Free I Know Who Did It (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) by Stephen Leather

 
    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