Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (24 page)

Morris grinned. ‘Can’t complain. I’ve been doing really well since I started targeting Russians and Arabs. They always have a lot of cash and jewellery in their houses, and as a lot of it is hooky they don’t call the cops.’

‘Be careful with the Russians, mate.’

‘They’re not all mafia, Jack. But most of them are dodgy.’

Nightingale had insisted that they drive up to Berwick and had agreed to share the driving. They had to use the BMW because Nightingale’s classic MGB wasn’t up to a 700-mile round trip. Morris had picked Nightingale up in Bayswater at five o’clock in the morning. They had made good time, stopping only for fuel and coffee, and they reached Berwick at one o’clock in the afternoon. Nightingale had Morris call Stevenson from a phone box to check that he was in his office, then they drove around to the policeman’s house on the outskirts of the town.

It was a terraced house of grey stone, with a white door that opened off the pavement. ‘I hate terraces,’ said Morris. ‘Front and back overlooked and the neighbours are right on top of you.’ He nodded at the burglar alarm box between the two upstairs windows. ‘See that?

‘Alarms never worry you, Eddie. Not bog-standard ones like that. Are you going to go in the front or the back?’

‘I’ll have a walk by and check out the lock,’ said Morris. Nightingale took out his cigarettes. ‘Don’t even think about lighting up,’ said Morris. ‘I don’t want to lose the new-car smell.’

‘Your body odour has put paid to that,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’d be doing you a favour by fumigating it.’

Morris pointed a warning finger at Nightingale’s face. ‘I’m serious, Jack. You smoke in my motor and you’re walking back to London.’

Nightingale groaned and put the pack away as Morris climbed out of the car and pulled on a pair of black leather gloves. He crossed the road and walked by the house, glancing sideways at the front door, then continued down the pavement to a side road. He disappeared from view and Nightingale settled back in the comfortable leather seat. He’d known Morris for the best part of three years. They had been introduced by the solicitor who was representing Morris on a case of breaking and entering which, to almost everyone’s surprise, Morris hadn’t actually committed. Morris had been set up by a former girlfriend, who’d arranged for a pair of his gloves to be dropped at a crime scene. Nightingale had tracked down the real burglar and Morris had walked. Morris wasn’t exactly a criminal with a heart of gold, but he never resorted to violence and usually stole from people who could afford to lose a few grand. Over the years he and Nightingale had become friends.

Morris returned after fifteen minutes and slid into the rear passenger seat behind Nightingale. ‘The front lock is a Yale, so that’s not a problem, but the back is easier. There’s an alley behind the houses and a small walled yard. There’s a Yale on that door, too. I’ll sort the alarm from the outside and go in the back.’

‘No breaking, just entering. I don’t want anyone to know we’ve been there.’

‘No problem,’ said Morris.

There was a black kitbag on the back seat and Morris unzipped it. Inside was a pair of dark blue overalls and he took them out and unrolled them. Under the overalls were several dozen Velcro-backed cloth badges, for most of the country’s main burglar alarm and security companies and a few generic ones. He pulled out a badge that matched the logo on the alarm box and waved it at Nightingale. ‘It’s all in the preparation,’ he said. He placed the badge on the Velcro pad on the back of the overalls, then slipped them on over his clothes. He zipped them up, then picked up a small toolbox up off the floor. ‘Pop the boot, will you?’ said Morris, as he got out of the car. He walked around to the back of the BMW and took out a telescopic ladder that he pulled out to about eight feet. He walked over to the house, the ladder on one shoulder, whistling as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

N
ightingale’s mobile rang and he took the call. It was Morris. ‘You’d better not be smoking in there,’ said Morris.

Nightingale looked over at the house and kept his lit cigarette between his legs. He had the windows open and the air-conditioning on to blast the smoke out of the car. ‘Of course not,’ he said.

‘I’m in,’ said Morris. ‘Come around to the back of the house and I’ll let you in.’

Nightingale locked up the BMW and walked down the road, around the corner and along the alley. He saw Morris standing at an open door and hurried to join him. He followed Morris across a concrete back yard and into the kitchen. Morris carefully closed the back door. ‘All good,’ said Morris. ‘Nothing broken and I can reset the alarm when we leave.’

‘Excellent,’ said Nightingale. He went through to the main sitting room and had a quick look around. A small flower-patterned sofa, a green leather armchair and a flat screen television above a Victorian fireplace. There was a desk by the window with a laptop and printer. Nightingale drew the wooden blinds closed and switched on the lights.

Morris was looking at a series of framed photographs on the wall. In several there was a man in a police uniform, and there was a framed commendation from the Chief Constable of Northumbria Police. ‘You didn’t say anything about him being a cop,’ said Morris.

‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, why does it matter what he does for a living?’

Morris put his hands on his hips. ‘Don’t screw me around, Nightingale, you know why it matters.’

‘We’re hundreds of miles from home and we’re wearing gloves, no one’s going to be putting your name in the frame,’ said Nightingale. ‘Relax.’

‘Relax? You’re a bastard, really.’ He shook his dismissively. ‘I can’t believe you got me to break into a cop’s house.’

Nightingale patted him on the back. ‘That’s Mister Bastard to you,’ he said. ‘Look, he’s at work. He lives alone. We’ll be away long before he gets back.’ He nodded at the computer. ‘I need you to have a look at his browsing history, emails, pictures, video, all that sort of stuff.’

‘Anything in particular?’

‘Child abuse,’ said Nightingale. ‘Child pornography. That sort of thing.’

Morris held up his hands. ‘This is giving me a really bad feeling,’ he said.

‘It shouldn’t. We’re on the side of the angels on this one. I reckon that Stevenson is bad and I need proof. We’re not here to rob, Eddie. In fact I don’t want him knowing that anyone was here, okay?’

‘That’s fine by me,’ said Morris. ‘But next time we go breaking into a cop’s house, at least have the decency to let me know first.’

‘Just check the laptop, I’ll have a quick look around, and then we’re out of here. Okay?’

Morris nodded reluctantly. ‘Okay.’ He sat down at the table and opened the laptop.

Nightingale headed upstairs. There were two bedrooms, either side of a bathroom. One was obviously where Stevenson slept. There was a dirty shirt thrown over a chair and the duvet was piled up in the middle of the bed. There was a mirrored sliding door over a built-in wardrobe but it contained nothing but clothes. There was nothing under the bed and he found only socks, underwear and T-shirts in a chest of drawers.

There was a pine wardrobe in the small bedroom, and on a shelf at the top was a small Samsonite shell suitcase. Nightingale took it out, swung it onto the bed and opened it. Inside was a collection of Masonic regalia, including robes, aprons, sleeve guards and shoes. Nightingale went through it piece by piece. He was by no means an expert on the Masons but from the clothing it looked as if Stevenson was fairly high up in the organisation. He closed the case and put it back on the shelf. There were several coats on hangers and he went through the pockets. Other than a couple of old receipts they were empty.

He stood by the bed and looked around the room. The floorboards were bare pine, polished and varnished, and there was a thick Turkish rug at the bottom of the bed. Nightingale pulled the rug to the side and smiled when he saw the scratches on two of the wooden boards. He knelt down and examined the scratches. They were either 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.’

S
andra 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.’