Sandra smoothed her daughter’s forehead. She was cool to the touch, much cooler than usual. ‘How do you feel, Bella?’
‘I feel fine, Mummy. I don’t need to stay here.’
‘You’ll be home soon, honey. ‘
‘Tell the doctor I’m okay.’
‘We will, honey, as soon as he gets back.’
A male nurse popped his head around the door. ‘Everything okay?’ he asked.
‘She’s awake,’ said Will.
‘I’ll get the doctor,’ said the nurse, and he hurried off.
‘Can I have a drink of water, Daddy?’ asked Bella.
‘Of course you can.’
‘Or a Coke? Can I have a Coke?’
‘You can have whatever you want, honey,’ said Will.
‘There’s a machine in the corridor,’ said Sandra. She carried on smoothing Bella’s forehead as Will went off in search of her Coke.
‘I love you, Mummy,’ whispered Bella.
Sandra felt tears run down her face but she didn’t want to take her hand away from Bella’s forehead, so she didn’t wipe them away.
‘Don’t be sad, Mummy.’
‘I’m not sad, honey. I’m happy.’
‘Everything’s going to be all right.’
Sandra smiled down at her. ‘I know.’
‘I saw an angel, Mummy.’
‘When, darling?’
‘When I was with those people. The bad people that hurt me.’
‘You saw an angel?’
Bella nodded. ‘When I went to sleep in the bath. I went to sleep and then I woke up and I saw an angel.’
Sandra shook her head. ‘That wasn’t an angel, honey. That was a paramedic. He came with an ambulance. He brought you back to us.’
Bella smiled. ‘No, Mummy. It was a real angel. With wings and everything. He was nice to me and he said everything was going to be all right.’
‘Well, your angel was right, darling. Because now everything is all right.’
‘The angel said I didn’t have to go to Heaven.’
‘He said that?’
Bella nodded earnestly. ‘He said it wasn’t my time. But he said before I went back there were some people I had to see.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes, Mummy. He took me to see Grandpa Arthur. And Auntie Eadie.’
Sandra frowned. ‘Who are they, honey?’
‘You don’t know? Grandpa Arthur is the father of Daddy’s father. And Auntie Eadie was your sister.’ Bella giggled. ‘Did you forget?’
‘I must have,’ said Sandra. She was genuinely confused at what her daughter was telling her, because while Sandra had three siblings, they were all boys. She didn’t have a sister called Eadie, dead or alive.
‘They talked to me and then they took me to see Jesus.’
‘Jesus?’
‘Yes, Mummy. I went to see Jesus with the angel and Grandpa Arthur and Auntie Eadie. I spent ages talking to him. He is such a kind man. Like Father Christmas, but his beard was brown.’
‘That’s nice, honey.’
‘Then Jesus said it was time to go back and the angel took me and I woke up and that’s when I saw the paramedic. I know the paramedic wasn’t the angel. The angel was Michael.’
‘Michael?’
‘He’s an archangel, Mummy. That’s a really important angel. He said I was very special because Jesus only speaks to special people.’
40
Nightingale phoned Danny McBride as he grabbed a coffee at Heathrow Terminal 1 and arranged to meet him at the farm later that day. He flew to Edinburgh, picked up a rental car and drove to the Northumberland coroner’s office in Church Street. He managed to find a parking space close by and smoked a cigarette at the main entrance before going inside.
The coroner’s officer who agreed to see him was a police sergeant by the name of Bernard Connolly. He gave him a business card and sat back and studied Nightingale with unblinking grey eyes. ‘Can I ask what your interest is in the case, Mr Nightingale?’ he said.
‘I’m representing a client who wants to know the background to the shootings.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d tell me who that client is?’
Nightingale smiled thinly. ‘That would be covered by client confidentiality,’ he said.
‘It would if you were a doctor or a lawyer, but gumshoes don’t have that sort of protection.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before,’ said Nightingale.
The policeman smiled. ‘Gumshoe? I’m a big fan of Elmore Leonard. But I can assure you, Mr Nightingale, there’s no mystery here. It’s as open and shut a case as I’ve ever seen. Mr McBride took his shotgun, for which he had a licence, and used it to kill a teacher and eight children. Then he took his own life.’
‘There’ll be an inquest, of course?’
‘Of course. But there won’t be any surprises, I can assure you of that.’ He tapped a gold fountain pen on an open notepad. ‘So assuming that client confidentiality doesn’t apply, who are you working for?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘I’m guessing a family member,’ said the policeman. ‘Probably someone who stands to gain from the will.’ He sat back in his chair and fixed Nightingale with a deceptively bored gaze. ‘Suicide, you see. That would negate any life insurance McBride had taken out.’
‘Only if it was a recent policy,’ said Nightingale.
‘So it is a family member? The brother, I suppose.’
Nightingale tried to keep his face impassive. ‘I really can’t say.’
‘You’re not a poker player, are you, Mr Nightingale?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because you’ve got a tell, that’s why.’
‘A tell?’
‘A tell. It shows when you’re bluffing.’
Nightingale smiled amiably. The policeman was pulling one of the oldest tricks in the interrogator’s handbook, trying to unsettle him. ‘I just need some information on the post mortems that have been carried out on the victims of the school shootings.’
‘Those details will be revealed at the inquest.’
‘I understand that,’ said Nightingale. ‘But can you at least tell me if there are any signs of sexual abuse?’
The policeman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Sexual abuse?’
‘It would be apparent enough in the post mortem. Did the pathologist mention it?’
The policeman tapped his pen on his notepad as he continued to stare at Nightingale.
‘It’s a reasonable question to ask,’ said Nightingale.
‘I’m not sure that it is,’ said the policeman. ‘It’s bad enough that eight children have died, why would you
