Lastnight (13 page)

‘They said she was a hooker, someone had seen her walking along the street in a black miniskirt so that paper called her a hooker.’ He glared at his wife. ‘You should never have let her go out like that.’

Mrs Walsh flinched as if she expected to be hit. ‘Chris, please …’

Mr Walsh opened his mouth to say something else but then seemed to have second thoughts and stormed out. A short while later they heard the front door open and slam shut.

‘He blames me for everything that’s happened,’ whispered Mrs Walsh, close to tears.

‘He’s angry and he’s lashing out,’ said Nightingale. ‘You’re the one who is closest so he lashes out at you. He’ll get over it.’

She shook her head. ‘He’s going to the pub and when he comes back …’ She shuddered and didn’t finish the sentence.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Walsh,’ said Nightingale, though he knew sorry wouldn’t be any help when her husband came back full of drink and keen to take out his frustration on her.

‘He says I encouraged her, but what was I supposed to do? Do you have kids, Mr Nightingale?’

Nightingale shook his head.

‘The thing about teenagers is that if you try to stop them doing something they’ll just go and do it behind your back. When she was fourteen she wanted her ears pierced. Her dad said no but she went and did it anyway.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s what they do. They test boundaries. Chris doesn’t understand that.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve always said to her that if she wants to try something she should try it but I want to know. Like sex, right? Teenagers are going to have sex. That’s what they do. I was at it like a rabbit when I was sixteen.’ She jerked a thumb at the door. ‘Don’t bloody well tell him that I said that.’

Nightingale smiled. ‘Your secret’s safe with me, Mrs Walsh.’

‘Emma, for God’s sake. You make me feel a hundred years old calling me Mrs Walsh. I’m only thirty-five.’

‘You had Stella young?’

‘I was eighteen when she was born, nearly nineteen. Chris doesn’t get it, he was sleeping with me when I was the same age as Stella is.’ She winced. ‘Was. I can’t get used to thinking of her in the past tense.’

‘Did Stella have a boyfriend?’

‘She had boys who were friends, but she wasn’t sleeping with anyone if that’s what you’re asking. She wasn’t on the Pill. I always told her that if she wanted to have sex to make sure she was on the Pill. She didn’t have to tell me, just go to the Family Planning Clinic and get it from them. They hand them out like sweeties these days.’ She smiled and drew her legs up underneath her. ‘She didn’t have a lot of confidence.’

‘With boys?’

Mrs Walsh smiled. ‘With anything. At school, around the house. She wouldn’t say boo to a goose. That’s why she liked the Goth thing. All she needed to be accepted by them was to wear the clothes and the make-up. She was at ease with them.’

‘So she was a Goth, despite what your husband says?’

‘Of course. She toned it down at school and she knew better than to have the full make-up in the house so if she was going out she’d take her Goth stuff with her and change at a friend’s.’

‘So she did go to Goth pubs?’

‘She always told me where and she had her phone with her all the time. I checked with the parents of the kids she went with and she always had a curfew.’ She bit down on her lower lip. ‘I’m not a bad mother.’

Nightingale smiled. ‘I can see that.’

‘Stella was the oldest but I have two more, both girls, and I can see they’re just the same.’ She took a deep breath to steady herself. ‘I’ll tell you this much, though. I won’t be letting them out of my sight.’

Nightingale took out the photographs of the other four victims and put them down on the table in front of her. ‘Did you ever see her with any of these people?’

Mrs Walsh looked at the photographs and shook her head. ‘The police already showed them to me. She didn’t know those others. I’m sure of it. They were all older, right? Stella was just eighteen.’

Nightingale tapped the photograph of Luke Aitken. ‘He was eighteen. And he didn’t live too far away. Hampstead.’

‘I never saw him,’ said Mrs Walsh. ‘But yeah, she could have met him away from the house. But like I said, she wasn’t keen on boys, not really.’

Nightingale gathered up the photographs and put them back in his coat pocket. ‘The night she went missing. She was with friends?’

‘They’d gone to the Hobgoblin in Camden. Kentish Town Road. I said two Bacardi Breezers but no more and definitely no drugs. There were three of them. She left early and said she was walking to the Tube station.’ She moaned and put her hand over her mouth. ‘And that was that. Next day they found her body …’ She trembled and put both hands over her face. ‘Chris didn’t know. I said she was studying at a friend’s house. When she didn’t come back, I had to tell him …’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said Nightingale.

Mrs Walsh nodded and wiped her eyes. ‘I know. But if I hadn’t let her go out that night then maybe they would have chosen someone else and our little girl would be upstairs doing her homework.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’ve absolutely nothing to apologise for,’ he said. ‘Do you know if she ever went to a place called the Crypt? It’s not far from here. Near the Angel Tube.’

Mrs Walsh nodded. ‘I’m fed up hearing about that place,’ she said. ‘Stella was always asking if she could go but it’s a club and it doesn’t open until ten or eleven. I know she was eighteen but I didn’t want her out until the early hours. Her curfew was midnight so there’d be no point in going somewhere that opened late. On that one I put my foot down.’ She forced a smile. ‘She wasn’t happy, I can tell you that. But I’m sure she didn’t go behind my back.’

‘Usually she got her own way?’

Mrs Walsh smiled and wiped a tear from her eye with the back of her hand. ‘With me, sure. Not so much with her dad. Funny that because it’s usually the dad that daughters twist around their little fingers. But it was me that she always came to when she wanted something.’ She wiped her eye again. ‘Like with the tattoo.’

‘Tattoo?’

‘She nagged and nagged last year. Said that all her friends had them. You can’t have a tattoo unless you’re sixteen but if you’re between sixteen and eighteen you need a letter from a parent saying it’s okay.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘It took her weeks to wear me down but eventually I agreed. But only if it was somewhere that would be covered by a T-shirt and shorts. A lot of people won’t give a job to anyone with a tattoo.’

Nightingale nodded. ‘I’ve heard.’

‘That’s Chris’s problem, I think. He hasn’t worked for getting on five years and I think it’s his tattoos that are to blame. He had them done when he was a kid and I’m always telling him his tattoos have held him back.’

Nightingale nodded sympathetically, though he figured that Mr Walsh’s lack of employment was probably more to do with the fact that he preferred to sit on the sofa all day playing video games and drinking lager than going out and doing an honest day’s work.

‘And no tramp stamps, either,’ continued Mrs Walsh. ‘Those tattoos across your arse. I said that was a definite no. She looked at me like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth and said she was going to have a dolphin or a butterfly or some cute animal. So eventually I signed the letter and she went off and got one.’ She grinned and shook her head. ‘Turns out I needn’t have worried because the law says you have to be eighteen, letter or not.’

‘So she didn’t get one?’

‘Oh no, she was more devious than that. She did it on her eighteenth birthday. Went into the shop with her birth certificate. Came back with some horrible goat thing, but at least it was on her shoulder.’

‘A goat thing?’

‘With curly horns. I don’t know what it was supposed to be. I said she’d promised me it was going to be a dolphin or a butterfly and she said she’d only promised that it would be an animal.’ She threw her hands up in the air. ‘Managed to keep it hidden from Chris because he would have hit the roof. Silly girl.’

‘Where did she get it done?’

‘Some place in Camden.’

‘Did she say why she’d chosen that particular tattoo?’

‘Said the tattooist had talked her into it. Said all the Goths were getting it.’ She looked back at Nightingale. ‘She was easily led, sometimes.’

‘Can you remember the name of the shop?’

Mrs Walsh screwed up her face and scratched her chin. ‘The Ink Spot,’ she said. ‘Something like that.’

13

N
ightingale pulled up at a set of red lights just as his mobile began to ring. He was on the way back to South Kensington and the traffic had reduced his MGB to a slow crawl that wasn’t much faster than walking pace. Nightingale had read somewhere that traffic in central London moved at an average speed of ten miles an hour – about the same as horse-drawn carriages had managed a hundred years earlier, and equivalent to the top speed of a running chicken. But the Friday traffic he was caught up in would have allowed any hen to lay a couple of eggs and still get back to his office before him. He glanced at the screen of his phone. It was Superintendent Chalmers. He took the call on hands-free. ‘What are you playing at, Nightingale?’ growled the superintendent.

‘Driving back to the office, getting ready for the weekend,’ said Nightingale. ‘You?’

‘Don’t mess me around, Nightingale. Who told you to go around talking to relatives of the victims?’

‘The way I remember it, you asked me to help on the case. Correction, you pretty much railroaded me into it.’

‘I didn’t tell you to start bothering grieving relatives. I wanted background on the Goth world. I wanted alternative lines of enquiry. What I didn’t want was grieving fathers ringing me up asking why a lone detective is going around upsetting his family.’

‘Mr Walsh?’

‘It doesn’t matter who it was, you shouldn’t be pestering the relatives. We have professionals who’ve been trained to do that.’

‘That’s as maybe, but it’s fair to say they haven’t been much help so far.’

‘And have you done any better?’

‘I’ve a question,’ said Nightingale.

‘You’re trying my patience, Nightingale.’

‘All five were unconscious before they were mutilated, right?’

‘Yes, thankfully.’

‘I got the impression they’d all been hit, but I didn’t have time to read all the details when I was in the incident room. Can you enlighten me?’

‘Stella Walsh was hit on the back of the head. So was Abbie Greene. And Luke Aitken. Daryl Heaton had traces of Gamma-hydroxybutyrate in his system, but there was also alcohol, ecstasy and cannabis.’

‘GHB? The date rape drug?’

‘It’s also used recreationally. There’s no way of knowing if he took it himself or if it was given to him.’

‘But he was alive when they mutilated him?’

‘We’re assuming he was so doped up he didn’t feel anything. There was no sign of him fighting back, no defence wounds. But yes, the cause of death was blood loss.’

‘And Gabe Patterson?’

‘Why this sudden interest in cause of death, Nightingale? I wanted you to go out and talk to the crazies and see what the word is out there.’

‘That’s what I’m doing. But I need to know whether they were overpowered physically. What was the story with Patterson?’

‘He had GHB in his system but he was hit as well. Blunt object, back of the head.’

‘And you didn’t think it was worth telling me two of the guys had been drugged?’

‘Again, as I said, GHB is taken recreationally.’

‘True, but it would explain how two physically fit men could be overpowered without anyone hearing a thing. There were no defence wounds which means they went down without a fight.’

‘Nightingale, I’m telling you one last time to stop pretending you’re a detective. I gave you very specific instructions. I want you to talk to the Goths, and find out who has been giving them grief. That’s all I want from you. Understood?’

‘Understood.’ The line went dead in his ear. The traffic lights turned green and a horn sounded behind Nightingale, telling him to get a move on. ‘All right, all right,’ muttered Nightingale. He put the MGB in gear, eased back on the clutch and swore as the car stalled.

14

J
enny was pulling on her coat when Nightingale arrived back at the office. ‘I didn’t think you were coming back,’ she said.

‘Clearly,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I said I would, remember?’

Jenny looked at her watch. ‘It is five o’clock.’

‘Traffic was bad,’ said Nightingale. ‘You heading off for a weekend of hunting, shooting and fishing?’

‘I am, actually, yes.’

‘Love to Mummy and Daddy.’ He saw a hurt look flash across her face so he raised his hands. ‘I’m joking, seriously, say hi to them.’

‘You should come. There’s always a room for you. We’ve got a big shoot planned for tomorrow.’

‘I’ve got to hit the Crypt tomorrow night,’ said Nightingale. ‘Look, can you give me fifteen minutes?’

Jenny took off her coat. ‘Sure. Traffic’s going to be bad for the next couple of hours anyway. What’s up?’

He took the portable hard disc from his raincoat pocket. ‘Here’s the video of Mr Hetherington.’ He gave it to her and then fished out his mobile phone. ‘I got some video of the two lovebirds in a restaurant on this. Can you download it on to your computer so we have a backup copy?’

Jenny sat down at her desk and connected the phone to it. Nightingale put his coat on the hook by the door and turned to look at her. ‘Tattoos,’ he said.

‘Tattoos?’

‘Stella Walsh had one, had it done a couple of weeks before she died. Daryl Heaton was covered with them. Gabe had tattoos but kept them covered. Luke Aitken was killed just two days after he had his done. That’s four out of the five.’

Jenny looked up from the computer. ‘Abbie Greene had one on her shoulder.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Her Facebook page. She had her girlfriend’s name on her shoulder, at the back. Zoe. With a red rose. The girlfriend had Abbie’s name on her shoulder and the same rose. They posted selfies.’

‘Selfies?’

‘It’s when you take a photograph of yourself.’

‘Of course it is. Okay, so they all had tattoos. What do you think? Is that significant? You’re the Goth expert.’