Jack Nightingale 03 - Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Yeah, but we’ve not exactly been inundated with witnesses coming forward and no one on Robinson’s crew is talking.’ He smoked his cigarette. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Cheers, Dan. I’ll owe you one.’

  ‘Damn you right you will,’ said Evans, putting away the envelope. ‘But instead of owing me a favour, why don’t you just tell me what the hell’s going on? It’s like you’re walking around with a bloody bullseye on your back.’

  Nightingale blew smoke across the Serpentine and the swans paddled away, their heads down. ‘Dunno what you mean,’ he said.

  ‘Do you want my help or not?’

  ‘Showing me those pictures was help enough, Dan,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I appreciate you doing what you did. I know I’m not exactly flavour of the month at the moment.’

  ‘What you did to that paedophile earned you a lot of Brownie points, but goodwill only stretches so far,’ said Evans. ‘Look, if you’ve crossed somebody, if there’s someone behind all this, maybe we can do something.’

  ‘I appreciate the offer, Dan. Really. But I don’t think there’s anything you can do. Anyway, you wouldn’t believe it. Hell, I’m not sure if I believe it.’

  ‘Believe what? Look, I put my job on the line checking that number for you and showing you those photographs. The least you can do is to tell me what’s going on.’ He pointed his finger at Nightingale. ‘And I deserve a straight answer. None of that devil-worship bollocks you gave me last time.’

  Nightingale blew a smoke ring over the water. It lasted less than a second before the wind ripped it apart. ‘Do you believe in God?’ asked Nightingale quietly.

  ‘Do I what?’ said Evans, turning to face him.

  ‘God,’ repeated Nightingale. ‘Do you believe in God?’

  Evans laughed softly but his eyes were hard as he looked Nightingale up and down. ‘That depends on who’s asking,’ he said.

  Nightingale flicked ash into the water. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve got two daughters, twelve and fourteen. Where we live, you wouldn’t send a dog to the local State school. There’s a knifing every other month, half the kids don’t speak English as even a second language and the teachers are all on antidepressants.’ Evans took a drag on his cigarette. ‘We went to see the school before the older girl was due to go and it scared me shitless. There was no way I was going to send my kids there, but on an inspector’s salary private schools weren’t an option. So my wife and I started looking around and we found a Church of England school about two miles away. Great exam results, motivated teaching staff, small classes. Just one drawback – the kids had to come from Christian families and me and the wife hadn’t been inside a church since the day we were married.’ The detective turned back to look over the water. ‘So, we put her name down and started going to church, every Sunday.’ He chuckled. ‘Pretty much the entire congregation was made up of parents wanting to get their kids into the school. We all had to sign in and I swear they even checked to see that we were singing along with the hymns.’

  ‘And it worked?’

  Evans nodded. ‘Both girls are in and doing really well. Best thing we ever did, becoming Christians.’

  ‘But you don’t believe, right? You don’t believe in God and Heaven and Hell?’

  ‘Like I said, it depends on who’s asking.’ He took a long pull on his cigarette and then dropped the butt onto the grass and trod on it. ‘If there was a God, Jack, and if he cared about us, why would he allow scum like Dwayne Robinson and his gang to run riot? Wouldn’t he step in and do something? You were a cop, you know the score. Some people are just plain evil and that’s got nothing to do with God or the Devil.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the Devil working through men like Robinson. Maybe the earth is the battleground where Good and Evil battle it out.’

  Evans looked at Nightingale, his brow furrowed. ‘Are you on something, Jack?’

  Nightingale raised an eyebrow. ‘Drugs? Do me a favour, Dan. Nicotine and alcohol are all the stimulants I need.’

  ‘Are you seeing someone?’

  ‘Romantically, you mean? Or professionally?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Post-traumatic stress disorder. You negotiators, you get to see a lot of shit that the average copper never gets near.’

  Nightingale snorted softly. ‘The average copper these days spends his whole shift sitting on his arse filling out forms,’ he said.

  ‘But you were at the sharp end,’ said Evans. ‘A negotiator and a shooter. Either one of those roles comes with enough stress to push anyone over the edge.’

  ‘Over the edge?’ repeated Nightingale. ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘Just the way you’re talking, that’s all. The battle between Good and Evil. Heaven and Hell. Don’t tell me you’ve gone and got religion.’

  ‘Okay, I won’t.’ He flicked his cigarette butt into the water and turned to leave.

  ‘Jack, I’m serious. Tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.’

  Nightingale shook his head, then pulled up his collar against the wind that was blowing across the Serpentine. ‘Truth be told, mate, I don’t think anyone can help me,’ he said, and walked away without a backwards look.

  16

  Nightingale woke up early on Sunday morning and went out to buy a couple of newspapers, a pint of milk, a loaf of bread and a pack of bacon. He was back in his flat making himself a bacon sandwich when his mobile rang. It was a landline calling and he didn’t recognise the number. He took the call and tucked the phone between his chin and shoulder as he used a spatula to flick over the sizzling bacon slices.

  ‘Mr Nightingale?’ said a female voice.

  ‘Yes?’ said Nightingale hesitantly.

  ‘I’m so sorry to bother you on a Sunday, Mr Nightingale. This is Elizabeth Fraser.’

  Nightingale frowned as he struggled to recall the name.

  ‘Hillingdon Home,’ she said and Nightingale remembered immediately who she was. Mrs Fraser was the administrator at the nursing home where his mother had lived the last years of her life. His biological mother. Rebecca Keeley.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Fraser. How can I help you?’

  Mrs Fraser hesitated, then appeared to cover the receiver with her hand and talk to someone else before continuing. ‘Well, it’s a little awkward, actually. I wondered if there was any way that you could come here today?’

  ‘Is it about my mother?’ he asked, turning off the cooker.

  ‘Sort of,’ she said. ‘It would be a lot easier to explain if you were here.’

  Nightingale wondered why she was being so evasive, but it was a Sunday and his plan for the day consisted of a bacon sandwich followed by an afternoon in the pub reading the papers so he agreed to go around as soon as he’d finished his breakfast.

  He’d had the MGB repaired on Saturday morning and the mechanic had given the car a clean bill of health but he still held his breath when he put the key in the ignition. The engine turned over immediately and he smiled. ‘Good girl,’ he said, patting the wooden steering wheel. ‘Who says you’re not a classic?’

  It was a cold day but he had the top down. He was regretting the decision by the time he pulled up in front of the nursing home. He’d driven fifty miles to the outskirts of Basingstoke and his hands were numb and his eyes were watering from the wind. He climbed out of the car and checked the sky. It didn’t look like rain so he decided to risk leaving the top down while he went inside.

  The building was a sixties-built concrete block with rusted metal-framed windows and doors covered with spray-painted graffiti. As he looked up he saw the smudges of faces staring out of some of the windows. They didn’t seem to be looking down at him, just staring blankly off into the distance.

  He pushed his way through the double doors to the reception area where a plump woman with tightly permed hair and spectacles on a chain around her neck flashed him a smile and held up her hand as she dealt with someone on the phone. As soon as she put the phone down sh
e smiled again and asked him how she could help. After she’d checked with Mrs Fraser she pointed down the corridor that led to the administrator’s office.

  He knocked on the door and was told to go in. Mrs Fraser was in her early fifties, stick-thin with hair dyed the colour of a shiny conker. She had a pair of thick-lensed spectacles on the end of her nose but she took them off as she stood up and extended a bony hand. Nightingale shook it carefully. ‘I think it would be best if we talk as we walk,’ she said, guiding him out of the office and along the corridor. ‘Do you know a Mrs McFee? Mrs Fiona McFee?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Is she a resident?’

  Mrs Fraser nodded. ‘Yes, she has been for almost ten years. She’s one of our oldest residents.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone here,’ said Nightingale. ‘I didn’t even know that my mother was here until last year.’

  ‘It’s all very strange,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘So far as we know your mother never actually met Mrs McFee. In fact your mother didn’t interact with anyone during her time here.’

  She pushed through a pair of fire doors and took him up a flight of stairs and along another corridor. Ahead of them was another set of doors with a sign that said ‘Hospital Ward’. At the end of the corridor was a nurse in a white uniform and Mrs Fraser smiled and waved. ‘We’re just checking on Mrs McFee,’ she said and the nurse nodded and went back to her paperwork.

  ‘Here we are,’ said the administrator, opening a door. There was a hospital bed in the room, occupied by a white-haired old lady with a feeding tube snaking from a plastic bag on a stand into her nose. Mrs Fraser closed the door gently. ‘Mrs McFee has been in a coma for the past week,’ she said. ‘There doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with her, it’s simply that she won’t wake up. We have to give her water and nutrients through a tube but she doesn’t require medication. There’re no signs of a stroke or any physical damage.’

  ‘Shouldn’t she be in a hospital?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Our doctor has examined her and we brought in a neurologist but everyone agrees that there’s nothing that can be done in a hospital that we can’t do here. So we keep her under observation and take care of her and wait. She’s an old lady, of course. Almost ninety.’

  ‘But healthy?’

  ‘Mentally, yes, she was very sharp. But she has had problems with her heart and her kidneys and she has diabetes.’ She shrugged. ‘Old age,’ she said. ‘The body wears out eventually, no matter how well you take care of yourself.’

  Nightingale smiled. ‘Yeah, I’m having the same problem with my car.’

  Mrs Fraser looked at him sternly. ‘That’s hardly the same thing, Mr Nightingale.’ Nightingale opened his mouth to apologise but she was already looking back at the old woman. ‘She just didn’t wake up one day. But every now and again she says something.’

  Nightingale felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He knew what was coming next.

  ‘She says your name, Mr Nightingale. Sometimes it’s a whisper; sometimes she shouts it at the top of her voice.’

  ‘Without waking up?’

  Mrs Fraser stroked the old woman’s arm. ‘It’s hard to tell. Sometimes her eyes are open but immediately afterwards she’s back in this state.’

  ‘And why did you ask me to come here, Mrs Fraser?’

  ‘Frankly, Mr Nightingale, I was hoping that you might know her. Mrs McFee is in a similar situation to that of your late mother when she was a resident here. We have no next of kin listed and she hasn’t had a visitor in five years.’ She stepped to the side and waved him towards the bed. ‘Can you have a closer look and make sure that you don’t know her?’

  ‘Sure, but I don’t know anyone called McFee.’

  ‘There has to be some reason that she’s saying your name,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘She never met your mother, and no one on the staff would have reason to mention your name to her. It’s a mystery.’ She motioned for him to step forward. ‘Please, if you don’t mind.’ Nightingale nodded but he found it difficult to move. Mrs Fraser smiled encouragingly. ‘Just have a closer look,’ she said. ‘She might be someone you met some time ago.’

  Nightingale shuffled towards the bed. The old lady was lying on her back, her mouth open, snoring softly. He could see the feeding tube at the back of her mouth. She had no teeth and her tongue was covered with a thick white fur. Her eyes were closed and her white hair was thinning so that her scalp was clearly visible. He flinched as he felt a touch on his arm but then realised it was Mrs Fraser. ‘She won’t bite, Mr Nightingale.’

  Nightingale bent over the old woman. He could smell her bitter breath and underlying it was a sickly sweet stench of decay. He swallowed and almost gagged.

  ‘Jack?’ The old woman’s bloodless lips had barely moved and her eyes were still closed.

  Nightingale stared in horror at the old woman.

  ‘Is that you, Jack?’

  ‘She does seem to know you, Mr Nightingale.’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Please, Mr Nightingale, say something to her.’

  Nightingale swallowed. ‘Yes. It’s me.’

  The old woman’s eyes opened. ‘Please help me, Jack. You have to help me.’ Her voice was a low growl, barely human.

  Nightingale took a step back, shaking his head.

  ‘Mr Nightingale, where are you going?’ asked Mrs Fraser, grabbing him by the arm.

  Nightingale twisted out of her grip and pulled open the door. ‘I have to get out of here,’ he said. He dashed out and ran down the corridor, his coat flapping behind him. He didn’t stop running until he was outside, where he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one with shaking hands. He kept looking at the main entrance, half expecting Mrs Fraser to come after him but the doors stayed resolutely closed.

  He finished his cigarette before pulling up the soft top and fitting it into place. He got into the car and put the key in the ignition. He turned the key and something made a clunking sound under the bonnet. He groaned and tried again and this time there was no sound at all. He made three more attempts before giving up and taking out his mobile to call the AA.

  17

  Nightingale’s MGB was in the garage having its electrical system overhauled on Monday morning so Nightingale caught a black cab in Bayswater and had it drop him in front of the Wicca Woman shop in Camden. It began to rain as he paid the driver and he jogged across the pavement to the shop, holding a Waitrose carrier bag against his chest.

  He opened the door but then had to stand back as two girls in matching Afghan coats and multicoloured Tibetan hats pushed by him. There was only one sales assistant, a chunky teenager with a spider web tattoo across her neck and short hair that had been dyed a fluorescent green. She was wearing a slashed T-shirt and camouflage cargo pants with zipped pockets.

  ‘Is Mrs Steadman in?’ he asked as he closed the door.

  ‘Are you Mr Nightingale, the one who rang?’ asked the girl in an almost impenetrable Scots accent. She jerked a thumb at a beaded curtain behind the counter before he could answer. ‘She’s expecting you.’

  Nightingale smiled his thanks and went through to the back room, where Mrs Steadman was sitting at a circular wooden table reading the Guardian. She took off a pair of blue-tinted pince-nez and smiled up at him. ‘Mr Nightingale, I was so happy to hear from you,’ she said. She was dressed in a black silk shirt buttoned up to the neck, around which was hanging a large silver crucifix on a delicate chain. She had a bird-like face with a sharp nose and she cocked her head to one side as she looked at him with inquisitive emerald-green eyes. Her grey hair was tied back in a ponytail and her wrinkled skin was almost translucent, but there was a youthful energy about her that made guessing her age difficult if not impossible. If Nightingale had been put on the spot he’d have guessed that Mrs Steadman was in her late sixties but he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she was seventy or even eighty. ‘Would you care for some tea?’


  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Nightingale.

  He took off his raincoat and sat down as Mrs Steadman made a pot of tea. She put the pot, a milk jug and blue-and-white-striped mugs on the table. A gas fire was burning in a black-leaded fireplace casting flickering shadows over the walls.

  He passed her the Waitrose carrier bag. ‘A small token of my appreciation,’ he said.

  Mrs Steadman smiled like a child who had been given an early Christmas present and she opened the bag and took out two books. He’d selected them from the library in the basement at Gosling Manor. ‘Oh really, Mr Nightingale, you shouldn’t do this,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. ‘They’re far too valuable to give away.’

  ‘I know you’ll appreciate them, Mrs Steadman,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve made my day,’ she said. She put the books down and poured the tea. ‘But I get the feeling that you didn’t come all this way just to give me some books. As much as I do appreciate the gift.’

  Nightingale felt his cheeks redden, as though he was a naughty schoolboy who had been caught out in a lie. ‘I need some advice, Mrs Steadman.’

  She sipped her tea. ‘So it’s not just a social visit?’ She giggled girlishly. ‘I’m only teasing you, Mr Nightingale. ‘Of course I’ll help you in any way that I can.’

  Nightingale stretched out his legs and stared at his Hush Puppies, still flecked from the rain outside. ‘Can you tell me how I can talk to the dead?’

  Mrs Steadman shook her head sorrowfully. ‘There you go again, Mr Nightingale, wanting to mess with things that you really shouldn’t be messing with.’

  ‘It’s important, Mrs Steadman.’

  ‘I’m sure that it is. But it’s a very dangerous area.’

  ‘It is possible, though?’

  She sipped her tea again. ‘You know that you can use Tarot cards, don’t you?’

  Nightingale raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought they were for telling fortunes?’

  ‘Oh they do that, of course, but in the hands of an expert they can be used for so much more.’