Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘There’s a leak in the Paedophile Unit. Stevenson got a call from a phone box not far from the unit’s London base a few hours before he topped himself. They reckon the same mole tipped Stevenson off about the first investigation. All they had at the time was the name of one of the kids, but they were coming up to do interviews across the school. Stevenson and the rest figured if they could make it look like the kids had been killed by a lone disturbed gunman, the abuse investigation would die with it. And with the number of cops who seem to be involved, they might have been right. This goes right across the UK, Jack. It’s bloody huge. And by the look of it, it’s been going on for years.’

‘And what about Danny McBride? Did Stevenson say anything about that so-called suicide?’

‘Nope. Like I said, most of it was rambling self-justification. And it wasn’t helped by the fact that he’d washed the sleeping tablets down with a bottle of whisky.’

‘Yeah, well, like I said, good riddance to bad rubbish.’

‘And I’m assuming that sentiment goes for Marcus Fairchild too?’

‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ said Nightingale, running a hand through his wet hair.

‘It’s been put down as a gangland killing,’ said Robbie.

‘Yeah, well, there’s a lot of that about.’

‘You don’t mess about, do you, Jack?’

‘He had it coming, Robbie. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?’

‘Jack?’

‘Yeah?’

‘How did the Bella Harper thing go?’

Nightingale didn’t say anything for a while. ‘What have you heard?’ he asked eventually.

‘There’s a news clampdown until the press office gets its act together. SOCO are in the house as we speak. She’s dead, right?’

‘She died three weeks ago,’ said Nightingale flatly.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Not really,’ said Nightingale. ‘It wasn’t pleasant.’

‘And what happened? When you did it?’

‘It died. End of.’

‘And Bella died too?’

‘I keep telling you, she was dead already. She died in that bath and she was never coming back, no matter what I did. Robbie, you need to forget about it. Seriously.’

‘I’m not sure that I can do that.’

‘Well, you’re going to have to. I don’t want to talk about it again. Ever.’

‘You are sure, right?’

‘About what?’

‘About the whole business. That whole Ouija board thing. Bella asking you to kill her. That was real, wasn’t it?’

‘It was real, Robbie. Now please, just forget about it. Like it never happened.’

‘I’ll try, mate.’

Nightingale ended the call and reached for his cigarettes. Forgetting what had happened was going to be a lot easier said than done.

Nightingale shivered as he walked into the church. Mrs Steadman was in the front pew, her head bent forward. As he sat down next to her he realised that her eyes were closed and her hands were clasped together in her lap. He sat with her in silence, looking up at the figure of Jesus in the stained-glass window. He’d smoked a cigarette in the alley outside the church but he already craved another. He tried to remember how many Marlboro he’d smoked during the night as he’d finished drinking the bottle of vodka. Ten? Twenty? He’d gone out just after midnight and bought two packs from an all-night supermarket in Queensway.

Mrs Steadman sat back and opened her eyes. ‘It is done,’ she said, and it sounded more like a statement than a question.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘I’m not sure it’s something that deserves to be thanked.’ He slid his hand into his raincoat pocket and pulled out the leather roll. He weighed it in his hand, then passed it to her.

‘You did a good thing, Mr Nightingale. You saved a lot of lives.’

Nightingale shivered again. ‘I need to know something, Mrs Steadman. When the Shade died, would Bella’s soul still be around?’

‘I’m not sure I understand you,’ she said. She slid the roll of knives into a shapeless black bag on the floor between her legs.

‘I was in my flat, afterwards. There was an Ouija board on the table and the planchette moved. It went to GOODBYE. I wondered …’ He shrugged, not wanting to finish the sentence. His head ached. It had been a long time since he’d suffered from a hangover, but then it had been a long time since he’d last demolished a whole bottle of vodka.

Mrs Steadman smiled and patted him on the arm. ‘She would be moving on from the Nowhen. She must have stopped by to let you know that everything was okay. You helped her, Mr Nightingale. And she would have been grateful for that.’

Nightingale sighed. He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the altar. ‘I’m not sure that I can live with what I’ve done, Mrs Steadman.’

‘You did the right thing, Mr Nightingale.’

‘Even so.’ Nightingale shrugged.

‘I might be able to help.’

‘Help?’

‘I could make you forget. It would be as if it never happened.’

‘But it did happen.’

Mrs Steadman nodded. ‘Yes, it did. And because it happened the world is a better place. But I can take away the memory.’

Nightingale forced a smile. ‘You can do that?’

‘I can do pretty much anything I want,’ she said. ‘Providing my motives are pure.’

‘And my friend Robbie. Robbie Hoyle. He’s a detective. He knows what I did and he’s a cop so it puts him in a very difficult position. And Jenny. I think it’s best that she doesn’t remember, either.’

Mrs Steadman nodded. ‘I can do that, too. I can remove the memory of what happened for you and for your friends.’

‘Then I think I’d like you to do that,’ he said.

She tilted her head on one side. ‘It’s done,’ she said.

‘You’re an angel, Mrs Steadman.’

‘So they say, Mr Nightingale. So they say.’