Still Bleeding (A Jack Nightingale Short Story)

by Stephen Leather

  At the rear of the reception area a piece of chipboard had been nailed over a window. Nightingale flashed her his most boyish smile. ‘What happened there?’ he asked, pointing at the broken and patched window.

  ‘We had a break in,’ said the woman.

  ‘Did they steal anything?’

  ‘There’s nothing to steal,’ she said. ‘Except the computers maybe. The police reckon it was drug addicts. Stupid because we don’t keep any drugs on the premises. So how can I help you? There’s no chance of a walk-in appointment today, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m moving into the area and just want to check how easy it would be to have this as my local surgery.’

  ‘Where are you living at the moment?’

  ‘Near Kilburn, North London. I’ve got two children and I’m told that Dr McKenzie is good with kids.’

  ‘He is, yes. He set up this surgery, actually.’

  ‘So no plans for him to leave?’

  ‘Dr McKenzie? Oh no, they’ll have to carry him out of here.’

  ‘Is he in today?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s far too busy to see anyone other than his appointments. Now, do you have your NHS number?’

  ‘Not with me, no. I just wanted to know what I needed to move.’

  ‘Your NHS number, some form of identification such as a driving licence or passport, and the name and address of your current doctor. Providing everything’s in order it won’t take long.’

  ‘Brilliant, thanks,’ said Nightingale. “I’ll bring my details in once I’ve relocated.’ He took a last look at the photograph of Dr McKenzie and then headed outside.

  Jenny had the engine running to keep the car interior warm and Nightingale rubbed his hands. ‘He’s in his fifties, grey haired, glasses.’

  ‘Not my type then,’ said Jenny.

  ‘I was telling you so that you can keep an eye out for him. There’s only four doctors there, two of them are women and the other guy’s a Sikh with a full turban. Dr McKenzie is in there now.’

  ‘So what’s your plan?’

  Nightingale looked at his watch. ‘Ben said that Dr McKenzie is still in contact with Tracey. I’m assuming that means the good doctor is still treating her. Open wounds like you have with stigmata probably need cleaning every day so assuming she’s not going to the surgery, he must go around to see her. Best time to do that would be after he’s finished at the surgery.’

  ‘Terrific. And what time does the surgery close?’

  Nightingale sighed. ‘Ah. Forgot to ask.’

  Jenny shook her head sadly and took out her iPhone. She went to the surgery’s website. The opening hours were on the main page. ‘Eight o’clock tonight.’

  ‘In two hours,’ he said. ‘Perfect. Fancy a curry? There was a curry house down the road. On me.’

  * * *

  Nightingale and Jenny were outside the surgery again at ten to eight, having polished off a lamb korma, a chicken vindaloo and a chicken biryani. Jenny was always loathe to let Nightingale behind the wheel of her beloved Audi so he had a couple of bottles of Kingfisher lager while she stuck to water.

  ‘I’m going to tell you this just once, Jack,’ she said. ‘But if you break wind even once I’m kicking you out and you can get the bus home.’

  ‘My bowels are sealed,’ he said. ‘But just to be on the safe side, how about I crack the window.’ He opened the window a few inches and settled back in his seat. ‘They had a break in, not long ago.’

  ‘Who did?’

  Nightingale nodded at the surgery. ‘They did. There’s a broken window at the back. And Connolly seemed to know an awful lot about Tracey’s medical records.’

  ‘You think he’s behind the break-in?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘It could be a coincidence, I guess.’

  ‘I can’t see a priest breaking in anywhere, can you? Not in that cassock he was wearing.’

  Nightingale laughed. ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right. But it’s strange that he knew about her medical records but didn’t seem to know that she’d moved.’ He grimaced. ‘Maybe I’m overthinking it.’

  The last patient emerged from the surgery at eight and one of the receptionists turned the SURGERY OPEN sign around to read SURGERY CLOSED. The Sikh was first to leave, followed by one of the women doctors, then two of the receptionists, and finally Dr McKenzie appeared, wearing a beige raincoat and carrying a black medical bag. He walked around to the car park and got into a black BMW.

  ‘Don’t get too close,’ said Nightingale, as the doctor drove out of the car park and down the road.

  ‘Do you think?’ said Jenny, putting the Audi into gear.

  ‘I’m just trying to be helpful,’ said Nightingale.

  The doctor drove east along the A222 to Bromley, the turned off the main road into a side street of terraced houses. He slowed and was clearly looking for somewhere to park. ‘Best I drop you near him so you can follow him on foot,’ said Jenny.

  ‘I’ll find a place to park.’ McKenzie had spotted a gap between two SUVs and switched on his turn indictor before slowly reversing.

  Nightingale climbed out of the Audi and lit a cigarette as McKenzie parked the car. Jenny drove slowly down the road.

  McKenzie got out of his BMW with his medical bag and headed down the street. Nightingale followed him on the other side of his road. The doctor walked quickly, his head down, deep in his own thoughts, until he reached a house with a blue door. He stopped, pressed the doorbell, and a couple of moments later slipped inside. Nightingale wasn’t able to see who had let him in. He crossed over the road. The house was Number 26. He took out his phone and called Jenny.

  ‘I’m parked up, not far away from where I dropped you,’ she said.

  ‘He’s gone inside Number 26.’

  ‘Can you see anything?’

  ‘Nah. I’m going to try to get around the back.’

  ‘Be careful, Jack.’

  ‘Careful is my middle name,’ he said, ending the call and walking quickly down the road. He counted the houses as he went. By the time he got to the corner, he had reached eight. There was a narrow alley running behind the houses. Nightingale flicked away what was left of his cigarette and headed down the alley. There were wooden gates set into the eight-feet high brick walls that ran either side of the alley. Few of the gates had numbers on them but Nightingale was able to count off the gates until he reached Number 26. He pushed the gate and it opened. He winced as the hinges squeaked. He opened it just enough to peer through. There was a small backyard with a rubbish bin and an oblong earthenware planter that seemed to be full of herbs. Or weeds. The backyard was illuminated by light from a frosted glass window upstairs, presumably a bathroom, and a softer light from a downstairs window. He pushed the gate again, wincing at the squeak from the hinges. He squeezed through the gap and gently closed the gate behind him.

  He stood with his back to the wall, his heart pounding. The backyard was the width of the terraced house and about twelve feet long. There were two bikes leaning against one wall and a rotary clothes line from which were hanging half a dozen men’s boxer shorts and several dresses that looked as if they would be worn by a twelve-year-old girl.

  There were blinds over the window but they weren’t fully closed, allowing light to spill out into the backyard. Nightingale moved forward on tiptoe.

  Through the gaps in the blind he could see into the kitchen. A young girl was sitting at the kitchen table. She had rolled up the sleeves of her shirt and was holding her arms out. Dr McKenzie was sitting opposite her. His opened medical bag was on a chair next to him. A man in his fifties, bald and overweight, was standing by the cooker, his arms folded, a look of concern on his face.

  The doctor was removing a dressing from the young girl’s right hand. The dressing was bloody and when he pulled it away Nightingale could see a small wound in the girl’s palm, not much bigger than a five-pence piece. The doctor put the dressing in a plastic bag and then removed a similar dressing from her left hand.
r />   Nightingale realised that he’d been holding his breath. The girl was obviously Tracey Spradbery and the worried man by the cooker must have been her father.

  A woman walked into the kitchen. It was obviously Tracey’s mother. She was a few years younger than the man by the cooker, with dyed-blonde hair and a washed out face as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. She sat down at the kitchen table and began talking to Tracey. Tracey nodded and said something to her mother and Mrs Spradbery laughed, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth.

  Nightingale’s phone buzzed in his raincoat pocket and he pulled it out. It was an SMS from Jenny. ‘EVERYTHING OK?’

  Nightingale sent her an SMS back. ‘SHE’S HERE. STAY PUT.’

  He put the phone back in his pocket. Dr McKenzie was dabbing a liquid on the girl’s wounds. He said something to her and she laughed. She was a pretty girl, with shoulder-length chestnut hair and big green eyes.

  Dr McKenzie reached into his bag and took out two fresh dressings. Nightingale jumped as the kitchen door burst open and a man appeared, holding a cricket bat. He was in his forties, tall with receding hair and a hooked nose and deep-set eyes that gave him the look of a hawk sizing up its prey. ‘Who are you?’ he said angrily.

  ‘Nightingale. Jack Nightingale.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ The man’s eyes were blazing. He used both hands to hold the cricket bat.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘This is my house,’ said the man. He held the cricket bat up in the air, ready to bring it crashing down on Nightingale’s head.

  ‘I want to write a story about Tracey and what happened to her.’

  ‘You’re a journalist?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Nightingale. He flashed the man a confident smile.

  Mrs Spradbery appeared behind the man. ‘Ricky, what’s happening?’ she asked. Nightingale couldn’t make out her face as it was in shadow.

  ‘Get back inside, Carla,’ said the man. ‘I’ll handle this.’ He kept his eyes on Nightingale and he took a step to the side, putting himself between Nightingale and the gate.

  ‘Do you want me to call the police?’ asked Mrs Spradbery.

  ‘I can handle it,’ said Ricky. ‘Just close the door.’

  The woman did as she was told. ‘Who do you work for?’ asked the man, still waving the cricket bat menacingly.

  ‘Who do I work for?’ repeated Nightingale.

  ‘What paper?’

  ‘I’m freelance,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Yeah? Freelancing for who?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘One of the Sundays.’

  ‘You’ve got a commission, have you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘From who? Who commissioned it?’

  Nightingale shrugged again. ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Show me your NUJ card.’

  ‘My NUJ card?’

  The man smiled sarcastically. ‘Have you got a hearing problem? If you’re a journo you’d be in the NUJ, freelance or otherwise. It’s the only card that the cops recognise.’

  Nightingale took out his wallet, opened it, then made a show of looking through it. ‘I must have left it at home.’

  ‘Show me your notebook then.’

  Nightingale grimaced and patted his coat pockets.

  ‘You’re as much a journalist as I’m Wayne Rooney,’ said Ricky.

  ‘That’s not fair, I’m not calling your footballing qualifications into question.’

  ‘I don’t have anyfootballing qualifications,’ said the man. ‘Two left feet.’

  ‘Then you really shouldn’t be passing yourself off as a professional footballer,’ said Nightingale. He made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Look, I’ve got work to do.’ He moved to get by the man he stepped in his way.

  ‘What do you want with my niece?’ he snarled.

  ‘Your niece?’

  ‘Yeah, my niece. I’m her mother’s brother and this is my house. Now if you don’t tell me why you’re sniffing around my niece I’m going to detain you using a citizen’s arrest and then I’m going to call the cops. And the cops don’t pussyfoot around with paedophiles.’

  ‘Alleged paedophiles,’ said Nightingale. ‘And you know that I’m as much a paedophile as you’re Wayne Rooney.’

  ‘So who are you?’

  ‘I told you. Jack Nightingale.’ He pulled out his wallet and gave the man a business card.

  Ricky took it with his left hand and squinted at it. ‘You’re a private eye?’

  ‘I can put two words together so it wouldn’t be impossible for me to write an article for someone,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘That doesn’t make you a journalist.’

  ‘No. But last I heard saying you’re a journo isn’t a criminal offence.’

  The man studied the card. ‘And you’re not local.’

  ‘I’m from London.’

  ‘Who’s your client, Mr Nightingale?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  Ricky lowered the cricket bat. ‘Do you drink?’

  ‘Do I drink?’

  ‘Alcohol.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘I’ve been known to.’

  Ricky nodded and leaned the cricket bat against the back wall of the house. ‘There’s a pub down the road.’

  ‘It’ll take more than a drink to loosen my tongue,’ said Nightingale. ‘Two, possibly three.’

  ‘You’re a very funny man, Mr Nightingale.’

  * * *

  Ricky’s full name was Ricky Hamilton. He was Carla Spradbery’s elder brother and for the last five years he’d been working as a researcher for a TV documentary company. Prior to that he’d been a journalist for almost twenty years, with long spells as an investigative reporter on The Guardian and The Sunday Times. He’d written half a dozen books, mainly political biographies. As a joke Nightingale had asked to see Ricky’s NUJ card and he’d happily produced it. The pub was a short walk from Ricky’s house, a traditional boozer with oak beams and a real fireplace. Ricky turned out to be a fan of Corona and he paid for two bottles before they found a quiet corner of the pub and sat at a small circular table. Ricky pushed his slice of lime into the neck of the bottle, pressed his thumb over the top and then inverted it. The lime rose slowly to the top and Ricky waited for it to touch the bottom of the bottle before turning it the right way up.

  ‘Why do you do that?’ asked Nightingale.

  Ricky shrugged. ‘I saw someone else do it once. It runs the lime taste through the lager.’

  ‘I was told that the reason they give you a slice of lime in Mexico is because it keeps the flies away.’

  ‘Nah, that’s an urban myth.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I’ve been to Mexico and they don’t serve it with lime there. It was a marketing gimmick, that’s all.’

  ‘Well it worked,’ said Nightingale. He clinked his bottle against Ricky’s and drank.

  ‘You followed the doctor to my house, didn’t you?’

  Nightingale nodded.

  Ricky looked pained. ‘I knew I should have got Tracey another doctor, but she loves Dr McKenzie.’

  ‘He seems to know his stuff,’ said Nightingale. ‘And the stigmata is real?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Ricky.

  ‘And she talks to the Virgin Mary?’

  ‘That’s what she says,’ said Ricky. ‘That’s harder to prove. But the wounds, they’re there, no question of that.’

  ‘And she cured Ben of his cancer.’

  ‘It was the Virgin Mary that told Tracey to get him over. She told Tracey to touch him, on the forehead, and to say a prayer. And that cured him.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘I spoke to Ben’s parents. They think it was a miracle.’

  ‘It was a miracle, no doubt about it,’ said Ricky.

  ‘So why not tell the world?’

  Ricky snorted. ‘Do you have any idea what happens to people who perform miracles?’

  ‘They become
saints?’

  Ricky nodded slowly. ‘If they’re Catholics, yes. If they’re not Catholics…’ He left the sentence hanging.

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘I’m saying that if you’re Mother Teresa or Pope John Paul then the Vatican will be turning over every stone to prove it and get them a sainthood. But when you’re not in the fold, when you’re an outsider, well that’s a game-changer.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘What do you know about the structure of the Catholic Church?’ asked Ricky.

  ‘Not much. I know the Pope’s the big guy, obviously.’

  Ricky flashed him a tight smile. ‘You’ve got the laity at the bottom. The people. Then you’ve got the deacons who help out at mass. Then you’ve got the priests and above them the bishops and above them the archbishops and above them, the cardinals. And right at the top, the Pope. It’s like an army. Hell, it is an army. And if any member of the army can perform miracles then they are fast-tracked to sainthood. But if anyone outside the army starts showing miracle tendencies – then it’s treated differently. The church regards it as terrorism. And they stamp it out.’

  ‘Stamp it out?’

  ‘They kill them, Nightingale. Sometimes they make it look like an accident, sometimes they just disappear. But they die. They have to die otherwise their existence makes a complete mockery of the Catholic Church.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because I’ve done my research. I’ve spoken to people. I’ve looked into the last fifty cases of reported stigmata and I can tell you this much – the ones that aren’t shown to be hoaxes either die or disappear. And that’s a fact.’

  Nightingale said nothing. His mouth had gone suddenly dry and he sipped his Corona, but that didn’t seem to help.

  ‘That’s why I need to know who your client is,’ said Ricky. ‘If you’re working for a newspaper or a magazine, or some reality TV show or other, then that’s fine. If your client is sick and wants Tracey to lay her hands on him, okay, we can talk about that. But if you’re acting for the Vatican, then we’ve got a big problem, Nightingale. One hell of a big problem.’