Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘I don’t know what’s going on, that’s why I called you.’

The lager arrived and Nightingale paid the barman. He gestured at a table by the fireplace. ‘Bit quieter over there,’ he said.

Robbie took off his overcoat and draped it over the back of a chair before sitting down. Nightingale sat opposite him and sipped his Corona. ‘You should drink that in a glass,’ said Robbie.

‘Tastes better out of the bottle.’

‘Rat piss,’ said Robbie.

‘Nah, I’m serious.’

‘I mean rat piss. Rats run across the crates and pee on the bottles. Mate of mine runs a pub and he says never drink from a bottle, always use a glass.’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s what makes it taste so good.’

Robbie laughed and shook his head. ‘You’re mad,’ he said.

‘Yeah, they do say.’ He put down his bottle. ‘So you’ve got something for me, yeah?’

‘You wanted to know if anyone connected with Bella Harper had died recently. Apart from the nurse who killed his family?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you want to tell me why?’

‘It’s a case, sort of.’

‘Sort of?’

‘I’m just making some enquiries, Robbie.’ He took a drink from his bottle. ‘Have you found something?’

Robbie nodded. ‘I did, yeah. A suicide. Freelance journalist killed himself in Clapham.’

‘What’s the Bella Harper connection?’

‘He talked to her about three hours before he died.’ He saw the look of astonishment on Nightingale’s face and raised his glass. ‘That good enough for you?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘As cancer, mate. He went into a corner shop, bought a bottle of drain cleaner and drank the lot. How do you do that? How do you drink a bottle of it? It’s as corrosive as hell.’

‘I heard of a guy who killed himself by drinking a bottle of furniture polish.’

‘A lovely finish?’

Nightingale grinned. ‘It’s an old joke. So what’s the story?’

Robbie leaned closer as if he was worried about being overheard. ‘Guy’s name was Jeremy Barker. He was a freelance reporter but he wasn’t averse to taking photographs of celebrities behaving badly. He sold titbits to the tabloids and the overseas press. Living hand to mouth, pretty much. His death was suicide, no question of that, but in his jacket was a digital camera and a voice recorder. There were two photographs of Bella Harper on the camera.’

‘Shit. How did he get to her?’

‘Did I say he was wearing a white coat and carrying a stethoscope? Bastard pretended to be a doctor and walked right in. The Sussex cops have checked the hospital’s CCTV and there’s footage of him going in and out.’

‘And the digital recorder?’

Robbie nodded. ‘I thought you’d pick up on that,’ he said. He took an iPhone from his pocket. ‘I couldn’t take the recorder but they were okay with me making a copy. He was only with her a few minutes.’ Robbie tapped on the screen of his phone, then held it out. Nightingale took it and held it to his ear. He frowned as he listened. The end of the conversation was impossible to hear. He switched it off and gave it back to Robbie.

‘So she whispered to him? Something about Jesus?’

‘The whole conversation is weird, Jack. How did she know he was a reporter? How did she know his name?’

‘Had she met him before?’

‘Doesn’t sound like that. The thing is, there’s no doubt that it’s suicide. The shopkeeper saw him drink the drain cleaner. So it’s not as if it’s a murder investigation. The detective who caught the case listened to the recorder thinking it might be a verbal suicide note, but then realised it was Bella. So he’s passed it on to the detectives on that case. But they’re not really interested because Barker wasn’t involved in the abduction.’

‘Never wrote about it?’

Robbie shook his head and put the phone back in his pocket. ‘Nope. Not a word. Looks like he was after an exclusive, he’d be able to sell the story and pictures for a lot of cash, maybe not in the UK but the foreign papers would have bitten his arm off.’

‘Like you said, the big question is how did she know who he was. He was dressed like a doctor, right?’

‘I haven’t seen the CCTV footage but I spoke to the detective who did and yes, you can see him walking through the hospital in his white coat with his stethoscope around his neck. Looked like any other doctor and no one paid him any attention.’

‘But she knew he was a reporter.’

‘And she knew his name, Jack.’

‘Did he have a badge on? With his name on it?’

Robbie shook his head. ‘I asked that. No.’

Nightingale sat back in his chair and swirled his lager around in the bottle. ‘So somehow she knew his name and that he was lying about being a doctor, and then she wants to whisper something about Jesus to him?’

‘Do you have any idea what’s going on here, Jack?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’m as bemused as you are.’

‘I’m not bemused, I’m fucking gob-smacked. Who the hell drinks drain cleaner? And why? He was short of cash and owed a few grand on his credit cards but who doesn’t these days?’

‘Woman trouble?’

‘He was gay, and gays don’t tend to top themselves over a love affair gone wrong.’

‘Do the cops have a theory?’

‘To be honest, mate, it’s a suicide plain and simple. They’re not going to bust a gut trying to find out why.’

‘Case closed?’

‘It’s not even a case. The Bella Harper thing made them prick up their ears but that’s all.’ Robbie sipped his lager. ‘You heard about the headmistress, right?’

‘Bella’s headmistress?’

‘Yeah. She hanged herself. Her bloody head came right off, Jack. She tied a rope around her neck and jumped off the school building. You won’t have heard about the dentist yet, though. The cops are keeping that under wraps until all the relatives have been informed.’

‘What happened to the dentist? This is Bella’s dentist, right?’

Robbie nodded. ‘Guy called Malcolm Walton. Goes home and stabs his wife to death. Sits down and finishes his dinner. When his two teenage kids come home he butchers them. Then he goes into the kitchen and starts smashing wine glasses. Half a dozen of them. Uses a rolling pin to crush the glass and then swallows it. All of it. Not a nice way to die, Jack.’

Nightingale stared at his friend in horror.

‘So I’m guessing this isn’t a series of coincidences,’ said Robbie. ‘You ask me to see if anyone close to Bella Harper has died in strange circumstances and I find them piling up like a serial killer’s convention. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’

‘You won’t believe me, Robbie.’

‘Try me.’

Nightingale sat back in his seat, ran his hands through his hair and groaned. ‘If I tell you, you’ll think I’m crazy.’

‘That ship sailed some time ago. Who is your client?’

‘There’s no client.’

‘Pro bono? You’re helping someone out for free?’

‘Sort of.’ He picked up his Corona again. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you what I’ve been told. That doesn’t mean I believe it, okay?’

‘Okay.’

Nightingale groaned again. ‘This is going to sound stupid, I know.’ He took a deep breath. ‘A friend of mine, someone I’ve known for a while, someone I trust, told me that Bella Harper has been possessed.’

‘Possessed? By what? A ghost? A devil?’

‘By something. Something bad. And this friend said that whatever it is wants to do … Bad things.’

‘Bad things?’

‘She wasn’t specific. In fact she wasn’t specific about much, just that something had possessed Bella. I wanted to see if she was right or not.’