Nightingale lit a much-needed cigarette and walked back to his car. He leaned against the hood to smoke, pulled out his mobile phone and un-muted the ringing tone. No messages, so he called Wainwright. ‘I’m done here, Joshua,’ he said.
‘You get what you wanted?’
‘Maybe. Be nice to make sure, we’ll only get one chance at this. The mother’s in a hell of a state. Drunk, broke, blames herself.’
‘Understandable, but what’s happening isn’t the parents’ fault.’
‘Might be a nice thing if I could find a way of explaining that to them that didn’t sound like a fairy story. How you doing with the priest?’
‘I found him at home and he was happy to do what you wanted, especially after a generous donation to the Church Restoration Fund. Might get spent on gin, but that’s not my affair. He’s gone into his church now to do the whatever to them. I’m not big on churches, so I’m waiting outside. He said it would be better if I joined in the ritual, but I took a pass on that. Can’t see anyone being fooled by me mouthing Christian stuff. He’s got the deputy priest to help him instead. Cost me another hundred.’
‘I think they call them curates,’ said Nightingale.
‘Call them snowdrops for all I care. Be ready soon, where do I meet you?’
Nightingale mentally ran through the short list of bars he knew in Memphis. ‘How about Huey’s Burger on South Second Street. We can meet and eat.’
‘Okay, though I don’t think I’ll be too hungry.’
‘Long day, best to refuel when you can, not when you want to.’
‘I guess. See you there.’
‘Good. And Joshua, you remembered to ask the priest to load the guns? It’s important nobody else touched the shells once they’re consecrated.’
‘He’s not happy about loading the guns,’ said Wainwright. ‘I guess I can understand his logic. But I’ve got a solution, don’t worry. See you.’
Nightingale stood on his cigarette butt and got into the car. He hadn’t been proud of bothering Elise Wendover, who had enough to contend with, but the visit had at least served to strengthen a theory that had been growing inside him for a day or so now. He needed more confirmation, and he thought he knew where he might get it, provided his boyish charm was working today.
Nightingale drove to Huey’s Burger and left the car in a parking lot. There was no sign of Wainwright, so he sat at the bar to wait. His heart said beer, but his head won, and he ordered a tomato juice, after a little debate with the young bartender about the correct pronunciation. The giant television behind the bar was showing a group of police cruisers standing in front of a landing-stage by the river, with a large old-fashioned white boat in the background. Nightingale looked at the bartender and pointed to the screen. ‘What’s happening?’
The bartender moved a little further up the bar towards him. He was young, maybe yet another college student working to pay his tuition. He had short dark hair, still a few teenage acne spots on his chin. ‘How awful is that?’ said the bartender, gesturing at the television. ‘Bunch of kids on a school trip on the Island Queen, that paddle-steamer there. Seems like one of them fell off, straight onto the wheel.’ He shuddered. ‘Can you imagine that? Must have chopped her into a dozen pieces.’
Nightingale froze, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Another one, he thought.
‘Did they identify the kid who died?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Does the name matter?’ asked the bartender. ‘Dead’s dead.’ The bartender moved away to serve another customer, and Nightingale kept staring at the screen. There was a group of children in uniform baseball caps, being lined up and counted by two adults, presumably their teachers. Nightingale stared long and hard at them, then pulled out his mobile phone and punched in Bonnie Parker’s number.
‘Bonnie? Jack Nightingale.’
Sergeant Parker was not happy. Not by a long way, and she yelled into his phone. ‘Where are you, you bastard? And how come your mobile phone can’t be traced?’
‘It’s magic, Bonnie. I’m in a bar, looking at a news report from the river. Do you know the name of the kid who died?’
‘You bet your pasty English ass I do, you bastard. Get yourself in here, right now.’
‘Can’t do that, Bonnie. But please tell me the name.’
‘You know it damned well. Though how you know it, I have no idea.’
‘Ann Davies?’
‘In one. Now you tell me what this is all about, or I swear to God I’ll have an APB put out on you to have you shot on sight.’
‘I doubt that, Bonnie. Now I need you to do something for me. ‘Can you get me a list of substitute teachers in the State and the schools they have been to?’
‘Why?’
‘Just a hunch.’
‘I’ll need more than a hunch to get something like that done,’ she said. ‘It’ll take hours and hours of work. My boss is going to want to know why. So no, I can’t do that. Not without a solid reason and you don’t seem to be giving me that.’
‘Okay, then how about this? I want you to call your daughter and ask her if she’s had any substitute teachers in the last few months.’
‘There are always substitute teachers,’ said the detective. ‘The schools couldn’t function without them.’
‘So ask her for the names.’
‘Not a chance. Since I cut off her phone and internet, her grandmother says she won’t speak to me. Anyway, why the sudden interest in substitutes?’
‘Because these kids are being reached somehow and it occurred to me it might be happening in the schools. Substitute teachers are always moving around, so…’
‘That’s a hell of a leap, Nightingale.’
‘It’s all I’ve got. But I did speak to the mother of Charmaine Wendover and her daughter had substitutes.’
‘I’m sure every kid in the State has,’ said the detective. ‘Okay, I’ll try to talk to Emma, but I can’t promise anything.’
She ended the call. On a sudden hunch, Nightingale Googled the number of Saint Richard’s academy and called it. A female voice answered, who, he assumed, would be the secretary.
‘Hello there,’ said Nightingale in his best American accent. ‘Jack Jones here. Wanted to leave a message for one of your staff.’
‘Certainly Mr. Jones, which member of staff?’
Nightingale gave her the name. As he did so, Wainwright walked in and joined him at the bar, putting his blue sports bag down by his side. Nightingale gestured with one hand for him to wait.
‘Oh...right...I see,’ said Nightingale into his phone. ‘Yes...three weeks? Shame, my daughter was very impressed. Sorry to bother you.’
Wainwright raised an eyebrow in a silent question as Nightingale ended the call and put his phone away. ‘Just a theory,’ said Nightingale. ‘But one that is rapidly turning into a fact.’
‘Care to share?’
‘Very soon, just waiting on another call. Let’s eat.’
Wainwright ordered a coffee from the young barman, and they headed over to one of the vacant tables, taking menus with them. Nightingale set the remains of his tomato juice down on the red and white checked table-cloth, but had barely had time to open it when the waitress arrived.
‘Well, hello again,’ she said to Nightingale.
‘Hello again...Diane,’ he said, hoping she hadn’t noticed the pause while he looked at her name badge again. ‘You work long hours.’
‘Different shift today. You want to try the Heart Healthy Mahi-Mahi Plate again?’
‘Sure,’ he said, ‘and another tomato juice.’
‘Gosh, I just love your accent, Australian, right?’
‘Right,’ said Nightingale. He was often mistaken for an Australian and sometimes it was just easier to go with it rather then getting into a discussion about accents.
‘And what about your friend, then? I don’t think he needs to watch his weight.’
Wainwright grinned at the compliment. ‘I’ll take the Special Hueyburger and fries, and I should have a coffee coming,’ he said.
She nodded, ticked off the orders on her pad and headed back to the kitchen.
‘Girl’s got a good eye,’ said Wainwright, still smiling.
‘Not so sure,’ said Nightingale. ‘I mean, do I look out of shape to you?’
Wainwright looked at him, as if he were appraising cattle. ‘Well, maybe you could stand a little sun, maybe spend some time in a gym. Tone up some, gain a little muscle.’
‘You may have noticed I don’t get too much spare time for that kind of thing. And how come people over here keep calling me middle-aged? I’m not even forty.’
‘When you reckon “middle-aged” starts?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘Maybe fifty, fifty-five.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Wainwright. ‘Provided you’re planning to live to be a hundred and ten.’
‘Okay, when this is over, maybe I’ll need to find time to get myself back into better shape.’
Wainwright lost his smile. ‘When this is over, you better hope we’re around to be in any shape at all.’