side of a board that moved slightly when he pressed it. He took a ten pence piece from his pocket and used it to pry up the end of the loose board until he was able to grip it with his fingers and pull it up. He placed the board on the floor and stuck his hand into the gap. His fingers touched a metal box and he carefully slid it through the gap. It was a Marks & Spencer biscuit tin.
Nightingale sat on the bed and opened the tin. Inside were more than a dozen pairs of underwear. Children’s underwear. Each had a small label attached to it. Nightingale picked up a pair of purple pants. They looked as if they would fit a pre-teen. The name on the label read JULIE DAVIES. Nightingale felt a wave of revulsion wash over him. It was the man’s trophy collection, souvenirs that would allow him to relive his abusive experiences. He put the underwear back in the tin, closed the lid, and replaced it in its hiding place. He put the board back and pulled the rug over it.
Morris looked up from the laptop as Nightingale walked back into the room. ‘You’ve got to see this,’ he said.
‘What?’ said Nightingale, looking over his shoulder.
‘You were right. He’s a bloody paedo all right.’ He clicked his mouse over a folder and dozens of thumbnail pictures appeared. He clicked on one and it expanded to fill the screen. Nightingale grimaced. A prepubescent girl was on her knees, her face pressed against a man’s groin. The face of the man had been digitally blurred.
‘This is a relatively minor one,’ said Morris. ‘There’s a lot worse than this.’ He clicked on another thumbnail and a photograph of a fat middle-aged man having sex with a young boy appeared. Again the man’s face was digitally obscured. ‘He’s been sharing these pictures, on paedophile websites and through emails,’ said Morris.
‘Can you print me out the list of email addresses?’
‘No problem,’ said Morris. He clicked the mouse and the printer began to whirr.
‘How many photographs?’
‘Hundreds. Thousands maybe. Videos, too.’
‘Show me a video.’
‘Are you sure? It’s pretty graphic.’
Nightingale nodded.
Morris opened another file and clicked on a video. It was in HD, the camera focused on a young girl lying naked on a bed. A heavy-set man with a hairy back was lying on top of her. The man was wearing a black mask that covered his whole head. He was grunting as he pounded into the little girl. Whoever was holding the video camera moved around to get a better shot of the girl’s face. Her eyes were glassy, as if she had been drugged.
Nightingale wasn’t looking at the man, or the victim, he was concentrating on the room that the video had been shot in, and it didn’t take him long to recognise it. It was one of the spare bedrooms in McBride’s farmhouse.
‘Show me another,’ he said,
Morris clicked the mouse a few times and a second video appeared. This one showed a tall thin man, also masked, sitting on a sofa with two young girls, neither of whom looked older than twelve. They were both naked. Nightingale recognised the sofa. It was in McBride’s sitting room. A second man moved into shot. He was short and muscular, naked except for a ski mask.
‘Okay, that’s enough,’ he said.
Morris got rid of the video and clicked on another file. ‘Stevenson has been sending the pictures after he’s blurred the faces, but he still has the originals. He’s hidden them but they’re still here.’ He clicked on a thumbnail and a photograph of a man abusing a young girl appeared. His face was clearly visible.
Nightingale’s jaw dropped as he recognised the man.
‘Is that who I think it is?’ asked Morris.
‘No question,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’s on the TV every other night.’
Morris clicked open more pictures. They were all of young girls and boys being abused by middle-aged and old men. Nightingale recognised several of the men, including two Members of Parliament, a Premier League football player and a television comedian. ‘This is sick,’ said Morris. ‘What were they doing, pimping the kids out?’
‘I don’t know, but it looks well organised,’ said Nightingale. The printer finished printing and he picked up the four sheets of paper containing the email addresses. ‘Here’s what I need you to do, Eddie. I need you to email a dozen or so of those pictures and a couple of the videos to this email address.’ He pulled a sheet of paper from the printer and scribbled down an address. ‘And use Stevenson’s email to send it.’
Morris looked at the email address that Nightingale had written down. ‘That’s a cop address.’
‘That’s right. He works for the Met’s paedophile unit.’
‘They’ll trace it back to him straight away.’
‘That’s what I want, Eddie. Once the Met take a look at the faces in the photographs and video they’ll investigate Stevenson and they’ll blow the whole thing sky high.’ He put the printed sheets into his raincoat pocket. ‘We’ll be long gone by then.’ He handed Morris a thumb drive. ‘Just to be on the safe side, put as many of the pictures and videos on this as you can. Then delete all traces that we were here.’
‘Bloody hell, Nightingale, what have you got me involved in?’
‘We’re righting wrongs, Eddie. Just leave it at that. Get it done, we’ll get back to London and you can forget you were ever here.’
‘I hate paedophiles,’ said Morris. ‘They should castrate them and kill them. End of.’
‘No argument here.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Come on, pull your finger out.’
62
Sandra put down a plate of fish fingers and chips in front of Bella, but she didn’t react. She was watching a documentary on the Discovery channel. ‘Come on, Bella, you might at least say thank you. Those fish fingers didn’t cook themselves.’
Bella looked up, her face a blank mask. ‘Huh?’
Sandra pointed at the plate of food on the coffee table. ‘Your dinner.’
Bella looked at the plate and wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘What do you mean you’re not hungry? What did you have at school?’
‘I can’t remember.’ Bella looked back at the television.
‘Try,’ said Sandra, folding her arms.
Bella sighed. ‘I don’t know. Spaghetti.’
‘You hate spaghetti.’
Bella sighed again, louder this time.
‘And stop that sighing, will you.’ Sandra sat on the sofa next to her daughter. ‘Bella, honey, you have to eat.’
‘I do eat,’ said Bella, her eyes still on the TV.
‘You love fish fingers.’
‘I know.’
‘So try some. Please.’
Bella sighed again, picked up a fish finger and nibbled it. ‘Honey, are you okay?’
Bella nodded.
‘How was school?’
Bella shrugged. ‘Same as always. School’s school.’
‘Are you still upset about what happened to Mrs Tomlinson?’
Bella frowned. ‘Of course not.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘She died, that’s all,’ said Bella flatly. ‘People die. Everybody dies, right?’ She put the fish finger back on the plate and stared at the television.
‘What are you watching?’ asked Sandra.
‘Nothing.’
Sandra squinted at the screen. She was fairly sure that she needed glasses because she was finding it harder to read newspapers and watch television. Her long-distance vision was fine and she could drive her car without any
