Nightingale sat down on the sofa and sipped his vodka and Coke. ‘So why are you here?’ he asked.
‘Frankly, Mr Nightingale, I’m not convinced that your uncle took his own life. And if that’s the case, it casts doubt on the assumption that he killed your aunt.’
‘I thought the forensic evidence was conclusive.’
‘It was, but, as I’m sure you know, evidence can be planted or removed.’
‘That’s certainly true,’ said Nightingale. He took another drink.
‘And I understand that you were in north Wales recently. Abersoch.’
Nightingale nodded but didn’t say anything.
‘You know what’s going on there, I assume.’
‘The serial killer? I heard.’ He frowned. ‘What are you saying? The same guy killed my aunt and uncle?’
‘It doesn’t fit the profile completely, I know. The killings in Wales have all been of women and they have all been made to look like suicides. Your aunt was murdered, and your uncle’s death appeared to be a suicide.’
‘Plus it’s quite a way from Wales to Manchester. Most serial killers tend to stay in an area that they’re comfortable with.’ Nightingale yawned. He was feeling tired. He took a long drink and stretched out his legs.
‘I’m sorry for getting here so late, Mr Nightingale. I can see that you’re tired.’
Nightingale put a hand up to his head. He was finding it difficult to concentrate. ‘No, it’s okay,’ he said. ‘What were you saying? About my aunt and uncle?’
‘There is a possibility that they were both killed by a third person,’ said Bethel.
‘And do you know who that might be?’
‘I was going to ask you the same thing, Mr Nightingale. You were in Connie Miller’s house just after her death. And you were there a few days later, weren’t you?’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Nightingale. His legs were going numb and he couldn’t feel his feet. He drained his glass.
‘My opposite number in north Wales told me,’ said Bethel. She stood up and went over to her bag.
Nightingale’s head started to spin. ‘They didn’t know,’ he mumbled.
‘Didn’t know what?’
‘They didn’t know that I went back to Connie’s house. They knew I went around to her parents’ home but they didn’t know that I was in her house.’
The glass tumbled from his fingers and bounced on the carpet. He looked up. The detective was standing in front of him, a roll of tape in her hands.
‘You were there,’ said Nightingale. ‘You were watching the house.’ He tried to stand up but his legs had gone numb.
She bent down and used the tape to bind his wrists together. He tried to resist but there was no strength in his arms.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Keep quiet. It’ll all be over soon,’ said the detective. She went over to her handbag again and returned with a plastic bag. She pulled it down over Nightingale’s head.
Nightingale tried to shout but it felt as if there was a heavy weight on his chest.
Bethel started to wind tape around his neck, sealing the bag shut. Nightingale heard a buzzing. It was his door intercom. He tried moving away but Bethel slid onto his lap, her thighs pinning his legs as she continued winding the tape. The intercom buzzed again.
The plastic bag began to mist over and it started pulsing in and out in time with his breathing. Nightingale knew that he had to breathe slowly so he fought the panic that was making his heart race.
Bethel smiled as she watched his discomfort. She placed her hands on his shoulders and put her face close to his. ‘Not long now,’ she said.
She was wearing gloves, Nightingale realised. Black leather gloves. ‘Why?’ he asked, but then had to gulp for air. His breathing was fast and shallow and his lungs were burning.
He felt himself start to pass out. Bethel was grinning at him in triumph, staring at him with a wild look in her eyes. Nightingale’s eyes were just closing when he saw movement behind Bethel. There was a cracking sound and Bethel tumbled off his lap and fell to the floor. Hands pulled at the plastic bag and ripped it apart. Nightingale gulped in fresh air.
‘Jack, are you okay?’ It was Jenny.
‘She put something in my drink.’ He groaned as the room began to swim.
Jenny hurried to the kitchen and returned with a pair of scissors. She used them to cut the tape around his wrists. Bethel lay on the floor face down, not moving.
‘You were lucky I had a key,’ Jenny said. ‘I’ll call for an ambulance. You should try to throw up.’
She picked up Nightingale’s mobile phone, called nine nine nine and spoke to the operator, but Nightingale couldn’t hear what she was saying and his eyelids fluttered as he slipped into unconsciousness.
100
N ightingale opened his eyes and blinked under the fluorescent lights. He swallowed, which hurt, and there was a bitter taste at the back his mouth. A familiar face loomed over him. Jenny. She smiled.
‘Welcome back,’ she said.
‘Where am I?’
‘Hospital,’ said Jenny.
‘Water,’ croaked Nightingale.
Jenny picked up a glass of water and helped him drink.
‘What did she give me?’ he asked as she took the glass away from his lips.
‘It was Valium, that’s all,’ she said. ‘Not enough to kill you, just to make you really relaxed. They had to pump your stomach, though, just to be sure. It was the plastic bag that was going to do the damage. She was planning to make it look like you had killed yourself. She had a typed suicide note in her bag, with you blaming yourself for your aunt and uncle’s death.’
‘She got me to sign a form saying that I’d spoken to her. She was probably going to forge my signature on the letter.’ He groaned. ‘How long was I asleep for?’
‘Fifteen hours.’
‘You hit her, right? I remember that much.’
‘That’s right. Riding to the rescue, like the cavalry.’
‘What did you hit her with?’
‘My fist.’
‘Your fist? Since when did you know how to fight?’
‘Jack, I’ve got a black belt in tae kwon do. You really should read my CV some time.’
‘And who was she? I’m assuming she wasn’t a real cop.’
Jenny shook her head ‘Her warrant card was a fake. I had a look at her driving licence before the cops came. Her name’s Katherine Whelan. She lives in Caernarfon.’
Nightingale frowned. ‘She didn’t sound Welsh.’
‘She didn’t sound like she was from Manchester, either. But she’s definitely the killer.’
‘But how did she know we were after her? We thought the killer was a man, remember?’
‘I used the office computer to talk to Caernarfon Craig. That was her. If she knew what she was doing she could track the computer down. Once she had the office address she must have done some digging and found out about your aunt and uncle’s funeral and then traced you here. I’m guessing she’d have got my address too.’
Nightingale winced. ‘My head hurts,’ he said. ‘Can you raise the bed a bit?’
Jenny pressed a button to adjust the bed. It made a metallic grinding noise and slowly levered Nightingale into a sitting position.
‘Anyway, the Welsh cops are over the moon,’ she said. ‘Her flat was full of souvenirs. Every time she killed she took something from the victim’s home as a reminder. And her computer was chock-a-block with emails and website stuff. She’s already got a lawyer and they’re working on an insanity defence.’
Nightingale forced a smile. ‘Maybe she’ll end up in Rampton.’
Jenny grinned. ‘She can have your sister’s room.’ She sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Yesterday you said you wanted to talk about what happened. With the deal.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Yeah. He agreed. Neither gets her soul. It was bargained twice, both times in good faith. So neither deal can stand and Robyn gets her soul back.’
‘That’s great,’ said Jenny.
Nightingale looked uncomfortable.