‘What are you doing?’ she screamed, pushing the door wide open. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
John ignored her and continued to press on the pillow. She ran over to him and grabbed at his arm. ‘Get off him!’ she screamed. She pulled hard and the pillow came away. Gary was as dead as his brother, his eyes open and lifeless, his mouth forming a perfect circle. Sally reached for him, tears pricking her eyes. ‘What have you done?’
Before she could pick up Gary, John seized her by the throat, his fingers digging into her trachea, cutting off her breath. ‘It’s better like this,’ he said. ‘It’s better they don’t suffer.’
Sally tried to speak, but his grip was too tight. There was a look in his eyes she’d never seen before. It wasn’t anger, or hatred, it was something cold and hard, as if they had turned to glass in their sockets.
‘It’s going to be okay, honey. Jesus says so.’ He nodded earnestly. ‘Really, he says so.’ His left hand joined the right and he squeezed tighter. Her throat was burning and her chest was heaving but she couldn’t get any air into her lungs. Sally didn’t know enough human anatomy to realise it wasn’t the lack of air that was killing her, it was the fact that her husband’s hands had cut off the blood supply to her brain. She tried to beg him to let her go, but even if she could have formed the words she knew there was nothing she could say that would stop him. The last thought that went through her mind was that at least her boys hadn’t suffered.
44
Jenny was at her desk tapping away on her keyboard when Nightingale walked in. It was clear from the look on his face that something was wrong. He didn’t take off his raincoat, just dropped down onto the chair opposite hers. ‘He’s dead,’ he said.
‘Who’s dead?’
‘Danny McBride. The client.’
Jenny’s jaw dropped. ‘Please tell me that’s a sick attempt at humour.’
Nightingale sat down. ‘I wish it was a joke.’
‘What happened?’
‘He hanged himself, or someone hanged him. I had a quick look around and I didn’t find a note. And the last time I saw him he didn’t seem the suicidal type.’
Jenny put her hand over her mouth. ‘That’s awful.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Why are you only telling me this now? Why didn’t you call me yesterday?’
‘It wasn’t something I wanted to share on the phone.’
‘I can’t believe it. He seemed like such a nice man.’
‘He was.’
‘And his poor kids. And his wife.’
‘I know.’
Jenny folded her arms. ‘I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.’
‘I’m as shocked as you are,’ said Nightingale.
‘What did the police say?’
Nightingale looked pained. ‘I’m not sure if they know yet.’
‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t call it in, could I? Then I’d be right in the middle of it. The cops are already pissed off at me, it’ll only get worse if they think I had a hand in McBride’s death.’
‘Jack! What, you found the body and you just left it there?’
‘What else could I have done? The last time I made waves I got hit over the head and driven off the road. If I’d drawn attention to myself …’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows what might have happened. So yes, I put my tail between my legs and skulked away. Discretion being the better part of valour and all that crap.’
‘And what about his family? Who’s going to tell them?’
‘Someone will find him eventually,’ said Nightingale. ‘His wife will report him missing and I’m pretty sure the cops will check the farm. It’d be the obvious place to look.’
‘But you said it was suicide. I don’t understand why you couldn’t just report it to the police.’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘He was hanged but he wasn’t suicidal. You met him. He was fine. And like I said, there was no note.’
‘So what are you saying? Someone killed him and made it look like suicide?’
‘When McBride took me to the farm, he unlocked the gate and we drove down to the farm, leaving the gate open. When I found McBride his car was parked by the farmhouse but the gate was padlocked.’
‘So someone else padlocked the gate afterwards?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Exactly.’
‘But who? Who would have done that?’
‘That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn’t it? I’m guessing someone who realised that he had hired me, someone who wants to hide the truth about McBride’s brother and what he did at the school.’
‘But that means it must be someone who knew you were on the case.’
Nightingale rubbed his chin. ‘That thought had occurred to me,’ he said. ‘It could be the cop I spoke to, or the coroner’s officer. Who was also a cop. Or the detective that Robbie put in touch.’
Jenny’s jaw dropped. ‘Are you saying the police are behind this?’
‘I don’t know, not for sure anyway. But I don’t want to be sitting in a police cell waiting to find out.’ He shrugged. ‘But it might not be a cop. I chatted to the locals in the pub and we don’t know who the cops spoke to.’
Jenny ran her hands through her hair. ‘What are you going to do, Jack?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘But we don’t have a client any more. That’s it, right?’
‘I don’t see why. He paid us two grand in advance. What are we supposed to do? Give it back? We at least owe him two grand’s worth of work. Besides, I want to know what’s going on, because something is clearly rotten in the state of Berwick.’
‘Now you’re misquoting Shakespeare?’
‘I’m under a lot of stress,’ he said. He pulled an evidence bag from his pocket. Inside were a plastic-handled screwdriver and two spanners. Like the knife, they’d had to travel in the hold on the flight from Edinburgh to London. ‘I got these in the barn – it looked like he used them when he was working on his tractor.’
Jenny took the bag from him. ‘What about your prints?’
Nightingale took a sheet of paper from her printer and pressed the fingers of both hands down onto it. He folded it and put it into another evidence bag. ‘There you go.’
‘You’re such a professional.’
‘That’s what they say. Coffee?’
‘Are you asking or making?’
‘I’m making.’
‘Then I’d love one.’
45
‘Well, this is a nice surprise,’ said Sandra’s mother, as Sandra kissed her on the cheek. ‘Dad’ll be so sad to have missed you. He’s fishing down at the canal.’
‘I’ll be back, Mum. But I wanted a chat with you.’
‘Tea,’ said her mother. ‘The kettle’s on. Come on through.’ She took Sandra down the hall and fussed around the tea things as Sandra sat down at the table and looked out over the back garden. It wasn’t the house that she’d been brought up in; her parents had downsized ten years earlier when the last of her brothers had finally moved out. They’d sold their five-bedroom house, bought a small bungalow with a manageable garden and put the rest of the money into shares, providing them with a comfortable retirement.
