Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘Name’s Nightingale. Jack Nightingale.’

‘Like the bird?’

‘Yeah. Like the bird.’

‘Well, you need to start singing, Bird-man.’ He stood up and dropped the remote, but kept the gun pointing at Nightingale’s chest. ‘You hear me?’ Smith was wearing a silver tracksuit and gold Nikes and had several heavy gold chains on both wrists.

‘I hear you,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just want to do some business, that’s all.’

‘Business?’

There were two teenage girls sitting together on one of the sofas. One of them rolled a fifty-pound note into a cylinder and leaned forward to sniff up one of the lines of white powder.

‘I want to buy a gun.’

‘Do this look like a gunshop?’

‘I need someone I can trust, and strangely enough I know that I can trust you.’ He moved his hand slowly inside his raincoat. Smith aimed the gun at Nightingale’s face. ‘Don’t try anything funny,’ he said.

‘T-Bone frisked me already,’ said Nightingale. His hand reappeared holding a brown envelope. He tossed it onto the sofa next to Smith. ‘There’s a monkey in there. I know you’re a fan of the MAC-10, but I want something simpler. A revolver will do it so that I don’t leave any cases behind. And six rounds will be more than enough. I’m not a big fan of spray and pray.’

‘What you mean by that?’ said Smith, frowning.

‘By what?’

‘I’m a fan of the MAC-10, you said.’

‘It’s your weapon of choice, right?’

‘How did you know that, Bird-man? You got a file on me?’

‘Like I told T-Bone, if I was a cop I’d have had your Streatham lock-up busted and you in a cell.’ He nodded at the bowl of white powder. ‘There’s enough coke there to have you put away for a ten-stretch, and the gun in your hand’s worth another ten. But I’m not a cop. I just want to buy a gun. Ideally something that can be traced back to someone else.’

‘Say what?’

‘A gun that was used in a gang thing, maybe. So that when I’ve used it, the cops will be off on the wrong scent.’

‘And what are you gonna do with this gun that I might or might not sell you?’

The second girl took the rolled-up banknote and sniffed a line of white powder, then collapsed into giggles. The first girl hugged her and they lay back on the sofa.

‘I’m going to shoot someone.’

Smith grinned. ‘Are you now?’

‘In the head,’ said Nightingale.

‘And why would you want to do something like that?’

‘Because he’s evil. He abuses kids. He kills them, too.’

Smith frowned. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘I said. He’s evil. He thinks he gets power by killing them.’

‘And you know this how?’

‘Same way I know about your lock-up and your choice of weapon. Same way I know how T-Bone got his nickname. I know things.’

Smith frowned and cocked his head on one side as he looked at Nightingale. ‘Do I know you, Bird-man? We met before?’

‘Not in this life, Perry.’

‘I feel like I know you.’

‘In a way, you do,’ said Nightingale. ‘But no, we’ve never met. But I know that I can trust you. I know that you’re a gangster and that you’ve got blood on your hands. I know you deal drugs and you do all sorts of other shit that turns my stomach. But I need a gun and I know that you can sell me one. So how about it?’

Smith put the gun down on the coffee table next to the remaining lines of white powder and picked up the envelope. He opened it and flicked through the fifty-pound notes with his thumbnail. ‘A paedo, yeah?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Dyed in the wool.’

‘I fucking hate nonces,’ said Smith. ‘Fucking scum.’ He tossed the envelope back to Nightingale. It hit him in the chest but he managed to catch it with fumbling hands. ‘You can have this on the house,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’

Smith grinned. ‘Yeah, you can owe me one.’

Nightingale held out the envelope. ‘I’m happy to pay.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m happy not to take your fucking money. You can owe me one. Okay?’

Nightingale nodded, wondering for a moment if Smith was going to ask for his soul as well. ‘Okay,’ he said.

Smith waved his hand at T-Bone. ‘You get Bird-man sorted,’ he said.

‘Whatever you say, boss.’ T-Bone patted Nightingale’s shoulder with a massive hand. ‘Let’s roll.’

Barbara McEvoy was lying on a yoga mat trying to get her left leg behind her head when her doorbell rang. She was in her late twenties, with dark green eyes and freckles peppered across her nose and cheeks. She sighed, untangled herself, and padded barefoot to the front door. She grinned when she saw Jenny McLean. ‘This is a nice surprise,’ she said.

‘Just passing by,’ said Jenny. She nodded at Barbara’s lilac tracksuit. ‘Pilates?’

‘I was doing a few relaxation exercises, but now you’re here I might as well switch to alcohol. Wine?’

‘Go on then, twist my arm.’

Jenny went into Barbara’s sitting room and dropped down onto the sofa while Barbara went into the kitchen, returning a short time later with a bottle of pink champagne and two glasses. Barbara’s two-bedroom flat was close to Portobello Road in Notting Hill, and street parking was almost impossible when the market was in full flow on a Saturday, so Jenny had taken a taxi to see her friend. The flat doubled as an office, and Barbara had converted her spare bedroom to a consulting room where she saw patients on the days when she wasn’t based at one of the many hospitals where she worked.

‘Are we celebrating?’ asked Jenny.

‘It’s Saturday. Best day of the week for champagne, right?’

Barbara sat down on the sofa next to Jenny and looked at her over the top of her glass as she sipped her champagne. ‘What’s wrong?’

Jenny raised her eyebrows. ‘What on earth makes you think there’s something wrong?’ she asked.

‘Darling, I’m a clinical psychiatrist. It’s my job to read people. And you’re as tense as a kitten in a cage of Rottweilers.’

Jenny laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it.

‘And it’s Saturday and we almost never get together on a weekend unless I’m in the country with you.’ She frowned. ‘Weren’t you going to Norfolk today to see the folks?’

‘I decided not to,’ said Jenny.

‘And you came to see me instead,’ said Barbara. ‘Is that significant?’

Jenny leaned back and drew up her legs. ‘You’re good.’

‘I’m damned good,’ said Barbara. ‘But unless you tell me what’s wrong I won’t be able to help.’

Jenny sipped her champagne. ‘This is going to sound crazy,’ she said.

This time it was Barbara who laughed. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many of my patients start off by saying that,’ she said. ‘The thing is, most of them ARE crazy.’

‘I might be, too,’ said Jenny. She sighed and then took a deep breath. ‘Okay, this is it. Jack is being really weird about Uncle Marcus. He keeps asking me if I’m seeing him and he went very strange when Uncle Marcus turned up at our office unannounced.’

‘Marcus? He’s a sweetie. He’s a bit pompous but he wouldn’t harm a fly.’

‘That’s what I keep telling Jack. I’ve known him since before I could walk. He’s one of Daddy’s oldest friends.’

‘And what’s Jack’s problem with him?’

‘Jack won’t say. He does that Jack thing of just changing the subject or making a joke. But here’s the thing, Barbara. Now I’ve been having … I don’t know what they are. Flashbacks? Deja vu? Just a feeling that there’s something wrong.’

‘In what way?’

Jenny sighed in exasperation. ‘That’s the crazy thing. I don’t know. It’s a feeling of … I don’t know … dread, I guess. Uncle Marcus is in Norfolk today doing some shooting with Daddy and his friends and I was supposed to be there.’