Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘Back in London, I figured you could get the train back.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘Of course I’m joking, you daft sod. Let me know where you are, I’ll come and get you.’

Malcolm Walton poured himself a glass of red wine and sipped it. ‘Can I have some?’ asked his wife. Walton nodded and sloshed some into a second glass on the kitchen counter, then walked into the dining room. The dining table was set for two. He sat down at the head of the table and took another sip of wine.

His wife joined him, carrying two plates. Steak, mashed potatoes and asparagus. She put down the plates and then went back to the kitchen to retrieve her wine glass.

‘Where are the kids?’ he asked as she sat down.

‘They went to see a film. They had a pizza before they went.’ She smiled. ‘They won’t be back until ten. I thought it’d be nice to have the house to ourselves.’ She picked up her wine. ‘Anyway, cheers.’

Walton looked at her glass and frowned. His wife waited expectantly but then realised he had no intention of clinking his glass against hers. She put her own glass down. ‘Malc, are you okay?’ asked his wife.

Walton shrugged.

‘Bad day at the surgery?’

He shrugged again. He couldn’t be bothered saying anything to her. She picked up her knife and fork and cut herself a small piece of steak. She was always a delicate eater, pecking at her food like a small bird. She popped the morsel into her mouth and chewed slowly.

Walton picked up the knife with his right hand and ran his left thumb slowly down the serrated edge of the blade.

‘Is something wrong?’ asked his wife. She put down her knife and fork. ‘Are you not feeling well?’

Walton stood up slowly.

‘Malc, what’s the matter?’ she asked, but then she seemed to sense what he was planning to do and stood up suddenly. Her chair fell back and hit the floor with a loud bang.

Walton moved quickly around the table. She turned and ran for the door but he lashed out with the knife and cut her across the shoulder. She shrieked in pain and stumbled against the wall, but then regained her balance as Walton struck her again, this time a stabbing motion that thrust the knife several inches into her back. She screamed but Walton knew that no one would be coming to help her. Their house was detached and their nearest neighbour was in her seventies and virtually deaf. His wife scrambled through the door as blood soaked into her shirt. Walton ran after her and stabbed her in the back again. ‘Help me!’ screamed his wife and Walton grinned savagely. She could scream all she wanted, it wouldn’t help.

She ran into the hall, towards the front door. He was hard on her heels and he knew that she wouldn’t have time to unlock the door, so he anticipated her move to the right to head up the stairs. He slashed out with the knife and cut her just below the knee, the serrated blade slicing through her flesh as if it were paper. Blood spurted down her leg.

She fell and only just managed to get her hands up to break her fall, then scrabbled up the stairs on all fours. Walton changed the grip on the steak knife and brought it down into the calf of her right leg, burying it up to the handle. He felt the blade scrape the bone as it went in and again when he pulled it out savagely.

His wife reached the top of the stairs, where she pushed herself to her feet and ran down the landing to their bedroom, blood pouring down her leg. She got there a fraction of a second before him and tried to slam the door in his face, but he hit the door hard and she staggered backwards and fell onto the bed. She tried to roll to the side, but Walton was too quick for her and he stabbed her four times in the chest, hard and fast, grunting with each blow. Blood blossomed over her breasts and Walton snarled and stabbed her again, this time closer to her throat. She finally stopped screaming as her windpipe filled with blood. He could see the panic in her eyes as bloody foam spewed between her lips. ‘Die, you stupid bitch!’ he hissed, and virtually on cue the life faded from her eyes and she went still.

Walton climbed off the bed and stood grinning down at his dead wife for almost a minute as her blood soaked into the duvet. Then he looked at his watch and smiled to himself. There was plenty of time to finish his steak and drink some wine before his kids came home.

Nightingale pushed open the door to his office. Before he could take off his coat Jenny rushed over to him holding a newspaper. ‘Did you see the Express yesterday?’ she asked.

‘I’m more of a Sun man, as you know.’

‘Well, you need to take a look at the Express ,’ she said, thrusting the paper at him.

Nightingale went through to his office and sat down behind his desk, still wearing his raincoat as he scanned the Express . There was a news story on the front page and a feature article across the two centre pages of the paper, a couple of thousand words, with photographs of Bella Harper and her family. There were also photographs of the Prime Minister, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and Prince William. The headline read: ‘BELLA’S MESSAGES FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE’.

‘It’s a world exclusive,’ said Jennie. ‘But it’ll be syndicated around the world tomorrow.’

‘This is bad,’ said Nightingale, gesturing at the newspaper.

‘Do you think?’

‘The Prime Minister? She wants to talk to the PM? And Prince William?’

‘Not so worried about the Archbishop then?’

‘I figure he can take care of himself,’ said Nightingale.

‘You think it’s a joke, Jack?’

Nightingale threw up his hands. ‘I don’t know what to think.’

‘We can’t let the PM talk to her. We can’t let anyone talk to her.’

‘I know that. You think I don’t know that?’

Jenny folded her arms. ‘So what are you going to do? What are WE going to do?’

‘I don’t know. I’m thinking.’

‘Oh, that’s all right then. The great Jack Nightingale has his thinking cap on so it’s all going to turn out for the best.’

‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Jenny.’

Nightingale pointed at the headline. ‘She wants to see three of the most important people in the country. She wants to talk to them. And we know what happens to people that she talks to. That nurse killed himself and his family.

‘I don’t see any of them turning up at her front door.’

‘You don’t? Then you underestimate the power of public relations. They got the Queen to jump out of a helicopter at the Olympics opening ceremony. You think they wouldn’t persuade the Prince to pop around for a photo opportunity with a girl who came back from the dead? And you think the PM’s PR won’t be telling him that this would be a great way of connecting with voters?’

Nightingale grinned. ‘You know that wasn’t actually the Queen that leapt out of the helicopter, right?’

Jenny didn’t smile. ‘This isn’t funny, Jack. We have to do something.’

‘Let me talk to Robbie.’

‘Robbie? You think the police can help?’

‘I’ll ask Robbie to see if anyone else connected with Bella has …’ He shrugged. ‘Let me talk to Robbie, then we’ll work out what we should do.’

Jenny nodded and walked out of the office. Nightingale reached for his phone. He’d call Robbie all right. But there was someone else he needed to talk to, and for that he’d need more than a mobile phone.

Nightingale dropped the two black plastic rubbish bags on the ground and bent down to unlock the padlock that was what passed for security for his lock-up. He pulled up the metal shutter and flicked on the light switch. A fluorescent light flickered into life. The lock-up was empty — he’d already moved his MGB to a multi-storey car park close to his office. He opened one of the bags and took out a red plastic bucket and a scrubbing brush. At the end of the line of garages was a tap set into the wall and Nightingale used it to fill the bucket. He spent the next fifteen minutes scrubbing the concrete floor clean. When he was satisfied he used paper towels to pat the floor dry, then stood up and admired his handwork.