Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘Jenny, baby, I was on a roll. Wilde gave me Tyler’s details and Tyler told me where I could find Mitchell. There just wasn’t time to call you.’

Jenny carried his coffee to his desk and sat down. ‘And Mitchell talked to you?’

‘According to Mitchell, Proserpine is the real thing. He did a deal with her but somehow managed to piss her off. Apparently, my father could well have sold my soul to her.’

‘That’s nonsense.’

‘Mitchell says it’s possible. But he says that if my father did sell my soul I would have the mark, the pentagram. No pentagram, no contract.’

‘And you haven’t, right?’

‘I’ve checked and double-checked.’

‘You could shave your head.’

‘Yeah, so could you. I checked my head on the baby pictures, remember? Any tattoo would have been put there the day I was born.’

‘So you’re fine. Even if there is a devil called Proserpine and even if you can sell souls to her, none of that matters because there’s no mark.’

‘That’s what Mitchell says.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘My father might have believed he’d sold my soul, but the fact that there’s no mark says otherwise. So it’s bollocks. It’s all bollocks.’

‘I was fairly busy myself,’ said Jenny. ‘In between riding and shooting I made a few calls.’ She pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of her jeans. ‘I tracked down George Harrison for you.’ Nightingale stretched forward to take it but she held it out of reach. ‘I want you to promise me something,’ she said.

‘You can have a pay rise when the business picks up.’

‘I want you to promise you won’t go and see him.’

‘I can’t promise that, Jenny.’

‘Opening old wounds isn’t healthy,’ she said.

‘Is that you talking or Barbara?’

‘It’s common sense, something you seem to be short of at the moment.’

‘I have to talk to him, Jenny,’ said Nightingale. He tried to grab the paper but she moved it away.

‘Jack, I’m serious.’

‘So am I,’ said Nightingale. ‘Give me the address.’

‘If you go, and I don’t think you should, I want to go with you.’

‘Deal,’ said Nightingale.

‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’

‘Yes to the first bit, no to the second. Dying isn’t something I want to do just yet. But I’ll take you.’

Jenny gave him the piece of paper. Nightingale looked at the address and phone number. ‘Battersea? He’s in London?’ He gave it back to her. ‘I need you to phone him.’

‘And say what?’

‘Ask him what mobile-phone service he uses, then tell him a sales rep will visit and give him a new iPhone for free, to test.’

‘You mean lie to him?’

‘Just humour me,’ said Nightingale.

Nightingale climbed out of the MGB and looked up at the block of flats. ‘What floor did you say?’ It was a drab council building, the concrete stained by years of pollution and pigeon droppings, the windows grubby and cracked. There were colourful graffiti on most of the walls. A pack of mongrels watched them suspiciously.

Jenny grunted as she pushed herself out of the sports car. ‘There’s no elegant way of getting out of one of these things, is there?’

‘It’s a classic,’ said Nightingale.

‘I’m just glad I decided to wear jeans today.’

‘What floor?’

‘Ninth. Are you going to leave your car on the street here? The wheels’ll be off by the time we get back.’

‘Like I said, it’s a classic. People respect classics.’ He saw disbelief on her face and laughed. ‘I’m serious. When was the last time you saw a classic motor vandalised? It doesn’t happen. They go for the flash cars, the ones owned by people with more money than sense. Plus they can see I don’t have a CD player or anything worth stealing.’ He nodded at the entrance. There was a stainless-steel panel dotted with dozens of buttons, and a CCTV camera covering the door. ‘You should call him, tell him you’re from the mobile-phone company.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because you’re a girl, and a pretty one to boot.’

Jenny grinned. ‘To boot?’

‘You know what I mean. A girl is less of a threat than a guy.’

‘Are you a threat, Jack? Is that what’s happening here?’

‘I just want to talk, that’s all,’ he said. ‘Cross my heart.’

Nightingale leaned against the wall, his hand on the yellow metal handrail. ‘What floor are we on now?’ he panted. There were piles of rubbish on every staircase, cockroaches and a strong smell of vomit and urine that got worse the higher they climbed.

‘Seventh,’ said Jenny. ‘And you wouldn’t be so tired if you didn’t smoke so much.’

‘Smoking’s good for you,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s packed with vitamins and minerals and has zero calories and fat.’ He gestured at the stairs. ‘It’s exercise that’s bad. Look what it’s doing to me.’

‘You should go to the gym more,’ said Jenny. ‘Maybe start running.’

‘I don’t need to lose weight,’ said Nightingale. He patted his stomach. ‘I’m not fat. You show me a fat smoker and I’ll show you a smoker who’s not inhaling.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ asked Jenny.

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he said, as he started up the stairs again. ‘I was just feeling defensive.’

‘When are you going to get over this lift thing?’

‘Never.’

‘Jack, lifts are just about the safest form of transport there is. You know how many people have died in lift accidents in the UK in the last twenty years? None. That’s how many.’

‘How do you know?’

Jenny grinned. ‘I don’t. I just made it up. But you never hear about lift accidents, do you?’

‘That’s because there’s a conspiracy between the media and the big lift companies.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘Can we just leave it that I don’t like lifts? It’s no big deal, Jenny. Besides, get stuck in a lift here and you’d starve to death before someone came out to help you.’

They reached the ninth floor and Nightingale held open the door to let Jenny go through first. The smell of vomit and urine was even stronger on the landing. The floor was bare concrete and the pale green walls were streaked with dirt. A council notice warned residents not to leave their rubbish in the stairwell. ‘That’s the flat,’ said Jenny, pointing at a door to their right.

‘You knock, check it’s him, then I’ll step in.’

‘Jack, are you sure this is a good idea? We’ve lied our way into the building and he’s not going to be happy to see us.’

‘Please, Jenny. Just do it.’

Jenny walked to the door and pressed the bell. Nightingale flattened himself against the wall. The door opened and Nightingale held his breath.

‘Mr Harrison?’ asked Jenny.

‘That’s me,’ said a male voice. ‘You’re from the phone company?’

‘George Arthur Harrison?’

‘I said already, that’s me.’

Nightingale pushed himself away from the wall and put his hand against the door so that Harrison couldn’t close it. ‘Mr Harrison, I need a few minutes of your time,’ he said.

Harrison was short and stick-thin, wearing a stained T-shirt that seemed to be several sizes too big for him, and brown cargo pants that had been turned up at the bottom. It was as if he’d shrunk within his clothes. ‘Who are you?’ He was balding with a greasy comb-over that barely concealed his liver-spotted scalp. From behind him came the sound of a TV show, Jerry Springer or Trisha. The audience were howling and jeering.

‘My name’s Nightingale, Jack Nightingale.’

Harrison tried to shut the door, but Nightingale was too strong for him. ‘I’ll call the police,’ said Harrison.