Nightfall jn-1

by Stephen Leather

  Jenny shook her head. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘It was an accident, Jack. You have to stop blaming yourself. And at least it was quick. He didn’t suffer.’

  ‘That’s bollocks,’ said Nightingale. ‘They always say that. “At least he didn’t suffer. At least it was quick.” One moment they’re there and then they’re gone. Bang. Thank you and good night.’

  ‘But isn’t that better than lying in a hospital bed wired up to a life-support machine?’

  ‘There’s too much unfinished business. There’s no time to prepare yourself, or to prepare the people you care for. Sudden death just rips people away. It leaves too many unanswered questions.’ Nightingale opened his wallet and dropped three twenty-pound notes onto the saucer. ‘I need a smoke,’ he said. ‘And don’t worry, I won’t be driving.’

  Jenny picked up the money and gave it back to him. ‘My treat, remember?’

  ‘Thanks.’ He returned the notes to his wallet.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Secondary smoke kills,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want you on my conscience.’

  Jenny opened her mouth to argue but Nightingale held up his hand to silence her. ‘I just want to be on my own,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I need to think.’

  ‘And you can’t think when I’m around? Jack, you can’t always push people away like this.’

  ‘I’m not pushing anyone away,’ he said.

  ‘No, you’re running away, and that’s worse. You can’t solve your problems by running away from them.’

  Nightingale headed for the door. ‘Watch me,’ he said.

  37

  First thing on Tuesday morning the forensics lab phoned Jenny. When she’d hung up she hurried into Nightingale’s office. ‘The lab came back with the results,’ she said. ‘Rebecca Keeley’s your mother.’

  ‘There’s no doubt?’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Only that one in six billion nonsense,’ said Jenny. ‘She’s your birth-mother, no question of it. They’re sending me a fax to confirm it and their bill.’

  ‘Will petty cash cover it?’ asked Nightingale, hopefully.

  ‘It might if we had any,’ said Jenny. ‘We’ll need a cheque.’

  Jenny’s computer beeped to tell her that she had received an email. She went over to her desk while Nightingale phoned Hillingdon Home and spoke to Mrs Fraser, who told him that Miss Keeley had slept through the night and now seemed much calmer. Nightingale explained that, following a DNA test, he was now sure that Rebecca Keeley was his mother, but thought better of mentioning that he’d stolen the hairbrush. Mrs Fraser said she had no objections to Nightingale visiting again. This time he didn’t take flowers, but he had with him an old photograph album.

  The male nurse met him in Reception and explained that his mother was sitting in the garden. It wasn’t so much a garden as a patch of grass with a couple of wooden benches, a rockery filled with heathers of various hues, and a stone birdbath covered with sparrow droppings. Nightingale’s mother was on one of the benches, wearing a tweed coat and a purple headscarf. She was staring at the birdbath and stroking the crucifix around her neck.

  ‘I like her to get some fresh air now and again,’ said the nurse. ‘I’ll take her back inside in half an hour.’ He pointed at a large picture window overlooking the garden. Three old women were sitting in armchairs, staring blankly through the glass. ‘I’ll be in the residents’ lounge,’ he said. ‘If she starts getting agitated again, I’ll have to end the visit.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Nightingale.

  He went over to the bench and sat down next to her, unbuttoning his raincoat. He had the photograph album on his lap and said hello, but she ignored him.

  ‘It’s me, Jack,’ he said. ‘I’ve come back to see you.’

  There was no sign that she was aware he was there. He opened the album. The first picture was of himself at only a few days old, wrapped in a white cloth, his eyes wide open. ‘This is me, not long after I was born,’ he said. He pushed the album towards her. ‘Do you remember me as a baby? Did you see me when I was born or did he take me away from you straight away? I know you’re my mother, Rebecca. I checked. There’s no doubt. I’m your son.’

  The woman looked down at the picture, still rubbing the crucifix between her thumb and first finger.

  ‘Do you recognise me, Rebecca? Do you recognise the baby in this picture?’

  ‘Edward?’ she whispered.

  ‘Edward? Is that the name you gave me? Is that what you called me? My name’s Jack now, Jack Nightingale.’ He turned the page. There were six photographs across the spread, different views of his parents holding him. ‘These are the people who took care of me, Rebecca. Bill and Irene Nightingale, my parents.’

  She reached out and gently touched the pictures one by one with her left hand, holding the crucifix tightly in the right.

  ‘Do you remember, Rebecca?’ asked Nightingale, in a soft whisper. ‘Do you remember holding me when I was born? Did you kiss me?’

  He turned the page. The next set of photographs was of himself at two weeks old, tiny and defenceless. He flicked through the pages and showed her one of him smiling. He’d always been a happy baby, according to his mother. Happy and smiling and as good as gold.

  A single tear trickled down Rebecca Keeley’s cheek.

  Nightingale reached across and held her left hand. ‘Why did you give me away?’ he asked.

  She shook her head slowly. Nightingale wasn’t sure if she hadn’t understood his question or was denying what he’d said.

  ‘What was the money for? The twenty thousand pounds?’

  ‘Are you a ghost?’ she whispered.

  ‘A ghost?’ repeated Nightingale. ‘Why would you think I’m a ghost?’

  ‘You died,’ she whispered. ‘You died when you were born.’

  Nightingale froze. ‘Is that what he told you? Is that what Ainsley Gosling told you?’

  ‘You were stillborn, he said. The doctor wouldn’t even let me see you. They took you away and said they’d bury you but I never saw a grave.’ She stared at him with tear-filled eyes. ‘Why have you come back?’

  ‘I didn’t die,’ said Nightingale. ‘I didn’t know about you. I didn’t even know you existed. Gosling gave me to the Nightingales and they brought me up.’

  The woman’s brow furrowed even more. ‘You’re not a ghost?’

  Nightingale stroked her wrinkled hand. ‘No, I’m flesh and blood.’

  ‘And Ainsley?’

  ‘He died,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He got sick and died,’ said Nightingale. He had no compunction about lying to the woman. He didn’t think she’d react well to the news that Gosling had blown his head off with a shotgun.

  ‘Is he a ghost now? Will he come to see me?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I loved him,’ said the woman, her hands trembling.

  ‘What was the money for?’ asked Nightingale. ‘The twenty thousand pounds he paid you?’

  ‘He said I needed a holiday. He said he’d join me and he gave me the money and a train ticket to Blackpool and I never saw him again. I always wanted to see Blackpool. I wanted to climb the tower and walk on the pier.’ She blinked. ‘What’s your name again?’ she asked.

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘That’s nice. I was going to call you Edward.’

  ‘That’s a good name,’ said Nightingale. He smiled. ‘You know, I never really felt like a Jack. But Edward? Eddie? Ed?’

  ‘Never Eddie,’ she said primly. ‘Edward.’

  ‘You can call me Edward, if you like,’ said Nightingale. ‘Rebecca, do you know if he had any other children? A daughter, maybe?’

  ‘I stayed in the hospital for two days afterwards and then I went to Blackpool and the last time I saw him was at the station. He said he’d come to see me in Blackpool. But he never did.’ A tear rolled down her left cheek. ‘Why did he tell me that you’d died?’r />
  ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

  She sniffed. ‘I’m sorry too,’ she said. ‘How old are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Thirty-three next week,’ he said. ‘On Friday the twenty-seventh.’

  She gasped and clutched at the crucifix. ‘My God,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  She avoided his gaze and stared at the birdbath. ‘Nothing,’ she whispered, rubbing the crucifix between her finger and thumb. ‘Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.’ She repeated the word like a mantra.

  Nightingale narrowed his eyes, ‘You know, don’t you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You do. You know what he did, why he took me away from you when I was born.’

  ‘I don’t, I don’t, I don’t,’ she murmured. She kissed the crucifix with her thin, bloodless lips and carried on rubbing it. ‘I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.’

  ‘You know what’s going to happen on my thirty-third birthday, don’t you? On Friday next week.’

  The woman didn’t answer but she squeezed the crucifix harder.

  ‘You know, don’t you? You have to tell me. You owe me that much.’

  Tears rolled down both her cheeks. ‘He told me you died,’ she muttered. ‘That’s what he told me.’

  ‘But you knew what he was, didn’t you? You knew he was a Satanist.’

  ‘Not at first. I just thought he was a man who liked me, who cared about me.’

  Nightingale took a deep breath. He wasn’t getting anywhere by asking her directly. She was confused, clearly damaged by the years of medication. He forced himself to smile and gently stroked her hand. He knew from his years of negotiating that sometimes you had to come in from the side, to slip through the defensive barriers that people put up to protect themselves. ‘I bet he was a handsome man,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘The first time I met him, he took my breath away.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘Church,’ she said.

  ‘Church?’ repeated Nightingale. That didn’t make sense because the last place a Satanist would go was a place of worship. ‘Which one?’

  ‘A spiritualist church in Islington,’ she said. ‘I wanted to contact my parents. They died when I was young and I was in a children’s home. I used to go to the church trying to get a message from them.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No.’ She trembled. ‘Not at the church, but later, with Ainsley, they spoke to me.’

  ‘Ainsley helped you contact your parents?’

  ‘He helped them contact me,’ she corrected him. ‘He brought their spirits to talk to me, to tell me that everything was all right, that they loved me and were watching over me.’

  ‘And he did that at the church?’

  ‘No, it was later, at his home. At the church I never got a message. But Ainsley did. Every time. The spirits were always talking to him.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘Some of the regulars were jealous because the messages were always for Ainsley. It was as if the spirits were queuing up to speak to him.’

  ‘Then he took you to his home?’

  ‘He had a lovely house. So big, with a huge garden. Bigger than this, with trees and flowers and a summerhouse. That was where he made love to me for the first time.’

  ‘And you got pregnant?’

  ‘Not then. That was later. After my parents spoke to me.’

  ‘How did they do that, Rebecca? Did you hear their voices?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Ainsley knew how to use a ouija board and they spoke to me through that. Every night they would talk to me about why they had died, why I had to be strong, and why I should trust Ainsley and let him take care of me.’

  ‘Rebecca, was it your parents who said you should have a baby with Ainsley?’

  She nodded fiercely. ‘They said they wanted grandchildren. They said I was their only child so it was up to me to give them a grandchild and that if I did they would be happy in heaven.’

  ‘But when the baby was born, you thought it was dead?’

  She put a hand up to her forehead. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure.’ Her lower lip began to tremble. ‘I remember telling the nurse that I wanted to hold the baby and Ainsley taking it and saying it was dead, but I think it was breathing.’

  Nightingale closed the album. ‘You never saw him again, after you had the baby?’

  ‘I came back from Blackpool and went to his house but it was empty, and everyone I spoke to said it had been empty for years.’ Tears were running down her face but she ignored them. ‘Why did he leave me?’ she whimpered. ‘Why did he take my baby?’

  ‘I think you know,’ said Nightingale, harshly. ‘I think you know what he planned to do right from the start. That’s why he paid you. He paid you to have me, didn’t he?’

  ‘No!’ she wailed. She grabbed the lapels of his jacket, her fingers curled like talons, and pushed her face up to his. He could smell the sourness of her breath and a sickly sweet perfume around her wrinkled neck. He tried to release her grip but her hands were locked rigid. ‘No!’ she shouted, and her spittle peppered his cheek. The photograph album fell on to the grass.

  ‘Please, Rebecca,’ he said. ‘Calm down, it’s okay.’

  He heard running footsteps and twisted around to see the male nurse running towards them. ‘What happened?’ asked the nurse, as he gently prised the woman’s fingers off Nightingale’s jacket.

  ‘I don’t know,’ lied Nightingale. ‘I was just talking to her about the pictures and she went off again.’

  The nurse sat down beside her and put an arm protectively around her. ‘I think you should go.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ agreed Nightingale. He bent down and picked up the album, then stood up and put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. ‘Take care,’ he said. She didn’t react, just stared at the stone birdbath, her cheeks still wet with tears. She reached up with her right hand and began caressing the crucifix again.

  38

  Finding someone to buy the books from Ainsley Gosling’s library was surprisingly easy. On Wednesday morning, before he showered or shaved, Nightingale made himself a mug of coffee and powered up his laptop. He entered ‘shops selling second-hand books on witchcraft’ into Google, which threw up more than six thousand sites. He added ‘London’, which brought it down to around five thousand. He scrolled through them and realised that most were regular bookshops so he put a plus sign in front of ‘witchcraft’ and tried again. He sipped his coffee as he studied the list of sites. One on the second page looked promising – a store called Wicca Woman in Camden Town, close to Camden Lock market. He clicked onto the website. Wicca Woman apparently sold everything that a wannabe witch could need, from clothing to potions to magic wands, and it had a comprehensive list of books, including a second-hand section. The address was on the main page with a telephone number.

  Nightingale shaved, showered and put on his second-best suit, then called the number and asked to speak to the owner. Her name was Alice Steadman and she said she’d be delighted to see any books he might want to sell, and that she would be in the shop all day.

  Nightingale managed to find a space in a multi-storey car park a short walk from Wicca Woman. It was in a side-street, sandwiched between a shop that sold hand-knitted sweaters and a boutique that seemed to stock only T-shirts promoting drug use. A bell chimed as he pushed open the door. A stick of incense was burning next to the cash register, filling the premises with a cloying, flowery fragrance. There were two pretty teenagers in the shop, giggling as they looked at a display of love potions. The sales assistant was a punk girl with fluorescent pink hair, a stud in her chin, two in each eyebrow and a nose-ring. ‘Don’t they set off metal detectors in airports?’ asked Nightingale.

  The girl grinned, showing perfect white teeth. ‘All the time,’ she said. She patted her groin. ‘But this is the one I have problems with.’

  ‘I bet,’ laughed Nightingale. ‘Is the boss in? Mrs Steadm
an? I spoke to her on the phone about some books.’ He held up a carrier-bag that contained five he had taken from the basement at Gosling Manor.

  ‘I’ll get her for you.’ She disappeared through a beaded curtain and returned with a tiny woman in her sixties. In a long black shirt that reached her knees, black knitted tights and black shoes that curled up at the toes, she looked like a pixie’s shadow and had a bird-like, inquisitive face. Like a bird, she cocked her head to one side as she looked at him. ‘Mr Nightingale?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I thought you’d be older,’ she said. ‘You sounded older on the phone.’

  One of the girls held up a small cloth bag. ‘Here – do these fings really work?’

  Mrs Steadman tilted her chin and fixed her with a steely glare. ‘My dear, everything in this shop works, providing you believe in it.’

  ‘But it’ll make my boyfriend fall in love with me, yeah? And not look at any other girls?’

  ‘That’s what it says on the label, my dear, and that’s what it’ll do. But use it sparingly. No one wants a lapdog for a husband, do they?’ She smiled at Nightingale. ‘Come with me, young man, and show me what you have.’

  She led him through the curtain into a small room. There was a circular table, with three wooden chairs, and above them a colourful Tiffany lampshade. A gas fire was burning so Nightingale took off his raincoat and draped it over the back of one of the chairs. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve just made a pot,’ asked Mrs Steadman.

  He sat down and placed the bag on the table. ‘Tea would be lovely, thank you,’ he said.

  Mrs Steadman brought over a tray with a brown ceramic teapot, two blue-and-white striped mugs and a matching milk jug and sugar bowl. ‘How do you like it?’

  ‘Milk and no sugar,’ said Nightingale, as she poured.

  ‘Sweet enough?’ she said, and giggled like a teenager. ‘So, these books, they were left to you, you said?’

  ‘Yes, by my father. His name was Ainsley Gosling. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘Should I have done?’ She passed him a mug and sat down.