Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘I think they can do it inside as well,’ said Nightingale.

‘Does anyone really believe in that these days?’ asked Tommo.

‘Some people do,’ said Nightingale.

‘What? A Devil with horns and a pitchfork?’

‘Maybe not horns and a pitchfork, but the Devil, sure.’

‘And why would the Devil want him to go out and shoot kids?’ asked Tommo.

‘He does move in mysterious ways, doesn’t he?’ said Willie.

‘I think that’s God, but I take your point,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’s becoming a sick world,’ said Tommo. ‘Maybe there is a Devil and maybe he’s behind a lot of what’s going on.’ He gestured at the television behind the bar. ‘Did you hear about that young girl that got taken in Southampton? That’s the work of the Devil, it has to be. Why would anyone abduct a nine-year-old girl?’

‘There’s a lot of sick people in the world, that’s for sure,’ said Nightingale.

‘I just hope she’s okay,’ said Willie.

Bella Harper wasn’t okay. She was far from okay. She was lying on a bed, curled up into a foetal ball and sobbing. Sitting next to her was Candice Matthews, Candy to her friends. Candy was twenty-five — her hair was blonde but unlike Bella’s it was dyed, dry and slightly frizzy. Her cheeks were peppered with old acne scars and her nails were bitten to the quick. ‘Please don’t cry, baby,’ she said, patting Bella on the shoulder.

‘I want to go home,’ sniffed Bella.

‘I know you do. But you can’t just now.’

‘I want my mum and dad.’

‘I know you do.’

‘They’ll tell the police and you’ll get into trouble.’

‘We won’t get into trouble, Bella. No one knows you’re here.’

Bella was wearing the clothes she’d had on at the mall. Skinny jeans and a Guess sweatshirt. That wasn’t what Eric wanted her to wear. Eric wanted her in one of the dresses he liked best. It was a princess dress he’d bought from the Disney store, all soft and flouncy with puffy sleeves. The dress was lying on the end of the bed. Eric always liked the girls to wear the princess dress on the first night. It was one of his ‘things’. Eric had a lot of ‘things’, and what Eric wanted Eric got.

Candy stroked Bella’s hair. ‘Just put the dress on, baby. It’s like a game.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Eric doesn’t want to hurt you.’

‘So let me go.’

‘He will do. But first he just wants to show you how much he likes you.’

‘He can show how much he likes me by letting me go home.’

‘Baby, he will do.’ She stroked Bella’s hair again. ‘He wouldn’t want you to stay here for ever, would he?’

Bella didn’t answer. She continued to sob softly.

‘Baby, you have to stop crying. Eric doesn’t like it if you cry. He’ll get angry and he’s not very nice when he’s angry. Do you understand?’

‘I want to go home.’

‘I know you do. And the quickest way for you to go home is to do what Eric wants. Just be nice to him.’

‘I don’t want to be nice to him.’

‘Then think of it as a game. You’ve played games, haven’t you? Fancy dress games. That’s all it is. You put on the dress and then you can go home.’

Bella rolled over and looked at Candy with tear-filled eyes. ‘Really?’

‘Of course,’ lied Candy.

‘If I put the dress on you’ll let me go home?’

‘Yes.’

Bella sat up and rubbed her eyes. ‘Okay.’

Candy smiled and patted the little girl on the arm. They always co-operated if you pressed the right buttons. Eric had taught her that. It was always easier if he stayed away during the first few hours. The girls always accepted the lies when they came from Candy. And by the time they realised that she was lying, it was too late.

Candy helped Bella remove her sweatshirt and jeans and put on the dress. ‘Wow, you look lovely, as lovely as a princess,’ said Candy. ‘Look in the mirror.’

There was a mirror on the door of the wardrobe and Bella looked at her reflection. She nodded. ‘It’s pretty.’ She turned to look at Candy. ‘Can I go home now?’

‘Soon, baby,’ she said.

‘You said I could.’

‘Yes, but you need to do something else. Okay? You need to comb your hair and make it look pretty.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that’s what Eric wants. You have to make yourself pretty for him.’ She picked up a comb from the dressing table and stood behind Bella, combing her hair as she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Tears began to run down Bella’s face. ‘Now don’t cry, baby. Eric doesn’t like it when you cry. He wants pretty, pretty, pretty.’

Bella sniffed. ‘And when I’m pretty, I can go home?’

‘Of course,’ lied Candy. She smiled brightly. ‘Let’s get you looking pretty, pretty, pretty and you’ll soon be home with your mummy and daddy.’

Nightingale went up to his room just before midnight. He’d drunk eight bottles of Budweiser, and while he wasn’t drunk he was slightly unsteady on his feet. There were only three bedrooms and no locks on the door. He sat down on the bed and reached for his cigarettes and lighter. He was just about to light one when he saw the ‘No Smoking’ sign by the bathroom door. He sighed, grabbed his raincoat, and headed downstairs. The landlord was polishing glasses behind the bar. Nightingale held up his cigarette. ‘I’m heading outside for a smoke,’ he said.

‘No problem,’ said the landlord. ‘I won’t be locking up for a while, but if you’re late back, there’s a bell by the front door. Just give it a ring and I’ll come down and let you in. How’s the room, by the way?’

‘Perfect,’ said Nightingale. ‘No lock on the door, though?’

‘You’re the only guest,’ said the landlord. ‘And you can trust me and the wife.’

‘I’ve nothing worth taking anyway,’ said Nightingale. He let himself out and lit his cigarette as he walked down to the beach. There were thick clouds overhead blocking out the moon and stars, but there was enough light spilling out of the pub windows for him to see. He walked onto the sand and stood watching the waves break onto the beach. A bitterly cold wind blew in from the sea and he shivered.

The sound of the waves was almost hypnotic and he found himself being lulled into a trance-like state, though that could have been a result of all the beer he’d drunk with his new-found Northumbrian friends. He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt towards the water, and was just considering lighting a second when something hard walloped against the back of his head. He fell to his knees and gasped, then something pounded between his shoulder blades and he fell forward. His face was pressing into the sand, and he coughed and spluttered and then something, probably a foot, slammed into the small of his back.

He twisted his head to the side and saw a pair of heavy mud-splattered workboots and frayed jeans. The foot was still in the middle of his back, so there were at least two of them. He tried to turn his head to the other side but as he did so the foot pressed down, pushing his face into the sand again.

‘You don’t want to be asking too many questions around here, Mister Private Detective,’ said one of the men. ‘You’d best be heading back to London.’ His accent was Scottish and didn’t sound like any of the men that Nightingale had spoken to in the pub. ‘Be easy enough to knock you out and drop you in the sea. You wouldn’t be the first southerner to fall foul of the North Sea.’

Nightingale managed to turn his face to the side and he spat wet sand out of his mouth.

‘Do you hear what I’m telling you, Mister Private Detective?’