She shook her head and wiped her eyes.
Nightingale pointed at the door. ‘I won’t be long, I promise,’ he said. ‘Get in the car but don’t start the engine.’
Jenny went out and Nightingale hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a roll of kitchen towel. He wiped clean anything that Jenny might have touched and wiped the bloody letters off the shower cubicle, then went through to the sitting room. He stood in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips as he consciously slowed down his breathing. He wasn’t sure what it was he wanted, but knew that somewhere among their belongings there must be something that would give him a clue to what had happened to their adopted daughter.
The chat show was still on the television. Nightingale picked up the remote and turned the set off. He looked at the wedding photograph on the mantelpiece. There were no pictures of their daughter anywhere in the house. He thought back to his own home, when he was a child. There had been at least a dozen photographs of Nightingale around the house, mainly school portraits, and several albums his mother used to bring out to show visitors. Nightingale had always been embarrassed by the albums and the way that his mother had fussed over them, but now he had them in a drawer in his bedroom. Although he rarely looked at them, he was happy they were there because, as the years passed and his memories faded, he knew he would always have the pictures. Robyn’s parents had removed all signs that they had a daughter. But Nightingale was sure that they wouldn’t have thrown them away.
He went over to the sideboard and pulled open the top drawer. It was full of receipts, instruction manuals and bank statements. The second drawer, however, contained a large photograph album with a Van Gogh painting of sunflowers on the front. Nightingale took it out and opened it. The first dozen or so pages were filled with family photographs, with Robyn the centre of attention. Robyn as a baby, as a toddler, as a gawky teenager. The last photograph was of Robyn standing next to a white Vauxhall Astra.
Nightingale took the album with him as he left the house. He closed the front door and joined Jenny in the Audi. ‘Are you okay to drive?’ he asked.
She turned to look at him. ‘Doesn’t it affect you, seeing that?’
‘Of course it does. But there’s nothing we can do to help them. They’re dead. Nothing we do is going to change that.’
‘And you’re not going to call the police?’
‘Jenny, do you want to spend another day being grilled by Chalmers and his sidekick? Because that’s what’ll happen if we tell anybody.’ He nodded at the road ahead. ‘Just drive.’
51
N ightingale was sitting at his desk flicking through the Robyn Reynolds album when he heard the office door open. A few minutes later Jenny walked into his room. She looked tired and she groaned as she sat down on one of the chairs facing his desk. ‘I almost didn’t come in today,’ she said.
‘You could have taken the day off.’
‘How could I stay at home with all this going on?’ she said. ‘There was nothing in the papers about the bodies in the house.’
‘It’ll take time for them to be found.’
‘You could make an anonymous phone call.’
‘They always trace them, Jenny. Best to let things take their course.’
She sighed. She’d tied her hair back in a ponytail and her eyes were red as if she had been crying. ‘I’ve been thinking about your sister.’
‘Me too.’
‘No, I mean I’ve been thinking that you should just drop it. Drop the whole thing. She’s a child killer. She’s in a secure mental institution. Whether or not Gosling sold her soul to a devil doesn’t seem to matter one way or another.’
Nightingale frowned at her. ‘How can you say that?’
‘Jack, it seems to me that after what she’s done, one way or another she’s going to Hell. I don’t see it makes any difference if she goes because Gosling did a deal with this Frimost or because she’s turned into a monster.’
‘She’s not a monster, Jenny,’ whispered Nightingale. ‘I’ve met her and I can tell you that she’s not a monster.’
‘She’s killed children,’ said Jenny. ‘More than that, she butchered them.’
‘Have you thought that maybe she turned out that way because of what Gosling did to her? That maybe it’s because he sold her soul that she became what she is?’
‘Gosling sold your soul but you didn’t turn into a child killer.’
‘I hear what you’re saying,’ said Nightingale.
‘But you’re still going to try to help her, aren’t you?’
Nightingale smiled thinly and nodded. ‘She’s my flesh and blood.’
‘So was Gosling, and look at what he did to you.’
‘She’s all I’ve got.’
‘Thanks for that.’
Nightingale groaned. ‘I didn’t mean it like that, kid. I meant she’s the only family I’ve got.’ He grinned. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’
‘You can do penance for your insensitivity by making coffee for me for a change. For the rest of the week.’
‘It’s only Tuesday.’
‘Only three days, then. Milk. One sugar.’
Nightingale walked over to the coffee maker and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘You’re a hard taskmaster, Jenny McLean,’ he said. ‘But I’ve no idea what I’d do without you. How’s Bronwyn getting on, by the way?’
‘Caernarfon Craig got in touch. But so far it’s just chit-chat. He keeps asking for personal details, like my house and car, but I’m keeping it vague. Most of the time we talk about how we’d do it if we decided to end it all. He sends me links to sites where they talk about all the weird and wonderful ways that people use to kill themselves.’
‘Has he asked to meet you?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Be careful.’
‘I’m not stupid. Besides, he only knows me as Bronwyn.’
‘So what’s your plan? You’re just going to toy with him online?’
‘No, I’m chatting away and hopefully he’ll let slip something that identifies him.’
‘Sounds like a plan. Just be careful.’
‘Look who’s talking,’ said Jenny. ‘If there’s anyone who needs to tread carefully, it’s you.’
52
N ightingale nodded at the two men in suits standing by the one-armed bandit in the corner of the pub. They had both put their briefcases on the floor and balanced stacks of pound coins on top of the machine. ‘What about those two, Eddie?’ he asked.
Eddie Morris shook his head. ‘Nah, I don’t think so.’ He took a gulp of lager.
‘Go easy on the old amber nectar,’ said Nightingale. ‘This could take a long time and increasing your alcohol intake won’t help your facial-recognition faculties.’
Morris frowned, his glass inches from his mouth. ‘What?’
‘If you’re pissed as a fart you’re not going to recognise anyone,’ said Nightingale.
They were in a pub a short walk from Elephant and Castle Tube station. It was where Morris had said he was on the evening that a house in Islington had been burgled. The police didn’t believe his story and after spending two hours looking in vain for anyone who remembered Morris, Nightingale was starting to think that perhaps they were right. The landlord had said he didn’t remember Morris, and so had the three members of staff, two of whom had been behind the bar the night that Morris claimed to have been there. But Morris was insisting that he was innocent and Nightingale was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, for a while longer at least.
‘I can handle my beer,’ said Morris. He nodded at the bottle of Corona that Nightingale was holding. ‘You used to be a bit of a drinker, as I remember.’
‘Yeah, I’ve slowed down a bit,’ said Nightingale. ‘Got caught over the limit; my case is up soon.’
Morris grimaced sympathetically. ‘They don’t mess about these days,’ he said. ‘They take away your licence, and worse.’ He chuckled. ‘That’d be a laugh, wouldn’t it, if we were both inside?’
‘Bloody hilarious,’ scowled Nightingale. ‘But I’ve got a plan. Listen, you’re not winding me up here, are you, Eddie?’