Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller

by Stephen Leather

  ‘He’s not a lovely man, Jenny.’

  She stiffened and looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Nightingale looked at her, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean anything.’

  ‘What is your problem with him, Jack?’

  He held up his hands. ‘Forget I said anything.’

  ‘He’s never done you any harm. He just wanted to help.’

  Nightingale picked up his coffee and stood up. ‘Okay, let’s just leave it.’

  ‘Jack!’

  Nightingale ignored her and strode into his office before kicking the door shut behind him.

  57

  The door opened and the headmistress looked up from her computer. ‘Here she is, Mrs Tomlinson,’ said Miss Rider, ushering in nine-year-old Bella Harper.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Rider,’ said Mrs Tomlinson. She waved at a sofa in the corner of her office. ‘Why don’t you sit there, Bella, and we can have a little chat.’ Bella did as she was told. ‘I’ll bring her back when we’ve finished,’ the headmistress said to Miss Rider and the teacher closed the door behind her.

  Mrs Tomlinson pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Bella. Bella had her head down and her hands were fidgeting in her lap.

  ‘Bella, it’s okay, you’re not in trouble,’ said the headmistress. ‘Would you like a biscuit?’ Mrs Tomlinson kept a pack of chocolate Hobnobs in her desk drawer to cheer up unhappy children.

  Bella shook her head. ‘No, thank you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Now, did Miss Rider tell you why I wanted to see you?’

  ‘It’s about Jesus,’ said Bella.

  ‘Well, sort of,’ said the headmistress. Bella’s curly blonde hair was hanging over her face, so she couldn’t see if the girl was crying or not. She wanted to reach over and brush the hair away but she knew that touching children was never a good idea. ‘First of all let me say how happy we are to have you back at school. We all missed you a lot.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Tomlinson.’

  ‘And I know you’ve been through a lot. But we’re all going to do what we can to make it easier for you, you know that, don’t you?’

  Bella nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, Mrs Tomlinson.’

  ‘Good. Now you’ve been telling the children about Jesus, haven’t you?’

  Bella sniffed and nodded. ‘Am I in trouble?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said the headmistress. ‘But you see, Bella, it’s really not a good idea to be talking about Jesus in class. We explain about Jesus and other religious leaders in our religious education classes, so you should leave that sort of thing to Miss Rider. Do you understand?’

  Bella nodded and clasped her hands together. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly.

  ‘You don’t have to say you’re sorry,’ said Mrs Tomlinson. ‘And I know that after everything you’ve been through, Jesus is probably a help to you.’

  ‘Yes. He is.’

  ‘And that’s okay. That’s good. But what you mustn’t do is to talk about him in class. We are lucky to have children of many religions in our school and not everyone believes in Jesus. It might upset them to hear you talking about him. You must keep your faith to yourself. Do you understand that?’

  Bella nodded again. ‘Yes, Mrs Tomlinson.’

  ‘That’s a good girl. Have your parents been talking about Jesus at home, is that it?’

  ‘Not really.’ Bella sniffed and rubbed the back of her nose with her hand.

  ‘Talking about Jesus is fine at home,’ said the headmistress. ‘But at school, that’s something for the teachers. Then we can learn about all the great religions of the world in a way that doesn’t offend anyone. You understand that, don’t you, Bella? It’s important that people aren’t offended.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Bella. She looked up and for the first time Mrs Tomlinson saw the little girl’s face. Bella smiled brightly. ‘You believe in Jesus, don’t you, Mrs Tomlinson?’

  ‘That’s a very personal question, Bella. And in school we don’t like to ask personal questions because they can make people feel uncomfortable. A person’s religious belief is their own business.’

  ‘But you believe in Jesus, don’t you?’

  ‘Bella, that’s not a question that I’m prepared to answer. And it’s not a question you should be asking your classmates.’

  ‘Jesus loves you, Mrs Tomlinson.’

  The headmistress stood up. ‘I’m sure that he does, Bella. Now come on, I’ll take you back to your classroom.’

  Bella looked up at the headmistress and smiled. ‘Jesus has a message for you, Mrs Tomlinson.’

  ‘Now don’t be silly,’ said the headmistress. She held her hand out. ‘Come on, let’s go now.’

  ‘He’s got a message for you about your dad.’

  Mrs Tomlinson’s breath caught in her throat and her head swam. She sat down heavily.

  ‘He knows what your dad did to you, Mrs Tomlinson. When you were little.’

  Mrs Tomlinson put her hand over her mouth.

  ‘He has a message for you, Mrs Tomlinson. Jesus has a message for you.’ She beckoned the headmistress with her finger. ‘Come here, Mrs Tomlinson, and I’ll whisper it to you.’

  58

  Nightingale stared at the Sudoku grid but couldn’t concentrate. He knew that he had to go back into Jenny’s office and apologise to her, but for the life of him he didn’t know what to say. Marcus Fairchild was a predatory paedophile and the leading light of a group that thought human sacrifice was the route to Satanic power. But there was no way he could explain to Jenny how he knew that, and no way that Jenny would believe him. Any apology he made would be a lie, but he didn’t see that he had any choice.

  His mobile rang and he fished it out of his pocket, expecting it to be Jenny. It wasn’t. The caller’s number was withheld. He took the call. It was Harry Simpson. ‘I’ve got an address for Stevenson,’ he said.

  ‘That’s terrific, thanks.’

  ‘You’re not planning to do anything stupid, are you?’ asked Simpson.

  ‘Like what?’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I don’t know. I just worry how this is going to end up.’

  ‘But not worried enough to ignore me, right?’

  There was a long silence. Nightingale didn’t say anything. He figured that there was something Simpson wanted to tell him and he didn’t want to spoil it by prompting.

  ‘There’ve been some rumours, about cops and kids,’ Simpson said eventually.

  Nightingale was about to say something, but he bit his lip.

  Simpson sighed. ‘No names, and certainly no mention of Stevenson. But there’s talk of a task force from London coming up here. Remember that list of paedophiles that was doing the rounds on the internet? Top Tory politicians and businessmen?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  ‘Well, there’s another list that hasn’t been made public. And the rumour is that there are some very top people on it, a lot of Scottish bigwigs. Some serious names. The rumour is that the London cops are getting ready to blow the thing wide open.’

  ‘And the Northumbria cops have been left out of the loop?’

  ‘Totally. Which suggests they don’t trust us.’

  ‘But no rumours about Stevenson?’

  ‘None that I’ve heard. So I’ll give you his address, but then that’s the end of it. And we never had the conversation.’

  ‘That’s fine with me,’ said Nightingale. ‘Give me the address and then forget we ever spoke.’

  Simpson gave him the address and Nightingale scribbled it down on his newspaper. After he ended the call, Nightingale stood up and opened his office door. Jenny didn’t look up as he walked in and continued to ignore him as he walked up to her desk. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why I was being an arsehole.’

  She nodded but didn’t look up at him.

  ‘I over-reacted, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Okay.’

&nb
sp; ‘I know he’s your godfather, and I realise he was only trying to help. I guess I just get possessive when it comes to cases. Tell him I’m sorry, will you?’

  She looked up at him and smiled. ‘He’s a really nice guy, Jack. You’d like him if you got to know him.’

  ‘I’m sure I would,’ lied Nightingale. ‘How about I make you a coffee, to make up?’

  ‘Or you could buy me a Costa? And a chocolate muffin.’

  ‘I could do that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Oh, I’ll be out of the office tomorrow. I’m back up to Berwick.’

  ‘Do you want me to book you a train?’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’m going up with Eddie Morris. We’ll use his car.’

  ‘Eddie Morris housebreaker and burglar?’

  ‘That’s the one. But make that alleged housebreaker and burglar, he’s never actually been convicted.’

  ‘What are you up to, Jack?’

  Nightingale tapped the side of his nose. ‘Best you don’t know,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want to make you an accessory before the fact.’

  59

  Miss Rider looked up as the classroom door opened. It was Bella. Miss Rider expected the headmistress to pop her head around the door but Bella was alone. The heads of the three dozen children in the room swivelled to stare at Bella. ‘Sit down, Bella,’ said the teacher. ‘We’re just talking about fractions.’

  Bella walked over to her table and sat down. Miss Rider went over to her whiteboard. She was trying to get the children to rank a series of fractions in order of size but it was proving to be an uphill struggle. She looked over at Bella. The girl had her hands clasped together on the table in front of her and her head down so that her hair was hanging over her face.

  ‘So, Bella, which is bigger, a quarter, which is one over four, or a sixth, which is one over six?’

  Bella didn’t say anything.

  ‘Bella, did you hear me?’

  Two girls at the table by the window began to talk.

  ‘Hush now,’ said Miss Rider. ‘Let’s hear the answer from Bella.’

  Tommy Halpin stood up and pointed out of the window. ‘Tommy, come on now, sit down.’ Tommy had what his parents called Attention Deficit Disorder but Miss Rider put down to a complete lack of discipline at home. The boy ignored her and continued to point.

  ‘Tommy, please, we’ve spoken before about how your disrupting the class isn’t fair to everyone else.’

  ‘It’s Mrs Tomlinson,’ said Tommy excitedly. ‘On the roof.’ He turned to look at Miss Rider. ‘Why is she on the roof, Miss Rider?’

  Miss Rider frowned and hurried over to the window. The children took it as a signal that they could go too and everyone rushed over to see what was going on.

  The headmistress was on the roof of the administration block. Her hair and skirt were flapping in the wind and as Miss Rider watched, the headmistress slowly raised her arms to the side as if she was being crucified.

  ‘What is she doing, Miss?’ asked Tommy. ‘Is she playing at Superman?’

  ‘She’s a lady, she can’t be Superman,’ said Kylie James, who was one of the most pedantic children Miss Rider had ever come across.

  ‘Children, I need you to all sit down,’ said Miss Rider in her most authoritative voice. Her pupils ignored her.

  Mrs Tomlinson took a deep breath, tilted her head back, and began to scream the Lord’s Prayer. ‘Our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.’ She fell forward as she shouted and the wind ripped the remaining words from her mouth as she fell, her arms still out to the side. It was a perfect swan dive, except that below wasn’t a swimming pool, there was just the unyielding tarmac surface of the school playground.

  ‘Oh my God!’ screamed Miss Rider. She watched in horror as the headmistress plunged to the ground. Something snaked behind her and Miss Rider realised that it was a rope. The headmistress had tied one end of the rope around the neck and the other end to something on the roof.

  ‘She’s bungee jumping!’ shouted Tommy, and at that exact moment the rope snapped tight and Mrs Tomlinson flipped head over heels and then the head parted from the body in a shower of blood and the two parts fell to the ground. The body hit first with a dull wet thud that they all heard through the classroom window and the head landed a fraction of a second later and rolled across the playground like a miskicked football.

  Some of the children screamed and Kylie burst into tears. Miss Rider flinched and turned away, her stomach heaving. As she retched over the floor she realised that Bella was the only child still sitting at her table, her head down and her hands clasped in front of her.

  60

  Eddie Morris opened one eye and looked at the speedometer. ‘You can put your foot down, you won’t hurt it,’ he said. ‘German engineering.’

  It was Tuesday morning and the BMW was powering along the A1 at a steady seventy miles an hour. They had shared the driving since leaving London in Morris’s brand new Series 5. ‘I don’t want a speeding ticket,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s why we’re driving and not flying, I don’t want anyone to know that we’re up here.’

  ‘It’s one hell of a drive,’ said Morris, folding his arms and stretching out his legs.

  ‘I’m paying you by the hour, aren’t I? And by the look of this motor, the housebreaking business is booming.’

  Morris grinned. ‘Can’t complain. I’ve been doing really well since I started targeting Russians and Arabs. They always have a lot of cash and jewellery in their houses, and as a lot of it is hooky they don’t call the cops.’

  ‘Be careful with the Russians, mate.’

  ‘They’re not all mafia, Jack. But most of them are dodgy.’

  Nightingale had insisted that they drive up to Berwick and had agreed to share the driving. They had to use the BMW because Nightingale’s classic MGB wasn’t up to a 700-mile round trip. Morris had picked Nightingale up in Bayswater at five o’clock in the morning. They had made good time, stopping only for fuel and coffee, and they reached Berwick at one o’clock in the afternoon. Nightingale had Morris call Stevenson from a phone box to check that he was in his office, then they drove around to the policeman’s house on the outskirts of the town.

  It was a terraced house of grey stone, with a white door that opened off the pavement. ‘I hate terraces,’ said Morris. ‘Front and back overlooked and the neighbours are right on top of you.’ He nodded at the burglar alarm box between the two upstairs windows. ‘See that?

  ‘Alarms never worry you, Eddie. Not bog-standard ones like that. Are you going to go in the front or the back?’

  ‘I’ll have a walk by and check out the lock,’ said Morris. Nightingale took out his cigarettes. ‘Don’t even think about lighting up,’ said Morris. ‘I don’t want to lose the new-car smell.’

  ‘Your body odour has put paid to that,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’d be doing you a favour by fumigating it.’

  Morris pointed a warning finger at Nightingale’s face. ‘I’m serious, Jack. You smoke in my motor and you’re walking back to London.’

  Nightingale groaned and put the pack away as Morris climbed out of the car and pulled on a pair of black leather gloves. He crossed the road and walked by the house, glancing sideways at the front door, then continued down the pavement to a side road. He disappeared from view and Nightingale settled back in the comfortable leather seat. He’d known Morris for the best part of three years. They had been introduced by the solicitor who was representing Morris on a case of breaking and entering which, to almost everyone’s surprise, Morris hadn’t actually committed. Morris had been set up by a former girlfriend, who’d arranged for a pair of his gloves to be dropped at a crime scene. Nightingale had tracked down the real burglar and Morris had walked. Morris wasn’t exactly a criminal with a heart of gold, but he never resorted to violence and usually stole from people who could afford to lose a few grand. Over the years he and Nightingale had become friends.

  Morris returned after fifteen minutes and slid into t
he rear passenger seat behind Nightingale. ‘The front lock is a Yale, so that’s not a problem, but the back is easier. There’s an alley behind the houses and a small walled yard. There’s a Yale on that door, too. I’ll sort the alarm from the outside and go in the back.’

  ‘No breaking, just entering. I don’t want anyone to know we’ve been there.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Morris.

  There was a black kitbag on the back seat and Morris unzipped it. Inside was a pair of dark blue overalls and he took them out and unrolled them. Under the overalls were several dozen Velcro-backed cloth badges, for most of the country’s main burglar alarm and security companies and a few generic ones. He pulled out a badge that matched the logo on the alarm box and waved it at Nightingale. ‘It’s all in the preparation,’ he said. He placed the badge on the Velcro pad on the back of the overalls, then slipped them on over his clothes. He zipped them up, then picked up a small toolbox up off the floor. ‘Pop the boot, will you?’ said Morris, as he got out of the car. He walked around to the back of the BMW and took out a telescopic ladder that he pulled out to about eight feet. He walked over to the house, the ladder on one shoulder, whistling as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  61

  Nightingale’s mobile rang and he took the call. It was Morris. ‘You’d better not be smoking in there,’ said Morris.

  Nightingale looked over at the house and kept his lit cigarette between his legs. He had the windows open and the air-conditioning on to blast the smoke out of the car. ‘Of course not,’ he said.

  ‘I’m in,’ said Morris. ‘Come around to the back of the house and I’ll let you in.’

  Nightingale locked up the BMW and walked down the road, around the corner and along the alley. He saw Morris standing at an open door and hurried to join him. He followed Morris across a concrete back yard and into the kitchen. Morris carefully closed the back door. ‘All good,’ said Morris. ‘Nothing broken and I can reset the alarm when we leave.’