Stephen Leather - Nightshade - The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller

‘I looked, mate. But there’s nothing known, certainly nothing along the lines of what you were talking about.’

‘Okay.’

‘I did see if he’d worked on any paedophile cases, like you said, but couldn’t find any cases at all, not for the prosecution or the defence. He specialises in company law – I doubt that he would have been involved in anything involving paedophiles.’

‘Yeah, I think he was lying about that.’

‘Jack, are you sure he’s what you say he is?’

‘No question.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

Nightingale smiled ruefully. ‘Best you don’t know,’ he said.

83

Nightingale sat staring down at the gun on his coffee table. It was a matt black Taurus .45, small enough to conceal in a pocket. It would make a loud noise, but Fairchild’s Sussex house was a good half mile from his nearest neighbour. It was Wednesday, and on Friday Fairchild was due to take Jenny for dinner. Nightingale was sure that Fairchild had more than dinner in mind, so if he was going to stop the man it had to be done that night or the next.

He took a deep breath, put the loaded gun into his raincoat pocket and went downstairs to the street. His car was back in the lock-up and he headed towards it. He looked left and right and then jogged across the road. A bus heading his way seemed to accelerate towards him but it still missed him by yards. The driver glared at him as the bus went by and Nightingale realised that the acceleration had been deliberate. He turned up his collar against the wind as he walked by a Halal butchers. Two women swathed from head to foot in black niqab went by and they also seemed to be glaring at him through the slits in their headcoverings.

A traffic warden in a fluorescent jacket looked up from the car he was checking and his upper lip curled back into a snarl. Nightingale hurried on his way. A group of three young men in hoodies and low-slung jeans turned to stare at him with undisguised hostility.

He stopped at an intersection and looked both ways before crossing over. Two middle-aged housewives in cheap cloth coats stopped talking and frowned at him as he passed. He scratched his head, wondering if he was imagining all the hostile looks.

‘Got any spare change, mister?’

He turned to see Proserpine, sitting on the pavement with her legs drawn up to her chest. Her dog was sitting next to her, its tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth, Proserpine was holding a cardboard sign with ‘ANY SPARE CHANGE MUCH APPRECIATED’ scrawled in capital letters.

Nightingale stopped and looked down at her. She smiled up at him. Her hair was spikier than the last time he’d seen her, and she was wearing more black mascara than before, making her face appear even paler. She was wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket with silver studs in the form of small crosses and there was a heavy silver inverted cross hanging from a thick chain around her neck.

‘Penny for your soul, mister,’ she said, and winked.

‘Are you here for me or is this just one of those awkward coincidences?’

‘It’s all about you, Nightingale,’ she said. ‘It always is. So is that a gun in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?’

‘What do you want, Proserpine?’

‘I sense hostility in your voice, Nightingale. Aren’t we friends any more?’ The dog growled and she rubbed it behind the ear and made a shushing sound.

Nightingale took out his pack of cigarettes and tapped one out.

‘Those things will kill you,’ said Proserpine.

‘Everybody dies,’ said Nightingale. He lit the cigarette and took a long pull on it.

‘That’s not strictly speaking true,’ said Proserpine. ‘But there are different ways of dying, and lung cancer isn’t a pleasant way to go.’

‘Death is death,’ said Nightingale.

‘True, but there’s a big difference between death and dying. Wouldn’t you rather die happily in your sleep, dreaming of fluffy clouds and puppy dog tails or whatever floats your boat?’

‘What do you want, Proserpine?’

‘A cigarette for a start.’

‘Not scared of cancer, then?’

‘Not much scares me.’ She reached out her hand. There were thick silver rings on her fingers, studded with what looked like runes.

Nightingale gave her a cigarette. He was about to take his lighter out of his pocket but she smiled up at him. ‘No need,’ she said. She glanced at the cigarette and the end glowed redly and began to smoke.

‘Nice trick,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’s not a trick,’ she said. ‘You sound stressed. In a rush? Somewhere to be? And you still haven’t answered my first question. That is a gun in your pocket, isn’t it?’

‘You know it is, don’t you?’ he said, putting the cigarette pack back into his coat pocket.

She smiled. ‘Not much gets by me, Nightingale.’

‘So you know where I’m going and what I’m going to do.’

‘You’re going to kill Marcus Fairchild.’ It was a flat statement and not a question.

‘He deserves it.’

‘People don’t always get what they deserve, do they?’

Nightingale kept his eyes on Proserpine as he took another long pull on his cigarette and held the smoke deep in his lungs.

‘Cat got your tongue?’

Nightingale blew smoke up into the air. ‘I’m waiting for you to tell me what it is you want.’

‘We have a deal, remember?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, now it’s time for you to pay the piper. You’re not to go near Marcus Fairchild.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. You’re not to go near him. You’re not to speak to him, you’re not to contact him in any way. And you’re most definitely not to kill him.’

Nightingale’s eyes hardened. ‘He’s one of yours.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘That’s nothing to do with you. The deal we have is that I ask you to do something and you do it. Or you forfeit your soul.’

‘He’s an evil bastard.’

Proserpine smiled and shrugged. ‘And?’ She smoked her cigarette as she stared at him.

‘Ask me for something else,’ said Nightingale eventually.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t want anything else.’

‘You set me up,’ said Nightingale.

‘You contacted me, remember? You opened the door.’

‘But you knew I’d be after Fairchild. And you wanted to stop me.’

‘Again, you offered me the deal. I didn’t twist your arm. You wanted information about the Shades, and I gave it to you. Now you need to keep your end of the bargain. Or give me your soul. It’s your choice.’

‘He kills children. He sacrifices them.’

‘Yes, I know. But you make it sound as if that’s a bad thing.’

Nightingale took another long pull on his cigarette as his mind raced. She was right, he’d entered into the deal willingly and yes, it had been his idea. And complaining that it wasn’t fair wasn’t going to change the mind of a demon from the bowels of Hell. The choice was his and his alone. He could agree to leave Marcus Fairchild alone, or he could kill Fairchild and hand his soul over to Proserpine. He blew smoke at the pavement and nodded slowly. ‘You win,’ he said.

‘I usually do,’ said Proserpine.

Nightingale flicked his cigarette into the gutter, turned and walked away.

‘Hey, Nightingale.’ Nightingale turned to look at her. ‘Word to the wise,’ she said. ‘Beware of men in white vans.’

Nightingale flashed her a cold smile and walked away.

‘Be lucky!’ Proserpine called after him.

84

Nightingale’s head was whirling as he walked slowly back to his Bayswater flat. Proserpine had tricked him, he was sure of that, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he couldn’t stop Marcus Fairchild and within the next twenty-four hours he’d be in London with Jenny. He had to do something to stop the man, but what? If he interfered, he would forfeit his soul. But if he did nothing, Fairchild would continue to abuse Jenny in ways that Nightingale could only imagine.