Stephen Leather - Nightshade - The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller

‘Assuming that’s true, assuming that you could get close to one, how do you kill it?’

‘I have heard that there are knives, blessed knives, and you have to drive them through the eyes and the heart of the host. But seriously, Nightingale, the best thing to do is to run and to keep on running.’

Nightingale nodded. At least Proserpine had confirmed what Mrs Steadman had told him.

‘Who told you about the Shades?’ asked Proserpine.

‘Why do you think anyone told me?’

‘Shades pass unnoticed in your world,’ said Proserpine. ‘They inhabit the recently dead and are rarely discovered. Was it Mrs Steadman?’

‘I’m going to pass on that,’ said Nightingale. ‘No comment.’

Proserpine laughed and Nightingale felt the vibrations through his feet. ‘You need to be careful of that one,’ she said.

‘She’s on the side of the angels,’ said Nightingale.

‘Are you asking me, or telling me?’

‘She’s never steered me wrong yet,’ said Nightingale. ‘I trust her.’

‘Well, good luck with that,’ said Proserpine. ‘Don’t come crying to me when it goes bad. And it will.’

‘What do you mean?’

Proserpine smiled. ‘For the answer to that question, I’d need your soul,’ she said. ‘Give me your soul and I’ll answer any questions you want.’

‘My soul’s not for sale.’

‘So you say,’ said Proserpine. ‘But you can call me when you change your mind. In the meantime we’re done here. Let me go.’ The dog growled menacingly at Nightingale. Proserpine flicked its chain. ‘It’s all right, we’re going now.’ She looked up at Nightingale. ‘Time to say the words, Nightingale. I’ve got people to see, places to go.’

Nightingale nodded, looked at the piece of paper he was holding, and said the words to release her. Space folded in on itself, there was a flash of light and she and the dog were gone.

Nightingale’s phone rang and he took it out of his pocket. It was Robbie Hoyle. ‘Where are you?’ asked Robbie.

‘The lock-up,’ said Nightingale.

‘That bloody car of yours is a money pit,’ laughed Robbie.

‘It’s a classic.’

‘It’s an old banger. I need to see you, mate.’

‘The Swan?’

‘You read my mind. I’ll be about an hour. Mine’s a pint.’

82

Nightingale saw Robbie walk into the pub and ordered his lager before turning to shake his hand. ‘This is turning into a right can of worms, you know?’ asked Robbie.

‘I’m fine thanks, all good,’ said Nightingale. ‘Whatever happened to the social niceties?’

‘You want small talk or do you want to talk about what’s going on?’

‘I don’t know what’s going on, that’s why I called you.’

The lager arrived and Nightingale paid the barman. He gestured at a table by the fireplace. ‘Bit quieter over there,’ he said.

Robbie took off his overcoat and draped it over the back of a chair before sitting down. Nightingale sat opposite him and sipped his Corona. ‘You should drink that in a glass,’ said Robbie.

‘Tastes better out of the bottle.’

‘Rat piss,’ said Robbie.

‘Nah, I’m serious.’

‘I mean rat piss. Rats run across the crates and pee on the bottles. Mate of mine runs a pub and he says never drink from a bottle, always use a glass.’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s what makes it taste so good.’

Robbie laughed and shook his head. ‘You’re mad,’ he said.

‘Yeah, they do say.’ He put down his bottle. ‘So you’ve got something for me, yeah?’

‘You wanted to know if anyone connected with Bella Harper had died recently. Apart from the nurse who killed his family?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you want to tell me why?’

‘It’s a case, sort of.’

‘Sort of?’

‘I’m just making some enquiries, Robbie.’ He took a drink from his bottle. ‘Have you found something?’

Robbie nodded. ‘I did, yeah. A suicide. Freelance journalist killed himself in Clapham.’

‘What’s the Bella Harper connection?’

‘He talked to her about three hours before he died.’ He saw the look of astonishment on Nightingale’s face and raised his glass. ‘That good enough for you?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘As cancer, mate. He went into a corner shop, bought a bottle of drain cleaner and drank the lot. How do you do that? How do you drink a bottle of it? It’s as corrosive as hell.’

‘I heard of a guy who killed himself by drinking a bottle of furniture polish.’

‘A lovely finish?’

Nightingale grinned. ‘It’s an old joke. So what’s the story?’

Robbie leaned closer as if he was worried about being overheard. ‘Guy’s name was Jeremy Barker. He was a freelance reporter but he wasn’t averse to taking photographs of celebrities behaving badly. He sold titbits to the tabloids and the overseas press. Living hand to mouth, pretty much. His death was suicide, no question of that, but in his jacket was a digital camera and a voice recorder. There were two photographs of Bella Harper on the camera.’

‘Shit. How did he get to her?’

‘Did I say he was wearing a white coat and carrying a stethoscope? Bastard pretended to be a doctor and walked right in. The Sussex cops have checked the hospital’s CCTV and there’s footage of him going in and out.’

‘And the digital recorder?’

Robbie nodded. ‘I thought you’d pick up on that,’ he said. He took an iPhone from his pocket. ‘I couldn’t take the recorder but they were okay with me making a copy. He was only with her a few minutes.’ Robbie tapped on the screen of his phone, then held it out. Nightingale took it and held it to his ear. He frowned as he listened. The end of the conversation was impossible to hear. He switched it off and gave it back to Robbie.

‘So she whispered to him? Something about Jesus?’

‘The whole conversation is weird, Jack. How did she know he was a reporter? How did she know his name?’

‘Had she met him before?’

‘Doesn’t sound like that. The thing is, there’s no doubt that it’s suicide. The shopkeeper saw him drink the drain cleaner. So it’s not as if it’s a murder investigation. The detective who caught the case listened to the recorder thinking it might be a verbal suicide note, but then realised it was Bella. So he’s passed it on to the detectives on that case. But they’re not really interested because Barker wasn’t involved in the abduction.’

‘Never wrote about it?’

Robbie shook his head and put the phone back in his pocket. ‘Nope. Not a word. Looks like he was after an exclusive, he’d be able to sell the story and pictures for a lot of cash, maybe not in the UK but the foreign papers would have bitten his arm off.’

‘Like you said, the big question is how did she know who he was. He was dressed like a doctor, right?’

‘I haven’t seen the CCTV footage but I spoke to the detective who did and yes, you can see him walking through the hospital in his white coat with his stethoscope around his neck. Looked like any other doctor and no one paid him any attention.’

‘But she knew he was a reporter.’

‘And she knew his name, Jack.’

‘Did he have a badge on? With his name on it?’

Robbie shook his head. ‘I asked that. No.’

Nightingale sat back in his chair and swirled his lager around in the bottle. ‘So somehow she knew his name and that he was lying about being a doctor, and then she wants to whisper something about Jesus to him?’

‘Do you have any idea what’s going on here, Jack?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’m as bemused as you are.’

‘I’m not bemused, I’m fucking gob-smacked. Who the hell drinks drain cleaner? And why? He was short of cash and owed a few grand on his credit cards but who doesn’t these days?’