Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘I’ll have a walk by and check out the lock,’ said Morris. Nightingale took out his cigarettes. ‘Don’t even think about lighting up,’ said Morris. ‘I don’t want to lose the new-car smell.’

‘Your body odour has put paid to that,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’d be doing you a favour by fumigating it.’

Morris pointed a warning finger at Nightingale’s face. ‘I’m serious, Jack. You smoke in my motor and you’re walking back to London.’

Nightingale groaned and put the pack away as Morris climbed out of the car and pulled on a pair of black leather gloves. He crossed the road and walked by the house, glancing sideways at the front door, then continued down the pavement to a side road. He disappeared from view and Nightingale settled back in the comfortable leather seat. He’d known Morris for the best part of three years. They had been introduced by the solicitor who was representing Morris on a case of breaking and entering which, to almost everyone’s surprise, Morris hadn’t actually committed. Morris had been set up by a former girlfriend, who’d arranged for a pair of his gloves to be dropped at a crime scene. Nightingale had tracked down the real burglar and Morris had walked. Morris wasn’t exactly a criminal with a heart of gold, but he never resorted to violence and usually stole from people who could afford to lose a few grand. Over the years he and Nightingale had become friends.

Morris returned after fifteen minutes and slid into the rear passenger seat behind Nightingale. ‘The front lock is a Yale, so that’s not a problem, but the back is easier. There’s an alley behind the houses and a small walled yard. There’s a Yale on that door, too. I’ll sort the alarm from the outside and go in the back.’

‘No breaking, just entering. I don’t want anyone to know we’ve been there.’

‘No problem,’ said Morris.

There was a black kitbag on the back seat and Morris unzipped it. Inside was a pair of dark blue overalls and he took them out and unrolled them. Under the overalls were several dozen Velcro-backed cloth badges, for most of the country’s main burglar alarm and security companies and a few generic ones. He pulled out a badge that matched the logo on the alarm box and waved it at Nightingale. ‘It’s all in the preparation,’ he said. He placed the badge on the Velcro pad on the back of the overalls, then slipped them on over his clothes. He zipped them up, then picked up a small toolbox up off the floor. ‘Pop the boot, will you?’ said Morris, as he got out of the car. He walked around to the back of the BMW and took out a telescopic ladder that he pulled out to about eight feet. He walked over to the house, the ladder on one shoulder, whistling as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Nightingale’s mobile rang and he took the call. It was Morris. ‘You’d better not be smoking in there,’ said Morris.

Nightingale looked over at the house and kept his lit cigarette between his legs. He had the windows open and the air-conditioning on to blast the smoke out of the car. ‘Of course not,’ he said.

‘I’m in,’ said Morris. ‘Come around to the back of the house and I’ll let you in.’

Nightingale locked up the BMW and walked down the road, around the corner and along the alley. He saw Morris standing at an open door and hurried to join him. He followed Morris across a concrete back yard and into the kitchen. Morris carefully closed the back door. ‘All good,’ said Morris. ‘Nothing broken and I can reset the alarm when we leave.’

‘Excellent,’ said Nightingale. He went through to the main sitting room and had a quick look around. A small flower-patterned sofa, a green leather armchair and a flat screen television above a Victorian fireplace. There was a desk by the window with a laptop and printer. Nightingale drew the wooden blinds closed and switched on the lights.

Morris was looking at a series of framed photographs on the wall. In several there was a man in a police uniform, and there was a framed commendation from the Chief Constable of Northumbria Police. ‘You didn’t say anything about him being a cop,’ said Morris.

‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, why does it matter what he does for a living?’

Morris put his hands on his hips. ‘Don’t screw me around, Nightingale, you know why it matters.’

‘We’re hundreds of miles from home and we’re wearing gloves, no one’s going to be putting your name in the frame,’ said Nightingale. ‘Relax.’

‘Relax? You’re a bastard, really.’ He shook his dismissively. ‘I can’t believe you got me to break into a cop’s house.’

Nightingale patted him on the back. ‘That’s Mister Bastard to you,’ he said. ‘Look, he’s at work. He lives alone. We’ll be away long before he gets back.’ He nodded at the computer. ‘I need you to have a look at his browsing history, emails, pictures, video, all that sort of stuff.’

‘Anything in particular?’

‘Child abuse,’ said Nightingale. ‘Child pornography. That sort of thing.’

Morris held up his hands. ‘This is giving me a really bad feeling,’ he said.

‘It shouldn’t. We’re on the side of the angels on this one. I reckon that Stevenson is bad and I need proof. We’re not here to rob, Eddie. In fact I don’t want him knowing that anyone was here, okay?’

‘That’s fine by me,’ said Morris. ‘But next time we go breaking into a cop’s house, at least have the decency to let me know first.’

‘Just check the laptop, I’ll have a quick look around, and then we’re out of here. Okay?’

Morris nodded reluctantly. ‘Okay.’ He sat down at the table and opened the laptop.

Nightingale headed upstairs. There were two bedrooms, either side of a bathroom. One was obviously where Stevenson slept. There was a dirty shirt thrown over a chair and the duvet was piled up in the middle of the bed. There was a mirrored sliding door over a built-in wardrobe but it contained nothing but clothes. There was nothing under the bed and he found only socks, underwear and T-shirts in a chest of drawers.

There was a pine wardrobe in the small bedroom, and on a shelf at the top was a small Samsonite shell suitcase. Nightingale took it out, swung it onto the bed and opened it. Inside was a collection of Masonic regalia, including robes, aprons, sleeve guards and shoes. Nightingale went through it piece by piece. He was by no means an expert on the Masons but from the clothing it looked as if Stevenson was fairly high up in the organisation. He closed the case and put it back on the shelf. There were several coats on hangers and he went through the pockets. Other than a couple of old receipts they were empty.

He stood by the bed and looked around the room. The floorboards were bare pine, polished and varnished, and there was a thick Turkish rug at the bottom of the bed. Nightingale pulled the rug to the side and smiled when he saw the scratches on two of the wooden boards. He knelt down and examined the scratches. They were either side of a board that moved slightly when he pressed it. He took a ten pence piece from his pocket and used it to pry up the end of the loose board until he was able to grip it with his fingers and pull it up. He placed the board on the floor and stuck his hand into the gap. His fingers touched a metal box and he carefully slid it through the gap. It was a Marks amp; Spencer biscuit tin.

Nightingale sat on the bed and opened the tin. Inside were more than a dozen pairs of underwear. Children’s underwear. Each had a small label attached to it. Nightingale picked up a pair of purple pants. They looked as if they would fit a pre-teen. The name on the label read JULIE DAVIES. Nightingale felt a wave of revulsion wash over him. It was the man’s trophy collection, souvenirs that would allow him to relive his abusive experiences. He put the underwear back in the tin, closed the lid, and replaced it in its hiding place. He put the board back and pulled the rug over it.