‘As good as,’ said Nightingale, pushing the slice of lime down into the bottle with his thumb.
‘Women, hey? Can’t live with them, can’t strap them into a car and send them over a cliff.’
Nightingale looked at the barman. He was in his fifties, with receding grey hair drawn back into a ponytail, and a beer gut that strained at his dandruff-flecked shirt. ‘You married?’
The barman grinned. ‘Three times. Got my fourth off the internet. Latvian.’
‘Nice,’ said Nightingale. ‘How’s that working out?’
‘So far, so good.’
Nightingale raised his bottle in salute. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
Nightingale was on his fourth Corona when Jenny slid onto the stool next to him. ‘What’s wrong with you today?’ she asked.
‘I’m just blowing off some steam,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m the boss. I’m allowed.’
Jenny slid a cheque across the bar. ‘Mrs Hawthorne paid up.’
‘Good to know.’
Jenny put the cheque into her handbag, a beige Prada. The barman came over and winked at Nightingale. ‘The wife?’ he said.
Jenny glared at him. ‘His assistant,’ she said. ‘Get me a glass of Chardonnay and a pair of scissors.’
The barman frowned. ‘Scissors?’
‘Someone needs to put that rat on your head out of its misery,’ she said.
‘I’d get her the wine, because she probably means it,’ said Nightingale. The barman scowled and moved away.
‘How many have you had?’ asked Jenny.
‘Now you’re my mother?’
‘I’m not your wife or your mother, Jack. I’m your assistant and your friend.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I was trying to lighten the moment.’
‘What’s wrong, Jack?’
Nightingale shrugged. There was no way that he could tell Jenny what Mrs Steadman has asked him to do. ‘I just felt like a beer.’
‘Where did you go today?’
Nightingale took a long pull on his Corona and shrugged. ‘I went for a walk,’ he said. That was partly true, at least.
‘This isn’t fair,’ she said.
‘What isn’t?”
‘You keeping stuff from me like this.’ The barman placed a glass of wine in front of her and then waddled over to the far end of the bar. ‘Don’t you trust me?’
Nightingale looked across at her. ‘Of course I trust you. More than anyone. You know that.’
‘So why won’t you tell me what’s going on?’ Nightingale drained his bottle. He was about to wave for another when Jenny put a hand on his arm. ‘Please don’t,’ she said.
‘You won’t believe me,’ he said. ‘And if you do believe me you’ll think I’m crazy for even considering it. And if I do what she wants, and I tell you, then you’ll be an accessory …’ He tailed off, shook his head and stared at the bar.
Jenny tightened her grip on his arm. ‘She? Who are you talking about?’
Nightingale turned to look at her. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know. Just leave it be.’
She shook her head fiercely. ‘Tell me.’
Nightingale closed his eyes and sighed, then nodded slowly. ‘Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
73
Jenny sat back, a look of horror on her face. ‘You are kidding me,’ she said. They had moved to a corner table, away from the barman’s baleful stare. There he’d told her everything that Mrs Steadman had said to him.
‘I wish I was,’ said Nightingale.
‘She wants you to kill a nine-year-old girl?’
Nightingale nodded.
‘With knives? In her eyes and heart?’
‘That’s pretty much it.’
‘What are you going to do, Jack?’
Nightingale flashed her a tight smile. ‘Oh, I thought I’d pop around this evening and do the dirty deed. Like you do.’
‘I’m serious.’ Her face had gone pale and there was a small vein throbbing in her left temple.
‘I can see that.’
‘You should call the police.’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘The police wouldn’t get it. They’re not geared up to dealing with demons and stuff.’
‘I mean the stupid old woman, Jack. She’s clearly deranged. Mad as a bloody hatter and dangerous with it. She might find someone stupid enough to do what she says. She should be sectioned.’
‘What?’
‘Sectioned. She needs to be in a place where she can’t hurt anybody.’
Nightingale swirled his beer around and watched the slice of lime bob up and down. ‘Mrs Steadman isn’t crazy,’ he said.
‘How can you say that? You think it’s rational behaviour to go around talking about sticking knives into kids?’ She drained her glass and pushed it across the table to him. ‘Get me another, will you? If I go anywhere near that barman I won’t be able to stop myself grabbing his pony tail.’
‘He’s just bought a mail order bride,’ said Nightingale, getting to his feet. ‘A Latvian.’
‘God help the poor girl,’ said Jenny.
Nightingale went over to the bar and ordered a glass of wine and a Corona. ‘She’s a bit of a ball-breaker, isn’t she?’ asked the barman, nodding at Jenny.
‘She’s okay,’ said Nightingale.
‘I prefer Eastern European women. Easier to handle.’
‘Nah, she’s fine,’ said Nightingale. ‘She likes you.’
‘Like fuck she does.’
‘Seriously. She only acts like that when there’s attraction. It’s what she does when she’s flirting.’
‘Seriously?’
‘On my life,’ said Nightingale. The barman gave him his drinks, Nightingale paid and carried them over to Jenny. ‘Mrs Steadman knows what she’s talking about,’ he said as he sat down. ‘Up until now she’s always made a lot of sense.’
‘You think it’s sensible to even talk about killing a child? Jack, the woman is off her rocker. If she told you then she’s probably telling other people and there are plenty of sickos out there who might take her at her word. What did she say it was? A Shade, did she call it?’
‘It’s an evil entity without form. It can only act when it’s taken possession of something else.’ He saw the look of contempt on her face and held up his hands. ‘I know how crazy it sounds.’
‘Do you? Are you sure about that, because if you really knew I think you’d have turned her over to the authorities already.’
‘She isn’t like that,’ said Nightingale.
Jenny sipped her wine. The barman was grinning at her, and as she put down her glass he winked at her and gave her a thumbs-up. ‘What the bloody hell is he grinning at?’ she asked.
Nightingale twisted around in his seat. The barman moved down the bar, collecting empties. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘Probably just wanted to know if the wine was okay.’ He swirled his bottle again. ‘Look, I know everything I’ve said sounds totally mad, but Mrs Steadman has always steered me right in the past.’
‘I’ve never understood the attraction you have for that woman,’ said Jenny.
‘Attraction?’
‘You know what I’m saying. Whenever she calls you drop everything to go and see her. And it’s Mrs Steadman this and Mrs Steadman that. She’s a witch, you said.’
‘A white witch.’
‘A white witch who sells crystals and spells and voodoo dolls?’
‘Not so much voodoo. But Wicca stuff, yes. Spells and charms.’
‘Well, that right there is the sign of a disturbed mind. She’s best avoided, Jack.’
Nightingale lowered his head and moved closer to her. ‘But what if she’s right?’
‘Can you hear yourself?’
‘I’m just saying, what if? What if there is such a thing as a Shade and what if it has taken over the little girl?’
‘Then it’s not our problem. Let them get a priest or a vicar or whoever it is that the church uses for exorcisms.’
/> Nightingale shook his head. ‘An exorcism won’t work. That’s what she said.’
‘But shoving knives into her eyes and heart will?’
‘Special knives. Any old knife won’t do.’
‘Of course not. It probably has to be knives blessed by a vestal virgin or some such nonsense.’
‘She said she’ll give me the knives when I’m ready.’
‘Ready? When will you be ready?’
‘She said she didn’t expect me to believe her, not right away. She said I should find out for myself what’s going on.’
‘What does that mean?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘The Shade has an agenda. Something really bad, she said. The Shade can get people to do things, things they wouldn’t normally do. She says that I should find out who the little girl has spoken to, and see what happens to them.’
‘That’s just ridiculous,’ she said.
Nightingale grimaced, then reached for a copy of the Evening Standard that was sticking out of his raincoat pocket. He spread the paper out on the table and opened it at page five. The main headline read – ‘FATHER SLAYS FAMILY THEN KILLS HIMSELF’. Nightingale tapped the headline with his finger. ‘The inquest was today. Murder-suicide.’
Jenny frowned as she read the story. ‘He was a nurse,’ she said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Please don’t tell me that he worked at the little girl’s hospital.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘In the ICU, where she was first taken.’
Jenny stared at the article in horror. ‘That doesn’t make any sense, Jack.’
‘It does if Mrs Steadman is telling the truth,’ he said.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m a detective. I’m going to detect. That’s the easy part. But if she’s right and something has taken over the little girl, then God only knows what I’m going to do.’
‘What do you mean by detect?’
‘I’m going to head down to Southampton and ask some questions.’
‘Of whom, exactly?’
‘I want to find out why the nurse killed himself, for start.’ He grinned across at her. ‘Fancy a drive?’
‘I’m not a taxi service, Jack.’
‘I was thinking more of your role as my sidekick.’
‘Sidekick?’
‘Robin to my Batman. Lewis to my Morse. That pretty red-haired bird to my Doctor Who.’
‘Gromit to your Wallace?’
‘See, you do get it. Seriously, it’ll be useful to have a feminine face by my side, especially when I start asking awkward questions.’
Jenny sighed. ‘Okay, you’ve talked me into it.’
Nightingale grinned. ‘Excellent. And can we take your car?’
‘Jack …’
He held up his bottle. ‘I’ve been drinking.’
‘So have I.’
‘Nah, wine doesn’t count. And you’ve barely touched yours.’
74
‘That’s it,’ said Nightingale, nodding at a detached house with a tiny garden in front of it. Jenny pulled up at the side of the road.
‘I think the police tape all over the front door is a clue,’ said Jenny. They were in a small road on the outskirts of Southampton. The front door of the house was criss-crossed with blue and white crime scene tape and there was a yellow seal over the lock. ‘You weren’t planning on breaking in, were you?’
‘I doubt that there’ll be much to see,’ said Nightingale. ‘The cops’ll have taken away anything interesting.’
‘And you haven’t got any cop friends who can tell you what happened?’
‘It’s Hampshire police and I don’t have any contacts there. I rang Robbie and he doesn’t either.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘We’ll talk to the neighbours. See what they have to say.’
‘They’re not going to be able to tell you if Bella Harper is possessed.’
‘Oh ye of little faith,’ he said. They climbed out of the car and Nightingale turned up the collar of his raincoat. The sky overhead was gunmetal grey and there was a cold wind blowing down the street. According to the newspaper, the bodies had been discovered by a neighbour, and while the reporter hadn’t identified the neighbour, Nightingale figured that it was a fair bet that it would be the occupant of the house next door.
Jenny followed him as he pushed open the wooden gate and walked down the path to the front door. He’d already checked the electoral register and there were two people living in the house – Ronald Edwards and Ruth Edwards. He rang the doorbell and practised his smile as he waited for the door to be opened. He heard footsteps and then the rattle of a bolt drawn back. The door opened on a security chain. It was a grey-haired woman in her sixties. ‘Mrs Edwards?’
‘Yes,’ said the woman, squinting up at him with narrowed eyes.
‘My name’s Jack, Jack Nightingale.’ He took out his wallet and gave her his business card. ‘I’m a detective. This is my assistant. Can we talk to you about what happened next door?’
‘I need my glasses,’ she said.
‘I’ll wait while …’ She closed the door on him before he could finish the sentence. Nightingale and Jenny waited and after a couple of minutes Mrs Edwards opened the door. This time she was wearing spectacles. She waved the card at him. ‘You’re not a real detective,’ she said accusingly.
‘I’m a private detective,’ he said. ‘I don’t work for the police. But I do have some questions for you.’
‘Why? I told the police everything.’
‘I’m trying to understand what happened. That’s all.’
‘I keep getting journalists knocking on my door but I won’t talk to them. They just want the gory details so they can sell their newspapers.’
‘I’m not a journalist, Mrs Edwards.’
‘I know that. But why does a private detective want to know what happened?’
‘I used to be a policeman. Part of my job was to deal with people in crisis, especially people who wanted to hurt themselves. I want to know why Mr Fraser did what he did, that’s all.’
‘Really, we won’t take up much of your time, Mrs Edwards,’ said Jenny. ‘We just need to know what happened, and you probably know more than anyone, don’t you?’
She looked Nightingale up and down, then nodded. ‘Come on in, but wipe your feet, I’ve just had the carpet cleaned.’ She unhooked the chain and opened the door.
Nightingale carefully wiped his Hush Puppies on a mat as the woman watched, then Jenny did the same. She closed the door, replaced the security chain and took them along to the kitchen at the far end of the house. ‘I’ve just made tea,’ she said. She waved them to chairs next to a Formica table. ‘I’ll just take my husband his tea and then we’ll talk.’ She picked up a mug of tea and went up the stairs.
Nightingale looked around the kitchen. It was neat and tidy, with an old gas cooker that had been polished until it shone and a fridge that was just as clean but must have been made in the fifties. Something moved under the table and Nightingale flinched, but then relaxed when he realised it was a tortoiseshell cat. The cat stared at him, its tail twitching, and then it walked stiff-legged out of the kitchen.
‘You’re jumping at shadows, Jack,’ laughed Jenny.
‘It wasn’t a shadow, it was a cat.’
Mrs Edwards returned. ‘My husband isn’t well,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Nightingale.
‘Cancer,’ she said, patting her chest with the flat of her hand. ‘He needs oxygen to breathe properly. You’re not a smoker, are you?’
‘No,’ lied Nightingale. ‘Disgusting habit.’ Jenny looked away, suppressing a smile.
‘Ronnie smoked forty a day. I told him, those things will kill you, but he wouldn’t listen.’
Nightingale shifted uncomfortably on his chair as Mrs Edwards poured tea into three cups.
‘So what did you want to ask me?’
‘It’s about what happened next door,’
he said.
‘I assumed that, young man,’ said Mrs Edwards.
‘Did you discover the bodies?’
She nodded and grimaced. ‘It was horrible. Horrible.’
‘Can I ask you why you went into the house?’
‘I hadn’t seen the children. But his car was parked outside. He always took the boys to the childminder when he was at home during the day. I don’t sleep much, so I’m awake when he takes them out and he didn’t. And I didn’t see Sally come back from work. She works at an estate agents in the city centre. She gets the bus in and I’m usually in the front room reading when she gets home. And I had a package for her.’
‘A package?’
‘Nothing important, just some clothes she’d ordered for the boys. From a catalogue. I always took in parcels for her. I don’t go out much.’ She sipped her tea.
‘So you went around with the parcel?’
‘Not that day. I thought perhaps the boys were poorly or something, so I waited. And the next day I didn’t see them, so that evening I went round and knocked on the door. Nobody answered. So I went round to the back just to be sure, and the back door wasn’t locked. I opened the door and called for Sally but there was no answer and that’s when I realised something must be wrong.’ She shuddered. ‘I wish I’d called the police then and there because what I saw …’ She shuddered again. The cat walked back into the kitchen and Mrs Edwards scooped it up and began to stroke it. The cat mewed and Mrs Edwards kissed it gently on the top of its head.
‘Can you tell me what you saw, Mrs Edwards?’ asked Nightingale.
‘It was horrible,’ she said. She shivered and kissed the cat again. ‘He’d used a knife, on his wrists and his throat. He was sitting in the lounge, in the seat that he always sat in. He watched TV there and Sally would be on the sofa. When I went round I’d sit next to her. The chair was his, even the kids couldn’t sit there.’ She closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. ‘There are some things that you see that you wish you’d never seen. Does that make sense to you?’
‘Perfect sense,’ said Nightingale.
Mrs Edwards opened her eyes. They were misty with tears and she blinked them away. ‘The knife was still in his hand, even though he’d been dead for more than a day. The blood had soaked everywhere, over his clothes and the sofa and the carpet. It had congealed, like jelly, and it was swarming with flies. I couldn’t understand the flies. It’s September. There shouldn’t be flies but they were everywhere. On his face, on his neck, all over the blood. Every time I see a fly now I wonder if it was one of the flies from the house.’ The cat looked up at her and mewed. ‘Yes, darling, I know,’ she whispered.
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