vodka in the icebox and he took it out, unscrewed the top and drank from it. He took three gulps before it began to burn his throat and he gasped.
He half filled a tumbler with vodka then popped the tab of a can of Coke and poured that in. He took the tumbler, the Coke can and the vodka bottle into his sitting room and put them on the table by the window. The Ouija board was still there, surrounded by the five candles.
He took a long drink of vodka and Coke and began pacing around the room. His mind was whirling and he found it impossible to concentrate. All he could think about was the knives going into Bella’s eyes and the way her body had gone into convulsions when he’d thrust the final knife into her heart.
He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and then took another gulp of vodka and Coke. He wanted to get drunk, so drunk that he wouldn’t remember what he’d done. His stomach lurched and he fought the urge to vomit.
He pulled his mobile phone from his raincoat pocket. He wanted to talk to somebody. Jenny maybe. Or Robbie. But what he could tell them? And if he told them the truth, what would they say? He tossed the phone onto the sofa, then took off his raincoat and draped it over the back of a chair. He drained his glass and grabbed the vodka bottle for a refill.
As he sloshed vodka into the glass he noticed movement on the Ouija board. He frowned and stared down at the planchette. It was vibrating. He shook his head, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. But there was no doubt, the planchette was juddering. As he watched it began to move slowly across the board. Nightingale held his breath, the vodka bottle and glass forgotten. The planchette moved slowly but surely in a smooth motion until it reached the word GOODBYE. Then it stopped dead. Nightingale felt a cold breeze on the back of his neck and he shivered. ‘Goodbye, Bella,’ he whispered, then drained his glass in one.
95
Nightingale came awake instantly from a dreamless sleep. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his own breathing. He heard a police siren far off in the distance, but that wasn’t what had woken him. Then he realised he wasn’t alone in the room.
He sat up and peered into the dark corner furthest away from the window. Proserpine was standing there, her black and white collie at her side. She was wearing a long black leather coat that almost brushed the carpet and knee-length black boots with stiletto heels. Her hair was loose around her face and she had a fringe that almost covered her eyes. She glared at Nightingale malevolently. ‘You lied to me, Nightingale,’ she said, her voice a low rasping whisper.
‘Not really,’ he said.
The dog growled menacingly and Proserpine jerked the chain to silence it. ‘I told you that you weren’t to go near Fairchild.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘I told you that you weren’t to kill him.’
‘And I didn’t.’
There was a deep growling sound and Nightingale couldn’t tell if it was her or the dog. ‘You think you can play games with me, Nightingale?’
Nightingale reached for his cigarettes and lit one before answering. ‘I think you choose your words carefully,’ he said. ‘And so did I. I didn’t go near Fairchild. I didn’t talk to him. And I didn’t kill him.’
‘You had him killed,’ she said quietly.
‘And that right there is why the choice of words is so darn important,’ he said. He tried to blow a smoke ring but failed miserably. ‘I had him killed. That’s not the same as killing him. So all bets are off.’
Proserpine glared at him. ‘You paid to have him killed, that’s the same as killing him.’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘I didn’t pay a penny. In fact I didn’t even ask for it to be done. I just talked to someone who hates nonces even more than I do.’
‘Perry Smith?’
‘Gangster of this parish. He gave me the gun that I was carrying that night you stopped me. I gave him the gun back and he asked why. I told him that I couldn’t kill Fairchild. Perry said that he’d do it in a heartbeat. His kid sister was abused when she was in a care home, so he’s got personal reasons for hating paedophiles.’
‘You told Smith that Fairchild was a paedophile?’
‘Which he was,’ said Nightingale. ‘I didn’t tell him about the Order of Nine Angles, of course. Or the whole devil-worship thing. That would have muddied the water, I figured. But like I said, he offered to kill Fairchild and I didn’t try to dissuade him. So it doesn’t affect our deal and I get to keep my soul.’
Proserpine and her dog stared at Nightingale for several seconds. ‘You think you’ve beaten me, do you?’ she said eventually.
‘I don’t think there are any winners or losers in this,’ said Nightingale. ‘The whole thing is a mess. But Fairchild can rot in Hell for all I care.’
‘He’ll be in Hell, but he won’t be rotting,’ said Proserpine. ‘He has earned his place in Hades.’
‘Fine,’ said Nightingale. ‘I hope you’ll all live happily ever after. Now can I get back to sleep, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me?’
‘You’re very sharp, Nightingale. You want to be careful you don’t end up cutting yourself.’
‘I’ll do that.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You think you can trust Mrs Steadman, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know who I can trust these days,’ he said.
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ she said. She looked down at her dog and smiled. ‘Come on, let’s go play catch.’ She jerked his chain and then the room folded in on itself and there was a deafening cracking sound and the smell of burned leather and she was gone. Nightingale stubbed out what was left of his cigarette and lay down. He stared up at the ceiling for the rest of the night, unable to sleep.
96
Nightingale was in the shower when his mobile rang. He wrapped a towel around himself and padded into the bedroom. It was Robbie. ‘Bloody hell, mate, the bodies are piling up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Colin Stevenson has topped himself and Marcus Fairchild was killed yesterday.’
Nightingale sat down on the bed. The roll of knives was on his dressing table. He looked at his watch. He was supposed to return them to Mrs Steadman before noon. ‘You’re sure Stevenson killed himself?’
‘Tablets and whisky and he left a note. He typed it, but as they found him dead on the keyboard they’re pretty sure it was him.’
‘Bastard,’ said Nightingale. ‘I won’t be shedding any tears over him.’
‘Yeah. According to what he wrote, he was just misunderstood. No one understands the love between a man and a child is the purest kind of love, all the crap that paedophiles spout to justify what they do. But there was some hard info in there. For a start, Stevenson says he was the one who got McBride to kill the kids.’
‘How did he manage that?’
‘McBride’s farmhouse is where a lot of the abuse took place, so McBride’s life would be pretty much over however it went. But Stevenson threatened him, too, said that he’d kill McBride’s nephews if he didn’t do it. Stevenson says that McBride was talking about killing himself anyway once he knew that the cops were onto them. It just took a bit of manipulation to get him to shoot the kids first.’
‘How did they know the cops were on to them?’
‘There’s a leak in the Paedophile Unit. Stevenson got a call from a phone box not far from the unit’s London base a few hours before he topped himself. They reckon the same mole tipped Stevenson off about the first investigation. All they had at the time was the name of one of the kids, but they were coming up to do interviews across the school. Stevenson and the rest figured if they could make it look like the kids had been killed by a lone disturbed gunman, the abuse investigation would die with it. And with the number of cops who seem to be involved,
