Stephen Leather - Nightshade - The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller

‘I don’t know if I can do it,’ he whispered.

‘Somebody has to,’ she said. ‘And there is no one else.’

Nightingale closed his eyes and shivered again.

‘If you don’t, a lot of people will die. Many of them children. Remember the nurse? He smothered his own sons.’

Nightingale opened his eyes. ‘I thought you said you didn’t read the papers?’

‘Just because I don’t read newspapers doesn’t mean I’m not aware of what’s going on,’ she said. ‘And what has happened so far will pale into insignificance once the Shade hits its stride.’

‘She’s a child,’ whispered Nightingale.

Mrs Steadman shook her head. ‘She was a child, but that child has gone. Her shell is now inhabited by an entity that is pure evil. You will be killing the evil, not the child. Bella Harper is already dead, her soul is no longer in the body.’

‘So where is her soul? Heaven?’

Mrs Steadman looked uncomfortable. ‘So long as the Shade remains in the body, Bella’s soul remains trapped in the Nowhen. She cannot move on.’

‘Can she come back? If I kill the Shade, can her soul come back?’

‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid. Bella Harper is dead.’

‘But in limbo?’

‘Until this is resolved, yes.’

‘Then I know what I need to do,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need to talk to her.’

Mrs Steadman’s eyes widened. ‘Mr Nightingale, talking to the dead is never a good idea.’

Nightingale flashed her a thin smile. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Steadman. I’ve done it before.’

86

Colin Stevenson’s hand tightened on the receiver, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles turned white. ‘Did you hear what I said, Colin?’ The caller was a detective sergeant in the Met, a long-time friend of Stevenson’s who worked in the Paedophile Unit.

‘Yeah, I heard you,’ said Stevenson. ‘Basically I’m fucked.’

‘With a capital F,’ said the sergeant. ‘Look, the investigation is going into overdrive, the shit is well and truly going to hit the fan.’

‘I understand. Is there any way out?’

‘You can run, but there’s already a stop on you at the ports and airports and they’re coming for you first thing tomorrow morning. They don’t trust the locals.’

‘What about a deal? Can I cut a deal?’

‘They’ve got stuff off your hard drive, Colin. It got emailed to them. That’s all they need.’

‘Who the hell did that?’

‘I don’t know. But it came from your computer. That’s what I’m told.’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘Impossible or not, it happened. Look, I don’t see there’s anything you can do. They’ve got you bang to rights and they’ve got your mailing list. The only reason I’m tipping you off is that my name isn’t on that bloody list.’

‘Shit.’ Stevenson banged the receiver against his head.

‘I need to know you haven’t got my name anywhere they can find it.’

‘You’re okay,’ said Stevenson.

‘No number on your mobile? Nothing written down?’

‘You’re fine.’

‘For fuck’s sake keep it that way, Colin.’

‘I said, you’re fine,’ said Stevenson.

‘I fucking hope so,’ said the sergeant. ‘This is huge, Colin. You know the names that are on the list.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘What the hell were you doing keeping them on your computer?’

‘It’s a bit late to be crying about spilt milk,’ said Stevenson. ‘Do you have any idea who screwed me over?’

‘It came out of the blue, I’m told. And like I said, it came from your computer.’

‘I don’t see how that can have happened,’ said Stevenson. ‘No one else has access to my place.’

‘Yeah, well, seriously, I’m sorry it’s worked out this way,’ said the sergeant. ‘What are you going to do?’

Stevenson didn’t say anything.

‘Colin? Are you okay?’

Stevenson laughed harshly. ‘No, I’m not bloody okay. But I’ll sort it. And don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.’

87

‘You are stark raving mad,’ said Robbie, staring down at the Ouija board that Nightingale had placed on the table. ‘That’s for kids.’

‘It’s more than a kids’ game,’ said Nightingale, lighting three white candles on the mantelpiece. He went over to the window and pulled the blinds down.

‘If you wanted a romantic evening in, you should have had Jenny round,’ said Robbie.

‘First of all I don’t fool around with the staff, and second of all I wouldn’t want her near this.’

‘But I’m okay, right? What’s going on, Jack? I can see why you wouldn’t tell me over the phone, because I wouldn’t have come round if I’d known you were going to be messing around with spooky stuff.’

Robbie bent over the table and examined the Ouija board. It was made of cardboard that had frayed at the edges. The words YES and NO were printed in old-fashioned letters in the top corners, and below them were the letters of the alphabet in two rows, and below them the numbers zero to nine.

At the bottom of the board, in capital letters, was the word GOODBYE.

‘Where did you get this from?’ asked Robbie.

‘A junk shop in Portobello Road. It’s from the sixties.’

‘What’s the plan? Chat with Jim Morrison?’

Nightingale walked around the room lighting another half a dozen candles.

‘Bella Harper.’

Robbie’s jaw dropped. ‘Tell me that’s a sick joke.’

‘If she’s dead then there’s a chance I can communicate with her.’

Robbie picked up the grubby white planchette. ‘With a piece of cheap plastic? You don’t believe in this nonsense, do you?’

‘The Ouija board works,’ said Nightingale. ‘Plastic, wood or twenty-four-carat gold, none of that makes any difference. It’s about channelling. And believing.’

‘But I don’t believe, Jack.’

‘No, but I do. You’re here for balance.’

‘Balance?’

‘There have to be at least two people on the planchette. It won’t work with one.’ He finished lighting the candles and went through to the kitchen, returning with a crystal vase of fresh flowers and a crystal glass of distilled water. He put them on the coffee table, above the board. Then he went over to his bookcase and picked up a Hamleys carrier bag. He took out a small Paddington bear and placed it between the flowers and the glass of water. He grinned at the look of confusion on Robbie’s face. ‘Spirits generally like fresh flowers, and I figured that as Bella’s a kid she might like the bear.’

Robbie sat down on the sofa, shaking his head. ‘You’re mad,’ he said.

‘Sit down at the table, mate,’ said Nightingale, gesturing at one of the two wooden chairs he’d put there. He went back to the kitchen and came back with a tray on which were three small brass bowls containing sage, lavender and consecrated salt, courtesy of Mrs Steadman.

Robbie was sitting at the table, toying with the planchette. Nightingale put the bowls on the table, then lit five large white church candles and placed them around the board. He took the planchette from Robbie and put it on the board, between YES and NO.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get started.’ He sprinkled liberal amounts of sage over the burning candles. The herb flared and sizzled and gave off a sweet aroma. Then he rubbed some of the herb over the planchette and around the edge of the board.

‘You’re a right Jamie Oliver, aren’t you?’ joked Robbie, but Nightingale flashed him a warning look. He sprinkled salt and lavender over the board, then put the brass bowls on a bookshelf.

He sat down next to Robbie. ‘Seriously mate, don’t screw around. I realise you don’t believe in it, but any negative energy will spoil it. So only think positive thoughts.’