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

‘Poor thing.’
    ‘And where did it
happen, exactly?’
    She frowned again
as she looked across at him. ‘Why would you ask a question like that?’ she
said.
    ‘I know it’s
crazy,’ he said, and flashed her his most boyish smile. ‘But as I said, my wife
has a thing about spirits. She wouldn’t want Zoe sleeping in a room where
someone had died.’
    ‘Oh, it wasn’t a
bedroom. I’m sure of that.’
    ‘Where was it,
exactly?’
    ‘It was a store
room.’ She gestured down the corridor. ‘It’s used for storing spare mattresses
and things these days. Back then I think it was empty.’
    ‘Can I see it?’
    ‘I suppose so,’
she said. She walked down the corridor and opened a door on the left.
Nightingale looked over her shoulder. It was a windowless room, about twelve
feet by ten feet, and as Sally had said it was full of mattress and surplus
furniture. The walls were painted white and the floor was bare boards. ‘The
children never come in here, your wife has absolutely nothing to worry about.’
    ‘Did Mr McGowan
ever tell you why the girl was in there when she died?’
    ‘It really wasn’t
something we talked about,’ she said. ‘And as I said, it was a long, long time
ago.’ She closed the door and took Nightingale downstairs. She said goodbye to
him at the main entrance and Nightingale thanked her and headed out. As he
walked over to his MGB he saw Ms Cunningham looking at him through the window
so he resisted the urge to light a cigarette. He climbed in and drove off.

 
    * * *

 
    Robbie Hoyle
phoned just as Nightingale was driving away from the
school. He pulled up at the side of the road and took the call. ‘How was the
jumper?’ asked Nightingale.
    ‘Cry for help,’
said Hoyle. ‘Husband had left her, one of her kids is on drugs, her benefits
have been cut. She just wanted to talk to somebody. You know how it is.’
    ‘Yeah,’ said
Nightingale. Sometimes people just wanted a shoulder to cry on, and if someone
had no friends or family to, then a police negotiator would do. People who
really wanted to kill themselves usually just went ahead and did it. Anyone who
waited for a police negotiator to turn up more often than not wanted someone to
talk to. ‘Is she going to be okay?’
    Hoyle sighed.
‘She’s back home but her husband is still off, her boy is still a junkie and I
put a call in to the benefits office but you know what they’re like. She’s on
anti-depressants so they might calm her down.’ He sighed again. ‘So, that case.
You know it was a suicide, right?’
    ‘That’s what I
was told.’
    ‘So why the
interest in a forty-year-old suicide?’
    ‘I’ve a client
who wants answers. I just need a chat with one of the investigating officers
because it was all paper back then.’
    ‘The guy you need
is Inspector David Mercer. Retired fifteen years ago. I’ve got an address. He
lives not far from Winchester.’
    ‘You’re a star,
Robbie.’

 
    * * *

 
    David Mercer’s
house was a three-bedroom semi-detached on the outskirts of Winchester, with neatly-tended
red roses growing around a small patch of grass, and a caravan parked in the
driveway. Nightingale left his car in the road and walked past the caravan to
ring the door bell. A grey-haired woman answered the door. She was a small
woman, just over five feet tall. Her face was wrinkled but her eyes were a
piercing blue and she stared up at him fearlessly. ‘If you’re trying to get me
to change my electricity supplier, you’re wasting your time,’ she said.
    ‘I’m not,’ he
said. ‘Are you Mrs Mercer?’
    ‘Yes?’
    Nightingale
flashed her his most reassuring smile. ‘Is your husband in? David Mercer?’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I’d like to talk
to him about an old case.’
    ‘Are you police?’
    ‘I used to be.’
    She wrinkled her
nose. ‘Private?’
    Nightingale
nodded. ‘Is he home?’
    ‘He’s sitting
with the fishes.’
    ‘What? Is that
like a Mafia thing?’
    ‘I beg