Tennessee Night (The 8th Jack Nightingale Novel)

by Stephen Leather

  Nightingale was impressed with how much the lawyer knew, bearing in mind he had never spoken to the woman in his life.

  Parker looked at Campbell again, who gave a small shake of his head, which the lawyer didn’t miss. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Seems you were trying to railroad my client a little. I think we’re leaving.’ She nodded at Nightingale and motioned at the door the way a shepherd might instruct his dog.

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Parker. ‘I can still hold him as a material witness.’

  Hutton smiled again, as if this were all too easy for her. ‘Material witness to what? Suicide isn’t a crime, there’ll be no criminal investigation here. Now, do you want to file charges for trespass, or can we leave?’

  Parker knew when she was beaten, She held her hands up, and dropped the belligerent tone. ‘Okay, Ms Hutton. Your client is facing no charges, but I really would like to ask him some questions. He was ap...he was discovered in the Crystal Grotto last night, along with a child who appears to have committed suicide. As you may be aware, there has been a spate of suicides of young kids over the last week, and we would love to know if they’re connected in some way. And then there’s the question of why a young, pretty, well-respected reporter for the Memphis Herald decided to shoot herself in the same place. Also why the gates of the cemetery and Grotto were unlocked, when the security company swear they locked them and were patrolling as normal last night, yet saw nobody enter. Any information your client might have would be very welcome.’ She flashed the lawyer a sarcastic smile.

  Hutton turned to look at Nightingale for the first time. He nodded. ‘As a law-abiding guest in our country, Mr. Nightingale is, of course, anxious to help the police in any way possible.’ she said. ‘But I point out that he had no sleep last night, and has not eaten for quite a while. He is currently staying at the Peabody Hotel, and has no immediate plans to leave. You may interview him there later today. Please call me first, since I shall wish to be present.’

  Parker sighed. ‘Very well. Could we maybe say at 3pm? Gives your client plenty of time to eat, sleep and take a bath.’

  ‘That will be fine.’

  She rose, nodding with her head at the door. Nightingale preceded her, flashing a friendly smile at Parker on the way out.

  The Sergeant didn’t return it.

  CHAPTER 26

  The carrier bag the lawyer was holding contained jeans, a shirt, socks and a pair of trainers in his size. He used the men’s room to change out of his paper suit. His mobile phone, wallet, car keys and, more importantly, his cigarettes and lighter were all returned to him, and he lit up as soon as he left the police station. From the disgusted look Pamela Hutton shot him, he deduced that he’d be wasting his time offering her one. ‘Thanks, ‘ he said. ‘That was very efficient.’

  She raised an eyebrow, perhaps wondering if Nightingale was being condescending, but then seemed to give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘You’re entirely welcome, just doing my job.’

  ‘And the clothes were a nice touch. How did you know my shoe size?’

  ‘I was given a full briefing, Mr. Nightingale.’

  ‘I guess you’ll want to know what it was all about?’

  ‘Not at all, Mr. Nightingale. My instructions from my Senior Partner were to be present at any and all police interviews, make every effort to have you released from police custody, and provide legal advice on any question you might be asked. That’s all I know, and all I need to know, it seems. Though I will say I am glad you didn’t turn out to be a murder suspect.’

  ‘Did your partner happen to mention who was paying?’

  ‘She did not. And I didn’t ask.’

  Good old Joshua, thought Nightingale. Always playing his cards close to his chest. The Senior Partner would probably be on retainer to one or other of Wainwright’s faceless shell companies. He wondered in how many cities around the world Wainwright could just pick up the phone and get immediate action. Probably most of them. He smiled at her. ‘Can I offer you coffee? Breakfast?’

  ‘Perhaps some other time,’ she said, leaving the ‘perhaps not’ unsaid, but clearly implied.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll pick up a cab and find my car.’

  She nodded.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘I’ll be at the Peabody just before three.’

  Nightingale gave that some thought. There seemed no danger of his being charged with anything, and it occurred to him that the detective might loosen up and perhaps give Nightingale some useful information if the formidable Ms Hutton wasn’t there to approve every question and answer.

  ‘Maybe that won’t be necessary,’ he said. ‘Seems I’m in the clear, and I should be able to cope with giving a witness statement. Why not take the afternoon off?’

  She sniffed. ‘I’m a very successful and hard-working attorney, Mr. Nightingale, and I plan to go as far as possible in my field. I won’t be doing that by taking afternoons off. Rest assured, I shall find something to fill my time, profitably. Entirely your decision, of course, but call me if you change your mind.’ She handed him a business card, spun round quickly and walked away with a clatter of heels and without a parting smile.

  CHAPTER 27

  Nightingale walked into the closest diner to the police station and ordered a substantial breakfast from a large, blonde woman in a gingham apron. According to the menu, it was called Stan’s Café and certainly seemed a step down from Brother Juniper’s yesterday, but Nightingale was too hungry to be critical.

  He checked the display on his mobile phone while he waited for his order to arrive. Three missed calls from a number in London, which he recognised as the Wiccan Woman store, and three more from Wainwright. Nightingale called Wainwright and the Texan answered almost immediately. ‘So, you’re out?’ said Wainwright.

  No greeting, and no warmth in the man’s voice. Seemed the stress was really getting to him now, and Nightingale couldn’t wonder at that.

  ‘I’m out. Nothing to keep me for, though they’ll have some questions later.’

  ‘Tell me,’

  Nightingale ran through the events of the previous night.

  ‘Yeah. I got some of that from the news, some of it I got from...other places. What the hell is going on, Jack?’

  ‘Joshua, I genuinely have no idea. Apart from another name crossed off.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. Happened around midnight.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Nightingale. ‘The kid died a couple of hours earlier. Guess whoever’s doing this didn’t want me tipped off.’

  ‘But you still have no ideas?’

  ‘Maybe I do have the start of one. I’ll be needing to make a call or two.’

  ‘You keep saying that, Jack, but time’s a-wasting here. We’re running out of days.’

  ‘And kids are running out of life.’

  Wainwright’s voice hardened. ‘Jack, kids die every day, lots of them. They mean nothing to me. There’s just one on that list who does, and you need to stop this thing before it gets to her. If you can’t, maybe...’

  ‘Maybe what, Joshua?’

  ‘Maybe I need to find Plan B, and soon.’

  ‘Let me know if you think of one, I need all the help I can get. I really thought Kim Jarvis might be part of the solution, turns out she was a huge part of the problem. That’ll be my next stop, try to find out what kind of people she knew, who might have been controlling her.’

  ‘Get on with it, Jack. There are only five days to go.’

  ‘Yeah, and five kids likely to lose their lives.’

  ‘Like I said, only one that matters.’

  ‘Only one that matters to you,’ said Nightingale, but Wainwright had already gone.

  Nightingale finished his breakfast and paid. By the time he was on the street again, he’d forgotten what he’d eaten. But he had remembered that he needed to pick up his car from the cemetery. The guest information pack at the Peabody had warned him that hailing a cab on the streets of Memphis was pretty difficult
, so he found and called the yellow cab number, and was picked up outside Stan’s just as he was finishing a cigarette.

  CHAPTER 28

  Eighteen hundred miles away, the woman in the wheelchair sat at her window and watched the sun rise after another night of very little sleep and constant pain. Her tolerance to the drugs was increasing, and they were less and less effective with each night that passed. Most nights now, she didn’t even try to manoeuvre her weak and broken body into bed, but just caught what sleep she could in the chair. She knew that would cause more stiffness in the leg muscles, probably lead to pressure sores soon, but she hadn’t felt anything below the waist for many months now. It was the back that hurt her most, and the many operation scars, most with adhesion scar tissue growing inside them as they had healed after the extensive abdominal surgeries she’d needed. The doctors said the only remedy was to open her up again and remove them, but they would probably grow back again soon after.

  What would be the point?

  She turned the powered chair from the window, and drove it across to the other side of the room, where a large pine desk stood against the wall. The desktop computer with its large flat monitor screen was her real window on the world these days. She rarely left the house, apart from medical appointments, and her only human contacts were the two live-in carers and the domestic staff who cooked and cleaned for her.

  She touched the mouse, with her stronger hand, the left, and the screen sprang into life. She clicked back onto the news-site from Memphis, and her pale, thin lips twisted into a smile.

  ‘Another,’ she said to the screen, ‘and the slave too, though she didn’t matter. There will be others. A shame he was released so quickly. I’d hoped he would be out of the way until the end. Powerful friends. But they’ll be powerless to stop it.’

  She read the full story, then clicked back to reports from previous days. The child who’d thrown himself under the train, the one who’d walked off the sidewalk under a truck, the one who’d hanged herself at home. The earlier ones had barely rated a mention, but they were becoming more public now, and reporters were starting to ask questions about a possible connection. Of course, they would never get near the truth. Their minds could not have comprehended it, and besides, there was so little time left to them. They were no threat.

  And as for the man Nightingale, what could he do either? Just be pushed around the board like a lost pawn, always reacting to events, but never able to control or anticipate them, until it was all far too late. Until the whole plan had come to fruition, and everything had been lost.

  It was a good plan, born from hatred and the overpowering need for vengeance. It had sparked into life on the first day after she had awoken, been fed and fanned into a flame during the long months of operations and recovery. It was hopeless, of course, and they had left her as a badly-patched ruin, and with little time ahead of her. But her hatred had never wavered, maybe it had even given her the strength she had needed to fight through the treatments.

  She’d been left with a clear plan of action, but with no means to put it into practice. Those she could once have called on to carry it out for her unhesitatingly, never came near her now, and they would have lacked the power anyway. Her own power was horribly diminished by her ordeal, so there was only one way to get the help she needed.

  She’d taken the final irrevocable step, pledged all that she had left and made the ultimate sacrifice, all for hatred. The promise had been made, the pact signed, and she knew it would be carried out. What might happen to her after that was not a consideration. Nothing mattered but the hatred and the need to destroy.

  She read the latest news report from Memphis once again, then clicked on her personal diary, brought up the previous day’s date, and typed in two words.

  Charmaine Wendover

  Then two more underneath.

  Kim Jarvis.

  Then she scrolled down to that day’s date and again the cruel smile played over the thin lips.

  Would there be another one today? How would it happen? It must be all part of the pledge she had signed, what other reason could there be for it? And how desperate must HE be getting now, watching it all happen, and slowly beginning to realise that he was powerless to stop it.

  The pain suddenly shot through her, but this time she bit back the cry of anguish, and concentrated on what lay ahead. She had been promised that she would see it through till the end, and she planned to enjoy every day that was left to her.

  The hatred would see her through.

  CHAPTER 29

  The taxi dropped Nightingale a block or so east of the cemetery, and he walked along to the side street where he’d left his car. As he approached his car from the opposite side of the road, he was pleased to see that it looked just the way he’d left it, but when he walked round to the driver’s door he flinched at the sight of a black and white collie dog urinating against the front wheel. ‘Oh no,’ he said out loud. ‘Not again.’

  She stepped out from the front of the car and smiled serenely at him.

  ‘Hello, Nightingale. Going somewhere?’

  This time she’d changed her hair. The spiky fringe was gone, and her jet black locks were brushed backwards and upwards to form a halo around her young, dead-white face, She was wearing a calf-length leather coat over black leather shorts, torn, black fishnet tights and long studded black boots. Her t-shirt was black, with Born To Lose printed across it in bright red letters. Inverted crucifixes hung from her ears and there was a spiked dog collar fastened around her neck. A large silver ankh hung from the collar. The dog finished spraying Nightingale’s car and walked over to lick her hand.

  Nightingale could never get over her eyes. They were jet-black, the irises merging completely into the pupils, and always devoid of expression, let alone warmth. He shuddered.

  ‘Give me a cigarette, Nightingale. Unless the American health lobby have managed to persuade you to give up.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Nightingale. ‘Catch.’

  Taking out his pack, he tossed her a cigarette. It would probably have been safe to hand it to her since he hadn’t actually summoned her, but who knew the rules with Hell-spawned demons, even if they did show up looking like teenage Goths. Better safe than sorry. She caught it in her left hand, gazed at it and watched it light by itself. She took a long drag then smiled at him through the smoke. ‘In a hurry, are you?’

  ‘I’m guessing you know as much about that as I do.’

  She gave him an amused smile and rolled her dark eyes. ‘Now what on Earth makes you say that, Nightingale?’

  ‘I just thought I recognised one or two of your signature touches lately. What are you trying to do this time? I assume it’s nothing good.’

  This time she laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. Like someone swallowing broken glass. ‘The Great Detective has been doing some detecting. And by the way, Nightingale, I do things, I don’t try to do them.’

  ‘You failed at keeping my soul. You had it and I got it back. So it’s not as if your success rate is a hundred per cent, is it?’

  The laugh was a little less cruel this time. ‘File that under “unfinished business”, I think, I had more important fish to fry at the time, and you were quite useful to me. And what are these signature touches you’ve been so busy detecting?’

  ‘People keep killing themselves. You’ve been known to make that happen.’

  Her smile was gone now, and she took a step closer to Nightingale. He flinched backwards, a pure reflex action. ‘Oh yes, you know all about that don’t you, Nightingale? Poor Uncle Tommy and Aunty Linda. Then that Harrison character, and your poor dear, dead dad’s driver. Now what was his name...’

  ‘Alfie Tyler,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve often wondered, why did you do all that? All you needed to do to take my soul was just turn up on my thirty-third birthday and collect it. Why all the dead people? Why all the warnings to put me on my guard?’

  Her eyes seemed to grow bigger very quickly, until h
e was gazing into two huge pools of darkness that seemed to draw him in and down below their surface. ‘Because I can, Nightingale. And because maybe your miserable soul isn’t actually the most important thing in the known universe. Maybe it was never about you. Maybe you were just a very small cog in a very big machine.’

  ‘And is that what’s happening now? I’m being played again?’

  She chuckled. ‘Same old Nightingale. It always has to be about you. There are far more important things going on here. Don’t get in the way any more.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or maybe you’ll wind up as a suicide statistic too. You said it, you know it’s a little talent of mine. There’s a bus due along that road in four minutes. Would you like to know what it’s like to walk in front of it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t. You’ve said before that you don’t want me just dead, you want my soul.’

  ‘Oh I do. And I plan to have it. Unless something more important comes up. As the song says, ‘You can’t always get what you want’.’

  ‘Which song?’

  She raised one of her thick black eyebrows. ‘You don’t know? Before your time, I suppose. I forget about your sort and time. As I said, Nightingale, this isn’t about you, and you’d be very well advised to keep out of it. It would be a shame if you ended up dead. Or worse.’

  He flashed her what he hoped was a confident smile, ‘Maybe I feel lucky.’

  She raised a warning finger, then put it to her black-painted lips. ‘Hush now, You’ve got quite a long way on sheer dumb luck so far, but it can’t last. You need to be very lucky every time, if you’re not...’

  ‘I can’t pull out. There are children’s lives at stake.’

  ‘Ah, the old weakness, you’re just a big Santa Claus, aren’t you? Full of love for kiddies everywhere no matter whether they’re naughty or nice. You may have noticed that seven of them are dead so far, you’re not doing too well.’