Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘I thought when you touched it you had to move it,’ said Mrs Pullman.

‘I’m only practising,’ he said. The doorbell rang again. He sighed and pushed himself out of his chair. ‘I suppose I’d better get it.’

‘Well, you are nearest.’

Mr Pullman chuckled. She was right, but there was only about three feet in it. He was still chuckling when he opened the door. Two men in British Gas overalls were standing there. There was a blue van parked outside their house. The younger of the two men, in his late twenties with short curly hair and piercing blue eyes, held out a black leather wallet with a silver badge on it. ‘Mr Pullman? I’m detective Aaron Fisher, I spoke to your wife on the phone.’ He was holding a dark blue plastic toolbox.

‘You’re not the gas man?’ said Mr Pullman.

‘I’m with Hampshire CID,’ said Fisher, putting his ID away. ‘This is my colleague, Inspector Hopkins.’ Inspector Hopkins nodded and held up a clipboard.

‘Why are you dressed like gasmen?’ asked Mr Pullman.

‘Can we come in, please?’ asked Fisher. ‘We really need a word with your wife.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Mr Pullman, holding the door open wide. ‘But do wipe your feet, she hates it when people walk mud over the carpets.’

The two policemen took it in turns to wipe their shoes on a thick bristle mat on the doorstep before walking along the hallway and into the main room, where Mrs Pullman was still reading her gardening magazine.

Fisher put down his toolbox, introduced himself and showed her his warrant card. ‘You’re a policeman but you’re dressed like the gasman,’ she said, frowning.

‘That’s what I said,’ said Mr Pullman.

‘We didn’t want anyone to see that we were with the police,’ said Hopkins. He put his clipboard on the dining table next to Mr Pullman’s chess set. ‘You called us about Mr Lucas.’

Mrs Pullman’s frown deepened. ‘Mr Lucas?’ she repeated.

‘Your next door neighbour. You did call us about him, didn’t you? About seeing him with a young girl.’

Mrs Pullman smiled. ‘I’m sorry, yes, I did. But I didn’t know that was his name. He’s not the sociable type and he’s never introduced himself.’

‘Well, we think his name is Eric Lucas and he doesn’t appear to be married, but you told my colleague you saw him with a woman on Saturday and they carried a young girl into the house.’

Mrs Pullman nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘What time exactly?’

‘It was three o’clock. On the dot. I know because I was in the garden and I had Radio Four on and I heard the time check.’

Hopkins unclipped a photograph of Bella Harper from his clipboard. It was the school photograph they’d used for the public appeals, with Bella smiling brightly at the camera, her blonde curls pulled back from her face. ‘Was this the girl, Mrs Pullman?’

She took the photograph and looked at it for several seconds. ‘It could have been,’ she said. ‘I saw blonde hair. He had her in his arms, so I couldn’t see her face. But we have a nine-year-old granddaughter and she’s ten, and the girl he was carrying looked about the same size as Hannah.’

‘Hannah’s your granddaughter?’

Mrs Pullman nodded.

‘And they carried her from the car to the house. At three o’clock in the afternoon?’

‘Not the car,’ said Mrs Pullman. ‘The car was in the drive. They drove up in a van.’

‘A white van?’ asked the inspector.

‘I suppose so. I mean, there was writing on the side. It was a company van. But I didn’t pay it much attention.’

‘The woman drives a van sometimes,’ said Mr Pullman. ‘It’s a plumbing company. Or a drain clearer. I’ve seen her in it in a few times.’

‘You didn’t tell me that,’ said his wife.

‘You never asked,’ said Mr Pullman.

‘So this woman with Mr Lucas drives a white van?’

‘Like my wife said, it’s not really white. Greyish. With signs on the side.’

‘And where’s the van now?’

Mr Pullman looked over at his wife and they both shrugged.

‘Is it possible it’s in the garage?’ asked the inspector.

‘I didn’t see them put it away,’ said Mrs Pullman. ‘But I suppose it’s possible.’

‘And you haven’t seen the child since? Or heard anything?’

‘Not a peep,’ said Mrs Pullman. ‘Do you think it’s her? Do you think it’s Bella?’

‘We don’t want to jump to any conclusions,’ said the inspector. ‘Is there an upstairs window that overlooks their house?’

‘The spare bedroom,’ said Mr Pullman. ‘I’ll show you.’

The inspector followed Mr Pullman upstairs. Fisher knelt down next to his toolbox and opened it. He took out a pair of binoculars and a police radio and headed upstairs.

Mr Pullman was standing at the bedroom door while Inspector Hopkins peered around a dark green curtain. He held out his hand for the binoculars, then focused them on the house next door. There wasn’t much to be seen. There was a window on the upper floor that was presumably a bedroom and the blinds were closed. He could see the blue Mondeo, but there was no window in the garage so he had no way of knowing if there was a van in there or not.

There were two green wheelie bins at the side of the house.

‘When are the bins collected?’ asked the inspector.

‘Thursdays.’

The inspector checked the rear garden through the binoculars. There were no toys, and no washing on the line. ‘And you haven’t seen anyone coming or going since Saturday?’

‘To be honest, we rarely see the neighbours on either side,’ said Mr Pullman. ‘We’re all detached, and most people value their privacy.’

The inspector put down his binoculars. He wasn’t sure what to do. There wasn’t enough hard evidence to call in an entry team, but if Bella was indeed next door then every second counted. He nodded at Fisher. ‘Take Mr Pullman downstairs while I make a call,’ he said.

He took out his mobile and phoned Superintendent Wilkinson.

The Wicca Woman shop was tucked away in a Camden side street between a store selling exotic bongs and Bob Marley T-shirts, and another that sold garish hand-knitted sweaters. Nightingale pushed open the door and a bell tinkled. He stepped inside and his nose was assaulted by a dozen or more scents, including orange, cloves, lavender, lemon grass and jasmine. There was a dark-haired teenage girl with half a dozen facial piercings and web-like gloves on her hands standing at a display case full of crystal balls and pyramids.

‘Is Mrs Steadman in?’ asked Nightingale. A stick of incense was burning by the cash register, filling the shop with a sweet, almost sickly, scent.

‘She’s upstairs. She’s got a headache.’ The girl scratched her arm as she studied Nightingale with cold green eyes.

‘Can you do me a big favour and tell her that Jack Nightingale is here?’

‘Like the bird?’

‘Yeah. Like the bird.’

‘How do you get a name like Nightingale then?’

Nightingale frowned, wondering if she was joking, then realised that she probably wasn’t. ‘It was my father’s name,’ he said.

‘Never heard of anyone called Nightingale before.’

‘There’s a few of us around. So, can you see if Mrs Steadman has time for me?’

Before she could reply, a beaded curtain drew back and Mrs Steadman appeared. She smiled at Nightingale but he could see she wasn’t well. Her eyes had lost their sparkle, and she had always been tiny but if anything she seemed even smaller, a bird-like little woman who looked as if she might break under the slightest pressure. ‘This is a pleasant surprise, Mr Nightingale.’

‘I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, I just need some advice.’