Stephen Leather: Nightshade

‘Not her. Her body. She’s already dead, but there’s a Shade in her body. She can’t move on until the Shade is killed.’

‘And you know how to do that?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘It’s been explained to me, yes.’

‘And are you going to do it?’

‘I think I have to.’

‘What do you have to do?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘Seriously, mate, you don’t want to know.’ He took a wallet from his raincoat pocket and tossed it over to Robbie. Robbie caught it and opened it. ‘What’s this?’

‘The guy that belongs to tried to get me into a van yesterday.’

‘What?’

‘He was one of two guys that broke into my flat a while back. I think they were planning to kill me. Murder by suicide.’

Robbie slid the driving licence out and looked at it. ‘Lives in Berwick.’

‘Might have been a cop,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m pretty sure they were the ones who killed my client.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Come on Robbie. Don’t you think it’s one hell of a coincidence? Danny McBride is found hanging in his brother’s barn and the guys who broke into my flat brought rope with them? I don’t think they were planning to go skipping with me, do you?’

‘And you fought them off? Since when did you turn into Chuck Norris?’

‘There wasn’t much fighting, truth be told,’ said Nightingale. ‘But if they’ve got any sense they’ll be on the lam already. Any news on that front?’

Robbie nodded. ‘There is a Met team looking at abuse in Berwick and north of the border. Operation Springboard. Half of the Operation Yewtree team have been moved over now that the Savile thing is coming to an end. They’re going to be moving in next week.’

‘And the stuff I sent?’

‘The paedophile unit handed it over to the Operation Springboard team. One of my mates has been seconded to the unit. They can’t work out how the email came from Stevenson’s computer but they’re not looking in the mouths of any gift horses. It’s going to be huge, Jack. Bloody huge. Some very big names are in the frame.’

‘They deserve everything they’ve got coming to them,’ said Nightingale.

‘Pity you won’t get any credit for it.’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘There’s no credit for anyone in all this,’ said Nightingale. ‘There’s something wrong with a society that allows this to happen. A lot of people have to turn a blind eye for organised abuse like that to take place. The world can be a sick place at times.’

‘You did a good thing, Jack,’ said Robbie. He leaned over and clinked his glass against Nightingale’s bottle.

Nightingale forced a smile. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I guess I did at that.’

Marcus Fairchild lit a cigar and blew a cloud of bluish smoke across the back seat of the Jaguar. His driver didn’t complain; he was a heavy smoker, one of the reasons that Fairchild had hired him ten years earlier. They were driving into central London. Fairchild had three meetings fixed up at his City office, high-powered clients who paid seven-figure retainers for his legal expertise, and later he was going to take Jenny McLean for dinner. And after dinner he would do to her what he’d been doing to her ever since she was a child. He felt himself grow hard as he pictured himself on top of her, entering her. She never remembered, of course, A combination of drugs and hypnotic suggestion mean that she had no idea of what they did during their time together.

He opened his copy of the Financial Times and turned to the editorial comment page. It always amused him to see what journalists thought was important in the world. Most of them had next to no idea what really went on behind the scenes, which is how it was supposed to be. The true rulers of the world preferred to stay hidden from view and they would certainly never let journalists know what they were up to. And on the very rare occasions that a journalist did discover the truth, well, there were ways of dealing with them.

The Jaguar slowed and Fairchild looked up to see a red light ahead of them. He sighed. London traffic seemed to be getting worse year by year, which was why he tended to avoid the city centre whenever possible.

There was nothing on the editorial page to hold his attention so he flicked through the paper to the share prices. The traffic light changed to green and three cars moved forward, but the black BMW in front of the Jaguar stayed where it was. Fairchild’s driver waited a couple of seconds and then beeped his horn, a quick blip to alert the driver. Road rage was something else that was on the increase in London and a mistimed horn could easily result in a violent confrontation. The BMW stayed put and the driver blipped the horn again.

‘Why the hell isn’t he moving?’ said Fairchild.

‘Engine trouble, maybe,’ said his driver. ‘The road ahead’s clear.’

‘Well, pull around him, we can’t sit here all day.’

The driver turned on his indicator, but before he could turn the wheel a powerful motorcycle roared up next to them and came to a halt next to the rear passenger door.

‘Now what?’ said Fairchild.

The motorcycle rider was a big man dressed from head to foot in black leather. He was wearing a red full-face helmet with a tinted visor. He gunned the engine and turned to look at Fairchild.

‘Tell him to get out of the way,’ said Fairchild. He looked at his watch and tutted in annoyance.

As the driver began to wind down his window, the motorcyclist reached inside his jacket and pulled out a squarish gun with a snub barrel. Fairchild knew enough about weapons to recognise it. A MAC-10. It wasn’t the most accurate of weapons but at such a close range accuracy wasn’t an issue.

Fairchild opened his mouth to roar with rage, but before he could make a sound the motorcyclist had pulled the trigger with a gloved finger and the gun spat bullets at a rate of more than a thousand a minute. The clip emptied in a fraction of a second and more than half of the thirty-two bullets slammed into Fairchild’s face and chest. He was dead before he pitched across the seat and the motorcyclist sped off down the road, followed by the black BMW.

Nightingale turned into the alley and saw the church ahead of him. He looked at his watch. He was ten minutes early. He took his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one, then walked back to the main street and window-shopped as he smoked. When he’d finished he tossed the butt into the gutter and headed back to the church. It was built of grey stone and appeared to be several hundred years old. It was hemmed in by much taller steel and glass office blocks that had been built around it over the years.

There was an arched oak door and next to it a noticeboard covered with plastic sheeting detailing the service times and announcing that there was a coffee morning every Saturday to which everyone was invited. There were black metal studs set into the door and heavy hinges and a large metal keyhole. Nightingale half expected the door to be locked but it swung open easily.

He stepped inside. The floor was large granite slabs and the walls rough stone. There was a Virgin Mary set into the stone to his left and to his right were wooden plaques containing the names of parishioners who had fallen during the two world wars. There were two lines of oak pews facing a small altar on which there was a brass cross, and to the left of the altar a wooden podium with a large Bible open on a lectern. Behind the altar was a huge arched stained-glass window, with Jesus putting his hand on the head of a young child.

The church was empty. Nightingale looked at his watch again. It was three-thirty. He looked back at the door.