98
K err groaned as he saw Nightingale stagger out of the house. He picked up the empty petrol can and jogged across the lawn to the gates. He slipped out into the road and walked along to the field where he’d left his car, muttering to himself. He stopped when he saw the young woman dressed in black who was standing by his car, a border collie on a chain sitting at her side. She was wearing too much mascara and black lipstick and had a black choker with an upturned silver cross over her throat. Her black jeans looked as if they had been sprayed on and there were silver chains hanging from her black leather motorcycle jacket. The dog growled at him and the girl made a shushing sound.
Kerr lowered his eyes, not wanting to meet her gaze. ‘I failed you, Mistress Proserpine,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘Yes, Graham, I know.’
He dropped the petrol can, went down on his knees and put his head on the ground. ‘I beg your forgiveness, mistress.’ He heard sirens, off in the distance.
‘Get up, Graham. There’s no need for that.’
Kerr got to his feet. Tears were running down his face.
Proserpine looked at him sadly. ‘You know what you have to do now, Graham?’
The sirens were getting closer. The sirens of a fire engine and two police cars. Kerr knew the difference.
‘Yes, mistress. I know.’
He walked to the back of his car, an old Renault. He opened the boot, took out a fresh can of petrol and methodically poured it over himself, from head to toe. He drew a deep breath, relishing the intoxicating aroma, and then turned to face Proserpine. He fished his box of Swan Vestas from his pocket.
Proserpine nodded her approval and her dog growled softly.
Kerr rattled the box, then pushed it open with his thumb and took out a single match. He looked at Proserpine and shivered with anticipation as he rubbed the match along the striker. He heard the whoosh of the petrol igniting and then smiled as he felt the searing pain of his flesh as it began to burn.
99
N ightingale let himself into his flat and went straight into the kitchen. He kept a bottle of Russian vodka in the freezer and he took it out and poured a big slug into a glass, adding a splash of Coke. He drank it in one go and then poured himself another. He went through to the sitting room and phoned Jenny.
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘The flat. Can you come round? I need to talk.’
‘Before you wouldn’t tell me what was going on and now you want to talk?’
‘Just come round.’
‘What’s wrong, Jack?’
‘Just come, yeah? I don’t want to tell you on the phone. Too much has happened.’
He ended the call and took another long pull on his drink. He sat down on his sofa and flicked through the TV channels but couldn’t find anything that he wanted to watch.
The fire brigade had arrived in time to save the house, though there was extensive damage to the upper floor and the firemen’s water had flooded the ground floor. Nightingale hadn’t been able to check on the state of the basement but he figured that the damage there would be extensive.
He finished his drink and went back into the kitchen to make himself a fresh one. This time he took the bottle of vodka into the sitting room and put it on the coffee table. As he sat down the entryphone buzzed. He frowned and looked at his wristwatch. It was too soon to be Jenny. He pushed himself up off the sofa and went over to the intercom. ‘Yes?’
‘Mr Nightingale? It’s Janet Bethel. Greater Manchester Police.’
‘Yes?’
‘We met at your aunt and uncle’s funeral.’
‘I remember. What’s up?’
‘I’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind. We have some new information on the case.’
‘Case? Which case?’
‘Your aunt and uncle.’
‘I didn’t realise there was a case,’ said Nightingale.
‘It’d be easier if I could sit down and talk to you,’ she said.
‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘I was just about to go to bed.’
‘It’s important, Mr Nightingale.’
Nightingale pressed the buzzer to let her in. He had the front door open for her by the time she reached his floor. She was wearing the same fawn belted raincoat that she’d been wearing in church and carrying the same black shoulder bag. Nightingale showed her into the sitting room. She put her bag on a chair and took off her coat, revealing a dark blazer with a grey skirt. She looked more like a holiday rep than a detective.
‘What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?’ he asked.
‘I heard about the fire so I figured you would be up. Do they know what happened?’
‘Arson,’ said Nightingale.
‘While you were in the house?’
‘Yeah. It was a close thing.’ He frowned. ‘You said you wanted to talk about my aunt and uncle? What’s so important?’
‘I couldn’t trouble you for a glass of water, could I? I’m parched,’ she said. She draped her coat over the back of the chair. ‘I got the train and it took forever.’
‘Sure,’ said Nightingale.
‘Or coffee,’ she said. ‘I could really do with a coffee.’
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Lots of milk and no sugar.’ She smiled. ‘Sweet enough already.’
Nightingale went through to the kitchen and made her a mug of coffee. When he took it through to her, she had put a sheet of paper on the table and was holding a pen. ‘I couldn’t be a nuisance and ask you to sign this, could I? They’re being a real pain over expenses at the moment.’
‘It’s not a confession, is it?’ he said, picking up the sheet. It was on Greater Manchester Police headed paper and confirmed that he was being interviewed by Detective Sergeant Janet Bethel.
‘Why would it be a confession, Mr Nightingale?’
‘I was being flippant,’ said Nightingale. ‘Which, under the circumstances, probably wasn’t the wisest move.’ He scrawled his signature at the bottom of the letter and gave it back to her.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said, putting the letter into her bag. ‘But we have to get a signed receipt every time we conduct an interview outside our area. No receipt, no expenses.’
Nightingale sat down on the sofa and sipped his vodka and Coke. ‘So why are you here?’ he asked.
‘Frankly, Mr Nightingale, I’m not convinced that your uncle took his own life. And if that’s the case, it casts doubt on the assumption that he killed your aunt.’
‘I thought the forensic evidence was conclusive.’
‘It was, but, as I’m sure you know, evidence can be planted or removed.’
‘That’s certainly true,’ said Nightingale. He took another drink.
‘And I understand that you were in north Wales recently. Abersoch.’
Nightingale nodded but didn’t say anything.
‘You know what’s going on there, I assume.’
‘The serial killer? I heard.’ He frowned. ‘What are you saying? The same guy killed my aunt and uncle?’
‘It doesn’t fit the profile completely, I know. The killings in Wales have all been of women and they have all been made to look like suicides. Your aunt was murdered, and your uncle’s death appeared to be a suicide.’
‘Plus it’s quite a way from Wales to Manchester. Most serial killers tend to stay in an area that they’re comfortable with.’ Nightingale yawned. He was feeling tired. He took a long drink and stretched out his legs.
