Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller

by Stephen Leather

  Barker closed the door softly and went over to the window to close the curtain. As he turned around his breath caught in his throat as he realised her eyes were open and she was staring at him. He swallowed. ‘Hello Bella, how are you this evening?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

  ‘I’m just going to put the light on,’ he said.

  ‘Okay.’

  Barker flicked the light switch and two fluorescent tubes flicked on. ‘There we are.’ She brushed a lock of blonde hair away from her eyes. Her eyes were pale blue, Barker realised. He hadn’t read that anywhere. Details like that helped to flesh out a story. ‘Have they told you when you’ll be going home?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘I bet you’re looking forward to it.’ He sat down on the end of her bed, careful not to put any of his weight on the recorder.

  Bella nodded. ‘I don’t like hospitals,’ she said.

  ‘Nobody does,’ said Barker. ‘I’ll let you into a secret. Doctors don’t really like hospitals either.’

  Bella giggled. ‘That’s funny,’ she said.

  ‘Bella, I need to take a photograph of you for our file, is that okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Can I comb my hair?’

  Barker smiled reassuringly. ‘It’s only for our file, no one will see it,’ he lied. He took out his camera and took a couple of shots. No photographs of Bella had been released, and while the UK papers would probably not publish them he was sure he’d be able to sell them overseas. ‘How do you feel? Do you feel better?’ He put the camera away.

  ‘I feel a bit sore, still. The medicine helps me.’

  ‘Do you sleep okay? Do you have nightmares?’ That would be a great storyline. Kidnapped girl plagued by nightmares.

  ‘Not really nightmares,’ said Bella. ‘I don’t really dream at all.’

  ‘What about when you get home? Is there something there you really miss? A pet?’ Kidnapped girl reunited with her puppy. That would make a terrific picture.

  ‘I miss my rabbit. Floppy. He has really long ears.’

  A rabbit wasn’t such a great picture, but it would do. ‘And have Mum and Dad said they’ll take you somewhere special? The seaside or Eurodisney or somewhere like that?’

  Bella shook her head. ‘They just want me at home.’

  ‘I can understand that. They must have missed you so much when they were away.’

  Bella brushed hair away from her eyes again. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Can I ask you something, Bella?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘When you were with the man and the woman who kept you prisoner. Can you tell me what they did to you?’

  Bella swallowed but didn’t say anything as she studied him with her pale blue eyes.

  ‘We need to know so we can help other little girls that get taken away from their families.’ He nodded encouragingly. ‘You’ll be helping us to help them.’

  Bella stared at him in silence and for a moment he was worried she was about to burst into tears. Then she slowly smiled. ‘You’re not a doctor, are you?’

  ‘Of course I am, sweetie.’ He took off his stethoscope and swung it around. ‘Why else would I have this?’

  Bella smiled at him. ‘So people wouldn’t realise you’re a reporter,’ she said.

  Barker’s stomach lurched. ‘A reporter?’

  ‘A freelance. You want to write a story about me that you can sell, but what you really want is a job on one of the big newspapers.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Bella giggled. ‘I know everything, Jeremy.’

  Barker stared at her, his mind racing. How did she know his name? ‘Did somebody tell you I was coming to see you?’

  Bella nodded.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jesus.’

  Barker screwed up his face. ‘Jesus?’

  ‘I spoke to Jesus. An angel took me to see him.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘When the bad man and the bad woman had me. But Jesus said everything would be all right. And he had a message for you, Jeremy.’

  ‘A message?’

  ‘A message for you. Come closer, Jeremy, I have to whisper it to you.’ Barker stood up and looked down at her. She crooked her finger and beckoned him. ‘Come on. Before the nurse comes back. She’ll be here soon.’

  Barker’s left foot moved forward as if it had a life of his own.

  ‘Closer, Jeremy.’ She smiled at him, showing perfect white teeth.

  Barker took another step forward. The stethoscope slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

  ‘Good boy, Jeremy,’ said Bella.

  50

  Nightingale got back to Bayswater just before eleven with several dozen photographs of the errant husband and his secretary in his camera, along with several minutes of video of them sitting in a bar, drinking champagne and getting in the mood. When he saw that Mrs Chan’s Chinese restaurant on the ground floor was still open, he decided to pop in for a bowl of his favourite duck noodles. Mrs Chan served him herself and persuaded him to down another two Coronas, and after he’d finished eating she sat at his table and chatted about her son, who was running a very successful property company in Hong Kong. He had just had his second child, making Mrs Chan a grandmother six times over.

  ‘When you marry, Mister Jack?’ she asked him. She had been in London for almost thirty years but still spoke English as if it was her first day in the country.

  ‘When I find the right woman, Mrs Chan,’ laughed Nightingale.

  ‘What about that nice girl who works for you? Miss Jenny. She very pretty.’

  ‘She’s too valuable as an assistant. And to be honest, I don’t think I’m her type.’

  Mrs Chan laughed and patted his hand. ‘You wrong, Mister Jack. I see her when she look at you.’

  Nightingale threw up his hands. ‘Please, Mrs Chan, you’ve got to stop trying to marry me off. I’m happy being single.’

  ‘No, Mister Jack, you just think you happy.’

  Nightingale paid his bill and went upstairs to his flat. As soon as he opened the door and switched on the light he knew that something was wrong. The cushions weren’t as he had left them on the sofa and the books on his coffee table had been rearranged. Nightingale didn’t have a cleaner and Jenny had the only spare key, and he was pretty sure that she wouldn’t have popped around to do some tidying up.

  His mind raced. If someone had got into the flat then they’d done it without damaging the door, which meant they’d picked the lock or come through a window. The only vulnerable windows were in his bedroom and bathroom, and they were all locked. His flat wasn’t an obvious one to burgle, as the street was usually busy outside and there were always people going in and out of Mrs Chan’s restaurant. He took a long deep breath as he considered his options. There had been someone in his flat, he was sure of that. The question was, were they still there or not?

  He whistled softly as he fumbled in his bag and pulled out his camera. He groped for the flash and fixed that to the top of the camera, then slipped the bag off his shoulder and tossed it across the room onto the sofa. Then he switched off the light and held his breath. If he was wrong and he was alone in the flat then at least there’d be no one to see how stupid he was.

  He cocked his head on one side, listening intently. He could hear cars driving by outside, and the buzz of conversation from the pavement down below. Then he heard a soft footfall, the sound of a leather sole brushing against carpet, and he knew that he wasn’t imagining it.

  He heard another footfall and then two shapes appeared in the bedroom doorway. He held up the camera and fired off a shot. In the flash of light he saw two men wearing ski masks. One was big, well over six feet, and carrying a hunting knife, the blade pressed against his trousers. The smaller man was holding a coil of rope.

  Nightingale fired off a second shot. This time the men were standing open-mouthed, their hands up. Nightingale grabbed for the door
and pulled it open. He stumbled downstairs, keeping the camera pressed to his side, taking the stairs two at a time. He fumbled for the lock on the downstairs door and ran out into the street. A black cab sounded its horn and he ran along the pavement and then darted across to the other side of the road, narrowly missing a courier on a bicycle who snarled and swore at him. Nightingale stood behind a parked car and looked up at his building. The light in the sitting room went on, and then a few seconds later went off. Then the light in the stairway came on and the two men emerged from the front door. They’d taken off their ski masks and there was no sign of the rope or the knife.

  Nightingale tried to focus on the two men and snapped away, getting off a dozen shots as they stepped out of the doorway and headed down the road towards Hyde Park, keeping their heads down. He walked down the road after them but they turned right towards Queensway, and by the time he got there they were lost in the crowds.

  He pulled out his mobile phone and called Jenny. She listened in silence as he explained what had happened.

  ‘What are you going to do, Jack?’ she asked when he’d finished. ‘Are you going to call the police?’

  ‘And say what? Two men in ski masks attacked me? Without any way of identifying them I’d be wasting my time. Plus I’ve got a feeling that it’s cops that are behind it.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘It was personal, Jenny. One of them had a knife and the other one was holding a piece of rope.’

  ‘Rope?’

  ‘I think they were planning a lynching, making it look as if I’d killed myself. And the only case that I’m working on at the moment that would inspire that level of violence is up in Berwick. The cops I spoke to were clearly unhappy at the questions I was asking, and I’m pretty sure that Danny McBride was murdered. So at the moment I’m not convinced that going to the cops is a good idea.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘There is one cop I could talk to,’ he said. ‘But it means going back into the lion’s den.’

  ‘Jack, will you stop talking in riddles.’

  ‘I need to go back to Berwick and talk to that cop that Robbie put me in touch with.’

  ‘Your diary is pretty much free tomorrow, and the day after is Saturday so it doesn’t matter too much if you get back late. But I thought you said he’d only talk to you on the phone.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ll get him to change his mind on that. After what’s happened, he has to meet to me. I’m not thrilled about another flight up to Edinburgh, though. Don’t suppose you’ll lend me the Audi, will you?’

  ‘You suppose right. What about the train? It’s probably only three or four hours.’

  ‘Sure. See if you can get me a seat to get there for lunch and a seat back in the late afternoon. I’ll buy him lunch.’

  ‘I’m sure that’ll work.’

  ‘Are you being sarcastic? I can never tell on the phone.’

  ‘Yes, Jack. I am.’ She ended the call before he could think of a witty comeback.

  51

  Jimmy Patel looked up as the door opened and the bell tinkled. It was ten o’clock at night, which was about the time that the drunks started to turn up. The problem was that drunks were often the best customers – they wanted more booze or cigarettes or a snack and generally they didn’t quibble about the prices. They didn’t usually steal, though. Not like the schoolkids who came in during the day. Jimmy’s father had Sellotaped a notice to the door saying that no more than two schoolkids were allowed in at the same time, but if Jimmy had his way he wouldn’t let any in. They had the morals of sewer rats, and were just as cunning and quick. They’d shove a chocolate bar or a pack of sweets down their trousers and run out of the shop before he could do anything. Not that there was much he could do. He couldn’t lay a hand on them, and they knew it. And the police weren’t interested. The first few times he’d called nine nine nine but the operators had said that it wasn’t an emergency and that he should call the local policing team. But they almost never answered their phone and when they did they said that shoplifting was very low on their priorities.

  It might have been low on their priorities but it was important to Jimmy and his family. Margins were tight, and his rent and rates were all going up faster than inflation, and every pound that walked out of the door represented food off his plate. Jimmy worked twelve hours a day, every day, but he doubted that he ended up with more than if he was on the dole claiming benefits like most of his customers.

  The man who walked into his shop wasn’t on the dole, though. The stethoscope around his neck suggested he was a doctor, and by the look of it a man who’d had a hard day. Jimmy Patel smiled at the customer. There had been a time when Jimmy had thought about becoming a doctor, but his father had persuaded him that he was needed in the shop.

  ‘All right?’ said Jimmy.

  The doctor grunted and walked down the centre aisle of the shop, looking left and right.

  ‘Can I help you find something?’ called Jimmy, but the doctor ignored him. Jimmy looked over at the curved mirror on the wall near the ceiling that gave him a view of the parts of the shop he couldn’t see from behind the till. The doctor reached the end of the aisle and stood looking at the cleaning products. He bent down and took out an orange plastic bottle. He stared at the label for a few seconds, then turned and walked back to the till.

  Jimmy looked at the bottle the doctor was holding. Mister Muscle drain cleaner. ‘Blocked drain?’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘How much?’ The doctor’s voice was hard and lacked any emotion. He sounded as if he’d just come off a long shift.

  ‘You know what, you’re better off with the bigger size,’ said Jimmy. ‘You get twice as much but it’s only 20p more. We’re getting a deal at the wholesaler.’ He gestured at the bottle in the doctor’s hand. ‘That’s old stock. You’re better off with the bigger one, seriously.’

  The doctor looked at Jimmy blankly, nodded and then went back down the aisle. He reappeared a few seconds later holding the larger size.

  ‘There you go, that’s much better,’ said Jimmy.

  The doctor tucked the bottle under his left arm and fumbled for his wallet. He handed over a ten-pound note.

  ‘Do you want a bag for that?’ asked Jimmy.

  The doctor turned and headed for the door.

  ‘Hey, your change!’ The bell tinkled as the door opened and the doctor stepped out into the street. ‘Hey, mate, don’t forget your change!’ shouted Jimmy. The door banged shut and Jimmy cursed under his breath. He opened the till, put in the ten pounds and quickly counted out the change. He stepped out from behind the register and hurried over to the door. He pulled it open and looked down the street. The doctor was sitting on the pavement, his feet stretched out into the road. Jimmy opened his mouth but before he could say anything the doctor tilted back his head and began to drink from the orange bottle.

  52

  Harry Simpson was younger than Nightingale had expected. The voice on the phone had sounded like a man in his forties but the DI was barely out of his twenties, fresh-faced and a heavy mop of hair that he was forever flicking out of his eyes. He agreed to meet in the Magna Tandoori restaurant in the centre of the town, a short walk from the railway station. He was already there when Nightingale arrived, tucked away in a corner table. He stood up to shake hands, then looked cautiously over Nightingale’s shoulder. ‘If anyone sees us, you’re an old mate from London, passing through.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I hope you do,’ said Simpson, sitting down. ‘I could get in real trouble talking to you.’

  ‘Trust me, I’m not that happy about having to schlep all the way up here on the train but I needed to talk to you.’ He had caught the 9 a.m. train from King’s Cross station and had arrived in Berwick just over three and a half hours later. Nightingale took off his raincoat. A waiter reached to take it away but Nightingale shook his head and put it over the back of his chair.

  ‘They’d put my balls in a vice if the
y found out I was talking to a private eye.’

  ‘I just want to run a few things by you,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m not looking for confidential information or anything that’ll breach the Data Protection Act.’

  ‘I’d have preferred to do it over the phone.’

  ‘What I’ve got to say, I thought you’d prefer it face to face. That way you know that nothing’s being recorded.’

  ‘I still don’t know that.’

  Nightingale held out his hands. ‘You’re welcome to frisk me.’

  Simpson grinned. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. What is it you want to tell me?’

  ‘I did a bit of work on the altar that you guys found in McBride’s farm. I checked the prints on a couple of items and they match McBride’s prints.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising, is it?’

  Another waiter came over. ‘Okay if I order?’ asked Simpson. ‘I’m a regular.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m a big fan of Indian.’

  ‘The chef’s from Bangladesh and he’s a diamond,’ said Simpson. He ordered several dishes and rice and two Kingfisher beers.

  ‘Here’s the thing,’ said Nightingale once the waiter was out of earshot. ‘I’m pretty sure that McBride had zero interest in Satanism. But the fact that his prints were on the altar means he must have set it up. Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he was as mad as a hatter. The fact that he killed kids suggests that he wasn’t right in the head, don’t you think?’

  ‘He didn’t shoot like a madman,’ said Nightingale. ‘What he did was very cold and clinical.’