She turned to look at Candy. ‘Can I go home now?’
‘Soon, baby,’ she said.
‘You said I could.’
‘Yes, but you need to do something else. Okay? You need to comb your hair and make it look pretty.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s what Eric wants. You have to make yourself pretty for him.’ She picked up a comb from the dressing table and stood behind Bella, combing her hair as she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Tears began to run down Bella’s face. ‘Now don’t cry, baby. Eric doesn’t like it when you cry. He wants pretty, pretty, pretty.’
Bella sniffed. ‘And when I’m pretty, I can go home?’
‘Of course,’ lied Candy. She smiled brightly. ‘Let’s get you looking pretty, pretty, pretty and you’ll soon be home with your mummy and daddy.’
15
Nightingale went up to his room just before midnight. He’d drunk eight bottles of Budweiser, and while he wasn’t drunk he was slightly unsteady on his feet. There were only three bedrooms and no locks on the door. He sat down on the bed and reached for his cigarettes and lighter. He was just about to light one when he saw the ‘No Smoking’ sign by the bathroom door. He sighed, grabbed his raincoat, and headed downstairs. The landlord was polishing glasses behind the bar. Nightingale held up his cigarette. ‘I’m heading outside for a smoke,’ he said.
‘No problem,’ said the landlord. ‘I won’t be locking up for a while, but if you’re late back, there’s a bell by the front door. Just give it a ring and I’ll come down and let you in. How’s the room, by the way?’
‘Perfect,’ said Nightingale. ‘No lock on the door, though?’
‘You’re the only guest,’ said the landlord. ‘And you can trust me and the wife.’
‘I’ve nothing worth taking anyway,’ said Nightingale. He let himself out and lit his cigarette as he walked down to the beach. There were thick clouds overhead blocking out the moon and stars, but there was enough light spilling out of the pub windows for him to see. He walked onto the sand and stood watching the waves break onto the beach. A bitterly cold wind blew in from the sea and he shivered.
The sound of the waves was almost hypnotic and he found himself being lulled into a trance-like state, though that could have been a result of all the beer he’d drunk with his new-found Northumbrian friends. He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt towards the water, and was just considering lighting a second when something hard walloped against the back of his head. He fell to his knees and gasped, then something pounded between his shoulder blades and he fell forward. His face was pressing into the sand, and he coughed and spluttered and then something, probably a foot, slammed into the small of his back.
He twisted his head to the side and saw a pair of heavy mud-splattered workboots and frayed jeans. The foot was still in the middle of his back, so there were at least two of them. He tried to turn his head to the other side but as he did so the foot pressed down, pushing his face into the sand again.
‘You don’t want to be asking too many questions around here, Mister Private Detective,’ said one of the men. ‘You’d best be heading back to London.’ His accent was Scottish and didn’t sound like any of the men that Nightingale had spoken to in the pub. ‘Be easy enough to knock you out and drop you in the sea. You wouldn’t be the first southerner to fall foul of the North Sea.’
Nightingale managed to turn his face to the side and he spat wet sand out of his mouth.
‘Do you hear what I’m telling you, Mister Private Detective?’
Nightingale spat again, and grunted.
The foot between his shoulder blades gave a final push, and then he heard the two men jogging away across the sand. He rolled onto his back, gasping for breath, but by the time he’d got to his feet they had disappeared into the night.
He stood up and wiped his face on his sleeve. As he lit a cigarette with trembling hands he heard a car start up and drive away. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered under his breath.
16
Candy slid back the bolts and opened the door to the bedroom. ‘Breakfast,’ she said, brightly. She picked up the tray and carried it into the room. Bella was in bed, the quilt pulled up around her neck. The princess dress was lying over the chair in front of the dressing table. Bella didn’t react as Candy put the tray on the bed. ‘I made you Cocoa Krispies,’ she said. ‘And toast.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Bella said.
‘You have to be hungry.’
‘I feel sick.’ She curled up into a ball under the quilt. ‘I need to go to hospital.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘What Eric did, it hurt me. Inside.’
‘It doesn’t hurt. Every girl in the world does that. It’s natural.’
Bella sniffed. ‘He hurt me.’
‘And I’m telling you it doesn’t hurt. That’s what girlfriends do for their boyfriends.’
‘I’m not his girlfriend.’
‘Yes you are, baby.’
‘I want to go home.’
‘And you will go home. But you have to let Eric do what he wants.’
‘Please don’t let him hurt me again, Candy.’
Candy sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked the little girl’s hair. ‘Eat your breakfast, baby.’
Bella rolled over and looked up at Candy. ‘Please let me go home. I have to feed Floppy.’
‘Floppy?’
‘My rabbit. I have to clean his cage. It’s Saturday, and Saturday is the day I have to look after my rabbit. My dad says if I don’t look after Floppy he’ll send him back to the shop.’ Her eyes filled with tears.
‘Now don’t you start crying again, baby,’ said Candy. ‘You know Eric doesn’t like that.’
‘Don’t let him touch me again, Candy. Please.’
‘Now why do you say that, baby? You’re his girlfriend now. His little princess.’
‘I’m not his girlfriend. I’m not.’
‘Yes you are, baby. And you have to accept that. You’re his girlfriend until he says you’re not. Now sit up and eat your breakfast.’
‘Then can I go home?’
‘We’ll see, baby. Eat your breakfast and then we’ll talk about it.’
17
Nightingale woke up at nine. He had a blinding headache, but he wasn’t sure if it was the result of all the beer he’d drunk or the blow to the back of his head. He had a small mirror in his washbag and he used it and the mirror above the sink to check out his scalp, but he couldn’t see any damage and there didn’t appear to be any blood. He showered and shaved, then dressed and had a bacon sandwich in the bar before calling McBride. The call went straight through to voicemail. Nightingale didn’t leave a message, waited fifteen minutes while he drank a second cup of coffee, then phoned McBride again. When he didn’t answer the second time, Nightingale left a brief message saying that he was going out to the school.
He went back up to his room and packed his bag, then went downstairs and paid his bill. He threw his bag onto the back seat of his car and drove to the school. He parked some distance away before climbing out and lighting a cigarette. There was a lone policeman in a fluorescent jacket standing at the school gates, stamping his feet to keep the circulation going. Dozens of bunches of flowers had been laid along the pavement outside the school and the railings were dotted with handwritten notes, mainly from children. Nightingale walked over and
