Stephen Leather - Nightshade

Nightingale took a step back. ‘Are you insane?’

Mrs Steadman shook her head sadly. ‘I almost wish that I was,’ she said.

‘You’re asking me to shove knives into the eyes and heart of a nine-year-old girl?’

‘No, I’m asking you to kill a Shade. The girl is already dead. The Shade does not exist outside the girl. It is only when the Shade is in possession of the girl that it can be killed. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘I understand, but that doesn’t mean I can do it.’

‘Somebody has to, Mr Nightingale.’

‘Have you ever killed a Shade?’

‘That I can’t do,’ she said. ‘It has to be …’ She paused and then grimaced. ‘It has to be someone like you.’

‘But before, you found someone to do it?’

She nodded slowly. ‘Yes. It was difficult, but yes.’

Nightingale rubbed his face with both hands.

‘I realise it puts you in a terrible position,’ she said.

Nightingale lowered his hands and looked at her. ‘How can you ask me to do something like this?’

‘I have no choice,’ she said. She reached over and gently touched him on the arm. ‘I am sorry, Mr Nightingale. Truly.’

Nightingale waved at the barman, pointed at his empty bottle of Corona and mouthed ‘One more’. The barman nodded and went off to get a bottle from the fridge. Nightingale’s phone rang. He fished it out of his raincoat pocket and looked at the screen. It was Jenny.

‘Where are you?’ she asked.

‘The pub?”

‘Doing what?’

‘Well, gosh, Jenny, what do people usually do in the pub?’

‘Are you working?’

‘Not as such.’ The barman put a Corona down in front of Nightingale, a slice of lime sticking out of the neck.

‘You said you were going to see Mrs Steadman.’

‘I did.’

‘And you said you’d be right back.’

‘There’s been a change of plan.’

‘What’s going on, Jack?’

‘Hell, Jenny, can’t I have a beer in peace?’

‘You know that Mrs Hawthorne is here? About her husband.’

Nightingale swore under his breath. Mrs Hawthorne was a housewife with four children who suspected that her husband was playing fast and loose with his secretary. Nightingale’s initial enquiries suggested that she was probably right, but to prove it she was going to have pay another couple of grand. He’d forgotten that he’d arranged for her to come into the office.

‘Jack, are you there?’

‘I’m sorry, it slipped my mind. Can you tell her I’m on a case and that I’ll call her this evening?’

‘She’s not going to be happy, Jack. She’s come in all the way from Gravesend.’

‘What do you want me to do, Jenny? Open a vein? I fucked up. I’m sorry.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I told you. The pub.’

‘Which pub?’

‘The Swan.’

‘Bayswater Road?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Don’t go anywhere.’

‘I wasn’t planning to,’ said Nightingale.

‘I’m serious, Jack. Stay put.’ She ended the call.

The barman was watching him with a sly smile on his face. ‘Wife giving you grief?’ he said.

‘As good as,’ said Nightingale, pushing the slice of lime down into the bottle with his thumb.

‘Women, hey? Can’t live with them, can’t strap them into a car and send them over a cliff.’

Nightingale looked at the barman. He was in his fifties, with receding grey hair drawn back into a ponytail, and a beer gut that strained at his dandruff-flecked shirt. ‘You married?’

The barman grinned. ‘Three times. Got my fourth off the internet. Latvian.’

‘Nice,’ said Nightingale. ‘How’s that working out?’

‘So far, so good.’

Nightingale raised his bottle in salute. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

Nightingale was on his fourth Corona when Jenny slid onto the stool next to him. ‘What’s wrong with you today?’ she asked.

‘I’m just blowing off some steam,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m the boss. I’m allowed.’

Jenny slid a cheque across the bar. ‘Mrs Hawthorne paid up.’

‘Good to know.’

Jenny put the cheque into her handbag, a beige Prada. The barman came over and winked at Nightingale. ‘The wife?’ he said.

Jenny glared at him. ‘His assistant,’ she said. ‘Get me a glass of Chardonnay and a pair of scissors.’

The barman frowned. ‘Scissors?’

‘Someone needs to put that rat on your head out of its misery,’ she said.

‘I’d get her the wine, because she probably means it,’ said Nightingale. The barman scowled and moved away.

‘How many have you had?’ asked Jenny.

‘Now you’re my mother?’

‘I’m not your wife or your mother, Jack. I’m your assistant and your friend.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I was trying to lighten the moment.’

‘What’s wrong, Jack?’

Nightingale shrugged. There was no way that he could tell Jenny what Mrs Steadman has asked him to do. ‘I just felt like a beer.’

‘Where did you go today?’

Nightingale took a long pull on his Corona and shrugged. ‘I went for a walk,’ he said. That was partly true, at least.

‘This isn’t fair,’ she said.

‘What isn’t?”

‘You keeping stuff from me like this.’ The barman placed a glass of wine in front of her and then waddled over to the far end of the bar. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

Nightingale looked across at her. ‘Of course I trust you. More than anyone. You know that.’

‘So why won’t you tell me what’s going on?’ Nightingale drained his bottle. He was about to wave for another when Jenny put a hand on his arm. ‘Please don’t,’ she said.

‘You won’t believe me,’ he said. ‘And if you do believe me you’ll think I’m crazy for even considering it. And if I do what she wants, and I tell you, then you’ll be an accessory …’ He tailed off, shook his head and stared at the bar.

Jenny tightened her grip on his arm. ‘She? Who are you talking about?’

Nightingale turned to look at her. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know. Just leave it be.’

She shook her head fiercely. ‘Tell me.’

Nightingale closed his eyes and sighed, then nodded slowly. ‘Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Jenny sat back, a look of horror on her face. ‘You are kidding me,’ she said. They had moved to a corner table, away from the barman’s baleful stare. There he’d told her everything that Mrs Steadman had said to him.

‘I wish I was,’ said Nightingale.

‘She wants you to kill a nine-year-old girl?’

Nightingale nodded.

‘With knives? In her eyes and heart?’

‘That’s pretty much it.’

‘What are you going to do, Jack?’

Nightingale flashed her a tight smile. ‘Oh, I thought I’d pop around this evening and do the dirty deed. Like you do.’

‘I’m serious.’ Her face had gone pale and there was a small vein throbbing in her left temple.

‘I can see that.’

‘You should call the police.’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘The police wouldn’t get it. They’re not geared up to dealing with demons and stuff.’

‘I mean the stupid old woman, Jack. She’s clearly deranged. Mad as a bloody hatter and dangerous with it. She might find someone stupid enough to do what she says. She should be sectioned.’

‘What?’

‘Sectioned. She needs to be in a place where she can’t hurt anybody.’

Nightingale swirled his beer around and watched the slice of lime bob up and down. ‘Mrs Steadman isn’t crazy,’ he said.

‘How can you say that? You think it’s rational behaviour to go around talking about sticking knives into kids?’ She drained her glass and pushed it across the table to him. ‘Get me another, will you? If I go anywhere near that barman I won’t be able to stop myself grabbing his pony tail.’