Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘That’s good to hear, Mr Nightingale,’ she said.

Nightingale leaned forward. ‘I’m not looking to blame anyone, Mrs Fraser, and I hope that’s your position. My mother was obviously very disturbed, and I know you were giving her the very best care possible.’ He looked at the male nurse. ‘Darren thought a lot of my mother, and I could see she really appreciated the way he took care of her. I agree that my suddenly turning up upset her, but I don’t think that anyone could have foreseen that she would harm herself.’

They were more concerned about a possible legal suit or bad publicity than they were about why Rebecca Keeley had killed herself, Nightingale realised. The meeting was about avoiding blame, nothing else. ‘As to what I said to my mother, it was just family stuff. I showed her photographs of when I was a kid, and we talked about them. I don’t know why she got so upset in the garden, but as soon as Darren asked me to leave, I did.’

Mrs Fraser nodded, and even managed a smile. ‘Thank you for your understanding, Mr Nightingale. You can imagine how upset we all are. One never likes to lose a resident, especially under such circumstances.’ She picked up a pen and toyed with it. ‘We have to make arrangements,’ she said, ‘for the funeral.’

‘What normally happens?’ asked Nightingale.

‘It depends on whether the resident has family or not. If there’s no one, we arrange a service at the local crematorium.’

‘Can you do that for my mother?’ said Nightingale. ‘So far as I know I’m her only living relative, and it would be a big help.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Mrs Fraser.

‘I’ll pay. Whatever costs there are, just let me know.’

‘Mrs Keeley’s fees were paid by the local authority, and they’ll bear the cost of the funeral,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘Now, what would you like us to do with her belongings? Her clothes and such.’

‘What normally happens?’

‘If there are relatives we give them everything. Otherwise we clean any clothing and send it to charity shops, along with electrical equipment and other articles that people might want. The rest we throw away.’ She grimaced. ‘It’s sad, but most of our residents don’t have much left by the time they come here.’

‘Charity shops sound like a good idea,’ said Nightingale.

‘The crucifix,’ said the nurse. ‘Don’t forget the crucifix.’

‘Oh, yes, your mother always wore it,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘It was a great comfort to her.’

Nightingale turned to the nurse. ‘Would you like it, Darren?’

‘Oh, that’s not possible,’ said Mrs Fraser, quickly. ‘It’s against company policy, I’m afraid. We’re not allowed to accept bequests from our residents. Under any circumstances. We had a bad experience a few years ago.’

‘I understand,’ said Nightingale. He took out one of his business cards and gave it to her. ‘You can send it to me here.’

Mrs Fraser studied the card. ‘I didn’t know you were a private detective,’ she said.

‘For my sins,’ said Nightingale.

‘That can’t be a pleasant occupation.’

‘It has its moments,’ said Nightingale.

Nightingale was driving on auto-pilot, his mind more focused on the death of Rebecca Keeley than on the road ahead, which was why he didn’t see the fox until a second before he hit it. The car slammed into the animal and Nightingale hit the brakes. The rear started to spin and Nightingale pumped the brake as he fought to control it. The road curved to the right, and the sky was obscured by the drooping branches of the woodland he was driving through. He straightened the MGB but realised he was heading for a beech tree. He spun the wheel to the right. The car skidded to a halt and stalled.

Nightingale sat where he was, his heart pounding, gripping the steering-wheel so tightly that his knuckles went white. He had chosen to drive back to London along B-roads rather than take the motorway because he wanted time to think, but his decision had almost cost him his life. He started the engine and carefully drove the car off the road, climbed out and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. The MGB had stopped just a few feet from the tree. If he’d been going any faster or been a fraction slower in braking he would have slammed into it and he was sure the impact would have killed him. He inhaled deeply and blew a plume of smoke skywards. The line between life and death was a fine one at the best of times.

He looked back down the road. There was no sign of the fox. He walked along to where he’d hit the animal. There was no blood on the Tarmac, no indication that there had ever been a fox. He checked the vegetation at the side of the road but found nothing. Had he imagined it? He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. There had been a fox in the middle of the road and he hadn’t imagined the thud as he’d hit it. So where was it? Had it crawled off to die? He walked into the woodland, treading softly through the brambles and nettles, listening for any sounds of an animal in pain, but all he could hear was the territorial chirping of birds high in the trees.

He saw a church spire through the trees and headed towards it. It was surrounded by a dry-stone wall, moss-covered in places, and a sign at the entrance proclaimed it as St Mary’s. It was small, stone-built, with stained-glass windows and a metal cross atop the spire. Nightingale walked towards the oak door. It opened silently, despite its bulk – the hinges were well oiled – and the wood had been polished until it shone. There were fresh flowers in the vestibule and the cloying smell of lilies.

There were a dozen rows of hard wooden benches with an aisle down the centre that led to a pulpit and behind it a stone font. Nightingale felt himself drawn towards the font and walked down the aisle, his hands in his pockets. The air was much cooler inside the church than it had been outside and he shivered.

The stone flags had worn smooth with the thousands of feet that had gone back and forth over the years, making the journey from pew to priest. There were thick oak beams overhead, and statues set into the walls depicting the agony of Christ’s crucifixion. Candles flickered in alcoves, dripping wax onto the stone floor. Nightingale looked around but he appeared to be alone. To the left of the pulpit was a confessional box, the curtains on both sides closed. Nightingale stopped and listened but he couldn’t hear voices.

He walked slowly up to the font and looked down at the water. It was holy water, blessed by the priest. Nightingale smiled to himself. Holy water was supposed to hurt vampires, and he wondered what it would do to a man whose soul had been promised to a devil. Would it burn his flesh, like it did in the movies? If he stuck in his hand, would it strip it to the bone and would he run from the church, screaming in pain? He rolled up his sleeve and held his hand just above the surface of the water. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven,’ he whispered. He plunged his hand into the water. It was cold, colder than he had expected, and he gasped. He flexed his fingers. At least he could touch holy water, which must mean something.

‘Can I help you?’ said a voice behind him.

Nightingale jerked as if he’d been stung. He swung around to find a young priest watching him with unabashed amusement. ‘I was…’ he began, but he wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. What exactly was he doing? Checking the potency of holy water?

‘There’s a washroom at the back,’ said the priest. He was in his late twenties with a shock of red hair and freckles across his nose and cheeks. ‘You’re welcome to use that if you want to wash your hands.’

‘I wasn’t washing my hands,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just wanted to… To be honest, and I know it makes no sense, I just wanted to touch some holy water, that’s all.’ He shook the drops off his hand and rolled down his shirt sleeve.