‘You heard her. Do you think she’s making it up?’
Jenny put her hands around her wine glass. ‘I think she’s in a mental hospital for a reason,’ she said. ‘I don’t see how you can believe anything that she says.’
Nightingale stood up. ‘I need some fresh air,’ he said.
‘Whenever you say that the first thing you do is light a cigarette,’ said Jenny.
‘I meant that maybe you need some fresh air,’ he said. ‘I’ll get out of your hair.’ He patted her on the shoulder. ‘You sleep on it. We’ll talk it through tomorrow.’ He smiled at Barbara. ‘Take care of her, yeah?’
‘Always.’
74
N ightingale was surprised to find the office door unlocked when he arrived on Wednesday morning, and was even more surprised to find Jenny sitting at her desk. ‘I didn’t think you were coming in until the New Year,’ he said.
‘I was bored at home,’ she said. ‘And I wanted an early start on your receipts for the taxman.’
He looked at her computer screen and smiled. ‘And to play on Facebook,’ he said.
‘I’m checking Bronwyn’s Facebook page,’ she said.
‘Any joy?’
‘Sixteen people I’ve never heard of want to be my friends,’ she said.
‘It’s your sunny disposition,’ he said, sitting down on the edge of her desk. ‘Are you okay?’
Jenny shrugged. ‘I’m confused more than anything. About what happened to Lachie. About what happened to you. The whole thing.’
‘You’re probably in shock, you know that?’
‘Post traumatic stress disorder, is that what you mean? I’m fine, Jack.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
She laughed. ‘To you? And that would help me how?’
‘I was going to suggest you talk it through with Barbara.’
Jenny sighed. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said. ‘But I can’t tell her everything, can I? She’ll think I’m crazy.’
‘What happened to Lachie, you could talk that through with her.’ He held up his hands. ‘It was just a thought. But whatever you decide, let me know when Lachie’s funeral is. I’d like to go.’
‘Okay. And, speaking of funerals, I had a phone call from someone telling me that your aunt and uncle’s funeral is this afternoon.’ She gave him a piece of paper on which she’d written the name of a church.
‘Who phoned?’
‘It was a woman. She didn’t say. I assumed she was from the undertakers. She had all the details.’
Nightingale looked at the note and nodded. ‘It’s the church where my parents are buried,’ he said. ‘Up in Manchester.’
‘Are you going?’
‘It’s a bit short notice,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘And they say it’s going to snow. I don’t fancy driving the MGB in the snow.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ she said. ‘We can take the Audi. They’re your aunt and uncle, Jack. You should be there.’
He looked at the note again. ‘We’ll have to leave in a couple of hours to get there in time.’
‘No problem,’ said Jenny. ‘There’s not much work on.’ She gestured at her computer. ‘And Caernarfon Craig’s gone quiet.’
Nightingale rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘A visit to a church couldn’t hurt, could it?’
75
T he outside of the church was old, with ivy-covered stone walls and a moss-spotted slate roof. There were modern touches, though, including wire mesh over the windows, anti-climbing paint on the drainpipes and a CCTV camera covering the main entrance. At some point the interior had been modernised on a budget, with cheap pine pews and a carpet that was already wearing thin in places. There was only one other person sitting in the pews, a middle-aged woman at the front on the right, curly ginger hair tucked behind her ears.
‘Not much of a turnout,’ muttered Nightingale. He turned to look at Jenny but she had vanished, then he realised that she was kneeling down, crossing herself. ‘What are you doing?’ he whispered.
‘It’s a church, Jack. This is what you do.’ She stood up. ‘Come on, sit down.’
They moved to the left and sat down. Directly in front of them were two wooden coffins, plain varnished teak with imitation brass handles. There was a small wreath of white flowers on top of each.
‘I guess they didn’t have many relatives?’ whispered Jenny.
‘Linda’s side of the family are mainly out in Australia,’ said Nightingale. ‘And they never had kids.’
A young vicar in black vestments walked out of a side door and strode up to the pulpit The service was mercifully short: a sermon and two prayers and it was over.
The vicar came over and introduced himself with a handshake that was as soft as an old woman’s and then hurried away. As Nightingale and Jenny headed out of the church, the ginger-haired woman who had been sitting at the front walked over. She wearing a fawn belted raincoat and carrying a black leather shoulder bag.
‘Are you Jack Nightingale?’ she asked.
‘In the flesh,’ said Nightingale. ‘Are you a friend of my aunt and uncle’s?’
The woman shook her head and took a small black wallet from her coat pocket. She flipped it open and flashed her warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Janet Bethel,’ she said. ‘Greater Manchester Police.’
‘So you’re not a family friend, then?’ said Nightingale.
‘I was the investigating officer,’ she said, ignoring his attempt at sarcasm and putting the card away. ‘Not that there was much to investigate. I wish all my cases were as clear-cut.’ She grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so callous. It’s been a rough few weeks.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ said Nightingale. ‘I know what it’s like.’
‘Of course — you were in the Job, weren’t you?’
‘In the Met. In another life.’
‘And you found the bodies?’
‘That’s right. I’m surprised we haven’t met before. I spoke to the uniforms at the scene but no one from CID ever followed up.’
‘My boss didn’t see the need,’ said Bethel. ‘It was a clear case of murder-suicide. Her blood all over the axe, along with his fingerprints and DNA; blood spatter all over him, fibres from the rope on his hands, the rope that he’d used to hang himself with. You didn’t have to watch much CSI to work out what happened. I said it was my case but really all I did was sign off on the paperwork.’
‘So, forgive me for asking, but why are you here?’ asked Nightingale.
‘It’s just something I do,’ said the detective.
‘Nothing to do with the case?’
‘Like I said, the case is closed,’ said Bethel. ‘I just feel… it’s difficult to say. The fact that I’m the investigating officer means there’s a connection, and the funeral is part of that.’ She forced a smile. ‘It sounds crazy, I know.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Jenny. ‘I think it’s a lovely thing to do. It shows that you care. And in this day and age that’s a rare quality.’ She held out her hand. ‘Jenny McLean,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid Jack isn’t great with the social graces.’ They shook hands.
‘I thought there’d be more people here,’ said Nightingale, looking back at the church. ‘I mean, I know Uncle Tommy didn’t have any family other than me and Linda’s family is mainly in Australia, but even so…’
‘I asked the vicar about that,’ said Bethel. ‘They were well liked in the area and several of the parishioners had asked when the funeral was, but they all backed off when they found out it was a joint funeral. I think they were a bit loath to be saying prayers for your uncle, after what he did.’ She looked at her wristwatch, a cheap black Casio. ‘I must be going,’ she said. ‘The boss never likes me to be long at these things.’
‘Well, thank you for coming, anyway,’ said Nightingale.
‘No problem,’ said Bethel. ‘You’re going back to London?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘There’s not much to keep me here,’ he said. ‘Do you know what’s happening to the house and everything?’
‘It’s messy,’ she said. ‘They both had wills but she died first so everything passed to him. And I gather his will left everything to her. I don’t think he expected to outlive her. The lawyers will work it out, I’m sure, after they’ve taken their cut. Why don’t you give me your card and I’ll call you if anything crops up?’ Nightingale fished a business card out of his wallet and gave it to her. She took it and thanked him. ‘And I’m sorry about your loss,’ she said.