Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller by Stephen Leather Read Free Book Online Page B

papers choose to publish is nothing to do with me,’ said the detective. He looked at his watch. ‘I think I’ve given you more than enough of my time, Mr Nightingale.’
    ‘Then I’d better cut to the chase,’ said Nightingale. ‘The press have been told that McBride’s computer was full of Satanic stuff and that he’d been visiting websites dealing with devil-worship and child sacrifice.’
    ‘That’s nothing to do with the police,’ said the inspector flatly, and he looked at his watch again.
    ‘No, but when you put that together with the Satanic altar in the barn, it gives the impression that McBride was some sort of devil-worshipping nutter, doesn’t it?’
    The inspector put up his hands. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ he said.
    ‘Here’s the thing,’ said Nightingale. ‘McBride didn’t have an internet connection. He wasn’t visiting any websites. He didn’t even have access to email.’
    The inspector’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s a router in the farmhouse. I saw it myself.’
    ‘There is indeed. But it’s never been connected. His brother bought it for him last year but McBride never got around to having it connected.’
    The colour seemed to have drained from the policeman’s face.
    ‘So you can see why my client’s a tad confused,’ said Nightingale. ‘There’s no internet connection at the farm but you’re telling the Press that he was prowling through the web and Googling “human sacrifice” and downloading all sorts of crap onto his computer, but I think you know as well as I do that didn’t happen.’ Nightingale stood up. ‘Anyway, I’ve taken up more than enough of your valuable time.’
    ‘I’d be careful, if I were you,’ said Stevenson.
    ‘Yeah? In what way?’
    ‘Making accusations like you have been, that could come back and bite you in the arse.’ Nightingale took his cigarettes and slid one between his lips. ‘You can’t smoke in here,’ said Stevenson.
    Nightingale ignored him and walked out of the office. He waited until he was outside the building before lighting a cigarette. As he blew smoke up at the leaden sky, he saw Stevenson looking down at him, a contemptuous sneer on his face. Nightingale smiled up at the detective. ‘Oh well, can’t win them all,’ Nightingale muttered to himself.

12
    J enny had booked Nightingale a room at the Sly Fox, a pub overlooking the North Sea on the outskirts of Berwick. It was a cosy place, with thick walls and small windows to cut down the chill factor of the freezing wind that blew in from the sea. Nightingale’s room was comfortably furnished with a large brass bed, a heavy scuffed leather armchair and a massive oak wardrobe with a fox hunt carved into the doors. He tossed his overnight bag onto the bed and phoned Robbie. ‘Any joy with a Berwick contact?’ he asked.
    ‘I’m working on it, mate.’
    ‘I’m heading back tomorrow afternoon, be great to see the guy before I go,’ said Nightingale.
    ‘Seriously, I’m on it,’ said Robbie. ‘How’s it going?’
    ‘I met a DI today but he’s less than helpful.’
    ‘What do you expect? No one appreciates strangers on their patch. Especially ones less than forthcoming in the winning friends and influencing people department.’
    ‘I’ve been all sweetness and light,’ said Nightingale. ‘He took a computer from McBride’s and won’t let me have a look at it.’
    ‘He won’t hand over evidence in a criminal investigation?’ said Robbie, his voice loaded with sarcasm. ‘Well, shame on him.’
    ‘There is no investigation, that’s the point.’
    ‘I’m only winding you up, mate,’ said Robbie. ‘Soon as I get a name I’ll get back to you.’
    Nightingale ended the call and went downstairs to the bar. It was an L-shaped room with a roaring fire, the walls dotted with polished horse-brasses and framed paintings of fox hunts. They didn’t stock Corona so he ordered a Budweiser. The landlord was the man who’d checked him in, a big