Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘She’s too valuable as an assistant. And to be honest, I don’t think I’m her type.’

Mrs Chan laughed and patted his hand. ‘You wrong, Mister Jack. I see her when she look at you.’

Nightingale threw up his hands. ‘Please, Mrs Chan, you’ve got to stop trying to marry me off. I’m happy being single.’

‘No, Mister Jack, you just think you happy.’

Nightingale paid his bill and went upstairs to his flat. As soon as he opened the door and switched on the light he knew that something was wrong. The cushions weren’t as he had left them on the sofa and the books on his coffee table had been rearranged. Nightingale didn’t have a cleaner and Jenny had the only spare key, and he was pretty sure that she wouldn’t have popped around to do some tidying up.

His mind raced. If someone had got into the flat then they’d done it without damaging the door, which meant they’d picked the lock or come through a window. The only vulnerable windows were in his bedroom and bathroom, and they were all locked. His flat wasn’t an obvious one to burgle, as the street was usually busy outside and there were always people going in and out of Mrs Chan’s restaurant. He took a long deep breath as he considered his options. There had been someone in his flat, he was sure of that. The question was, were they still there or not?

He whistled softly as he fumbled in his bag and pulled out his camera. He groped for the flash and fixed that to the top of the camera, then slipped the bag off his shoulder and tossed it across the room onto the sofa. Then he switched off the light and held his breath. If he was wrong and he was alone in the flat then at least there’d be no one to see how stupid he was.

He cocked his head on one side, listening intently. He could hear cars driving by outside, and the buzz of conversation from the pavement down below. Then he heard a soft footfall, the sound of a leather sole brushing against carpet, and he knew that he wasn’t imagining it.

He heard another footfall and then two shapes appeared in the bedroom doorway. He held up the camera and fired off a shot. In the flash of light he saw two men wearing ski masks. One was big, well over six feet, and carrying a hunting knife, the blade pressed against his trousers. The smaller man was holding a coil of rope.

Nightingale fired off a second shot. This time the men were standing open-mouthed, their hands up. Nightingale grabbed for the door and pulled it open. He stumbled downstairs, keeping the camera pressed to his side, taking the stairs two at a time. He fumbled for the lock on the downstairs door and ran out into the street. A black cab sounded its horn and he ran along the pavement and then darted across to the other side of the road, narrowly missing a courier on a bicycle who snarled and swore at him. Nightingale stood behind a parked car and looked up at his building. The light in the sitting room went on, and then a few seconds later went off. Then the light in the stairway came on and the two men emerged from the front door. They’d taken off their ski masks and there was no sign of the rope or the knife.

Nightingale tried to focus on the two men and snapped away, getting off a dozen shots as they stepped out of the doorway and headed down the road towards Hyde Park, keeping their heads down. He walked down the road after them but they turned right towards Queensway, and by the time he got there they were lost in the crowds.

He pulled out his mobile phone and called Jenny. She listened in silence as he explained what had happened.

‘What are you going to do, Jack?’ she asked when he’d finished. ‘Are you going to call the police?’

‘And say what? Two men in ski masks attacked me? Without any way of identifying them I’d be wasting my time. Plus I’ve got a feeling that it’s cops that are behind it.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘It was personal, Jenny. One of them had a knife and the other one was holding a piece of rope.’

‘Rope?’

‘I think they were planning a lynching, making it look as if I’d killed myself. And the only case that I’m working on at the moment that would inspire that level of violence is up in Berwick. The cops I spoke to were clearly unhappy at the questions I was asking, and I’m pretty sure that Danny McBride was murdered. So at the moment I’m not convinced that going to the cops is a good idea.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘There is one cop I could talk to,’ he said. ‘But it means going back into the lion’s den.’

‘Jack, will you stop talking in riddles.’

‘I need to go back to Berwick and talk to that cop that Robbie put me in touch with.’

‘Your diary is pretty much free tomorrow, and the day after is Saturday so it doesn’t matter too much if you get back late. But I thought you said he’d only talk to you on the phone.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ll get him to change his mind on that. After what’s happened, he has to meet to me. I’m not thrilled about another flight up to Edinburgh, though. Don’t suppose you’ll lend me the Audi, will you?’

‘You suppose right. What about the train? It’s probably only three or four hours.’

‘Sure. See if you can get me a seat to get there for lunch and a seat back in the late afternoon. I’ll buy him lunch.’

‘I’m sure that’ll work.’

‘Are you being sarcastic? I can never tell on the phone.’

‘Yes, Jack. I am.’ She ended the call before he could think of a witty comeback.

Jimmy Patel looked up as the door opened and the bell tinkled. It was ten o’clock at night, which was about the time that the drunks started to turn up. The problem was that drunks were often the best customers — they wanted more booze or cigarettes or a snack and generally they didn’t quibble about the prices. They didn’t usually steal, though. Not like the schoolkids who came in during the day. Jimmy’s father had Sellotaped a notice to the door saying that no more than two schoolkids were allowed in at the same time, but if Jimmy had his way he wouldn’t let any in. They had the morals of sewer rats, and were just as cunning and quick. They’d shove a chocolate bar or a pack of sweets down their trousers and run out of the shop before he could do anything. Not that there was much he could do. He couldn’t lay a hand on them, and they knew it. And the police weren’t interested. The first few times he’d called nine nine nine but the operators had said that it wasn’t an emergency and that he should call the local policing team. But they almost never answered their phone and when they did they said that shoplifting was very low on their priorities.

It might have been low on their priorities but it was important to Jimmy and his family. Margins were tight, and his rent and rates were all going up faster than inflation, and every pound that walked out of the door represented food off his plate. Jimmy worked twelve hours a day, every day, but he doubted that he ended up with more than if he was on the dole claiming benefits like most of his customers.

The man who walked into his shop wasn’t on the dole, though. The stethoscope around his neck suggested he was a doctor, and by the look of it a man who’d had a hard day. Jimmy Patel smiled at the customer. There had been a time when Jimmy had thought about becoming a doctor, but his father had persuaded him that he was needed in the shop.

‘All right?’ said Jimmy.

The doctor grunted and walked down the centre aisle of the shop, looking left and right.

‘Can I help you find something?’ called Jimmy, but the doctor ignored him. Jimmy looked over at the curved mirror on the wall near the ceiling that gave him a view of the parts of the shop he couldn’t see from behind the till. The doctor reached the end of the aisle and stood looking at the cleaning products. He bent down and took out an orange plastic bottle. He stared at the label for a few seconds, then turned and walked back to the till.