Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘And you changed your mind?’

‘I keep getting these feelings, Barbara. A sense that something is wrong.’

‘Dread, you said.’

‘I know, it sounds silly. And really, I can’t put my finger on it.’ She sipped her champagne and sighed. ‘Maybe it’s just Jack’s silliness rubbing off on me. Like you said, Uncle Marcus is a sweetie.’

‘Jack has never said anything concrete about Marcus?’

‘Never.’

‘And you don’t feel uncomfortable when you’re around Marcus?’

‘Uncle Marcus? Of course not. He’s my godfather, Barbara.’

‘But the fact that you’re here suggests that subconsciously at least there is something wrong.’

Jenny shrugged. ‘I guess.’ She sighed again. ‘I thought that maybe you could do that regression thing of yours. Put me under and see if you can find out what’s causing this.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘You do it with your patients all the time.’

‘Not all the time,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s not helpful in all cases.’

‘But if there is something worrying me then it would be one way of getting to the bottom of it, wouldn’t it?’

Barbara nodded and put her champagne down on the coffee table. She went into her consulting room and returned with a small digital recorder.

‘What’s that for?’ asked Jenny.

‘When you come out of it you won’t remember anything,’ said Barbara, sitting down in the armchair facing the sofa. ‘I’ll be able to play the recording back to you.’

‘We’re going to do it now?’ asked Jenny.

‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ said Barbara. ‘Kick off your shoes, lie back and let’s see how we go.’

Jack Nightingale was eating a bacon sandwich and watching football on Sky Sports when his mobile rang. He didn’t recognise the number but he took the call anyway. ‘Jack? It’s Barbara.’

It took Nightingale a couple of seconds to pull the name from his memory — Barbara McEvoy, one of Jenny’s oldest friends. ‘Barbara, how the hell are you? Long time no hear.’

‘I need to see you, Jack. Now.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

‘Is it about Jenny?’

‘Just get yourself over here now, Jack. Now.’

Nightingale left his half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table, grabbed his raincoat and hurried downstairs. He flagged down a black cab in Inverness Terrace and fifteen minutes later it dropped him close to the Portobello Road. It was market day, and the street was packed with tourists and locals milling around the stalls selling antiques, bric-a-brac and cheap clothing. He threaded his way through the crowds and down the side street where Barbara lived.

She buzzed him in and had the door open for him when he reached her second-floor flat. ‘Is everything okay?’ asked Nightingale. ‘You sounded a bit panicky on the phone.’

‘Go through to the sitting room,’ she said, closing the door behind him.

‘Is Jenny here?’

‘She left just before I phoned you,’ said Barbara.

‘Is she okay?’

‘She’s fine. Or at least she thinks she’s fine.’

‘Barbara, you’re talking in riddles.’

He turned to look at her but she put her hand on his shoulder and pushed him into the sitting room. ‘Sit,’ she said, pointing at the sofa.

Nightingale did as he was told, but then stood up again to take off his raincoat. Barbara dropped down onto the armchair. ‘What do you know about Marcus Fairchild?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’ He put his coat on the arm of the sofa and sat down.

‘Marcus Fairchild. Uncle Marcus. Jenny’s godfather. She said you had a thing about him, you thought he wasn’t to be trusted.’

‘Is that what this is about? Jenny’s asked you to give me a bollocking?’

Barbara shook her head and looked at a small digital recorder on the coffee table. ‘That’s not it, Jack. Jenny doesn’t know you’re here.’

‘What’s happening, Barbara?’ asked Nightingale. He frowned as he looked at the small metal recorder.

Barbara sighed and sat back in the armchair, crossing her arms. Nightingale didn’t have to be an expert in body language to know that something was troubling her.

Barbara sighed again and slowly shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it, Jack. I don’t want to believe it.’

‘You regressed her,’ said Nightingale.

Barbara’s jaw dropped. ‘How do you know that?’

‘You regressed her and she remembered what Fairchild has been doing to her.’

Barbara shook her head in amazement. ‘Have you suddenly become psychic?’ she asked. She leaned forward and picked up the recorder. ‘You need to listen to this.’ She held out the recorder to him but Nightingale didn’t take it. ‘I don’t,’ he said, ‘I know what’s on it. You regressed Jenny and she remembered Fairchild abusing her. He’s been doing it since she was a child. She doesn’t remember because he does something to her. Hypnosis or drugs.’

‘You knew about this and you didn’t say anything?’

‘Did you tell her?’

Barbara didn’t reply and avoided looking at him.

‘The fact that I’m here on my own suggests that you haven’t told her. Why?’

‘I wanted to talk to you first.’

‘Because you know that if you tell her it’ll destroy her, right?’ Barbara nodded. ‘So you regressed her, then what? Doesn’t she remember?’

‘I took her back to the last time she met Fairchild at her parents’ house in Norfolk. Fairchild went into her bedroom late at night.’ She winced. ‘The things he did to her, Jack. He’s an evil bastard.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Then I regressed her back to when she was a teenager. And younger. Fairchild is always there, Jack. Abusing her. I don’t understand how he manages to get away with it.’

‘He uses hypnotism. Or drugs. Or a combination of the two.’

‘When I brought Jenny back, she didn’t remember anything. And I kept it that way.’

‘You lied to her?’

‘I can’t tell her what happened, Jack. Not without a lot of preparation. When she finds out, it could destroy her.’

‘So why regress her in the first place?’

‘She asked me to. She’s starting to get a feeling that something isn’t right. Maybe because of the comments that you’ve been making. But I lied. I said she remembered nothing of any significance.’ She gestured at the recorder. ‘I told her that I’d switched off the recorder because there was nothing of interest on it.’

‘And she believed you?’

‘I’m her friend, Jack. Of course she believed me.’ She forced a smile. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘You’re not going to do anything, Barbara. You’re going to destroy that recording and try to forget what you heard.’

‘How long have you known?’

‘Not long. And like you, I don’t know what to do about it. The cops won’t take a regression session as evidence, and even if you play that tape to her she still won’t remember. There’s no forensic evidence, no physical signs of abuse. And he’s Marcus Fairchild, a top QC with a lot of very influential friends.’

‘You’re going to do something though, right?’

Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘It’s in hand.’

‘What? What are you going to do?’

‘Best you don’t know, Barbara. Best you forget about it. But trust me, I’ll take care of it.’

Kathy Gibson pointed at the semi-detached house ahead of them. ‘There you go, number twenty-six, park anywhere near here,’ she said.

The photographer’s name was Dave McEwan, a dour Scot. He was a freelance but pretty much worked full-time for the Express . Kathy was staff and had been for six years, but she was considering an offer to move to the Mail on Sunday . The Bella Harper interview was just what she needed to get the Mail to increase their offer.