Blood Bath (Seven Free Jack Nightingale Short Stories) Read online

  ‘They being….?’

  ‘The husband and the chef.’

  ‘Locked or bolted?’

  Gracie shook his head and took another sip of his whisky. ‘You’re bloody persistent, aren’t you? Bolted.’

  ‘Bolts can be slipped. Piece of dental floss and Robert’s your mother’s brother.’

  Gracie frowned. ‘Were you like this in the job?’

  Nightingale laughed. ‘No, not usually.’

  ‘Mrs Dunbar killed herself.’ He put up his hand. ‘And before you ask, no, she didn’t leave a note. But her doctor had prescribed anti-depressants.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because she was depressed. Are you soft?’

  Nightingale sighed. ‘I meant what was she depressed about. Obviously.’

  ‘The hotel was losing money. That’s why they wanted to sell it.’

  Nightingale sat back in his chair and pushed the slice of lemon down the neck of the Corona bottle. ‘The other suicides. Were they cutters?’

  The detective nodded.

  ‘And you don’t think that was a coincidence?’

  ‘How could it be anything but? The alternative is what? A serial killer who makes it look as if his victims all killed themselves.’

  ‘You’ve got to admit, it is possible.’

  ‘In a Jeffrey Deaver novel maybe. But not in the real world.’

  ‘And no connection between the victims?’

  Gracie shook his head. ‘Other than Mrs Dunbar they were all guests.’

  ‘Sex?’

  ‘No thanks, Jack. The ham sandwich and whisky is good enough for me.’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘All women,’ he said. ‘And before you ask, no that’s not significant. Women tend to cut and take tablets, men tend to crash their cars or jump in front of trains.’

  ‘Any of them leave a note?’

  Gracie shook his head again. ‘No, but you must know that most suicides don’t leave notes.’

  Nightingale wrinkled his nose and drank from his bottle. ‘You don’t happen to know which rooms they died in?’

  ‘Mrs Dunbar was in Room 6, I know that. But I wasn’t involved in the other cases. I can find out for you.’

  ‘Nah, it’s okay, I’m heading over there after this. I’ll ask the new owner.’

  Gracie raised his glass. ‘Any problems, give me a call,’ he said.

  * * *

  The Weeping Willow Hotel was about a hundred yards from Brighton Pier in a side road that ran at ninety degrees to the beach. It had been formed by knocking together two terraced houses and adding a main entrance. There was a sign in the window that said ‘VACANCIES’. Nightingale pushed open the door and a bell tinkled. There was a small reception desk to the left and to the right a large staircase that ran around a chandelier with a couple of dozen electric candles in it.

  Nightingale heard a door open and then Mr Stokes appeared behind the reception desk. ‘Ah, Mr Nightingale,’ he said.

  ‘Are you okay to show me around?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘It’s not as if I have anything else to do,’ said Mr Stokes. ‘We don’t have any guests.’ He pointed at a rack of keys behind the desk. There were twelve room numbers and each had a brass key on an oblong key ring hanging underneath it.

  ‘Mrs Dunbar killed herself in Room 6, right?’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Mr Stokes.

  ‘I spoke to one of the cops who dealt with the case.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was Room 6.’

  ‘How about we start with that room?’ asked Nightingale.

  Mr Stokes nodded and took the key. ‘It’s the Oriental Room,’ he said. ‘All the rooms have themes.’

  ‘Was that your idea?’

  Mr Stokes shook his head. ‘I think it was done when the building was originally converted. Thirty years ago. It’s been redecorated, obviously, but the themes haven’t changed. There’s a French room, a Spanish room, each has its own theme.’

  Nightingale followed Mr Stokes up the stairs and down a landing. There was a small brass number 6 on the door. Mr Stokes unlocked it and ushered Nightingale inside. There was a double bed and above it a large picture of a dragon in a gilt frame. There was a Japanese-style cabinet housing a television and the carpet had a scattering of what looked like Chinese characters. There was a door to the left leading to a bathroom with a roll-top bath with feet made of dragon’s heads and a large brass mixer tap where the water flowed out of a dragon’s mouth.

  ‘Unusual,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘The bath was imported,’ said Mr Stokes. ‘That’s what Mr Dunbar told us.’

  ‘He imported it?’

  Mr Stokes shook his head. ‘One of previous owners did that, I think. He did up all the rooms, spent a fortune on it, according to Mr Dunbar.’

  Nightingale went over to the main window and looked out across the beach to the sea. Off to the right was the pier. Seagulls wheeled overhead, screaming at each other. ‘And the previous owner was?’

  ‘A chap called McDermid. Bit of a traveller. Used to work for an oil company all over the Far East. Came back here and converted the two buildings into a hotel.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  Mr Stokes frowned. ‘Twenty years ago, I think. Maybe more.’

  ‘And this Mr McDermid sold it to Mr Dunbar?’

  ‘No, there were several owners in between.’ He looked pained and shook his head. ‘I know, the fact that it kept changing hands should have let me know that something was wrong, but I just fell in love with the place. ‘

  The floor and walls were tiled with marble and there were several black candles with gold dragons on them.

  ‘Do you know which rooms the other guests died in?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘I never asked,’ said Mr Stokes. ‘I’d rather not know, to be honest. We only found out about the suicides when one of the neighbours dropped in for a drink. She asked us if we knew what had happened to Mrs Dunbar and when we said we didn’t she gave us the whole story. My wife did ring up the police to confirm that there had been a number of suicides but they said they couldn’t give us any information. But our neighbour’s been here for years and she told us there had been six deaths in all.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I’m told. Six deaths, all women, and they all cut their wrists in the bath.’

  ‘The cops will tell you but not me, even though I own the place? Why’s that?’

  ‘It’s a data protection thing, I think.’

  ‘It’s bloody ridiculous,’ said Mr Stokes.

  Nightingale took out his mobile phone. ‘No argument here.’ He called Gracie. ‘Hi, Jim, the owner isn’t sure which rooms the suicides were in,’ he said. ‘Can you do me a favour and point us in the right direction.’

  ‘Give me a minute,’ said Gracie. ‘I’ll check the files and send you a text.’

  Nightingale put the phone away. ‘He’ll get back to me,’ he said. ‘This is a nice room, isn’t it?’

  ‘They all are,’ said Mr Stokes. ‘Mr McDermid spent a lot of money on them.’

  ‘Any idea where he is?’

  Mr Stokes shook his head. ‘There are some filing cabinets in the attic. Papers and stuff that he left. We haven’t had time to go through them yet. Why are you asking about McDermid?’

  ‘He spent a lot of money developing The Weeping Willow, I’d be interested to know why he sold it, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m happy enough to let you go through the files,’ said Mr Stokes. ‘Or I could do it. It’s not as if I’m busy with anything else.’

  ‘Still no guests?’

  ‘And no bookings. And now we’re getting shitty reviews on Tripadvisor website.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll be honest Mr Nightingale. If you don’t sort this out the wife and I will lose everything.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Nightingale. ‘My assistant is on the case as we speak. Once we’ve tracked down who’s behind that website, I’ll go and speak to him.’

  Mr Stokes forced a smile. ‘I hope
so,’ he said. ‘Because believe me, I’m at my wit’s end.’

  * * *

  Jenny looked up from her computer screen when Nightingale walked into his office with a bag containing two Starbucks muffins. ‘Chocolate or banana?’ he said.

  ‘I’m easy.’

  ‘So I heard, but what sort of muffin do you want?’

  ‘Chocolate,’ she said.

  ‘Good choice.’ He took out the banana muffin and handed her the bag before sitting on the edge of the desk. ‘So what’s the story?’

  Jenny tapped on her keyboard and the Haunted Brighton website filled her screen. There was a scene of the famous pier with a spooky cartoon ghost over it.

  ‘That’s it?’ said Nightingale. ‘Looks like a spoof.’

  ‘It’s light-hearted, sure. Talks about all the haunted houses that have been reported, ghosts, ghoulies, things that go bump in the night.’ She clicked her mouse and a photograph of The Weeping Willow Hotel appeared, taken at night with a full moon behind it. ‘It says there’s a Japanese demon haunting the hotel and that it has killed six people over the past few years.’

  ‘A Japanese demon? How do you fight them? Wasabi and holy saki.’ He popped a chunk of muffin into his mouth.

  ‘The website doesn’t go into details. It just says that there’s a Japanese demon killing people.’ She grinned. ‘I know, it sounds stupid.’

  ‘It doesn’t mention suicides?’

  She shook her head. ‘There’s very little detail about the deaths, but it definitely doesn’t say suicide. Just that the hotel is haunted by a bloodthirsty Japanese demon.’

  ‘Ridiculous, right?’

  ‘Of course. But it’s been picked up by several other websites and review sites. I can see why they’re having trouble getting guests.’

  ‘And who runs the site?’

  ‘I’ve come up with a name and an address. Timothy Waites. He seems to have literally hundreds of websites. All generating advertising through Google and sponsored links. I’ve been running all the URLs through WHOIS. Most of the sites are done through proxies but I found an early one that gave me a name and address. Waites lives in Croydon. No phone number or email address.’ Nightingale opened his mouth but she silenced him with a wave of her hand. ‘Yes, I’ll run you down, so long as you pay me the mileage and buy me lunch. When are you going to junk that MGB?’

  ‘It’s a classic,’ said Nightingale, taking the last piece of banana muffin and popping it into his mouth.

  ‘It’s a rust bucket,’ said Jenny. ‘The soft top leaks when it rains and it’s always breaking down.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We’ve got nothing in the diary, we could take a run down now and be back before the school runs clog up the roads.’

  Nightingale pulled out his pack of Marlboro and got to his feet.

  ‘And no smoking in the car,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll leave the window open.’

  Jenny pointed a warning finger at his face. ‘If I’m driving you the Audi counts as my workplace which means it’s against the law to smoke.’

  Nightingale grinned and put the cigarettes away. ‘Yes, miss.’ His grin widened. ‘I love it when you get all stern with me.’

  ‘Yeah, well all joking apart, smoking kills. So does second-hand smoking.’

  ‘Here’s a statistic for you. About one third of people get cancer. One in three. And one in four people die from it. But seventy five per cent of smokers don’t get cancer. So it looks to me as if cigarettes make little or no difference to whether you get cancer or not. In fact, the statistics tell me that smoking gives me a seventy-five per cent chance of not getting cancer, which I reckon are pretty good odds.’

  Jenny sighed and picked up her bag. ‘Maths was never your best subject, was it?’

  ‘Too many numbers,’ said Nightingale, following her out of the office. ‘I was always happier with a good book.’

  ‘Really? I always imagined you behind the bike sheds, smoking.’

  * * *

  Thomas Waites lived in a small terraced house on the outskirts of Croydon, not far from East Croydon railway station. As Jenny and Nightingale climbed out of the Audi they heard a train rattle by. There was a Crystal Palace football scarf draped across one of the upstairs windows. There was a small plastic doorbell to the right of the front door and Nightingale pressed it. An unrecognisable tune started playing somewhere at the back of the house. He was about to press it a second time when he heard the rattle of a lock and the door opened. A big, bearded man appeared, screwing up his eyes as he peered out. ‘What do you want?’ he growled. As soon as he opened his mouth, Nightingale was assailed by the smell of booze and curry.

  ‘Mr Waites?’

  The man screwed up his eyes even more as if he was having trouble focussing. ‘Yes?’ He was wearing a Chelsea football shirt and black Adidas tracksuit bottoms, but Nightingale was fairly sure it had been decades since Mr Waites had partaken of any sporting activity.

  ‘I wanted a word about your websites,’ said Nightingale.

  The man rubbed the bridge of his nose, belched, and then looked down at Jenny. ‘You Mormons?’ he asked.

  ‘No, we’re not Mormons,’ said Jenny.

  ‘I hate Mormons,’ said the man.

  ‘I’m not exactly partial to them myself,’ said Jenny.

  ‘You’re Tim Waites?’ asked Nightingale. His phone beeped to tell him that he’d received a text message, but he ignored it.

  ‘Always have been,’ said the man. ‘What do you want? I don’t need double-glazing.’

  ‘We looked you up on WHOIS,’ explained Jenny.

  ‘WHOIS?” repeated the man.

  ‘It tells you who owns a particular domain. And you own a lot, don’t you?’

  The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said, and sniffed.

  ‘Domains. You’ve got loads of them,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Domains?’ repeated the man. He rubbed the back of his neck as he frowned up at Nightingale. ‘What the hell is a domain?’

  ‘A website,’ said Jenny. ‘We want to talk to you about The Haunted Brighton website.’

  Realisation dawned and the man nodded. ‘Why didn’t you say so? You want Timmy.’

  ‘Timmy?’

  ‘My son. He’s upstairs. In his bedroom.’ He narrowed his eyes as he looked at Jenny. ‘It’s not porn is it? This website? I keep telling him not to get involved with porn. Porn’s trouble.’

  ‘No, it’s not porn,’ said Jenny. ‘Can we go up and speak to him?’

  The man held the door open wide and gestured at the stairs. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘I doubt you’ll get much out of him. It’s been years since I got more than a grunt from him.’

  The smell of stale curry and beer was almost overpowering as Jenny and Nightingale walked past Mr Waites and into the hallway.

  ‘Top of the stairs, turn left,’ said Mr Waites as he closed the front door.

  ‘Ladies first,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Age before beauty,’ said Jenny, motioning for him to go up first.

  Nightingale headed up the stairs. Halfway up there was a framed picture of Jesus. The figure’s coal-black eyes seemed to follow him as he went by.

  The door to Timmy’s bedroom was closed. Nightingale knocked and when there was no reply he knocked again. When there was still no answer, he reached for the door knob and gently eased the door open. Timmy was sitting in a high-backed chair facing three flat screens that were filled with websites, more than two dozen overlapping pages. ‘Timmy?’ said Nightingale. ‘Can we have a word with you?’

  There was no answer, just the click-click-click of Timmy’s fingers playing over his keyboard. The walls of the room were plastered with posters, most of which showed pneumatic blondes in various states of undress. There were used fast food containers all around the room, and dozens of empty soft drink cans, most of them with high caffeine content.

  ‘Timmy?’ Nightingale
walked around the chair and realised that the boy was wearing a pair of bright red over-the-ear headphones, bobbing his head in time to music that only he could hear. He jumped when Nightingale put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Who are you?’ he shouted. ‘What are you doing in my room?’

  Nightingale pointed at Timmy’s headphones. Timmy took them off. ‘Who are you and what are you doing in my room?’ he repeated at normal volume.

  ‘Jack Nightingale. I’m a private detective.’

  ‘And I’m Jenny, his pretty young assistant.’

  Timmy put his headphones on the desk and squinted at Jenny. ‘You drive him around and do martial arts and stuff?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty much,’ said Jenny. She nodded at his computers. ‘That’s some amazing kit you’ve got there.’

  Timmy shrugged but his cheeks reddened. ‘It does the job,’ he said.

  Nightingale pushed a couple of sweat-stained t-shirts and an old pizza box off a chair and sat down. It was clear that Timmy was happier talking to Jenny so he figured he might as well take a back seat and just listen.

  ‘You’ve got a nice little business here, haven’t you,’ said Jenny, nodding appreciatively. ‘I bet the advertising money builds up nicely.’

  ‘I got more than ten grand last month,’ said Timmy, his eyes still on the middle screen. ‘That’s dollars, mind. Not pounds.’

  ‘There’s not many kids your age earning that sort of money,’ said Jenny. ‘What are you? Nineteen?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ said Timmy. ‘Seventeen next month.’

  ‘You’re a regular entrepreneur,’ said Jenny. ‘It’s a smart business. You set up loads of websites, force traffic to them and make money from click-throughs. But tell me, where do you get your content from?’

  Timmy waved at the screens. ‘It’s all out there somewhere. I just cut and past most of the time. If it’s something special I have freelance writers I can use to put stuff together.’

  ‘What about copyright?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘There’s no copyright on the internet,’ said Timmy dismissively. ‘Once it’s out there, anyone can use it.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ said Jenny. ‘Can you do me a favour and pull up the Haunted Brighton website?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Timmy, and his fingers played over the keyboard. A website flashed up on the right-hand screen. The main page was a picture of the pier with a cartoon ghost superimposed on it.