Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller jn-4

by Stephen Leather

  ‘That’s what I said,’ said Mr Pullman.

  ‘We didn’t want anyone to see that we were with the police,’ said Hopkins. He put his clipboard on the dining table next to Mr Pullman’s chess set. ‘You called us about Mr Lucas.’

  Mrs Pullman’s frown deepened. ‘Mr Lucas?’ she repeated.

  ‘Your next door neighbour. You did call us about him, didn’t you? About seeing him with a young girl.’

  Mrs Pullman smiled. ‘I’m sorry, yes, I did. But I didn’t know that was his name. He’s not the sociable type and he’s never introduced himself.’

  ‘Well, we think his name is Eric Lucas and he doesn’t appear to be married, but you told my colleague you saw him with a woman on Saturday and they carried a young girl into the house.’

  Mrs Pullman nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What time exactly?’

  ‘It was three o’clock. On the dot. I know because I was in the garden and I had Radio Four on and I heard the time check.’

  Hopkins unclipped a photograph of Bella Harper from his clipboard. It was the school photograph they’d used for the public appeals, with Bella smiling brightly at the camera, her blonde curls pulled back from her face. ‘Was this the girl, Mrs Pullman?’

  She took the photograph and looked at it for several seconds. ‘It could have been,’ she said. ‘I saw blonde hair. He had her in his arms, so I couldn’t see her face. But we have a nine-year-old granddaughter and she’s ten, and the girl he was carrying looked about the same size as Hannah.’

  ‘Hannah’s your granddaughter?’

  Mrs Pullman nodded.

  ‘And they carried her from the car to the house. At three o’clock in the afternoon?’

  ‘Not the car,’ said Mrs Pullman. ‘The car was in the drive. They drove up in a van.’

  ‘A white van?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘I suppose so. I mean, there was writing on the side. It was a company van. But I didn’t pay it much attention.’

  ‘The woman drives a van sometimes,’ said Mr Pullman. ‘It’s a plumbing company. Or a drain clearer. I’ve seen her in it in a few times.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that,’ said his wife.

  ‘You never asked,’ said Mr Pullman.

  ‘So this woman with Mr Lucas drives a white van?’

  ‘Like my wife said, it’s not really white. Greyish. With signs on the side.’

  ‘And where’s the van now?’

  Mr Pullman looked over at his wife and they both shrugged.

  ‘Is it possible it’s in the garage?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘I didn’t see them put it away,’ said Mrs Pullman. ‘But I suppose it’s possible.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen the child since? Or heard anything?’

  ‘Not a peep,’ said Mrs Pullman. ‘Do you think it’s her? Do you think it’s Bella?’

  ‘We don’t want to jump to any conclusions,’ said the inspector. ‘Is there an upstairs window that overlooks their house?’

  ‘The spare bedroom,’ said Mr Pullman. ‘I’ll show you.’

  The inspector followed Mr Pullman upstairs. Fisher knelt down next to his toolbox and opened it. He took out a pair of binoculars and a police radio and headed upstairs.

  Mr Pullman was standing at the bedroom door while Inspector Hopkins peered around a dark green curtain. He held out his hand for the binoculars, then focused them on the house next door. There wasn’t much to be seen. There was a window on the upper floor that was presumably a bedroom and the blinds were closed. He could see the blue Mondeo, but there was no window in the garage so he had no way of knowing if there was a van in there or not.

  There were two green wheelie bins at the side of the house.

  ‘When are the bins collected?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Thursdays.’

  The inspector checked the rear garden through the binoculars. There were no toys, and no washing on the line. ‘And you haven’t seen anyone coming or going since Saturday?’

  ‘To be honest, we rarely see the neighbours on either side,’ said Mr Pullman. ‘We’re all detached, and most people value their privacy.’

  The inspector put down his binoculars. He wasn’t sure what to do. There wasn’t enough hard evidence to call in an entry team, but if Bella was indeed next door then every second counted. He nodded at Fisher. ‘Take Mr Pullman downstairs while I make a call,’ he said.

  He took out his mobile and phoned Superintendent Wilkinson.

  27

  The Wicca Woman shop was tucked away in a Camden side street between a store selling exotic bongs and Bob Marley T-shirts, and another that sold garish hand-knitted sweaters. Nightingale pushed open the door and a bell tinkled. He stepped inside and his nose was assaulted by a dozen or more scents, including orange, cloves, lavender, lemon grass and jasmine. There was a dark-haired teenage girl with half a dozen facial piercings and web-like gloves on her hands standing at a display case full of crystal balls and pyramids.

  ‘Is Mrs Steadman in?’ asked Nightingale. A stick of incense was burning by the cash register, filling the shop with a sweet, almost sickly, scent.

  ‘She’s upstairs. She’s got a headache.’ The girl scratched her arm as she studied Nightingale with cold green eyes.

  ‘Can you do me a big favour and tell her that Jack Nightingale is here?’

  ‘Like the bird?’

  ‘Yeah. Like the bird.’

  ‘How do you get a name like Nightingale then?’

  Nightingale frowned, wondering if she was joking, then realised that she probably wasn’t. ‘It was my father’s name,’ he said.

  ‘Never heard of anyone called Nightingale before.’

  ‘There’s a few of us around. So, can you see if Mrs Steadman has time for me?’

  Before she could reply, a beaded curtain drew back and Mrs Steadman appeared. She smiled at Nightingale but he could see she wasn’t well. Her eyes had lost their sparkle, and she had always been tiny but if anything she seemed even smaller, a bird-like little woman who looked as if she might break under the slightest pressure. ‘This is a pleasant surprise, Mr Nightingale.’

  ‘I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, I just need some advice.’

  ‘Why don’t we go for a walk?’ she said. ‘Lori here can mind the shop and I think I could do with some fresh air. Wait while I get my coat.’ She disappeared back through the curtain and reappeared a couple of minutes later wrapped up in a thick black wool coat with a leather belt. ‘I won’t be long, Lori,’ she said to her assistant.

  They stepped out of the shop and Mrs Steadman slipped her arm through Nightingale’s as they walked along the pavement. The heels of her boots clicked with every step, and Nightingale had to slow his pace so that she could keep up with him. ‘Are you okay, Mrs Steadman?’ he asked.

  She gave his arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve had a busy few days, my energy levels are a bit low, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re sure? You look tired.’

  ‘I am tired. But I’ll be better soon. Really, you don’t have to worry about me, I’ve been around a long time.’

  ‘How long exactly, Mrs Steadman?’

  She laughed and it was a sound like birdsong. ‘A long, long time,’ she said. ‘Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

  They walked through Camden market, weaving their way through the throngs of shoppers and tourists towards the canal. They followed the towpath for a few hundred yards and sat down on a wooden bench overlooking the water. They watched a brightly coloured barge go by, then Nightingale reached into his raincoat pocket and pulled out half a dozen of the photographs he’d taken at the McBride farm. He held them in his lap. ‘I need some guidance, Mrs Steadman. About black magic.’

  Mrs Steadman gasped slightly. ‘You know that’s not my field of expertise,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I remember you telling me once there was no black or white magic, it was all magic.’

  ‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘Magic is power and ca
n be drawn down for good or for evil. In the same way that electricity can be used to save a life, or take one.’

  ‘But you understand the mechanics of both?’

  ‘I know messing around with the dark side is a very dangerous thing to do,’ she said. ‘As I’ve told you several times.’

  Nightingale nodded. A man walked by with two Jack Russell dogs and he waited until they were out of earshot before continuing. ‘I need to know if this is a real black magic altar or not,’ he said. He passed her the photographs.

  Mrs Steadman looked through them in silence, spending several minutes staring at each one. When she had finished she looked up at Nightingale. ‘Where did you get these?’

  ‘I took them,’ he said. ‘It was in a barn up in Berwick.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. ‘You’ve heard the story about the Devil and Berwick?’

  ‘The Devil’s thumb? Yes.’

  ‘It’s a very strange place, Berwick. A lot of very unnatural things happen there.’ Realisation dawned and she sighed sadly. ‘The children?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. That was what the police found in the man’s barn.’

  ‘And you think something isn’t right?’

  Nightingale’s eyes narrowed. ‘What makes you think that?’

  Mrs Steadman patted him on the knee. ‘Why else would you be showing me these pictures?’ She smiled at him over the top of her half-moon spectacles. ‘What do you think is wrong?’

  He took the photographs from her and flicked through them, then pointed at the lead crucible that he’d had analysed by the lab. ‘I had this examined and the blood in it was pig’s blood. That didn’t seem right to me.’

  ‘Blood is used in black magic rites, but yes, pig’s blood would be of no use. Chicken’s blood if it was a voodoo ceremony of course, but otherwise it would have to be human blood. And usually a particular type of human blood.’

  ‘From a virgin?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘It would depend on the rite. But it would be human. Pig’s blood, you say?’

  ‘That’s right. Do you mind if I smoke?’

  Mrs Steadman looked pained. ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ she said. ‘I’m really not feeling well. You know, I could give you something that would help you give up smoking.’

  ‘Nicotine patches?’

  She chuckled. ‘I was thinking of a spell,’ she said. ‘All it takes is a gemstone candle containing amethyst. I have some in the shop. It’s so successful I offer a money-back guarantee.’

  Nightingale grinned. ‘I like smoking,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to give up.’

  ‘Your one vice?’ she said.

  ‘Seriously, smoking makes me feel good.’

  ‘Even though you know the risks?’

  ‘I think the risks are exaggerated,’ he said. ‘And let’s face it, at the end of the day everyone dies whether they smoke or not.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t have too many vices. I figure I’m entitled to one.’

  ‘Just be careful, Mr Nightingale,’ she said. ‘Things that give you the greatest pleasure can sometimes cause you the greatest pain.’

  ‘I hear you, Mrs Steadman.’ He gestured at the photographs. ‘The fact that the blood is pig’s blood means that it’s not a real altar, right?’

  ‘If it was a true black magic altar, it wouldn’t be pig’s blood, that’s true.’

  ‘And what about the pictures?’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Whoever made that altar didn’t really know what they were doing. There are two inverted pentagrams, which are as they should be, but one of the pentagrams is the correct way up. That’s how it is used in Wicca, and no Satanist would use it that way. The goat head is correct, it’s the horned goat, the one they call Baphomet. Satanists use the goat to mock Jesus, who is the lamb of God. But the symbol is missing a burning candle on the head of the goat. Whoever put the altar together knows about the symbol but doesn’t understand the significance of the candle.’ She sorted through the photographs, then pulled one out and showed it to him. ‘And here, do you see the star and crescent symbols here on the wall? The crescent represents Diana, the moon goddess. The star is Lucifer, the son of the morning. The way the symbol is drawn, with the star to the left of the crescent, is the way that it’s used in Wicca. In a Satanic ritual, it would be reversed, the star would be to the right.’

  ‘So whoever constructed the altar made a mistake?’

  ‘The symbols have to be correct in order to maintain their power,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘It’s all about channelling the energy. With the symbols mixed up as they are, any energy would be unfocused.’

  ‘It wouldn’t work, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I don’t see that it would function at all,’ she said. ‘Either as a Wicca altar or as a Satanic altar. Whoever constructed it really didn’t know what they were doing. Do you think that the man who killed the children did it?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘If it was him, he’s not a serious Satanist, I can tell you that for sure,’ she said.

  ‘I’m starting to think that perhaps it wasn’t his work,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Somebody wanted to make it look as if he was a Satanist?’

  ‘I think so, yes. Somebody who didn’t realise the significance of the symbols and the blood.’

  ‘But why would anyone want to do that, Mr Nightingale? He killed those children, didn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about that,’ he said.

  ‘So why was it so important to make him appear to be a devil-worshipper?’

  ‘That, Mrs Steadman, is a very good question,’ said Nightingale.

  28

  ‘So the time fits and there was a van?’ said Superintendent Wilkinson. He’d been watching Sky News with the sound down as he’d listened to the inspector report on what he’d learned, which frankly wasn’t much. Mr and Mrs Harper were due to make a live appeal within the hour, not that there was anything new for them to say. Just tears and scared faces and the same words over and over again. Please let us have our daughter back, please don’t hurt her. Paedophiles didn’t pay attention to appeals, Wilkinson knew that, but it was important to keep the missing girl in the public’s thoughts.

  ‘There’s no sign of a van now, but there is a garage. Sir, we could try knocking at the door. We’re overalled up as gasmen, we could say we’re testing for leaks.’

  ‘You can’t go in without a warrant or probable cause, you know that.’

  ‘We could do a walk around the outside. Try to get a look-see through the windows.’

  ‘Okay, but no knocking on the door and under no circumstances are you to go inside. But if they come out, you can speak to them. And watch young Fisher, he’s still wet behind the ears.’

  ‘Understood, sir.’

  The superintendent ended the call. Mr and Mrs Harper were taking their places at a table, flanked by the deputy chief constable and a lady from the Press Office. He grabbed for the remote and turned the volume up.

  29

  ‘Please don’t let him do it to me again,’ sobbed Bella. ‘I want to go home. I want my mummy and daddy.’

  ‘Stop crying!’ hissed Candy.

  ‘You said you were my friend.’ Bella sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  ‘I’m not your friend, you silly little cow! Now stop crying or I’ll give you a slap.’ She raised her hand menacingly and Bella collapsed onto the bed.

  ‘What’s her problem?’ asked Eric, coming into the bedroom.

  ‘She’s being a cry-baby,’ said Candy.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, we’re almost done with her,’ said Eric.

  ‘I want to go home,’ whispered Bella.

  ‘You’re never going home,’ said Candy. ‘Ever. You’re never going to see your mum or your dad or your stupid rabbit. We’re the last thing you’re ever going to see, the last thing you’re ever going to feel. You belong to us and when we’re fin
ished with you we’re going to throw you away like the rubbish you are.’

  ‘No!’ moaned Bella.

  Eric pulled down his jeans and kicked them off. ‘Hold her down,’ he said. ‘And shut her up. I’m sick of her bloody voice.’

  30

  ‘Please keep away from the windows,’ said Inspector Hopkins. ‘We’ll come back before we leave to let you know what’s happening.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Mr Pullman. He opened the front door for them and closed it as they walked back to their van.

  The two detectives walked back to the van. The inspector opened the door and tossed his clipboard onto the driver’s seat. ‘Okay, we do a walk around the outside of the house. Do you have anything that looks like it’ll detect a leak?’

  ‘I’ve got a meter thing,’ said Fisher. He opened the toolbox and took out an electrical meter with an impressive-looking dial. The inspector nodded his approval. ‘Wave that around. If anyone comes out, leave the talking to me.’

  Fisher nodded. The inspector slammed the door shut. They walked towards the Lucas house. They walked either side of the Mondeo and then turned to the left to walk by the garage. Fisher waved his meter around and then tried the handle of the garage. To his surprise it opened. ‘Sir!’ he said.

  Hopkins hissed at him and threw him a dirty look. Then he motioned for him to pull up the door. Fisher stepped back and pulled the door up a couple of feet. Both men peered inside.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Fisher. It was a white van with the name of a plumbing firm on the side.

  Hopkins slipped inside. The signs were magnetic so that they could easily be removed. They had probably removed the signs during the abduction and replaced them when the car was in the garage. There was an internal door connecting the garage to the house. Hopkins tiptoed over to it. Fisher started to duck under the garage door but the inspector waved him back. He reached the connecting door, placed his hands against it and then gently pressed his ear to the wood.