I Know Who Did It (A Jack Nightingale Short Story)

I KNOW WHO DID IT

By Stephen Leather

***

Jack Nightingale was always happier dealing
with criminal cases or even divorce than he was with matters of the
supernatural. So when a client came with a simple request to uncover the
meaning behind her father’s last words, he was happy enough to take the case.
Little did he know that the investigation would lead him to one of the vilest
demons to ever walk through the gates of
Hell.
Jack Nightingale appears in the
full-length novels Nightfall, Midnight, Nightmare, Nightshade, Lastnight and
San Francisco Night. He also appears in several short stories including Blood
Bath, Cursed, Still Bleeding, Tracks and My Name Is Lydia. The Jack Nightingale
time line is complex, this story is probably set between Nightshade and
Lastnight.

The old man’s
eyes were closed and his chest wasn’t moving. Mary Campbell wiped her eyes and
looked over at the nurse. ‘Has he gone yet?’ she asked. She dabbed her eyes
again.

‘Not yet,’ said
the nurse. ‘You’ll know when it happens.’

‘Is he in any
pain?’

The nurse shook
her head. ‘None at all. The doctor has made sure of that.’

The man who was
lying in the king-sized bed weighed barely more than thirty kilos, a quarter of
what he’d weighed before the cancer had gripped him. It had moved quickly, as
if making up for lost time, and in just three months it had reduced him to a
shell. He had insisted on dying at home, and as J. Ramsay Campbell was a very
wealthy man his wishes were respected. He had paid for round-the-clock nursing
care and his doctor was always by his side within an hour of being called. But
there had been no calls for the past few days because now it was just a matter
of time. His morphine was supplied
intravenously .
For
a while he had been able to adjust the amount of morphine himself but now the
nurse did it for him. She had helped people die many times before and she knew
exactly how much to increase the dosage by. She had learnt from experience that
death was best not rushed.

Mary was J Ramsay
Campbell’s daughter. Her mother – J Ramsay Campbell’s wife – spent
most of the day sitting next to his bed but she was almost as old as he was and
she needed her sleep. Mary caught what sleep she needed during the day and
maintained her vigil throughout the night. Part of her knew that most people
died at night and she wanted to be there when he passed away.

Mary barely
thought of the dried husk
as
her father. The cancer
had taken most of him away, all that was left was a shell. It was his face,
just about, but his body had shrunk and she thought that she could, if she had
to, scoop him up in her arms and carry him. His skin was almost translucent and
she could see the veins and arteries that carried what little blood he had left
in his system.

His chest moved,
just a fraction, and there was a dry rattle from somewhere at the back of his
throat.

‘It won’t be long
now,’ said the nurse. She was dark-skinned and barely more than five feet tall.
Mary wasn’t sure if she was from the Philippines or Thailand but she seemed to
have a genuine affection for her patient. All his nurses did. There were five,
working staggered shifts so that there was always one in the room and another
close by.

‘Do you think he
knows I’m here?’ asked Mary.

The nurse smiled.
‘I’m sure he does,’ she said. But Mary could see the lie in her eyes.

The nurse turned
away and at that exact moment J Ramsay Campbell sat bolt upright. Mary shrieked
and her hands flew up to her face. His eyes were wide and clear and his skin
seemed healthy and liver spot-free.

‘Dad?’ said Mary,
but her father didn’t react.

He licked his
lips
as
he continued to stare straight ahead

‘I know who did
it,’ he said.

‘What, dad? Who
did what?’

The old man took
a deep breath and then screamed at the top of his voice. ‘I KNOW WHO DID IT!’
He stiffened, his mouth fell open and then he collapsed back on the bed. The
lines on the monitor went flat.

* * *

‘And those were
his last words? I know who did it?’ Jack Nightingale was sitting at his desk,
across from Mary Campbell. Jenny McNeal was sitting next to the client, taking
notes. Jenny was wearing a dark blue dress that ended just above the knee and
had her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Mary Campbell looked as if she was
in her late thirties but was dressed as if she was in her sixties, in a tweed
suit with sensible brown shoes. There was
a
large
silver brooch close to her neck.

‘He sat up, said
it. Then shouted it. Then he passed away. It was the only thing he’d said over
the past week.’

‘People do get
lucid towards the end,’ said Nightingale. ‘They often have a moment of clarity
just before…’ He shrugged, not wanting to finish the sentence.

‘That’s what the
nurse said. And I understand that. But it was the way he said it, Mr
Nightingale. It was as if he had solved a mystery.’ She leaned forward, closer
to him, and he could see that she was about to cry. ‘The thing is, there is a
mystery in our family. My sister, Emily. She died forty years ago. We never
found out what had happened.’

Nightingale
frowned, not understanding.

Jenny pushed a
box of tissues towards Mary Campbell and she took one and dabbed her eyes.
‘There was an inquest, surely, there’s always an inquest when someone dies
suddenly and unexpectedly,’ said Jenny.

‘They said Emily
had killed herself, but my parents never believed that.’ She dabbed her eyes
again. ‘Emily was their first child. I was born two years after she died.’ She
forced a smile. ‘Mum was nearly forty then and they weren’t expecting to have
any more children.’ She sighed, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She
exhaled slowly before opening her eyes again. ‘Emily was at boarding school, in
Hampshire. She cut her wrists, they said. But my father never believed that. He
always thought that someone had killed her. But the police insisted that she
was found in a locked room, locked from the inside, and the coroner called it a
suicide.’ She took another deep breath to compose herself before continuing.

‘My father hadn’t
mentioned it for years. And then three days ago, as he was dying, he sat up and
said that he knew who’d done it. I can’t think of anything else he could have
been talking about.’

‘But what is it
you want me to do?’ asked Nightingale.

‘If my father
knew who did it, if he’d remembered something, then I want to know too. I want
to know who killed my sister.’

‘But it was forty
years ago.’

‘My father was so
sure. I could see it in his eyes. He knew, Mr Nightingale. Without a shadow of
a doubt, he knew.’ She fumbled in her bag and brought out a cheque book. ‘I’ll
pay whatever you want, just find out what happened to Emily all those years
ago.’

Nightingale
looked over at Jenny. Business had been quiet for the last few weeks and it
wasn’t as if he had any pressing cases. Jenny nodded at him. ‘I’ll do what I
can,’ promised Nightingale.

* * *

Mary Campbell
left the office after signing a cheque for a thousand pounds on account, and
Nightingale phoned his friend Robbie Hoyle. He’d known Hoyle for more than a
decade. He was a sergeant with the Territorial Support Group but was also a
skilled negotiator. ‘Jack, I’m a bit busy right now,’ said Hoyle. ‘I’m on my
way to a jumper.’

‘I need a quick
favour when you’ve got the time,’ said Nightingale.

‘I assumed that’s
why you called,’ said Hoyle. ‘The only time I hear from you these days is when
you want something.’

‘That’s harsh,
Robbie.’

‘Harsh but true. What
do you need?’

‘I need the name
of an investigating officer in Hampshire. Forty-year-old case. A schoolgirl
died at Rushworth School near Winchester. Her name was Emily Campbell.’

‘A forty-year-old
case, Jack? Seriously?’

‘The client wants
information, that’s all. Can you get me a name?’

‘I’ll try. Call
you later.’ Nightingale put down the phone. Jenny was looking at him and
shaking her head. ‘What?’ he said.

‘You might have
asked him about his wife. His kids. How he was getting on.’

‘He was busy. He
has a suicide to talk down. Anyway, Robbie and I go back a long way.’

‘You use him,
Jack. Like you use everybody.’

‘I’ll buy him a
drink when I see him.’ He held up his hands when he saw the look of contempt
flash across her face. ‘Fine, you’re right, I’m sorry, I’ll phone him back and
ask him about his wife and kids.’ He reached for the phone but she had already
turned and walked out of his office. He sat back and lit a cigarette.

* * *

Hoyle didn’t ring
back that morning so Nightingale decided to drive down to the boarding school
after lunch. He grabbed his raincoat and tossed it over his shoulder as he
walked to Jenny’s desk. ‘If Robbie calls, tell him to try my mobile.’

‘Have you got
your hands-free fixed up?’

‘Sort of.’

‘What does that
mean?’

‘I tuck it
between my neck and my shoulder. That counts as hands-free.’

‘You’ll lose your
licence, Jack. The cops don’t want you smoking and phoning while you drive.’

‘To be fair, I
don’t do both at the same time. Why not come with me?’

She frowned up at
him. ‘Because?’

‘Because I’ll
need a cover story. A guy on his own might look a bit out of place, but we
could say we’re parents looking for a school for our kid.’

Jenny’s eyes
narrowed. ‘Parents?’

‘It’s just a
cover story.’

Her eyes narrowed
a bit more. ‘How old is our child?’

Nightingale
shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Eight? Nine?’

‘You’d tell them
that I’m the mother of an eight-year-old?’

‘You married
young.’

‘You’re an idiot
sometimes. First, I doubt anyone would believe I was the mother of an
eight-year-old. I bloody hope not, anyway. And second, I really hope that no
one would believe for one minute that you and I were…’ She shuddered.

‘It was just an
idea,’ said Nightingale.

‘A better idea
would be for you to go on your own and say that your wife is overseas. You’re
looking at schools before she comes over with the kid.’ She flashed him a tight
smile. ‘That sounds a lot more realistic.’

Nightingale
raised his hands in surrender. ‘Then that’s what I’ll do,’ he said. ‘Can you
get me directions to Rushworth School?’

‘Why don’t you
get yourself a GPS?’ asked Jenny.

‘I don’t trust
them,’ he said.

‘But you trust a
computer printout?’ She shook her head in amazement and turned to her computer.
After a few minutes on the internet she printed out a map and gave it to him.

‘What about
running me out in the Audi?’ asked Nightingale. ‘I’ll pay for the petrol.’

‘As much as I’d
love to, I’ve got to file our VAT returns today and I’m still working my way
through the stack of receipts you gave me this morning.’

Nightingale took
the map from her. The school was about sixty miles away. ‘Suppose I’d better
set off, then,’ he said.

His MGB was in a
multi-storey a short walk from his office and five minutes later he was heading
west. Traffic was light and it took him just over ninety minutes to drive to
the school. It was a large grey stone building, two wings either side of a
columned entrance, with a grey-slated roof. Off to the left were tennis courts
and a hockey pitch.

Nightingale
parked in the staff car park and went to reception where he told a stern-faced
woman the cover story that he’d been rehearsing on the drive down. He and his
wife Jenny were moving back to the UK from Australia and bringing their
nine-year-old daughter with them. Nightingale worked for a bank that meant he
had to travel a lot, and Jenny was a high-powered lawyer so they had decided
that Zoe would be best boarding. Nightingale actually felt quite sorry for the
hypothetical young girl for being saddled with parents who clearly didn’t give
a toss about her. The stern-faced woman gave him a glossy brochure and a print
out of the fees. He tried not to show surprise at the huge amounts being
charged and asked if it would be possible to speak to the headmaster.

‘Headmistress,’
said the woman, archly. She waved him to a line of wooden seats. ‘I’ll see if
Ms Cunningham is available.’

Nightingale was
kept waiting for fifteen minutes but when Ms Cunningham did eventually arrive
she was very apologetic. She was in her early thirties, with shoulder length
blonde hair and bright red lipstick that matched her fingernails. She was
wearing a dark green suit with a skirt that ended just above the knee, and
matching green heels. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring or engagement ring but
there was a framed photograph of her with a good-looking man holding a toddler
on her desk. Nightingale gave her his cover story and she listened and nodded,
then she gave him a five-minute sales pitch which she had obviously delivered a
thousand times before. Then she asked him if he would like a tour.

‘Perfect,’ he
said. As he stood up he saw a row of framed photographs on the wall by the
door. Under each picture was a small brass plaque with a name and date. Ms
Cunningham peered over his shoulder. ‘Former heads,’ she said. ‘I’ll be up
there myself one day.’

‘You’ll certainly
be the prettiest there, by a long way,’ said Nightingale.

He felt Ms
Cunningham stiffen and he held up a hand. ‘I’m sorry, totally inappropriate,’
he said.