Nightfall jn-1

by Stephen Leather

  ‘It’s a pentagram,’ said Sylvia, archly.

  ‘Fine,’ said Nightingale. ‘How long’s he been inside the pentagram?’

  ‘Two months.’

  ‘And he never leaves it?’

  ‘That’s the point of the pentagram,’ she said. ‘If you leave, you’re no longer protected.’

  ‘But I don’t understand why he has to stay there. What’s he frightened of?’

  ‘I’m sure there are a lot of things you don’t understand, Mr Nightingale,’ she said. She gestured at the bathroom. ‘Please get changed and we shall escort you off the premises.’

  Nightingale pushed his way into the bathroom. He took off his robe and hung it on one of the hooks by the door. He caught sight of his reflection in the full-length mirror and instinctively sucked in his stomach. He stood facing it, his head cocked on one side, and grinned at himself. ‘Not bad for a thirty-two-year-old,’ he said. He wasn’t as fit as he had been when he was in CO19, the Met’s armed unit. The training was rigorous and never-ending and fitness was a must, so he’d worked out in the police gym three times a week and taken regular runs. He’d stopped exercising once he’d left the force but his body was still in good condition, considering the amount he drank and smoked. He patted his abdominals. Not quite a six-pack but it wasn’t a beer gut either. And he still had all his own hair and teeth. But the one thing he definitely didn’t have was a tattoo of a pentagram.

  He turned to look over his left shoulder, then the right. No tattoo on his back. But he knew that. He knew every inch of his body and he had never seen a pentagram or anything like it. Neither had any of his girlfriends – a pentagram tattoo would have been mentioned. As he looked at his backside he had a thought that at first made him smile, then brought a frown to his face. There were some parts of your body you never looked at and nobody checked. He put a hand on each buttock and slowly pulled them apart. He couldn’t see much so he tried with his legs apart and his head between his knees, the pressure on his chest so tight that he had trouble breathing. There was nothing, but he hadn’t expected there would be. As he straightened he saw the small red light flashing on the side of the CCTV camera opposite him. He winked at the camera. ‘Just checking,’ he said.

  Nightingale put on his clothes and shoes and walked out of the bathroom. Sylvia and the two bodyguards were waiting for him. They took him outside and down the steps to his MGB. He tried to engage Sylvia in conversation but she had given up all pretence of civility. There was a look of utter contempt on her face that left him in no doubt that she had been watching his contortionist’s act on her monitor.

  Nightingale climbed into his car and started the engine. He gave Sylvia a friendly wave as he drove off but she stared at him impassively, her eyes as cold and impene-trable as the sunglasses her colleagues were wearing.

  He headed for the road. The gates were already opening. He drove through, then turned right. In his rear-view mirror he watched them close behind him. His hands were shaking and he gripped the steering-wheel tightly but that didn’t stop the tremor. Two miles down the road he pulled into a pub car park, climbed out of the MGB and lit a cigarette. Beyond where he stood there was a stream and Nightingale walked down to it. He watched the water burble by as he smoked. The wind blew through the trees on the other side of the stream and they swayed like lovers slow-dancing. Then, for the first time, Nightingale understood that one day he would die, that the sun would still shine and the stream would still flow and the wind would still blow through the trees, but he wouldn’t be there to see or feel it.

  He tried to blow smoke-rings but the wind whipped them away before they’d left his lips. The smoke-ring was a good analogy for life, he thought, or a metaphor. He was never sure what the difference was. Jenny would know – he’d ask her next time he saw her. Whether it was an analogy or a metaphor, the smoke-ring was like a human life. It came from nothing, existed for a short time and then was gone. Gone for ever.

  Nightingale hadn’t thought much about his own death before he had met Sebastian Mitchell. Death was something that happened to every living thing. That much he knew. It was part of the process. You were born, you lived, and then you died. But even when his own parents had been killed in a senseless car accident, death had been something that happened to other people. He’d watched Sophie Underwood fall to her death from the apartment block in Chelsea Harbour, and he’d grieved for her but it hadn’t made him think about his own mortality. Robbie Hoyle’s death had been a shock but Nightingale hadn’t imagined himself in his friend’s place. During his years as an armed police officer, he’d been in situations where death was just a bullet away, but he’d never felt vulnerable. Mitchell had shown him what lay ahead for him even if he avoided bullets, looked both ways when he crossed the street, kept away from high places and wore his seatbelt every time he got into his car. If you lived long enough, you died anyway. That was the one simple fact about life. At some point it ended. Mitchell looked as if he didn’t have more than a few weeks to live. Then he would die and that would be it. And as Nightingale had looked at the old man, gasping and wheezing and coughing up blood, he had grasped that one day he, too, would die. It was a horrible feeling, like a cold hand gripping his heart and squeezing. He’d never see Jenny again. Never drink a bottle of Corona or a good malt whisky. Never enjoy feeling the wind in his hair as he drove the MGB with the top down.

  He took a long drag on his cigarette and held the smoke deep in his lungs. He’d never smoke another cigarette, smile at a pretty girl, eat a bar of chocolate. The world would go on, nothing would change, but he wouldn’t be part of it. And he wouldn’t be dead for a week or a month or a year. It wasn’t like an illness when you went to bed and then you got better. Death was for ever. For ever and ever. Until the end of time, except that there was no end. You were dead for ever and Nightingale didn’t want to die and he didn’t want to be dead.

  He shivered and gazed up at the clear afternoon sky, blue and cloudless. He didn’t want to die but that didn’t matter: it was going to happen, whether he liked it or not, sooner or later.

  He flicked what was left of his cigarette into the stream. He shivered again and turned up the collar of his raincoat. There was no solution to what was troubling Nightingale. All he could do was accept the inevitable – that one day he would die. He looked up at the sky again. All the talk of his soul being sold to the devil didn’t really worry him. He didn’t believe in the devil and he didn’t believe in souls. But he did believe in death, and that was what truly scared him.

  He walked back to the pub. It was just after three o’clock and the lunchtime trade had gone. Two pensioners in cloth caps were sitting in a corner, one with a terrier asleep at his feet. Nightingale nodded at them as he went up to the bar. The publican was a jovial fat man with slicked-back hair, wearing a collarless shirt and red braces. ‘Afternoon, squire, what can I get you?’ he asked.

  Nightingale thought of asking for a Corona but decided against it. He wanted something with more of a kick. ‘A Bell’s,’ he said. ‘With ice.’

  ‘On the rocks, as our American cousins like to say.’ The publican pushed a glass against the optic. ‘You’re not from around here.’

  ‘Just visiting a friend,’ said Nightingale, as the man raised the glass against the optic a second time. ‘Just a single, I’m driving.’

  ‘It’s happy hour,’ said the publican. ‘Buy one get one free. BOGOF.’ He put the glass in front of Nightingale. ‘Be happy.’

  ‘Do I look happy?’

  ‘You look morose,’ said the publican. ‘But everyone does these days. With three million unemployed, house prices halving, the pound in a slump, there’s not much to smile about. Which is why we’ve got the happy hour. We’re doing our bit.’

  Nightingale raised his glass to him. ‘Cheers,’ he said. He sipped his whisky, reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and put the packet on the bar. ‘Every time I have a drink, I want to smoke. Reflex action,’ he said.


  ‘Me too,’ said the publican. ‘Still can’t get used to not being able to smoke in my own bloody pub. I lost half my trade when the ban came in. The bloody nanny state, it is.’

  ‘And for what?’ said Nightingale. ‘It doesn’t save lives because everyone dies. Even if you never smoke a single cigarette in your whole life, you still die.’

  ‘It’s not about saving lives, it’s about controlling the way we live,’ said the publican. He helped himself to a brandy and clinked his glass against Nightingale’s. ‘You know, if we’re not careful, the bastards’ll be banning alcohol next. Then where will we be?’

  ‘Do you ever think about the meaning of life?’ Nightingale asked, as he swirled the ice around his glass.

  ‘It’s the number forty-two, innit?’ said the publican. ‘According to that movie, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Whatsit.’

  ‘The galaxy,’ said Nightingale. ‘Nah, forty-two was the answer to the ultimate question. It wasn’t the meaning of life.’

  ‘Ah, well, now you’re asking,’ said the publican. ‘The meaning of life? It’s got to be kids, right? That’s all you leave behind, other than your debts. Your kids. Your DNA.’ He leaned forward. ‘My advice to you, have lots of sex and produce lots of kids. That bin Laden chappie, you know how many kids he’s got? Twenty-six. Twenty-bloody-six. Doesn’t matter who you are or what you do, good or bad, it’s your kids that live on. Your kids and their kids and their kids’ kids.’ He jutted his chin. ‘I’ve got four, and three grandkids. Two of my lads moved to Australia and I don’t see them much, but that’s not the point. They’re the meaning of my life.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You got kids?’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘Nah.’

  ‘There’s your answer, then. That’s why you’re morose. Kids give your life meaning.’ He grinned. ‘Mind you, they also suck it out of you, but that’s another story.’

  Nightingale drained his glass and smiled. Maybe the publican was right. Maybe children were the answer. But it had been three years since he’d had a regular girlfriend and they weren’t part of his immediate game plan.

  ‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said the publican, his voice cold and lifeless.

  Nightingale’s glass slipped from his fingers and smashed on the floor. ‘How do you know my name?’ he said.

  The publican frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘Squire, I asked if you wanted another drink. There’s no need to start smashing my glasses.’

  ‘You said I was going to hell.’

  ‘You’re hearing things. I asked if you wanted a refill but it looks like you’ve had enough to drink already.’

  Nightingale bent down to pick up the shards.

  ‘Leave it!’ said the publican. ‘Health and safety. Customers aren’t allowed to touch broken glass. The brewery’d have my job if they saw you do that.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Nightingale. He reached for his wallet. ‘I’ll pay for the damage.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  Nightingale held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a rough couple of days.’ He took a step back, turned and left the pub. The terrier lifted its head and growled at him, then settled back on the floor.

  56

  Jenny was tapping away on her keyboard when Nightingale walked in. ‘There are some sick bunnies out there, Jack,’ she said.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Nightingale. He flopped onto his chair and raised his eyebrows expectantly. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘I’d love one,’ she said.

  ‘I shall miss your sense of humour when I’m burning in hell.’

  ‘That’s not very funny, Jack,’ she said.

  ‘It’s the best I can do at this time in the morning,’ he said. ‘What did you mean about sick bunnies?’

  Jenny nodded at her computer screen. ‘Do you know that you can buy a copy of The Satanic Bible on Amazon? With next-day delivery. And if you type “selling your soul to the devil” into Google you get more than a hundred and forty thousand sites? What sad bastards would want to know how to sell a soul to the devil?’

  ‘My father, for one,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Then there’s ChurchOfSatan dot com. The guys there certainly believe in the devil.’

  ‘There’s a lot of rubbish on the Internet,’ said Nightingale. ‘Fifty per cent is plain wrong and ten per cent is malicious.’

  ‘Those are official statistics, are they?’

  ‘I read it on Wikipedia,’ said Nightingale. ‘How’s my coffee coming along?’

  Jenny flounced over to the machine.

  ‘How was your weekend?’ he asked.

  ‘We had a great time,’ she said. ‘Bit of riding, bit of fishing, bit of shooting. Girl stuff.’

  ‘I hope I wasn’t too rude to her. I just didn’t feel like opening up to a complete stranger.’

  ‘Jack, you don’t open up to anyone,’ said Jenny. ‘You’re the original closed book, you are. But no is the answer to your question, she understood why you were so defensive and she wasn’t offended by it. She’s worked in Broadmoor so she can take care of herself.’

  ‘She seemed a smart cookie, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Maybe she could help, Jack. You can’t remember what happened with Simon Underwood. And the other times when you heard people saying you were going to hell. She could get you to relive those moments, and find out for sure what they said.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to remember,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Really? And what if she makes me remember that I actually did push Simon Underwood through the window? Do I turn myself in? Maybe I’m better off not remembering.’

  Jenny didn’t reply.

  ‘And what if I’ve been imagining all these people telling me I’m going to hell? Then I’m crazy, right? Crazy, and maybe a serial killer. Hand on heart, I think I’m better off not knowing.’

  ‘But she might prove to you that you didn’t kill Underwood, have you considered that?

  Nightingale shrugged.

  ‘Please, Jack, give Barbara a chance. She’s very good at what she does, I promise.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘That means no,’ said Jenny.

  ‘It means I’ll think about it,’ said Nightingale. ‘Now, can we change the subject, please?’

  ‘Okay, fine,’ said Jenny. ‘What did you get up to over the weekend?’

  Nightingale explained about the phone call from Harry Wilde, meeting Alfie Tyler and driving to Wivenhoe to meet Sebastian Mitchell.

  Jenny glared at him. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me any of this.’

  ‘I’m telling you now.’

  ‘Jack…’ Words failed her. ‘You should have called me.’

  ‘Jenny, baby, I was on a roll. Wilde gave me Tyler’s details and Tyler told me where I could find Mitchell. There just wasn’t time to call you.’

  Jenny carried his coffee to his desk and sat down. ‘And Mitchell talked to you?’

  ‘According to Mitchell, Proserpine is the real thing. He did a deal with her but somehow managed to piss her off. Apparently, my father could well have sold my soul to her.’

  ‘That’s nonsense.’

  ‘Mitchell says it’s possible. But he says that if my father did sell my soul I would have the mark, the pentagram. No pentagram, no contract.’

  ‘And you haven’t, right?’

  ‘I’ve checked and double-checked.’

  ‘You could shave your head.’

  ‘Yeah, so could you. I checked my head on the baby pictures, remember? Any tattoo would have been put there the day I was born.’

  ‘So you’re fine. Even if there is a devil called Proserpine and even if you can sell souls to her, none of that matters because there’s no mark.’

  ‘That’s what Mitchell says.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘My father might have believed he’d sold my soul, but the fact that there’s no
mark says otherwise. So it’s bollocks. It’s all bollocks.’

  ‘I was fairly busy myself,’ said Jenny. ‘In between riding and shooting I made a few calls.’ She pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of her jeans. ‘I tracked down George Harrison for you.’ Nightingale stretched forward to take it but she held it out of reach. ‘I want you to promise me something,’ she said.

  ‘You can have a pay rise when the business picks up.’

  ‘I want you to promise you won’t go and see him.’

  ‘I can’t promise that, Jenny.’

  ‘Opening old wounds isn’t healthy,’ she said.

  ‘Is that you talking or Barbara?’

  ‘It’s common sense, something you seem to be short of at the moment.’

  ‘I have to talk to him, Jenny,’ said Nightingale. He tried to grab the paper but she moved it away.

  ‘Jack, I’m serious.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Nightingale. ‘Give me the address.’

  ‘If you go, and I don’t think you should, I want to go with you.’

  ‘Deal,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’

  ‘Yes to the first bit, no to the second. Dying isn’t something I want to do just yet. But I’ll take you.’

  Jenny gave him the piece of paper. Nightingale looked at the address and phone number. ‘Battersea? He’s in London?’ He gave it back to her. ‘I need you to phone him.’

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘Ask him what mobile-phone service he uses, then tell him a sales rep will visit and give him a new iPhone for free, to test.’

  ‘You mean lie to him?’

  ‘Just humour me,’ said Nightingale.

  57

  Nightingale climbed out of the MGB and looked up at the block of flats. ‘What floor did you say?’ It was a drab council building, the concrete stained by years of pollution and pigeon droppings, the windows grubby and cracked. There were colourful graffiti on most of the walls. A pack of mongrels watched them suspiciously.

  Jenny grunted as she pushed herself out of the sports car. ‘There’s no elegant way of getting out of one of these things, is there?’