‘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.
12
Jenny had booked Nightingale a room at the Sly Fox, a pub overlooking the North Sea on the outskirts of Berwick. It was a cosy place, with thick walls and small windows to cut down the chill factor of the freezing wind that blew in from the sea. Nightingale’s room was comfortably furnished with a large brass bed, a heavy scuffed leather armchair and a massive oak wardrobe with a fox hunt carved into the doors. He tossed his overnight bag onto the bed and phoned Robbie. ‘Any joy with a Berwick contact?’ he asked.
‘I’m working on it, mate.’
‘I’m heading back tomorrow afternoon, be great to see the guy before I go,’ said Nightingale.
‘Seriously, I’m on it,’ said Robbie. ‘How’s it going?’
‘I met a DI today but he’s less than helpful.’
‘What do you expect? No one appreciates strangers on their patch. Especially ones less than forthcoming in the winning friends and influencing people department.’
‘I’ve been all sweetness and light,’ said Nightingale. ‘He took a computer from McBride’s and won’t let me have a look at it.’
‘He won’t hand over evidence in a criminal investigation?’ said Robbie, his voice loaded with sarcasm. ‘Well, shame on him.’
‘There is no investigation, that’s the point.’
‘I’m only winding you up, mate,’ said Robbie. ‘Soon as I get a name I’ll get back to you.’
Nightingale ended the call and went downstairs to the bar. It was an L-shaped room with a roaring fire, the walls dotted with polished horse-brasses and framed paintings of fox hunts. They didn’t stock Corona so he ordered a Budweiser. The landlord was the man who’d checked him in, a big bearded Geordie with a tattoo of a mermaid on his right forearm that suggested a previous career in the merchant navy. He gave Nightingale a menu and he ordered fish and chips. The landlord grimaced and he leant across the bar, lowering his voice to a gruff whisper. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but the chef’s off tonight and the missus is cooking. If I were you I’d go for the shepherd’s pie or the chicken pasta bake because the chef did them and all she has to do is warm them up.’ He winked conspiratorially.
Nightingale toasted the landlord with his Budweiser and ordered the shepherd’s pie. ‘So is this England or Scotland?’ he asked as he waited to his food to appear from the kitchen.
‘You’re joking, right?’ said the landlord.
‘What can I say, I’m from London.’
‘You don’t sound like a southerner.’
‘I was brought up in Manchester.’
‘Red or Blue?’
Nightingale chuckled. ‘United, what else? So joking apart, did we cross the border?’
‘The England–Scotland border is a moveable feast,’ said the landlord. ‘It’s switched back and forth thirteen times over the years. But at the moment you’re in Northumberland. Here’s hoping it moves back at some point, because between you and me, I’d rather be in Scotland. My kids wouldn’t be paying their own university tuition, for a start – that wouldn’t be happening if we were counted as Scotland.’
‘And free prescriptions,’ said Nightingale. He raised his bottle of Budweiser. ‘To bonnie old Scotland.’ He drank and then motioned at the beer pumps. ‘Get yourself one. Keep me company.’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said the landlord. ‘I’ll take a whisky, if that’s okay with you.’
‘All good,’ said Nightingale.
The landlord picked up a glass and held it under one of the optics. ‘You know, this is the Devil’s town, truth be told,’ he said as the whisky sloshed into his glass.
‘Say what?’
The landlord grinned. He used his fingers to drop a couple of ice cubes into his whisky. ‘It’s in the Bible. When the Devil was tempting Jesus, trying to get him over to the dark side, he held out a map of the world and told Jesus he could have dominion over everything he could see. But as he held out the map, the Devil had his thumb over Berwick because he wanted to keep it for himself.’
‘Nice story,’ said Nightingale.
‘There are those around here who say it’s more than a story,’ said the landlord. He raised his glass. ‘Cheers, anyway.’
‘Cheers,’ said Nightingale, and he clinked the neck of his bottle against the landlord’s glass.
As the landlord drank he caught sight of the television on the wall. It was tuned to Sky News and a police press conference was about to start. He grabbed the remote and turned up the sound. ‘Looks like she’s still missing,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Little girl was abducted in Southampton. Some paedo snatched her in a shopping centre.’
On the screen a man and a woman were sitting together at a long table. She was in her thirties, hollow-eyed and her blonde hair messy. The man was equally haggard and he was holding the woman’s hand tightly.
‘That’s her parents,’ said the landlord. ‘Can you imagine what they’re going through?’
‘How old’s the girl?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Nine. Mum took her eyes off her for a minute and she was gone.’
A uniformed police officer took the seat next to the mother. An assistant chief constable. At the other end of the table was a large man in a dark blue suit with the world-weary eyes of a senior detective.
On a board behind the table were posters featuring the missing girl. In the middle of the poster was a blow- up of her school photograph. She was a little angel with long, curly blonde hair, blue eyes and porcelain skin.
‘They should hang them,’ said the landlord. ‘Anyone who messes with a kid, hanging’s too good for them.’
