Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘Like I’ve got a choice.’

‘You were a great negotiator – the best. You should be working for one of the kidnapping insurance firms. Or in-house security for a multinational.’

‘The last guy I negotiated with exited through a twenty-storey window, let’s not forget,’ said Nightingale. ‘That doesn’t look great on the old CV.’

‘I’m serious,’ said Hoyle. ‘You’re better than this. You know you are. Two years in the wilderness is enough. It’s time to come back in.’

‘Maybe.’

Hoyle slapped him on the back. ‘You know I’m right, mate. Oh, one bit of good news for you. Your man Turtledove is the real McCoy, he’s been a solicitor for nearly forty years and there’s never been a complaint against him. So, whatever’s going on, it’s not a con. Now, come on, the next race is about to start.’

‘Do you believe in hell, Robbie?’

‘Who was it said that hell is other people?’

‘I’m serious,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do you believe in a place called hell?’

‘I’ve been to Harlesden, mate. That’s as close to hell as I ever want to go.’ Hoyle put his arm around Nightingale’s shoulders. ‘No, Jack, there is no such place as hell. You can trust me on that.’

Nightingale finished his whisky. ‘Let’s go see these dogs run,’ he said.

Joel McBride had thought long and hard before he decided to kill himself. He had no children, his parents were long dead, and most of his friends were his wife’s and he was sure they would side with her. McBride loved his wife and had done since the day they’d met, when she was a sales representative for a children’s books publisher and he had been working in the Trafalgar Square branch of Waterstones. She’d walked in wearing a short skirt and a low-cut top ready to extol the merits of her firm’s three new authors, and within an hour they were having coffee at Starbucks over the road. Two nights later they were in Leicester Square and on the next they were in bed together.

They had been married less than six months when McBride had injured himself. They had been on a riding holiday in Spain. His wife was a keen horsewoman but it had been his first time. His first and last. They had gone trekking through sand dunes, six holidaymakers and two girls from the stable, and had rounded off the afternoon with a gallop along the beach. The stable girls knew McBride was a novice and had told him to hold back, but he’d wanted to show off to his wife so he’d given the horse its head. It had been a combination of bad luck and bad judgement: the rein had snapped, McBride had fallen and the horse had trodden on him when he’d hit the sand. His spinal cord had been severed. The holiday insurance paid for the hospital in Spain and the flight back to London, but he had never walked again and never would.

Things had changed after the accident, of course. He could get himself in and out of his wheelchair and manage the toilet, and he could drive a specially adapted car, but he was still a cripple and, worse, a cripple who couldn’t get an erection. Sex was out of the question – or, at least, the sort of sex they’d enjoyed before the accident. He did his best to please her with his hands and tongue but it wasn’t enough. He’d known that one day she would take a lover but had hoped she’d be honest enough to tell him, and reassure him that she still loved him, that she was his wife and would be for ever.

He’d suspected for weeks that she’d embarked on an affair, but she’d denied it when he’d asked. But he knew in his heart that she was planning to leave him. She might stay for a few more weeks, maybe months, but there had been a growing coldness in her eyes and long silences in front of the television, so he had asked Jack Nightingale to check up on her.

McBride had confronted her with the evidence – the phone records and the video of her checking into the hotel, – and had asked if she was planning to leave him. She hadn’t said anything. Instead she’d put on her coat and walked out of their house. He had waited all evening and all night but she hadn’t returned – and she’d switched off her mobile phone. McBride knew he couldn’t bear to live without her.

His house, their house, the house they’d lived in for more than six years, was just a mile from the canal. That was the best way, he’d decided. He had painkillers but he’d checked on the Internet and an overdose wouldn’t kill him straight away. He’d die, but from liver failure, and it would be a long, lingering death over several days. His doctor would probably prescribe sleeping pills but it usually took at least three days to get an appointment with him. He thought of cutting his wrists but the idea of slicing through his flesh with a knife made him feel sick. The canal would be simple and quick.

McBride’s wheelchair wasn’t powered so he used his hands to propel it along the pavement. He hadn’t bothered to put on the fingerless leather gloves that usually protected them and his palms were soon muddy and sore. It had rained earlier that evening and the wheels made a swishing sound as he rolled along. The canal wasn’t deep, McBride knew, five feet at most, but standing up wasn’t an option for him. He’d found a length of chain in his garage, left there by the man who had sold them the house. It was heavy, the links the thickness of his thumb, and he had wrapped it around his waist, fastened with a padlock, in case he changed his mind at the last minute.

He rolled up the steep concrete ramp from the pavement to the muddy towpath. To his left there were banks of nettles and beyond them a tall hedge threaded with blackberry bushes. The canal was to his right. A narrow-boat was moored there, dark blue with circular brass-framed portholes and skylights. McBride kept going until it was out of sight, then pulled the chair around so that he was facing the water. He closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven,’ he whispered. He hadn’t been inside a church since his wedding day, and had never thought of himself as religious, but he wanted to die with the Lord’s Prayer on his lips. He continued to mumble it as he propelled himself forward. He had to push hard to get the wheels over the edge but he rocked himself back and forth until he pitched head first into the cold, dark water.

McBride had thought he was alone, but there was one witness – two if you counted her dog, which would be reasonable because the dog was watching as McBride wheeled himself to the edge of the canal and into the water. She was wearing Goth black and had upside-down black crosses dangling from her ears and an Egyptian ankh around her neck. She wore a black leather motorcycle jacket, black leather jeans and high-heeled black boots. The dog barked and looked up at his mistress. She smiled down at him and stroked his head, concentrating on the spot he liked, just behind his ear. ‘Not one of ours,’ she said. The dog panted, drooling a little and showing a fleshy pink tongue. He was wearing a black leather collar with a silver buckle and studs, and hanging from it was a small silver pentagram.

The Hillingdon Home sounded grand but it wasn’t. It was a sixties-built concrete block with rusted metal-framed windows and graffiti spray-painted across the doors. As Nightingale finished his cigarette, he peered up at the top floors. Blank faces stared from some of the windows, white smudges behind the glass. It was a local-authority home on the outskirts of Basingstoke, about fifty miles south of London. The car park was full so he had left the MGB in the street, a short walk away. In his left hand he held a bunch of flowers. He had decided he ought to bring something and that flowers were the best bet. He dropped the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and pushed open the double doors that led to the reception area.