Midnight: The Second Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (30 page)

69

N
ightingale left Edmund House first thing on Boxing Day. Jenny had insisted that he ate breakfast, though he had no appetite. She’d asked him to stay for at least one more day but Nightingale knew he had to go. She had been right when she said that people were dying because of his sister, and until he did something they would continue to die.

Two uniformed policemen had arrived in a car from Norwich about thirty minutes after McLean had made his phone call. They took a cursory look at the body and then phoned the coroner, who arrived within the hour, pronounced Lachie dead and said he was satisfied the death was a suicide and that there would be no need for a post-mortem. McLean phoned a local firm of undertakers and by early afternoon the body had been taken away.

The shoot was abandoned and most of the guests remained in their rooms during the afternoon. There was a forced frivolity at dinner but by ten o’clock most of the guests had called it a night. No one mentioned Lachie or what had happened to him.

Jenny’s mother and father had been in the dining room when they’d eaten breakfast so Nightingale didn’t get a chance to tell her what he planned to do, but he phoned her as soon as he got back to his flat in Bayswater.

‘I want to know whether my sister killed those children or not.’

‘What’s that got to do with what’s happening?’ she asked.

‘I think I have a way to save her soul and get her out of Rampton, but first I need to know.’

‘She confessed, remember?’

‘Something’s not right. Proserpine didn’t know what Robyn had done.’

‘So?’

‘So maybe my sister didn’t kill those kids. If she was a serial killer, wouldn’t Proserpine know?’

‘How the hell would I know, Jack? How would anyone know what they know?’

‘I’m just saying that maybe my sister didn’t kill those kids.’

‘She was found beside one of the bodies with a knife in her hand and she confessed.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve been found beside a body with a knife in my hand and I’m not a serial killer.’

‘That was different, Jack.’

‘Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t,’ said Nightingale. ‘And maybe she only thinks she killed them.’

‘She’s in a mental hospital being studied by expert psychiatrists. Don’t you think they’d have found out if she was delusional? What am I saying? She’s probably in there because she’s delusional.’

‘She pleaded guilty and was sentenced,’ said Nightingale. ‘They’re not interested in finding out whether or not she’s guilty; they just want to cure her if they can.’

‘And what are you saying? That she didn’t do it but somehow thinks she did?’

‘I want to try to get her to remember,’ said Nightingale.

‘And just how are you going to do that?’

‘I was hoping that your friend Barbara might help.’

‘Hypnotic regression? Is that what you’re thinking of trying?’

‘It might work. And, even if it doesn’t, Barbara would get one hell of a paper out of it.’

‘It won’t be any good as evidence,’ said Jenny.

‘It’s not about evidence. It’s about me knowing whether or not she did it. Can you be a sweetie and text me her number?’

‘You’re going to call her today? Boxing Day?’

‘Strike while the iron’s hot, that’s my motto.’

‘No, your motto is that everyone has to stop whatever they’re doing when Jack Nightingale needs something. Just try to show her some consideration, Jack.’

Nightingale ended the call and went over to his sitting-room window. He stared down at the street below. Three questions. Three killers. One had already tried and he didn’t know when the other two would attack, or where, or who they would be. Nightingale wasn’t fearful; he’d been threatened many times while he was a police officer. But he was apprehensive and he didn’t like having to keep looking over his shoulder.

He took out his pack of Marlboro and lit a cigarette. A young black couple walked down Inverness Terrace, arm in arm. They stopped and kissed under his window and Nightingale turned away, not wanting to intrude on their romance. His mobile beeped and he looked at the screen. He jumped when he saw the message:

YOUR SISTER IS GOING TO HELL,

JACK NIGHTINGALE.

The phone slipped from his fingers and fell to the carpet, then bounced under the coffee table. Nightingale cursed and got down on his knees to retrieve it. He sat back on his heels and checked the screen. It was Barbara’s phone number, and a smiley face.

70

N
ightingale phoned Rampton Secure Hospital first thing on Monday morning and spoke to Dr Keller, who was surprisingly amenable to Barbara visiting Nightingale’s sister.

‘Barbara McEvoy? I’ve read some of her work,’ the doctor said. ‘How do you know her?’

‘Friend of a friend,’ said Nightingale. ‘I told her about Robyn and she said she’d be interested in meeting her. I think she thought there might be a paper in it for one of the scientific journals.’

‘I’ve been thinking of using some sort of hypnotherapy myself, but frankly it’s not my field and there isn’t enough money in my budget to bring anyone in.’

‘Dr McEvoy said she’d do it pro bono,’ said Nightingale. He was bending the truth because he hadn’t discussed a fee with Barbara, but it sealed the deal and Dr Keller said they could visit anytime on Tuesday.

They arrived at the hospital just after eleven o’clock in the morning. ‘It’s an imposing building, isn’t it?’ said Barbara, as she parked her VW. She’d made it a condition of going that they went in her car not his. ‘The Victorians really knew how to do public buildings, didn’t they?’

‘It gives me the willies,’ said Nightingale. ‘Same with prisons. I always have this nagging fear that they’re not going to let me out.’

‘Sounds like a guilty conscience,’ said Barbara, getting out of the car.

‘I think it’s more an irrational fear,’ said Nightingale. He flipped up the collar of his raincoat as a few flecks of snow landed on his shoulders.

‘Like the way you don’t like lifts?’

‘Jenny told you, huh?’

‘We could talk about it some time,’ said Barbara. ‘Nail down if it’s the heights or the enclosed spaces that are worrying you.’

‘It’s neither. It’s lifts,’ said Nightingale.

‘Safest form of transport on the planet,’ said Barbara.

‘That’s only because of the elevator conspiracy.’

Barbara wagged her finger at him. ‘I’d be very careful about talking like that when we’re inside,’ she said. ‘Just in case.’

Dr Keller was waiting to meet them when they walked out of the holding area. He smiled broadly as he shook hands with Barbara. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Dr McEvoy,’ he said. He had taken off his white coat and was wearing a tweed jacket with scuffed leather patches on the elbows and a green and black checked flannel shirt with a brown knitted tie.

‘Barbara, please,’ she said.

Dr Keller shook hands so energetically that his spectacles slid down his nose. He pushed them back up and shook hands with Nightingale. ‘You’ve heard about what happened to Robyn’s parents?’

Nightingale feigned ignorance and shook his head.

‘The father drowned his wife in the bath and then cut his own throat. Horrible business.’

‘Robyn’s been told, has she?’

Dr Keller nodded. ‘The police were here last week.’

‘How did she take it?’

‘It’s hard to tell with Robyn. She’s very good at disguising her emotions, those emotions that she has.’

‘Did the police say anything, about what had happened?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Just that it was a murder-suicide and that Robyn had to be informed. They asked me if I’d do it.’

‘And she was okay?’

‘She seemed to be, yes. You have to remember that after she was arrested her parents cut off all contact. She was dead to them and I think it was reciprocated.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Anyway, to the matter in hand.’ He smiled ingratiatingly at Barbara. ‘I wasn’t sure where you’d want to do it,’ he said.

‘Somewhere quiet, preferably,’ said Barbara. ‘And it’s generally best if the subject can lie down.’

‘A sofa?’

‘A sofa would be perfect,’ said Barbara.

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Dr Keller. ‘I don’t have a sofa in my office but I’ve arranged to borrow a colleague’s.’

He took them along a corridor and up a flight of stairs to another corridor. The office was halfway down. Dr Keller knocked on the door and opened it, then had a quick look to make sure that it was empty before ushering them in. The office was lined with books and files and there was a coffee table piled high with psychiatric journals. The window was covered with thick wire mesh and barred, and underneath it was a red three-seater sofa.

Dr Keller looked at his watch. ‘It’s a bank holiday and Dr Muller is away today so you can use her office as long as you want,’ he said. ‘How long do you think it will take?’

‘Two hours is generally long enough for a session,’ said Barbara, putting her briefcase on the coffee table. She opened it and took out a small digital recorder.

Dr Keller took her coat and hung it on the back of the door. He had a small transceiver clipped to his belt and he used it to tell the hospital’s control centre that they were to send Robyn Reynolds to Dr Muller’s office. Five minutes later there was the crackle of a radio in the corridor followed by a knock at the door. Dr Keller opened it. Robyn was there, flanked by two uniformed guards, both female. She was wearing the same grey polo-neck sweater and red Converse tennis shoes as the last time Nightingale had seen her, with baggy blue jeans.

She smiled at Nightingale. ‘Can’t keep away, can you?’ she said.

Nightingale wasn’t sure how to greet her. A handshake seemed too formal and he didn’t know her well enough to hug her. She seemed to have the same problem. She took a step towards him and then smiled awkwardly and shrugged.

‘I’m sorry about your parents,’ he said. ‘Your adoptive parents.’

‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘Do I care that they’re dead?’ She shook her head emphatically. ‘I couldn’t care less, and that’s God’s own truth.’ She smiled brightly. ‘So how was your Christmas?’

‘Not good, actually,’ he said. ‘Yours?’

‘Every day is pretty much the same in here,’ she said. ‘I was sort of expecting a card.’

‘Sorry,’ said Nightingale. He introduced Barbara. ‘Did Dr Keller tell you what we want to do?’

‘Hypnotise me to get me to give up smoking?’ She laughed. ‘Joke.’

‘It’s not really hypnosis,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s more about putting you in a deep state of relaxation so that you can remember what happened to you.’

‘Maybe I don’t want to remember,’ she said.

‘That’s true,’ said Barbara.

Dr Keller thanked the two guards. ‘We’ll have to stay outside the door,’ said one.

‘I understand,’ said Dr Keller. ‘Mr Nightingale and I will be waiting in my office so please show Dr McEvoy there when she’s finished.’

‘Robyn, why don’t you sit on the sofa and relax?’ said Barbara.

‘Are you going to be swinging a watch or something?’ asked Robyn as she sat down.

Barbara smiled. ‘It’s not like that, Robyn,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to talk to you.’ She picked up the recorder and pulled a chair over so that it was next to the sofa. ‘Gentlemen, if you could leave us ladies alone,’ she said.

Dr Keller took Nightingale back to his office. He explained that he had rounds to do and left him alone with a copy of the
Daily Telegraph
and a cup of coffee for an hour and a half, then came back and made small talk until there was a knock at the door. It was Barbara.

‘All done,’ she said.

‘How did it go?’ asked Dr Keller.

‘It was interesting,’ said Barbara. ‘I think it would probably be best if I have the session transcribed and send it to you.’

Dr Keller pushed his spectacles higher up his nose with the forefinger of his right hand. ‘Would you like some tea? We could have a brief chat.’

Barbara looked at her watch. ‘We really have to get back to London,’ she said. ‘Maybe next time.’ She extended her hand and Dr Keller shook it, less energetically than when they’d first met.

He walked them back to the exit and waved as they left the holding area.

As they walked out of the main door Barbara put her head close to Nightingale’s ear. ‘You are bloody well not going to believe this,’ she whispered.

71

N
ightingale carried the two glasses over to the corner table where Barbara was fiddling with her digital voice recorder. ‘White wine spritzer,’ he said, putting the glass down in front of her. He sat down and raised his glass to her. The barmaid had started pouring his Corona beer into a glass before he could say anything, even though in his experience it always tasted better straight from the bottle. Barbara ignored him and concentrated on the recorder so Nightingale shrugged and sipped his beer.

‘The first hour or so was mainly about putting her at ease,’ she said. ‘It was quite hard to get her under. It was as if she was blocking me.’

‘She didn’t want to be hypnotised?’

Barbara shook her head. ‘No, she wasn’t fighting me. It was as if there was already some sort of hypnotic control at work. I had to override that before I could get her down to a lower level.’

‘Someone else had hypnotised her before?’

‘That’s what I think. And that’s a big problem because we’ll have to differentiate between the real memories she has and those that are the result of suggestion.’

‘I don’t follow you,’ said Nightingale.

‘Listen to this, first,’ she said. She looked at the screen on the side of the recorder. ‘Okay, this is where we were after eighty minutes,’ she said. ‘I’d taken her back to the church where she was found with the dead boy.’ She looked around to make sure that there was no one else within earshot. A middle-aged couple were tucking into Shepherd’s pie at the next table. Barbara opened her briefcase and took out a pair of earphones. ‘Use these. We don’t want to scare the natives,’ she said. She plugged them into the recorder.

Nightingale slotted the earphones into his ears and pressed ‘play’. It started mid-conversation and it took him a couple of seconds to realise that it was his sister speaking.

‘It’s dark and I can hear the engine.’

‘Why is it dark, Robyn?’

‘There’s something over my eyes.’

‘What? A blindfold?’

‘A bag. It’s cloth and I can breathe but it’s hot. I feel dizzy.’

‘Are you dizzy because of the bag over your head?’

‘I’m not sure. It’s hard to think. It’s like I’m drunk.’

‘But you haven’t been drinking?’

‘I don’t think so. I can’t remember.’

‘Try to remember,’ said Barbara.

Nightingale sipped his beer and settled back in his chair. Barbara was watching him. ‘Okay?’ she mouthed. Nightingale nodded.

‘I haven’t had anything to drink but I think they gave me an injection. In my leg.’

‘Why do you think that, Robyn?’

‘Something hurt me. Like a pinprick. Then my leg went numb.’

‘Okay, now tell me what happens when the van stops.’

‘I can hear voices outside then the doors open and they take me out. My feet crunch on gravel. I slip but they’re holding onto me so that I won’t fall. It’s cold and it’s raining.’

‘You’ve still got the bag over your head?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happens next, Robyn?’

‘I can hear a door opening. I’m not walking on gravel any more. There’s something hard under my feet. I’m inside. I can hear people around me. A lot of people. They’re muttering, like they’re praying.’

Nightingale picked up his glass and took another sip as he listened. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach as he was fairly sure he knew what was coming next.

‘Can you hear what they’re saying, Robyn?’

‘Yes, but it’s not English. I don’t know what it is.’

It’s Latin, thought Nightingale. That’s why she can’t understand them.

‘What’s happening now, Robyn?’ asked Barbara.

‘A door – there’s a door closing. A big wooden door, it sounds like.’

A church door, thought Nightingale. A church in Clapham.

‘Talk me through it, Robyn,’ said Barbara. ‘Keep telling me what’s happening.’

‘They’re making me walk forward. They’re holding me by the arms. And the chatting is getting louder, like a buzzing in my ears. Something’s happening to my hood. They’re taking it off.’

‘That’s good, Robyn. Tell me what you see.’

‘People,’ said Robyn. ‘Lots of people. They’re wearing black clothes. No, not clothes. Like cloaks with hoods. Long cloaks. I can’t see if they’re men or women because the hoods hide their faces.’

Nightingale looked over at Barbara. She was watching him intently. He nodded at her and she nodded back.

‘I’m in front of an altar,’ said Robyn. ‘But there isn’t a cross there. It’s covered with a white sheet. Oh my God.’

‘What?’ said Barbara. ‘What is it, Robyn? What have you seen?’

‘A boy. They’ve got a boy. Who is he? Why’s he here?’

Timmy Robertson, thought Nightingale. Little Timmy Robertson.

‘They’re putting him on the altar and holding him down. He’s struggling but one of them has put their hand over his mouth. No, no, no!’

‘What, Robyn? What’s happening?’

‘A knife. One of them has a knife. No, please don’t. He’s just a boy. Don’t! No!’

Nightingale’s stomach lurched and then Robyn screamed so loudly that he winced. He pressed the ‘stop’ button and took the earphones out. ‘They murdered the boy,’ he said. ‘They murdered him in front of her.’

Barbara nodded. ‘Assuming that she’s telling the truth.’

Nightingale frowned. ‘Why would she lie?’

‘It’s not about lying,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s more misremembering. That’s why hypnotic regression has to be done by experts. In the wrong hands it’s a dangerous tool because it can produce false memories, memories that aren’t real but feel real to the subject.’ Barbara gestured at the recorder. ‘Listen to the end,’ she said. ‘There’s more.’