Tennessee Night (The 8th Jack Nightingale Novel)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘I got a call from a reporter,’ he said. ‘She’d been looking into other kids and suicides. I don’t know how she knew Charlie was...where she was, but she called me there.’

  ‘The reporter woman shot herself, they said. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know that either,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Seems you don’t know much, but then neither do I. Just know my little girl’s gone, and she never hurt anyone in her life. And I’m here without her.’

  Her eyes closed, and her head slumped to one side. Nightingale walked over to the sofa, turned her onto her side, and put a pillow under her head, then turned to leave. Her voice came again from behind him.

  ‘Hey, Mister. I saw her in the morgue, but you saw her there in that Crystal Grotto. Tell me, how did she look when you saw her?’

  Nightingale took a deep breath and didn’t look back. ‘She looked ...peaceful,’ he lied.

  ‘Peaceful. God, I hope so.’

  He looked round again now, but her eyes were closed, and she was breathing rhythmically. He walked out of the sitting room, but stopped in front of the table in the hallway and took out his wallet, There were a half-dozen hundreds, plus a couple of fifties, and everything else was small stuff. He left the large bills on the table, then let himself out.

  So many people with problems, they were like stray dogs. You couldn’t take care of them all, but every now and again, you did what little you could.

  CHAPTER 62

  Nightingale lit a much-needed cigarette and walked back to his car. He leaned against the hood to smoke, pulled out his mobile phone and un-muted the ringing tone. No messages, so he called Wainwright. ‘I’m done here, Joshua,’ he said.

  ‘You get what you wanted?’

  ‘Maybe. Be nice to make sure, we’ll only get one chance at this. The mother’s in a hell of a state. Drunk, broke, blames herself.’

  ‘Understandable, but what’s happening isn’t the parents’ fault.’

  ‘Might be a nice thing if I could find a way of explaining that to them that didn’t sound like a fairy story. How you doing with the priest?’

  ‘I found him at home and he was happy to do what you wanted, especially after a generous donation to the Church Restoration Fund. Might get spent on gin, but that’s not my affair. He’s gone into his church now to do the whatever to them. I’m not big on churches, so I’m waiting outside. He said it would be better if I joined in the ritual, but I took a pass on that. Can’t see anyone being fooled by me mouthing Christian stuff. He’s got the deputy priest to help him instead. Cost me another hundred.’

  ‘I think they call them curates,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Call them snowdrops for all I care. Be ready soon, where do I meet you?’

  Nightingale mentally ran through the short list of bars he knew in Memphis. ‘How about Huey’s Burger on South Second Street. We can meet and eat.’

  ‘Okay, though I don’t think I’ll be too hungry.’

  ‘Long day, best to refuel when you can, not when you want to.’

  ‘I guess. See you there.’

  ‘Good. And Joshua, you remembered to ask the priest to load the guns? It’s important nobody else touched the shells once they’re consecrated.’

  ‘He’s not happy about loading the guns,’ said Wainwright. ‘I guess I can understand his logic. But I’ve got a solution, don’t worry. See you.’

  Nightingale stood on his cigarette butt and got into the car. He hadn’t been proud of bothering Elise Wendover, who had enough to contend with, but the visit had at least served to strengthen a theory that had been growing inside him for a day or so now. He needed more confirmation, and he thought he knew where he might get it, provided his boyish charm was working today.

  Nightingale drove to Huey’s Burger and left the car in a parking lot. There was no sign of Wainwright, so he sat at the bar to wait. His heart said beer, but his head won, and he ordered a tomato juice, after a little debate with the young bartender about the correct pronunciation. The giant television behind the bar was showing a group of police cruisers standing in front of a landing-stage by the river, with a large old-fashioned white boat in the background. Nightingale looked at the bartender and pointed to the screen. ‘What’s happening?’

  The bartender moved a little further up the bar towards him. He was young, maybe yet another college student working to pay his tuition. He had short dark hair, still a few teenage acne spots on his chin. ‘How awful is that?’ said the bartender, gesturing at the television. ‘Bunch of kids on a school trip on the Island Queen, that paddle-steamer there. Seems like one of them fell off, straight onto the wheel.’ He shuddered. ‘Can you imagine that? Must have chopped her into a dozen pieces.’

  Nightingale froze, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Another one, he thought.

  ‘Did they identify the kid who died?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Does the name matter?’ asked the bartender. ‘Dead’s dead.’ The bartender moved away to serve another customer, and Nightingale kept staring at the screen. There was a group of children in uniform baseball caps, being lined up and counted by two adults, presumably their teachers. Nightingale stared long and hard at them, then pulled out his mobile phone and punched in Bonnie Parker’s number.

  ‘Bonnie? Jack Nightingale.’

  Sergeant Parker was not happy. Not by a long way, and she yelled into his phone. ‘Where are you, you bastard? And how come your mobile phone can’t be traced?’

  ‘It’s magic, Bonnie. I’m in a bar, looking at a news report from the river. Do you know the name of the kid who died?’

  ‘You bet your pasty English ass I do, you bastard. Get yourself in here, right now.’

  ‘Can’t do that, Bonnie. But please tell me the name.’

  ‘You know it damned well. Though how you know it, I have no idea.’

  ‘Ann Davies?’

  ‘In one. Now you tell me what this is all about, or I swear to God I’ll have an APB put out on you to have you shot on sight.’

  ‘I doubt that, Bonnie. Now I need you to do something for me. ‘Can you get me a list of substitute teachers in the State and the schools they have been to?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just a hunch.’

  ‘I’ll need more than a hunch to get something like that done,’ she said. ‘It’ll take hours and hours of work. My boss is going to want to know why. So no, I can’t do that. Not without a solid reason and you don’t seem to be giving me that.’

  ‘Okay, then how about this? I want you to call your daughter and ask her if she’s had any substitute teachers in the last few months.’

  ‘There are always substitute teachers,’ said the detective. ‘The schools couldn’t function without them.’

  ‘So ask her for the names.’

  ‘Not a chance. Since I cut off her phone and internet, her grandmother says she won’t speak to me. Anyway, why the sudden interest in substitutes?’

  ‘Because these kids are being reached somehow and it occurred to me it might be happening in the schools. Substitute teachers are always moving around, so…’

  ‘That’s a hell of a leap, Nightingale.’

  ‘It’s all I’ve got. But I did speak to the mother of Charmaine Wendover and her daughter had substitutes.’

  ‘I’m sure every kid in the State has,’ said the detective. ‘Okay, I’ll try to talk to Emma, but I can’t promise anything.’

  She ended the call. On a sudden hunch, Nightingale Googled the number of Saint Richard’s academy and called it. A female voice answered, who, he assumed, would be the secretary.

  ‘Hello there,’ said Nightingale in his best American accent. ‘Jack Jones here. Wanted to leave a message for one of your staff.’

  ‘Certainly Mr. Jones, which member of staff?’

  Nightingale gave her the name. As he did so, Wainwright walked in and joined him at the bar, putting his blue sports bag down by his side. Nightingale gestured with one hand for him to wait.
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br />   ‘Oh...right...I see,’ said Nightingale into his phone. ‘Yes...three weeks? Shame, my daughter was very impressed. Sorry to bother you.’

  Wainwright raised an eyebrow in a silent question as Nightingale ended the call and put his phone away. ‘Just a theory,’ said Nightingale. ‘But one that is rapidly turning into a fact.’

  ‘Care to share?’

  ‘Very soon, just waiting on another call. Let’s eat.’

  Wainwright ordered a coffee from the young barman, and they headed over to one of the vacant tables, taking menus with them. Nightingale set the remains of his tomato juice down on the red and white checked table-cloth, but had barely had time to open it when the waitress arrived.

  ‘Well, hello again,’ she said to Nightingale.

  ‘Hello again...Diane,’ he said, hoping she hadn’t noticed the pause while he looked at her name badge again. ‘You work long hours.’

  ‘Different shift today. You want to try the Heart Healthy Mahi-Mahi Plate again?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘and another tomato juice.’

  ‘Gosh, I just love your accent, Australian, right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Nightingale. He was often mistaken for an Australian and sometimes it was just easier to go with it rather then getting into a discussion about accents.

  ‘And what about your friend, then? I don’t think he needs to watch his weight.’

  Wainwright grinned at the compliment. ‘I’ll take the Special Hueyburger and fries, and I should have a coffee coming,’ he said.

  She nodded, ticked off the orders on her pad and headed back to the kitchen.

  ‘Girl’s got a good eye,’ said Wainwright, still smiling.

  ‘Not so sure,’ said Nightingale. ‘I mean, do I look out of shape to you?’

  Wainwright looked at him, as if he were appraising cattle. ‘Well, maybe you could stand a little sun, maybe spend some time in a gym. Tone up some, gain a little muscle.’

  ‘You may have noticed I don’t get too much spare time for that kind of thing. And how come people over here keep calling me middle-aged? I’m not even forty.’

  ‘When you reckon “middle-aged” starts?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘Maybe fifty, fifty-five.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Wainwright. ‘Provided you’re planning to live to be a hundred and ten.’

  ‘Okay, when this is over, maybe I’ll need to find time to get myself back into better shape.’

  Wainwright lost his smile. ‘When this is over, you better hope we’re around to be in any shape at all.’

  CHAPTER 63

  Bonnie Parker’s shift was over for the day and she walked out of police headquarters, got into her car and lit another of the cigarettes she was meant to have given up months ago. She cursed Jack Nightingale for his damned predictions, his list of names, his disappearing acts and for starting her smoking again. She pounded the steering wheel and let loose another volley of abuse while she tried to fight back the tears in her eyes. Ann Davies was dead, she’d known the child’s name in advance and there had been nothing she could do to save her. The fact that the child’s death was clearly suicide, and therefore couldn’t possibly be Parker’s fault, made no difference to her feelings of guilt.

  And now maybe there was one more child lined up for death, and she couldn’t do a damned thing about that either. Her ears were still burning from the discussion she’d tried to have with her Lieutenant. She’d thought long and hard about how to approach it, and finally decided to go with the ‘psychic tip-off’ routine. Which had got her precisely nowhere. Lieutenant Donaghue was a Homicide veteran who’d seen every kind of murder in his twenty-year service, but never a serial killer who persuaded kids to kill themselves and who let some mystery man know in advance who they might be.

  ‘Look, Bonnie,’ he’d said. ‘There isn’t even a Homicide case here. These kids killed themselves, there’s no doubt about that. For most of them, there are witnesses who’ll swear there was nobody near them. One or two, there were parents around, but no suggestion they were harmed.’

  ‘Come on, Mike, we’ve had half a dozen suicides of Junior School kids in a week. That just never happens, someone’s making it happen.’

  ‘So how?’

  ‘I dunno. Maybe they were hypnotised, or something?’

  ‘By who? They don’t go to the same schools, have the same friends, the same doctor or even live in the same part of town. There are simpler answers.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Copy cats. Maybe one or two are just the normal run-of -the-mill suicides, and then someone reads about the kid who walked under the beer truck, and sees the coverage he got. Or the one who threw himself in front of the train. All over the TV, and maybe they think they’ll get themselves some notice, be on TV too, if they do something public.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make much sense, Mike.’

  ‘They were suicidal, Bonnie. They’re not obliged to make sense.’

  ‘But what about the guy who gave me Ann Davies’s name? The day before she died.’

  ‘So who is he? Bring him in and he can talk to us.’

  ‘I don’t know where to find him.’

  ‘Well that’s no great help, is it? Think of the sensible explanations first. Maybe she told this guy she was planning to kill herself, maybe she discussed her plan on some social media thing. Maybe it was his way of tipping us off, trying to save her.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t work too well, did it?’

  ‘Look, Bonnie, you’re a good cop...’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mike, not that old soft-soap.’

  ‘Bonnie, I mean it. But you’ve had a hell of a few days, getting shot at on Beale Street, ending up with three deaths, that kid. You’re seeing connections where they don’t exist. Go home, get some rest. I know these suicides are hell, but we’re going to find they’re all copy-cats. There’s no case for us here.’

  Parker had bit back the urge to tell Donahue about Carmen Garcia. There was no way the Lieutenant was going to order a city-wide operation to notify every parent of a Carmen Garcia that their daughter might be about to kill herself, based on a tip from an English guy that Parker couldn’t even produce. She tried one last time.

  ‘But Mike, can I at least have a couple uniforms, do some questioning of parents, background checking, maybe see if these kids had something in common, something that triggered them off.’

  ‘Not a chance. You know we don’t have the manpower to deal with the cases we have, never mind inventing new ones. Look, Bonnie, I know how you feel, you got a kid around that age, but there’s nothing to this, just a statistical freak...what do they call it, a ‘cluster’?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Now, you got anything else?’

  Parker did have one other thing. The fact that Nightingale suspected that a substitute teacher might be involved. But that was just a hunch and her boss wasn’t a big believer in hunches.

  ‘No, I got nothing, Mike,’ she’d said.

  ‘Alright, get out of here, go home, have a few beers and forget about this job.’

  And that had been the end of that. As Parker sat in her car, she thought that drinking a few beers might be good advice.

  Until and unless some little girl called Carmen Garcia was reported dead.

  She said a silent prayer for her own daughter, and pulled out of the police parking lot.

  CHAPTER 64

  The woman in the wheelchair pressed the lever forward, and the chair moved from the bed towards the desk under the window. She clicked the left-hand button on the specially-made large mouse, and the screen sprang into life, tuned as ever to the Memphis News Channel. When she had made her pact, she had been told that events in Tennessee would concern her, and she had waited months to find out what this might mean. Seeing the report of Nightingale being found in the Crystal Grotto had alerted her to the fact that it had all begun, but she was still unsure of what ‘it all’ might be.

  But the
n, it was not her place to question the workings of the High Placed Ones among The Fallen.

  She had connected the last few public suicides with the death of the girl in the grotto, and then worked backwards through online copies of the Tennessee newspapers to connect up a few less public deaths. It was puzzling to her, since there seemed no reason why the one to whom she had pledged herself would be causing such things to happen. Child murder was more the preserve of human followers, such as the Order Of The Nine Angles, whose rituals called for the sacrifice of innocent virgin children to their master.

  Though her memory kept nibbling at the edge of an old story, a legend of a creature that might live off the deaths of children, but not slaughter them. Every time she strained to remember, the memory skated away, receding like the water of Tantalus. Or was it Sisyphus? These days she seemed to forget so many things. Still, it would not be much longer, surely. The doctors had done all they could, and were reluctant to offer any prognosis at all now.

  Her power was almost nothing compared to what it had been, Wainwright and his cats-paw had seen to that, but she could still sense the workings of a powerful adept, and knew now that Wainwright had joined his underling in Memphis. She knew that her own time was dwindling now, but she took consolation in knowing that her bitterest enemies would die before her.

  After all, a promise was a promise, and a pact was a pact. It was an immutable law.

  It was as she was reading about the girl jumping from the deck of the Ocean Queen that she first noticed the pain in her neck, and she moved her shoulders and head to lessen the stiffness, but it only seemed to make things worse. The pain spread rapidly from her neck to her forehead, and then seemed to take over her whole skull, as if she had been kicked by a horse. She cried out in agony, and reached for the call button mounted to the wheelchair, but her hands slipped over it as her head fell forward and she lost consciousness.