18
Nightingale was just getting back into his car when his phone rang. It was Robbie. ‘Hey, you wanted to talk to a cop on the McBride case?’
‘I’ve already spoken to one but he was less than forthcoming.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Stevenson. Colin Stevenson.’
‘Well, I’ve got a contact up there who says he’ll talk to you, off the record and on the QT. He says he’ll call you for a chat but all non-attributable.’
‘I’ve no problem with that. Who is he?’
‘DI by the name of Simpson. He’s the brother-in-law of a guy I know in Clubs and Vice. He’s a bit jumpy but says he’ll phone you if you want. He’s worked on the case from Day One.’
‘That’d be great, Robbie. But can I meet him? I’m up here, might as well strike while the iron’s hot.’
‘He says no to a meet. He’s happy enough to brief you on the phone but he’s a bit wary of a face to face, you being a private eye and all.’
‘I’ll happily bung him a few quid.’
‘Oh yeah, a bribe will swing it.’
‘I didn’t mean it that way, you daft bastard.’
‘Mate, the days of a cop accepting a drink are long gone. And I understand his reservations – I’d be the same if a private eye from up north wanted to pick my brains. These days you never know where that could end. So stop looking gift horses in the mouth and stay by the phone.’ Robbie ended the call.
Nightingale lit a cigarette and he was halfway through it when his mobile rang. The caller was withholding his number. ‘Jack Nightingale?’
‘Yeah. Thanks for calling.’
‘Not sure there’s much I can tell you, but what do you need?’
‘Anything you can tell me about the McBride shootings would be helpful,’ said Nightingale.
‘You’re a PI, right?’
‘For my sins, yeah.’
‘Who’s the client?’
Nightingale had expected the question and had already decided that honesty was the best policy. If Simpson did show Nightingale the file he deserved the truth. ‘McBride’s brother. Danny.’
‘I thought that might be it,’ said Simpson. ‘He’s been in and out of our station every other day since it happened. He thinks there’s some sort of conspiracy, right?’
‘He just wants to understand, that’s all. I think he’s looking for closure and for that he has to know what happened.’
‘We know what happened. His brother shot dead eight kids and a teacher. Then he topped himself. It’s as open and shut as it gets. Murder-suicide. And hand on heart, everyone is happier it ended that way. A trial would have turned into a circus and some high-priced lawyer would have put in some insanity plea. You talk about closure, at least the parents have that. Their kids are dead but so is the man who killed them. That’s probably easier to deal with than if he was in a cell with his PlayStation and choice of meals.’
‘I hear what you’re saying,’ said Nightingale.
‘You’re not trying to prove that McBride didn’t do it, are you?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Nightingale. ‘The brother knows that Jimmy did it. He knows what happened. It’s the why he doesn’t get.’
‘His brother went psycho. Who the hell knows what was going through his head? If he’s hoping for an explanation he’s going to be disappointed.’
‘You think that was it? He just snapped, for no reason?’
‘It happens.’
‘But kids?’
‘Who knows what sets a psycho off?’ said the detective.
‘There was no reason? No problems with the school or the staff? Kids throwing stones through his windows, that sort of thing?’
‘His farm’s in the middle of nowhere. We spoke to people in the nearby village and as far as they know he had no problems. He went to the local pub now and again, played dominos and cribbage, two pints and then he’d go home. Used the post office, shopped in the supermarket once a week. Nice enough guy by all accounts.’
‘A nice guy who just snapped?’
‘Like I said, it happens. We weren’t really interested in why. He did it, and he topped himself. Case closed. I understand that the brother wants more, but other than holding a séance I don’t see that he’s going to get that. The only person who knows why he did it is James McBride and he took the secret with him to the grave.’
Nightingale tossed what was left of his cigarette out of the car window. ‘What can you tell me about the devil-worship thing?’
‘There’s an altar in the barn full of Satanic stuff.’
‘I saw that.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday. The brother took me around the farm. Other than the altar in the barn, what else did you find?’
‘We’ve got his computer. We had the forensic computer boys go through his hard drive and they found all sorts of weird stuff on it.’
‘You saw it?’
‘Sure. He’d visited hundreds of sites and posted on forums, asking about child sacrifice.’
‘I’m sorry to be a pain, but you saw this with your own eyes?’
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘It’s not that. I just have my own reasons for not believing the devil-worship thing.’
‘I saw the printouts.’
‘But not the computer itself?’
‘The forensic boys have it. But we got printouts. I’m not making it up.’
‘Sorry mate, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just trying to get my facts straight. You saw what you saw, I accept that, of course I do. What are the chances of me getting a look at the computer?’
‘I doubt that’ll happen. If you can make a request through the Met, then maybe. But they’re not going to let a PI start messing around with evidence.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I figured. So you think, what? He got caught up in some devil-worship thing? Voices in his head made him do it, that sort of thing?’
‘Who knows? He didn’t leave a note and there was nothing on the computer to explain why he did it.’
‘What about chatrooms? Was he talking to anyone specific?’
‘Doesn’t appear to have done,’ said Simpson. ‘It was more general appeals for information. Mostly he was guided to other sites. Some pretty sick ones, I have to say.’
‘Phone records?’
‘Phone records?’ repeated Simpson.
‘Did he talk to anyone before the killings?’
‘He was clearly acting alone,’ he said. ‘No one thought it necessary to start seeing who his contacts were. He picked up his shotgun, went to the school and started shooting.’
‘A lone nutter?’
‘Obviously I’m not allowed to use phraseology like that. But he was clearly mentally unbalanced and he was acting alone.’
‘But you checked his computer? Whose idea was that?’
‘That’s pretty standard these days,’ said the detective. ‘No matter what the offence, we take a look at their computer. Same as we go through their house and car.’
‘Fishing expedition?’
‘Drugs, terrorism, paedophile stuff. You were in the job, you know that if someone breaks one law they tend to break others.’
‘And the Satanic stuff was the only off thing you found?’
‘That and the dead bodies, yeah.’ Simpson’s voice was loaded with sarcasm.
‘I mean, he didn’t have money problems or he wasn’t on anti-depressants. Nothing that might have set him off?’
‘Nothing like that. You said it yourself, he was a nice guy who snapped.’
‘That’s the thing, though. How does a nice guy get involved in black magic?’
‘You’d need to ask a psychiatrist that question,’ he said. ‘Look, I think I’ve given you all the intel we have. Like I said, it’s open and shut.’
‘Just one more question,’ said Nightingale. ‘I spoke with a DI called Stevenson.’
‘Colin? Yeah, it was him that gave me the printouts of the contents of the hard drive. He did the search of McBride’s house.’
‘And the barn?’
‘Yeah, he was straight out there. I was with the team at the school.’
‘He didn’t seem very helpful, to be honest.’
‘Yeah, well, you can understand that, you being an outsider and all. And a PI to boot. He’s not going to open up his files to you, is he? Be more than his job’s worth. Even I’ve told you too much as it is.’
‘I get that. But they didn’t pull any prints off the altar.’
‘Why would they need to do that? McBride lived there alone.’
‘To show that McBride was the one who set up the altar.’
‘Who else would have done it?’
‘That’s a very good question,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I come up with an answer, I’ll let you know.’
Immediately Nightingale ended the call his phone rang. It was McBride, apologising for not answering his phone earlier. ‘I was out with the kids and left the phone in the car,’ he said.
‘I just wanted to let you know that I’m heading back to London. I’ve spoken to a few people and I’ll get the stuff from the altar checked.’
‘Can we get the computer back?’
‘Not yet,’ said Nightingale. ‘But let me work on that.’
‘I’m grateful for your help on this, Mr Nightingale. I know my brother wasn’t crazy. And I know he didn’t hate children.’