‘Well, I can assure you that it wasn’t here last Saturday.’
‘I believe you,’ said Nightingale. He took more photographs with his phone. ‘Which means that whoever did it went to a lot of trouble to make it look as if your brother set it up some time ago.’
‘Does it look like a Satanic altar to you?’
Nightingale leaned over to get a closer look at a pentangle that had been drawn on a sheet of paper in what appeared to be dried blood. ‘It does, yes. But I’m going to get a professional’s opinion.’
‘A professional?’
‘Someone who’s a bit more familiar with this.’
‘I thought you were,’ said McBride.
‘The basics, yes. But I’m going to run it by someone who really knows her stuff.’
McBride pointed at the lead crucible in front of Nightingale. ‘That’s blood, isn’t it?’
‘It might be,’ said Nightingale. He pulled two plastic evidence bags from his pocket. He put the crucible in one and the knife in the other. ‘I’ll get it checked out.’ He turned to look at McBride. ‘Your brother, was he religious?’
‘He went to church, but not regularly. Why?’
‘Does he have a Bible in the house?’
‘I’m not sure? Why?’
‘Because if he was a dyed-in-the-wool Satanist he wouldn’t have one. Can we have a look around?’
‘Not a problem,’ said McBride. ‘Are you done here?’
‘Just a few more pictures,’ said Nightingale. He took half a dozen more shots of the altar, then pocketed his phone. ‘I have to say, it’s weird that the police didn’t take this away. Or at least rope it off as a crime scene.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe they do things differently up here.’
‘They’ve done almost nothing in the way of an investigation so far as I can see,’ said McBride. ‘They haven’t even spoken to me.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Well, I went to see them after they took away his computer because they’d smashed in the front door. But they weren’t interested in anything I had to say.’
‘They didn’t ask about the altar or what sort of person he was?’ McBride shook his head. ‘Or ask if anything was troubling him?’
‘Not a dicky-bird,’ said McBride. ‘They couldn’t wait to get me out of the station.’
Nightingale rubbed the back of his neck. There was clearly something very wrong with the way the Northumbria police were handling the investigation.
They went back down the stairs and out of the barn, then walked around the back of the farmhouse. There was a large, well-tended vegetable garden and beyond it a chicken house the size of a railway carriage. Nightingale winced as the acrid smell of the chickens hit his nostrils. The chickens inside began to cluck and squawk, as if they realised there were strangers around. McBride unlocked the back door of the farmhouse and took Nightingale into the kitchen. There was a large green Aga stove, a weathered pine table and chairs, and an overstuffed armchair next to which was a pile of farming magazines. There was a metal gun cabinet on one wall. The cabinet was open and empty. ‘How many guns did your brother have?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Three, I think,’ said McBride. ‘He took one to the school and the police took away the other two.’
‘He never had a problem with his licences?’
‘Not that I know of. But they’re pretty easy for farmers to get. There are foxes and crows and all sorts of vermin. I wouldn’t have a gun in the house, but for Jimmy it was just a tool.’
‘So they took the guns and the computer. Anything else?’
‘The ammunition. But that was about it. I’ve got a receipt somewhere.’
There were two dog bowls by the back door, one half full of water. ‘He had dogs?’
‘Two,’ said McBride. ‘I’m taking care of them at the moment.’
Nightingale walked out of the kitchen and along a stone-flagged hallway. On the walls were framed watercolours, mainly flowers, that appeared to have been done by an amateur artist.
‘Jimmy’s study is on the right,’ said McBride.
The curtains were drawn in the study and Nightingale pulled them open. There was a desk on which there was a printer and two wire baskets full of invoices and paperwork. There was a space where a computer had obviously stood. There were more watercolours on the walls.
‘Did your brother paint?’ asked Nightingale.
McBride shook his head. ‘Our mother,’ he said. ‘Jimmy hardly changed a thing when our parents passed away. Their bedroom is just the way it was when they lived here, and he sleeps in the same bedroom he slept in as a kid. He’s left mine the way it is, too.’
‘What sort of computer did your brother have?’ asked Nightingale.
‘I don’t know. A Dell, maybe.’
‘Was it a desktop or a laptop?’
‘A desktop. With a monitor and a separate keyboard and a printer. They only left the printer.’
Nightingale looked over at the printer. Next to it were half a dozen photographs in frames. Two young boys were in most of the pictures. McBride noticed Nightingale’s interest. ‘My boys,’ he said. ‘They worshipped Jimmy. They were like his surrogate kids. That’s why what he did made no sense.’
Nightingale nodded sympathetically. ‘Have you asked for it back? The computer?’
‘I went to the station but they said that they were working on it.’
‘Who did you talk to?’
‘Some detective. An inspector. Stevenson his name was. To be honest he was a bit short with me, gave me the impression that I was bothering him.’
‘I’ll have a go. He might be more forthcoming with me.’ He pointed at a Cisco internet router on a table next to a fax machine. ‘I thought you said he didn’t have an internet connection.’
‘He didn’t,’ said McBride. ‘It’s not plugged in. He couldn’t get it to work. The kids got me to buy it for him last birthday so that they could be Facebook friends with him but he couldn’t get the hang of it. He kept saying he’d get someone in to connect it, but he never did.’
Nightingale went over and peered behind the table. The router wasn’t plugged in.
‘He still used faxes for business,’ said McBride. ‘He didn’t even have an email address. I mean, who doesn’t have an email address in this day and age?’
Nightingale nodded but didn’t reply. Truth be told, Nightingale didn’t have an email address either. If he needed to talk to someone he preferred to do it face to face or on the phone. There was a bookcase against one wall and Nightingale went over to it. There were two shelves filled with Reader’s Digest condensed books and several hundred romantic novels by writers such as Catherine Cookson and Barbara Cartland.
McBride saw the look of confusion on Nightingale’s face at the choice of reading matter. ‘They were our mum’s,’ he said. ‘She died ten years ago. Cancer. Our dad died a couple of years later. Jimmy never left home. He ran the farm with Dad and then took it over when he died. The house is pretty much as it was when we were kids here.’ He laughed ruefully. ‘Like I said, my bedroom is just as it was. Same wallpaper, same blankets on the bed. Bit of a time warp really.’
There was a Bible on one of the lower shelves and Nightingale pulled it out.
‘That was our father’s,’ said McBride.
‘He was religious?’
‘Sure. Church of Scotland. Mum, too. But Dad pretty much gave up on religion after Mum died. It wasn’t an easy death and it pretty much destroyed his faith.’ McBride shrugged. ‘He didn’t even want a Christian funeral service.’
‘But he kept the Bible?’
McBride nodded. ‘I guess so. Maybe he forgot it was there.’
Nightingale replaced it. ‘What I don’t see is anything that suggests your brother was interested in black magic.’
‘I never saw anything like that. I suppose he could have hidden them.’
‘Could we have a look?’
‘You mean search the house?’
