Nightingale nodded but didn’t say anything. Robbie wouldn’t have to do anything. It would be down to Nightingale. Mrs Steadman had made it painfully clear what he was supposed to do – thrust knives into the eyes and heart of Bella Harper.
‘Is this connected to what’s going on up in Berwick?’ asked Robbie.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What about Marcus Fairchild?’
Nightingale shook his head.
‘Your life is bloody complicated, Jack.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need a cigarette.’
They went outside to the terrace overlooking Kensington Gardens and sat near a propane heater. ‘You know the history of this place?’ Nightingale asked Robbie.
Robbie shook his head.
‘It’s been around for ever,’ said Nightingale, lighting a cigarette. ‘The sixteen hundreds anyway. They used to bring prisoners here for a drink before taking them over to Marble Arch to the hanging tree.’
‘Nice,’ said Robbie.
‘That was back in the day when they hanged you for stealing a loaf of bread or looking at the squire wrong.’ He shrugged. ‘The good old days.’ He took another long pull at his cigarette. ‘Did you turn up anything about Fairchild?’
‘I looked, mate. But there’s nothing known, certainly nothing along the lines of what you were talking about.’
‘Okay.’
‘I did see if he’d worked on any paedophile cases, like you said, but couldn’t find any cases at all, not for the prosecution or the defence. He specialises in company law – I doubt that he would have been involved in anything involving paedophiles.’
‘Yeah, I think he was lying about that.’
‘Jack, are you sure he’s what you say he is?’
‘No question.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
Nightingale smiled ruefully. ‘Best you don’t know,’ he said.
83
Nightingale sat staring down at the gun on his coffee table. It was a matt black Taurus .45, small enough to conceal in a pocket. It would make a loud noise, but Fairchild’s Sussex house was a good half mile from his nearest neighbour. It was Wednesday, and on Friday Fairchild was due to take Jenny for dinner. Nightingale was sure that Fairchild had more than dinner in mind, so if he was going to stop the man it had to be done that night or the next.
He took a deep breath, put the loaded gun into his raincoat pocket and went downstairs to the street. His car was back in the lock-up and he headed towards it. He looked left and right and then jogged across the road. A bus heading his way seemed to accelerate towards him but it still missed him by yards. The driver glared at him as the bus went by and Nightingale realised that the acceleration had been deliberate. He turned up his collar against the wind as he walked by a Halal butchers. Two women swathed from head to foot in black niqab went by and they also seemed to be glaring at him through the slits in their headcoverings.
A traffic warden in a fluorescent jacket looked up from the car he was checking and his upper lip curled back into a snarl. Nightingale hurried on his way. A group of three young men in hoodies and low-slung jeans turned to stare at him with undisguised hostility.
He stopped at an intersection and looked both ways before crossing over. Two middle-aged housewives in cheap cloth coats stopped talking and frowned at him as he passed. He scratched his head, wondering if he was imagining all the hostile looks.
‘Got any spare change, mister?’
He turned to see Proserpine, sitting on the pavement with her legs drawn up to her chest. Her dog was sitting next to her, its tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth, Proserpine was holding a cardboard sign with ‘ANY SPARE CHANGE MUCH APPRECIATED’ scrawled in capital letters.
Nightingale stopped and looked down at her. She smiled up at him. Her hair was spikier than the last time he’d seen her, and she was wearing more black mascara than before, making her face appear even paler. She was wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket with silver studs in the form of small crosses and there was a heavy silver inverted cross hanging from a thick chain around her neck.
‘Penny for your soul, mister,’ she said, and winked.
‘Are you here for me or is this just one of those awkward coincidences?’
‘It’s all about you, Nightingale,’ she said. ‘It always is. So is that a gun in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?’
‘What do you want, Proserpine?’
‘I sense hostility in your voice, Nightingale. Aren’t we friends any more?’ The dog growled and she rubbed it behind the ear and made a shushing sound.
Nightingale took out his pack of cigarettes and tapped one out.
‘Those things will kill you,’ said Proserpine.
‘Everybody dies,’ said Nightingale. He lit the cigarette and took a long pull on it.
‘That’s not strictly speaking true,’ said Proserpine. ‘But there are different ways of dying, and lung cancer isn’t a pleasant way to go.’
‘Death is death,’ said Nightingale.
‘True, but there’s a big difference between death and dying. Wouldn’t you rather die happily in your sleep, dreaming of fluffy clouds and puppy dog tails or whatever floats your boat?’
‘What do you want, Proserpine?’
‘A cigarette for a start.’
‘Not scared of cancer, then?’
‘Not much scares me.’ She reached out her hand. There were thick silver rings on her fingers, studded with what looked like runes.
Nightingale gave her a cigarette. He was about to take his lighter out of his pocket but she smiled up at him. ‘No need,’ she said. She glanced at the cigarette and the end glowed redly and began to smoke.
‘Nice trick,’ said Nightingale.
‘It’s not a trick,’ she said. ‘You sound stressed. In a rush? Somewhere to be? And you still haven’t answered my first question. That is a gun in your pocket, isn’t it?’
‘You know it is, don’t you?’ he said, putting the cigarette pack back into his coat pocket.
She smiled. ‘Not much gets by me, Nightingale.’
‘So you know where I’m going and what I’m going to do.’
‘You’re going to kill Marcus Fairchild.’ It was a flat statement and not a question.
‘He deserves it.’
‘People don’t always get what they deserve, do they?’
Nightingale kept his eyes on Proserpine as he took another long pull on his cigarette and held the smoke deep in his lungs.
‘Cat got your tongue?’
Nightingale blew smoke up into the air. ‘I’m waiting for you to tell me what it is you want.’
‘We have a deal, remember?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, now it’s time for you to pay the piper. You’re not to go near Marcus Fairchild.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. You’re not to go near him. You’re not to speak to him, you’re not to contact him in any way. And you’re most definitely not to kill him.’
Nightingale’s eyes hardened. ‘He’s one of yours.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘That’s nothing to do with you. The deal we have is that I ask you to do something and you do it. Or you forfeit your soul.’
‘He’s an evil bastard.’
Proserpine smiled and shrugged. ‘And?’ She smoked her cigarette as she stared at him.
‘Ask me for something else,’ said Nightingale eventually.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t want anything else.’
‘You set me up,’ said Nightingale.
‘You contacted me, remember? You opened the door.’
‘But you knew I’d be after Fairchild. And you wanted to stop me.’
‘Again, you offered me the deal. I didn’t twist your arm. You wanted information about the Shades, and I gave it to you. Now you need to keep your end of the bargain. Or give me your soul. It’s your choice.’
‘He kills children. He sacrific
es them.’
‘Yes, I know. But you make it sound as if that’s a bad thing.’
Nightingale took another long pull on his cigarette as his mind raced. She was right, he’d entered into the deal willingly and yes, it had been his idea. And complaining that it wasn’t fair wasn’t going to change the mind of a demon from the bowels of Hell. The choice was his and his alone. He could agree to leave Marcus Fairchild alone, or he could kill Fairchild and hand his soul over to Proserpine. He blew smoke at the pavement and nodded slowly. ‘You win,’ he said.
‘I usually do,’ said Proserpine.
Nightingale flicked his cigarette into the gutter, turned and walked away.
‘Hey, Nightingale.’ Nightingale turned to look at her. ‘Word to the wise,’ she said. ‘Beware of men in white vans.’
Nightingale flashed her a cold smile and walked away.
‘Be lucky!’ Proserpine called after him.
84
Nightingale’s head was whirling as he walked slowly back to his Bayswater flat. Proserpine had tricked him, he was sure of that, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he couldn’t stop Marcus Fairchild and within the next twenty-four hours he’d be in London with Jenny. He had to do something to stop the man, but what? If he interfered, he would forfeit his soul. But if he did nothing, Fairchild would continue to abuse Jenny in ways that Nightingale could only imagine.
The rear doors of a white Transit van ahead of him opened and two men climbed out. They were already walking towards him when Nightingale realised who they were. They were the two men who had broken into his house. This time they weren’t wearing ski masks and both were holding knives.
Their faces were set hard as they walked purposefully towards Nightingale. They were in a quiet side street, and while Nightingale could hear traffic off in the distance, the road they were in was quiet and the pavements were empty.
The smaller of the two men was also holding a sack. Nightingale could see how this was supposed to go down. The bag over his head, into the van, and off. There was another man in the back of the van, looking at him. Waiting.
Nightingale waited until the men were two paces away from him before pulling out the gun. The two men stopped immediately and looked at each other and then back to Nightingale. ‘Surprise!’ said Nightingale.
The man with the sack put up his hands. ‘There’s no need to do anything stupid,’ he said. He had a Scottish accent.
‘Doesn’t feel that stupid to me,’ said Nightingale. ‘Now sod off back to your van before I put a bullet in your nuts.’
Both men turned to go but Nightingale waggled the gun at the big man. ‘Not you,’ he said. ‘You can stay for a chat.’
The smaller man hurried away and climbed into the back of the Transit van.
‘Who sent you?’ hissed Nightingale.
‘Fuck you,’ replied the man.
‘Turn around,’ said Nightingale.
The man didn’t move and continued to glare at Nightingale, breathing heavily like a bull at stud.
Nightingale lowered the gun so that it was pointing at the man’s groin. ‘I’ll shoot you in the nuts and walk away,’ he said. ‘No skin off my nose.’
The man slowly turned around. The rear doors of the van slammed shut and the van pulled away from the kerb with a squeal.
‘Looks like your friends have left you in the lurch,’ said Nightingale. ‘I guess they weren’t expecting me to bring a gun to a knife fight.’
Nightingale transferred the gun to his left hand and jabbed the barrel at the base of the man’s spine. He slid his right hand into the man’s trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet. He flicked it open and saw that there was a driving licence among the credit cards. Nightingale slid the wallet into the pocket of his raincoat. ‘Now I know who you are and where you live,’ said Nightingale. ‘If you or anyone else comes near me again, I’ll hold you responsible, you hear me?’
‘I hear you.’
Nightingale jabbed the gun into the man’s back again. ‘You wouldn’t be the first person I’d shot, either. Loud noises don’t scare me.’
‘I said I hear you,’ said the man.
‘And first thing tomorrow morning the cops get your details and your name goes in the frame for the murder of Danny McBride. So if I were you I’d run far and I’d run fast.’ He jabbed the man again. ‘Now walk away before I change my mind and put a bullet in your leg for the sheer hell of it.’
The man did as he was told, running down the road as if the hounds of Hell were on his heels. Nightingale slid the gun back into his pocket, glad that he hadn’t had to fire the weapon. At least now Perry Smith would take it back.
85
Nightingale parked his MGB on the second floor of a multi-storey car park close to Camden market. He walked around the market for a while, smoking and thinking before making his way to the Wicca Woman shop. Mrs Steadman was standing behind an old-fashioned cash register and she smiled when she saw it was him. ‘Mr Nightingale, so nice to see you,’ she said. ‘Tea?’
‘Tea would be good, Mrs Steadman. Thank you.’
Mrs Steadman pulled back a beaded curtain behind the counter and called upstairs for her assistant. There was a rapid footfall and a teenage girl appeared, dressed in black with green streaks in her hair. Mrs Steadman patted the girl on the arm. ‘I’m making a cup of tea for Mr Nightingale – would you be a dear and mind the shop?’
‘Of course,’ said the girl.
Mrs Steadman patted her arm again, then took Nightingale through the curtain into the back room. There was a gas fire burning against one wall and the overhead Tiffany lamp was throwing multicoloured blocks of light over the floor. Mrs Steadman waved him to a circular wooden table and busied herself with the kettle and teapot. ‘Is everything okay – you look worried?’ she asked.
Nightingale took off his raincoat and sat down. He pulled the Express from his pocket and put it on the table. ‘Did you see the Express on Monday?’ he asked.
Mrs Steadman laughed. ‘I don’t read any newspapers,’ she said. ‘They’re far too depressing.’ She turned to face him and folded her arms. ‘It’s about the Shade, isn’t it?’
‘She says she wants to speak to the Prime Minister. And the Archbishop of Canterbury. And Prince William.’
‘Of course. It wants to create havoc. That’s what Shades do.’
‘People have died already. A nurse, a teacher, and a journalist. They all spoke to her and then they killed themselves.’
‘It was practising,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Testing itself.’
The kettle boiled and she poured water into a teapot. She opened a green fridge and took out a blue and white striped mug and put it onto a tray, then carried it over to the table. Nightingale moved the paper out of the way.
‘At least now you believe me,’ said Mrs Steadman as she sat down.
‘It was never a question of believing you,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just needed to prove it to myself.’
‘And now you have done?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Is there nothing else that can be done? No other way of handling it?’
Mrs Steadman reached over and put her hand on his arm. It was tiny, not much bigger than a small child’s. ‘I wish there was,’ she said. ‘But there is only one way of dealing with a Shade.’
‘Can’t you find someone else to do it?’
‘It has to be someone of this world,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘And it has to be someone who has a good heart and who believes. Men like you are few and far between, Mr Nightingale.’
Nightingale laughed harshly. ‘A good heart? Is that what you think?’
‘It’s what I know,’ said Mrs Steadman. She poured tea for the two of them and passed him a mug. ‘I realise how difficult this is for you. It’s a terrible thing to ask someone to do, I know that. But if it isn’t done, Mr Nightingale, if the Shade continues on its path, the whole world will suffer in ways that you can only imagine.’
‘What about putting the gi
rl in a place where she can’t speak to anyone?’ said Nightingale, but even as the words left his mouth he realised that he was suggesting the impossible. Put the girl in a dungeon somewhere and throw away the key? They didn’t even do that to terrorists – there was no way it could be done to a nine-year-old girl.
Mrs Steadman didn’t reply, she simply shook her head sadly.
‘Can this Shade thing move around, Mrs Steadman? Say someone talks to Bella, could it move over to that person?’
‘No,’ she said, putting her hands around her mug of tea. ‘A Shade comes from outside and moves into a body at the moment of death. That’s where it stays.’
‘Can it go back to where it came from?’
She nodded. ‘That’s why the eyes must be dealt with first. The Shade enters and leaves through the eyes. Once that avenue is blocked, the Shade dies with the host.’
Nightingale shivered, even though the room was uncomfortably hot. A gas fire hissed and spluttered against one wall.
Mrs Steadman watched him carefully as she sipped her tea. He could feel her weighing up, wondering if he was prepared to do as she asked.
‘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.’
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