The door opposite opened into another bedroom. From where he was standing Nightingale could see that the duvet was rumpled and there was an open book and a pair of reading glasses on one bedside table and a box of tissues and an asthma inhaler on the other.
‘Mr Monkton! Hello!’ shouted Nightingale, pushing the door wider.
There was a door next to a double-fronted wardrobe facing the bed and Nightingale could hear running water.
Jenny came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘There’s someone in the shower,’ he said.
She tried to pull him away from the door. ‘We can’t stay,’ she hissed. ‘They’ll have a heart attack if they come out of the bathroom and see us standing here.’
‘They can’t both be in the shower,’ said Nightingale.
‘You don’t know that,’ she said. ‘But that’s not the point. We should wait outside and keep ringing the bell.’
‘Stay here,’ said Nightingale. ‘Let me check the rest of the house.’
‘Jack!’ whispered Jenny, but he was already heading down the hall.
The door at the end of the hall opened into a large sitting room. In one corner a television set was showing a chat show with the sound muted. On a table next to the sofa was a packet of cigarettes and an ashtray in which there were three lipstick-smeared butts. Nightingale smiled. Mrs Monkton was obviously the smoker in the family. To his left was a fireplace with a modern mantelpiece. There was a framed wedding photograph next to a vase of dried flowers. Nightingale walked over to the fireplace and picked up the picture. The man was tall and looked like a young Sean Connery in a dark blue suit with large lapels; the woman, who barely came up to his shoulders, was plump with a cheeky smile and long blonde hair. He put the picture back. It was the only photograph in the room.
There were shelves lined with books to the right of the fireplace. The top two shelves were filled with books on military history, the lower three contained romances and books of crossword puzzles and Sudoku.
A car alarm burst into life in the road outside and Nightingale walked over to the window but before he could see anything he heard Jenny scream in terror.
50
N ightingale ran down the hall, his heart pounding. Jenny was standing in the bedroom, looking through into the bathroom, her hands either side of her face.
‘What is it?’ asked Nightingale.
Jenny took a step back and pointed at the bathroom with her right hand. The colour had drained from her face and her eyes were wide and staring.
Nightingale put his arm around her. He could feel her trembling. ‘Jenny?’
She opened her mouth but no words came out. Nightingale reached forward with his left hand and gently pushed the bathroom door.
Mrs Monkton was on her knees by the bath. Her head was underwater, her blonde hair floating on the surface, rippling in the waves caused by the two rivers of water pouring from the taps. The water had turned red but Nightingale couldn’t see where the blood was coming from. He guided Jenny over to the bed and sat her down. She stared at him with unseeing eyes.
Nightingale went back to the bathroom. The red water was edging up to the top of the bath and he moved to turn off the taps, but froze as he saw the body sitting on the toilet.
It was Mr Monkton, some forty years older than in the wedding photograph on the mantelpiece and a great deal deader. There was a gaping wound in his throat and a curtain of blood that glistened wetly across the green pullover that he was wearing. His right hand dangled at his side and below it on the tiled floor was a carving knife, the blade smeared with blood.
‘Jack?’ said Jenny from the bedroom.
‘It’s okay, stay where you are,’ he said.
He turned off the taps just as water cascaded over the edge of the bath and pooled on the floor. As he straightened up he looked into the shower cubicle. Across the side of the cubicle, written in bloody capital letters, were eight words:
YOUR SISTER IS GOING TO HELL,JACK NIGHTINGALE.
He took a step back, slipped on the wet tiles, and fell against the wall. He lost his balance and fell to the floor, where he lay cursing. As he picked himself up he found himself looking at the murdered man’s face. The eyes were open and the upper lip was curled back in a snarl.
Nightingale stood up, wiping his gloves on his raincoat. He went back into the bedroom, where Jenny was still sitting on the bed, her hands covering her mouth.
‘Easy, honey,’ he said. ‘It’s okay.’
‘How is this okay, Jack?’ she whispered. ‘How is this even close to okay?’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said.
‘We can’t. We have to call the police.’
‘And say that I’ve been at yet another murder-suicide?’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s one can of worms I don’t want opened.’ Jenny began to shake and Nightingale sat down and held her tightly. ‘You’re in shock,’ he said.
‘Damn right I’m in shock,’ she hissed. She frowned. ‘What do you mean, murder-suicide?’
Nightingale nodded at the bathroom door. ‘The husband’s in there. He slit his own throat. I guess he killed his wife and then topped himself.’
‘What?’
Nightingale stood up and held out his hand. ‘Let’s go, Jenny. We can talk about this somewhere else. You were right — we shouldn’t be here. Come on.’
‘We have to tell someone,’ said Jenny.
‘Look, remember what happened when the cops got me for the woman in Abersoch? And my aunt and uncle? This is going to be the last straw.’
‘Why’s this happening, Jack?’ asked Jenny.
Nightingale sat down on the bed again. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Your uncle killed your aunt and then killed himself. And now your sister’s father has done the same damn thing. That can’t be a coincidence.’
‘I guess not.’ Nightingale wanted a cigarette but he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to smoke in the Monktons’ house.
‘You don’t have to guess,’ she said. ‘Someone didn’t want you to talk to them. Someone or something.’
‘We have to go, Jenny.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘No, this time we have to face up to what’s happened. We should call the police and tell them everything.’
‘They won’t believe anything we tell them,’ said Nightingale. ‘There are just too many bodies piling up. We have to leave and we have to leave now. This is nothing to do with us.’
Jenny glared at him. ‘It’s everything to do with us,’ she said. ‘They’re dead because you came to see them.’
‘You don’t know that,’ said Nightingale, though even as the words left his mouth he knew she was right. Somehow someone had known he was coming — why else would the message be on the shower cubicle?
‘If we stay, the cops are going to think it was me, Jenny.’
‘I was with you. The police’ll be able to tell when they died and I’ll be able to say you were with me when it happened.’
‘But that’ll take time and they’ll keep us both locked up until they know for sure, and even then they’ll add it to the long list of things they think I did. We don’t need the hassle. Trust me. I used to be a cop, I know how they work. They go for the easy option and that’s what I am. The easy bloody option.’ He put his face up close to hers. ‘Jenny, we have to get away from here. Now. Okay?’
She nodded slowly. There were tears in her eyes. ‘Okay,’ she said. She stood up and headed for the door but Nightingale stayed where he was. ‘Are you coming?’ she asked.
‘Wait for me in the car, kid,’ he said.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I just want a quick look around,’ he said.
‘Jack, there are dead bodies in the bathroom.’
‘If I don’t do it now, I’ll never get the chance,’ said Nightingale. ‘Once the bodies are discovered the cops will be all over the place. Did you touch anything?’
‘Why?’
‘Fingerprints. I’ll have to wipe down anything you touched.’
‘Jack…’
‘Did you touch anything?’