Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘Because they want to talk about what happened to you and it’s best that we forget about it. We have to move on.’ She put her arm around her daughter and gave her a hug. ‘It’s in the past. You’re home now and we’re just going to enjoy that.’

‘But they said they’d pay, didn’t they?’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I heard you and Dad yesterday. You said that one of the papers had offered you ten thousand pounds for an interview and more if you’d agree to a photograph.’

‘You heard me say that? I thought you were upstairs.’ She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She was tired and finding it hard to think. ‘Your dad and I just decided it was best not to say anything to anybody.’

‘Your mum’s right,’ said Will, reaching for a piece of chicken. ‘You can’t trust journalists, everybody knows that.’

‘And we don’t want everyone knowing our business,’ said Sandra. ‘We don’t need to tell the world what you went through, honey.’ She gave her daughter another squeeze. ‘We just need to put it behind us, like it never happened.’

‘But I could tell them that I saw Michael. And Jesus.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, honey,’ said Will. He bit into his chicken and chewed noisily.

‘But I could talk about that, and you and Mummy would get ten thousand pounds. Maybe more.’

‘We don’t need the money that badly, Bella,’ said Sandra.

‘You could put it towards my university fees,’ said Bella. ‘Put it in the bank to pay my tuition fees.’

‘University?’ said Sandra. ‘You want to go to university?” She exchanged a surprised look with her husband. He shrugged.

‘Of course,’ said Bella. ‘What harm could it do, Mum? I could tell them about Jesus and everything.’

‘What do you think?’ Sandra asked her husband.

Will swallowed and shrugged again. ‘She’s got a point. University’s expensive, we could put the money in an ISA or something. Save it for when she needs it. How many papers have asked for interviews?’

‘All of them,’ said Sandra. ‘And the magazines.’

‘Why don’t you talk to them, see how much they’d pay?’

‘You think?’

Will picked up another piece of chicken. ‘What harm could it do?’ he asked.

Nightingale took a black cab to Clapham and had it drop him a hundred yards or so from Smith’s house. It was late Saturday evening and the sky was threatening rain but he hadn’t wanted to risk driving in his MGB. Smith was a nasty piece of work and wouldn’t think twice about riddling the car — or Nightingale — with bullets if the conversation didn’t go well. Smith’s house was in a terrace, two storeys tall and fronted with black railings around steps that led down to the basement level. Most of the houses had been converted into flats and bedsitters but Perry had kept his house as a single unit. There were two large black men standing outside the front door, wearing matching Puffa jackets over tracksuits. Nightingale recognised one of the men. He lit a cigarette before walking over to talk to then.

There were deep booming vibrations coming from inside the house — rap music being played through an expensive sound system. Nightingale doubted that the neighbours would complain. Not more than once, anyway.

The heavy that Nightingale knew was big, close to seven feet tall. He had wraparound Oakley sunglasses pushed on to the top of his head. ‘Hi T-Bone, how’s it going?’

The heavy’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know you?’

‘In another life, maybe.’

‘Yeah? Well, I sure as hell don’t know you in this one, so keep on moving.’

‘I need to talk to Perry.’

‘He know you?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘We’re back to that another life thing.’

‘You Five-0?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’m a private dick, as they say.’

‘Well, if you don’t want your private dick shoved between your private lips, you’d better walk away right now.’

Nightingale put up his hands. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot. I just want a word with Perry. You don’t know me, but I do know you. I know how you got your nickname, for a start.’

‘Everyone knows that,’ said T-Bone.

‘Do they all know that he was coming at you with a machete when you shoved the stake in him? And I know about the lock-up in Streatham where you keep the guns.’

T-Bone’s eyes narrowed. ‘You sure you’re not Five-0?’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

‘Yeah, well, if you’re lying that could well happen.’

‘If I was Five-0, or if I wanted to screw you over, one phone call is all it’d take for that lock-up to be busted and you along with it.’

T-Bone’s forehead creased into deep furrows as he struggled to follow Nightingale’s logic.

‘Look, I want to put some business Perry’s way. To be honest I’d be happier just talking to you but I know how important the hierarchical thing is.’

‘What’s he talking about?’ asked T-Bone’s companion.

‘Stay there,’ said T-Bone. He opened the front door and disappeared into the house. Nightingale held out his pack of cigarettes to the second heavy but he shook his head.

‘Cigarettes kill you,’ he growled.

‘I think the jury’s still out on that.’

‘Evidence seems pretty compelling to me.’

‘I’ve met people who’ve smoked for thirty-odd years and they’ve never had a problem. And thousand of non-smokers die of cancer every year.’ Nightingale shrugged. ‘Each to his own, I guess.’

‘Makes your teeth go yellow,’ said the heavy.

‘Yeah, I was wondering about that. Do you think I should get them whitened?’ He bared his teeth at the heavy, but before the man could reply the door opened and T-Bone reappeared.

‘In,’ said T-Bone. ‘But lose the cigarette.’

Nightingale took a final drag on the cigarette and then flicked it into the gutter. He followed T-Bone into the hallway. It ran the full length of the house, with a kitchen at the far end. There were purple doors leading off to the right and a flight of stairs leading upstairs that had been painted purple. The hallway was throbbing with rap music that vibrated up through the floorboards and into the soles of his feet.

T-Bone turned and without saying a word pushed Nightingale up against the wall and professionally frisked him. ‘I’m not carrying, in fact that’s why I’m here,’ said Nightingale.

‘Yeah, well, forgive me for not taking your word for that,’ said T-Bone. He jerked his thumb at the door to Nightingale’s right. ‘In there.’

Nightingale opened the door. His ears were immediately assaulted by a sound system being played at full blast, so loud that it made him wince. The walls of the room were painted a pale purple and there was a huge white spherical lampshade hanging in the centre. There were three large leather sofas around a glass coffee table that was loaded with all sorts of drugs paraphernalia, including several multi-coloured bongs and a crystal bowl filled with white powder. There were half a dozen lines of the powder at one side of the table, along with two teaspoons and a cigarette lighter. There was a flat screen TV dominating the wall opposite the sofas, showing an episode of Family Guy . Nightingale couldn’t tell if the sound was muted or if it was just being drowned out by the sound system.

Perry Smith was sitting in the middle sofa with his feet up on the coffee table. He had a remote in his left hand and a gun in his right. He waved the remote at the sound system and the volume decreased markedly.

‘Who the fuck are you and how do you know about the Streatham lock-up?’ snarled Smith.