cop, I know how they work. They go for the easy option and that’s what I am. The easy bloody option.’ He put his face up close to hers. ‘Jenny, we have to get away from here. Now. Okay?’

She nodded slowly. There were tears in her eyes. ‘Okay,’ she said. She stood up and headed for the door but Nightingale stayed where he was. ‘Are you coming?’ she asked.

‘Wait for me in the car, kid,’ he said.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I just want a quick look around,’ he said.

‘Jack, there are dead bodies in the bathroom.’

‘If I don’t do it now, I’ll never get the chance,’ said Nightingale. ‘Once the bodies are discovered the cops will be all over the place. Did you touch anything?’

‘Why?’

‘Fingerprints. I’ll have to wipe down anything you touched.’

‘Jack . . .’

‘Did you touch anything?’

She shook her head and wiped her eyes.

Nightingale pointed at the door. ‘I won’t be long, I promise,’ he said. ‘Get in the car but don’t start the engine.’

Jenny went out and Nightingale hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a roll of kitchen towel. He wiped clean anything that Jenny might have touched and wiped the bloody letters off the shower cubicle, then went through to the sitting room. He stood in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips as he consciously slowed down his breathing. He wasn’t sure what it was he wanted, but knew that somewhere among their belongings there must be something that would give him a clue to what had happened to their adopted daughter.

The chat show was still on the television. Nightingale picked up the remote and turned the set off. He looked at the wedding photograph on the mantelpiece. There were no pictures of their daughter anywhere in the house. He thought back to his own home, when he was a child. There had been at least a dozen photographs of Nightingale around the house, mainly school portraits, and several albums his mother used to bring out to show visitors. Nightingale had always been embarrassed by the albums and the way that his mother had fussed over them, but now he had them in a drawer in his bedroom. Although he rarely looked at them, he was happy they were there because, as the years passed and his memories faded, he knew he would always have the pictures. Robyn’s parents had removed all signs that they had a daughter. But Nightingale was sure that they wouldn’t have thrown them away.

He went over to the sideboard and pulled open the top drawer. It was full of receipts, instruction manuals and bank statements. The second drawer, however, contained a large photograph album with a Van Gogh painting of sunflowers on the front. Nightingale took it out and opened it. The first dozen or so pages were filled with family photographs, with Robyn the centre of attention. Robyn as a baby, as a toddler, as a gawky teenager. The last photograph was of Robyn standing next to a white Vauxhall Astra.

Nightingale took the album with him as he left the house. He closed the front door and joined Jenny in the Audi. ‘Are you okay to drive?’ he asked.

She turned to look at him. ‘Doesn’t it affect you, seeing that?’

‘Of course it does. But there’s nothing we can do to help them. They’re dead. Nothing we do is going to change that.’

‘And you’re not going to call the police?’

‘Jenny, do you want to spend another day being grilled by Chalmers and his sidekick? Because that’s what’ll happen if we tell anybody.’ He nodded at the road ahead. ‘Just drive.’

51

N
ightingale was sitting at his desk flicking through the Robyn Reynolds album when he heard the office door open. A few minutes later Jenny walked into his room. She looked tired and she groaned as she sat down on one of the chairs facing his desk. ‘I almost didn’t come in today,’ she said.

‘You could have taken the day off.’

‘How could I stay at home with all this going on?’ she said. ‘There was nothing in the papers about the bodies in the house.’

‘It’ll take time for them to be found.’

‘You could make an anonymous phone call.’

‘They always trace them, Jenny. Best to let things take their course.’

She sighed. She’d tied her hair back in a ponytail and her eyes were red as if she had been crying. ‘I’ve been thinking about your sister.’

‘Me too.’

‘No, I mean I’ve been thinking that you should just drop it. Drop the whole thing. She’s a child killer. She’s in a secure mental institution. Whether or not Gosling sold her soul to a devil doesn’t seem to matter one way or another.’

Nightingale frowned at her. ‘How can you say that?’

‘Jack, it seems to me that after what she’s done, one way or another she’s going to Hell. I don’t see it makes any difference if she goes because Gosling did a deal with this Frimost or because she’s turned into a monster.’

‘She’s not a monster, Jenny,’ whispered Nightingale. ‘I’ve met her and I can tell you that she’s not a monster.’

‘She’s killed children,’ said Jenny. ‘More than that, she butchered them.’

‘Have you thought that maybe she turned out that way because of what Gosling did to her? That maybe it’s because he sold her soul that she became what she is?’

‘Gosling sold your soul but you didn’t turn into a child killer.’

‘I hear what you’re saying,’ said Nightingale.

‘But you’re still going to try to help her, aren’t you?’

Nightingale smiled thinly and nodded. ‘She’s my flesh and blood.’

‘So was Gosling, and look at what he did to you.’

‘She’s all I’ve got.’

‘Thanks for that.’

Nightingale groaned. ‘I didn’t mean it like that, kid. I meant she’s the only family I’ve got.’ He grinned. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’

‘You can do penance for your insensitivity by making coffee for me for a change. For the rest of the week.’

‘It’s only Tuesday.’

‘Only three days, then. Milk. One sugar.’

Nightingale walked over to the coffee maker and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘You’re a hard taskmaster, Jenny McLean,’ he said. ‘But I’ve no idea what I’d do without you. How’s Bronwyn getting on, by the way?’

‘Caernarfon Craig got in touch. But so far it’s just chit-chat. He keeps asking for personal details, like my house and car, but I’m keeping it vague. Most of the time we talk about how we’d do it if we decided to end it all. He sends me links to sites where they talk about all the weird and wonderful ways that people use to kill themselves.’

‘Has he asked to meet you?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Be careful.’

‘I’m not stupid. Besides, he only knows me as Bronwyn.’

‘So what’s your plan? You’re just going to toy with him online?’

‘No, I’m chatting away and hopefully he’ll let slip something that identifies him.’

‘Sounds like a plan. Just be careful.’

‘Look who’s talking,’ said Jenny. ‘If there’s anyone who needs to tread carefully, it’s you.’

52

N
ightingale nodded at the two men in suits standing by the one-armed bandit in the corner of the pub. They had both put their briefcases on the floor and balanced stacks of pound coins on top of the machine. ‘What about those two, Eddie?’ he asked.

Eddie Morris shook his head. ‘Nah, I don’t think so.’ He took a gulp of lager.

‘Go easy on the old amber nectar,’ said Nightingale. ‘This could take a long time and increasing your alcohol intake won’t help your facial-recognition faculties.’

Morris frowned, his glass inches from his mouth. ‘What?’

‘If you’re pissed as a fart you’re not going to recognise anyone,’ said Nightingale.

They were in a pub a short walk from Elephant and Castle Tube station. It was where Morris had said he was on the evening that a house in Islington had been burgled. The police didn’t believe his story and after spending two hours looking in vain for anyone who remembered Morris, Nightingale was starting to think that perhaps they were right. The landlord had said he didn’t remember Morris, and so had the three members of staff, two of whom had been behind the bar the night that Morris claimed to have been there. But Morris was insisting that he was innocent and Nightingale was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, for a while longer at least.

‘I can handle my beer,’ said Morris. He nodded at the bottle of Corona that Nightingale was holding. ‘You used to be a bit of a drinker, as I remember.’

‘Yeah, I’ve slowed down a bit,’ said Nightingale. ‘Got caught over the limit; my case is up soon.’

Morris grimaced sympathetically. ‘They don’t mess about these days,’ he said. ‘They take away your licence, and worse.’ He chuckled. ‘That’d be a laugh, wouldn’t it, if we were both inside?’

‘Bloody hilarious,’ scowled Nightingale. ‘But I’ve got a plan. Listen, you’re not winding me up here, are you, Eddie?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This alibi business. I don’t want to find out that you’re wasting my time.’

‘My time and my money,’ said Morris. ‘You’re not doing this for free, are you?’

‘I’m just saying that if you did it, you might be better off simply admitting it.’

‘What do you want me to do, cross my heart and hope to die? Three weeks ago, I was in here drinking. And while I was drinking in here that teacher and her husband were burgled in Islington. I can’t have been in two places at once, can I? Stands to reason.’

‘But the teacher identified you, right?’

‘She saw the guy from the back as he was running away. She picked me out of the line-up but I reckon she had help, if you get my drift. I’m sure the cops showed her my picture. I wasn’t there, Jack. I swear, on my mother’s life.’

‘Last I heard, you were an orphan, same as me.’

‘It’s an expression,’ said Morris. ‘That Islington burglary wasn’t down to me.’

‘What about the others? They’re charging you with more than a dozen, right? Same MO. Did you do any of them?’

Morris grinned. ‘Best you don’t go there, Jack,’ he said. ‘But they’re the ones putting all their eggs in one basket. If I can duck the Islington job, the whole case falls. That’s what my lawyer says, anyway.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Nightingale. He nodded at a grizzled old man in a worn sheepskin jacket who had just come in through the door, holding several copies of the
Big Issue
. He had a long grey beard and a bushy moustache and cheeks that were flecked with broken veins. ‘Him?’

Morris made a fist of his right hand. ‘Yes!’ he hissed. ‘Tried to sell me his comic and I told him where to shove it.’

Nightingale waved the old man over to where they were standing at the bar. They could smell the man’s body odour before he got within six feet of them and by the time he stood in front of them, grinning toothlessly, they had to fight the urge to retch.

He held out a copy of the magazine. ‘
Big Issue
,’ he said.

Nightingale fished a two-pound coin from his pocket and gave it to the man. ‘Quick question for you, mate,’ he said, taking a magazine. ‘Do you recognise my friend here?’

The old man screwed up his eyes as if he was looking into the sun. ‘Him?’ He shook his head. ‘Nah.’

Nightingale gave him a second coin. ‘Have a better look, mate,’ he said. ‘Three weeks ago. About this time. Standing right here, he was.’

The old man pocketed the coin, stared at Morris, then shook his head emphatically. ‘Nah.’ He started to turn away but Nightingale grabbed his arm.

‘Are you sure?’

The old man put his face close to Nightingale’s. His rancid breath made Nightingale’s stomach churn but he kept on smiling. ‘If you give me a tenner, I’ll say I did,’ he growled.

‘That’s not what I’m after,’ said Nightingale. He looked across at Morris. ‘You sure?’

‘A thousand per cent,’ said Morris. He jabbed a finger at the old man’s face. ‘You tried to sell me a copy and I told you to sod off.’

‘You and a hundred others,’ said the old man. He coughed and a wave of foul-smelling breath washed over Nightingale and Morris. ‘See now, if you’d given me a fiver I might have remembered you.’

The landlord, a balding man in his fifties with a boxer’s nose, appeared at the bar. He pointed a warning finger at the old man. ‘You, out!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve told you before. If you want to sell it, sell it outside.’

The old man cursed and walked away, clutching his magazines to his chest.

‘He’s not even homeless, that one,’ said the landlord. ‘He’s shacked up with a woman on benefits down the road. Any money he gets he spends on booze.’

‘Good for business, then,’ said Nightingale.

‘He doesn’t buy it here,’ said the landlord contemptuously. ‘Goes straight to the off-licence.’ He walked away to serve a group of businessmen.

‘This is a bloody nonsense,’ said Morris. He took a long pull on his pint and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Give it time,’ said Nightingale.

‘The cops have already been in,’ said Morris.

‘They’d have come in during the daytime and showed your picture to the staff,’ said Nightingale. ‘They’d have needed to clear overtime for an evening visit and I doubt they think you’re important enough for that. People are creatures of habit for the most part. There are mid-week drinkers, weekend drinkers, daytime drinkers and evening drinkers. If someone was in here the Tuesday night you were here, they might well be in tonight. And they’re more likely to recognise you in the flesh than from a photograph.’

‘Maybe,’ said Morris. ‘But I saw that old geezer and he didn’t remember me.’

‘I doubt that he’d remember his own name,’ said Nightingale.

‘If we don’t find someone to confirm I was here, they’ll put me away.’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘That’s easy for you to say, Jack. You’re not the one they’ll send down.’

‘There’re worse things than prison, Eddie,’ said Nightingale. He raised his bottle of Corona. ‘Relax. This is only Plan A.’

‘What’s Plan B?’

‘Let’s wait and see how Plan A works out.’

Two women walked into the pub and went to the far end of the bar. One had shoulder-length blonde hair, and the other a chestnut bob. Both had long coats and were carrying battered leather briefcases. Morris frowned as he looked over at them.

‘Recognise them?’ asked Nightingale.

‘The blonde, I think,’ said Morris. He scratched his chin. ‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure I asked her if she wanted a drink.’

‘Pretty sure? What’s with you, Eddie? Are you getting early Alzheimer’s?’

‘I’d had a few drinks so my memory’s hazy,’ said Morris. He wagged his finger at the blonde. ‘No, I’m sure. She was here.’

‘Don’t suppose you can remember her name?’

Morris shrugged. ‘I don’t think we got that far,’ he said.

Nightingale put down his drink ‘All right, you stay put.’

He walked over to the two women. A barman was giving them two large glasses of wine.

‘Hello, ladies,’ said Nightingale.

The brunette looked him up and down and smiled. ‘Hello, yourself.’

‘The name’s Jack,’ he said. ‘I know this is going to sound corny, but do you come here often?’

The blonde raised her eyebrows and the brunette chuckled. ‘Does that line ever work?’ asked the blonde. She was in her late thirties, with crow’s feet starting to spread around her eyes and the beginnings of a double chin, but her green eyes sparkled like a teenager’s.

‘It’s not a line,’ said Nightingale. ‘I really want to know. Specifically, three weeks ago.’

The blonde looked over Nightingale’s shoulder and saw Morris staring at them. Her face fell. ‘You’re not with him, are you?’

‘Why?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Do you know him?’

She nodded. ‘He came on to me. Three weeks ago. As subtle as a freight train.’ She looked across at her friend. ‘You know what he said? “Get your coat, you’ve pulled.” Like a bloody teenager.’ She put up her hand. ‘If he’s with you, I think you’d better just go now.’

‘I’m helping him out, that’s all,’ said Nightingale. ‘Three weeks ago today, right? About this time?’

‘I didn’t exactly write it down in my Filofax, but I’m in here every Tuesday after work. Girls’ night out.’

‘Ladies, you don’t know how happy that makes me,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do you mind me asking where it is you work?’

‘I don’t mind because, if I tell you, you’ll almost certainly stop bothering me.’ She sipped her white wine and watched him with amused eyes. ‘I’m with the Crown Prosecution Service,’ she said.

Nightingale grinned. ‘This gets better and better,’ he said. He took out his wallet. ‘I’d like to buy you two ladies a drink. Whatever you fancy.’

The blonde winked at her friend. ‘Champagne?’ she said.

The friend nodded enthusiastically. ‘Bollinger?’

‘You read my mind.’ She looked expectantly at Nightingale.

Nightingale waved his credit card at the barman. ‘Bottle of Bollinger,’ he said. ‘And a receipt.’

When Nightingale left the pub with Morris an hour later, he had the woman’s business card in his wallet and the satisfying warm feeling of a job well done.

‘You’re a star, Jack,’ said Morris, slapping him on the back. ‘An absolute star. If you need anything, just ask.’

Nightingale put his hand on the man’s shoulder and gripped tightly. ‘Funny you should say that, Eddie,’ he said. ‘There is something you can do for me.’