Blood Bath (Seven Jack Nightingale Short Stories)

by Stephen Leather

  Blood Bath

  By Andrew Peters

  As long as she lived she never forgot the screaming. Totally unexpected, as the world went insane from one moment to the next.

  She’d been downstairs in the lounge, enjoying one of the two or three cigarettes she allowed herself daily. Richard had never approved, though he wasn’t one to nag, so she generally smoked when he wasn’t around. Like now, while he was upstairs wallowing in that old bath he liked so much. They were a funny couple in that respect. Quite the opposite from their friends. She couldn’t shower quickly enough, but Richard loved to lie in the bath with a book and a glass of wine. She often accused him of falling asleep in there, but he’d never admit it. Ten o’clock it was when it started, the News had just come on the TV when she heard the first scream.

  Most women never hear their husband scream. It’s not something men are prone to, even if they see a mouse or discover the dead body in a crime show, so Sarah was disorientated at first. It was a horrible noise, fear and agony combined and it kept on coming down the stairs. She’d never heard a human being make that much noise. She dropped the cigarette and sprinted for the door. She ran up two flights of stairs to the top-floor bathroom, shouting his name as she went, but there was no answer except the awful wordless screaming. She pushed at the door, but he’d locked it. Force of habit maybe, after such a short time together. She rattled the doorknob. ‘Richard…are you all right? Open the door.’

  A stupid question, nobody could be ‘all right’ and make that noise. She had to get in there.

  She turned the knob again and hit the door with her shoulder. The small bolt was designed to preserve modesty rather than security, the impact of a frantically determined nine stone woman popped the screws out, and she fell through the door. The screaming stopped instantly. She took one look and then started her own hysterical screaming. Her husband lay motionless in a bath full of his own blood.

  *

  Jack Nightingale liked to say that his diet consisted of the five major food groups in perfect balance: takeaways, coffee, banana muffins, Corona beer and cigarettes. Ten-thirty on a Monday morning was too early for a takeaway, maybe even a little too early for the first Corona, though that wasn’t an unbreakable rule, but everything else was present and correct. He’d passed through Starbucks on his way into the office, so the first coffee of the day sat steaming on his desk next to a half-eaten muffin. A cigarette lay smoking in the office ashtray, chances were very remote that it was anything like the first of the day. Nightingale was by no means a selfish man, so a similar cardboard cup sat on Jenny’s desk, though she wasn’t one for cigarettes, as she reminded him yet again. ‘Jack, you do know I could get you arrested for smoking in here. It’s a place of business.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that, love. I doubt that even my old mate Chalmers is that keen to nail me for something that he’d send a squad car round to fit me up on a smoking charge. Anyway, what would you do for a job while I was inside?’

  ‘Find a better one in about ten minutes. And I wouldn’t bother visiting you either. And don’t bloody call me love.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh. Where would you ever find another caring and considerate employer like me. And you’d lose all your pension rights.’

  ‘What pension rights? And what kind of considerate employer is it who rots my lungs every day?’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about it, the London traffic will do a much better job on your lungs than the odd fag.’

  Jenny laughed. It was an old argument and one she still showed no signs of winning, though she wasn’t the kind of girl to give up. Nightingale took another swig of coffee, a bite of muffin and a last drag on his cigarette before crushing it out.

  ‘Anyway, to business. How are things in the secretarial department of Nightingale Investigations?’

  ‘I’ve got to type up the invoice from the Booth case and send it off, pay Howard for that trace he ran on the boyfriend’s car and that’s about it. It’s not as if I have an elaborate filing system to maintain around here.’

  ‘So, nothing to keep me from my Sudoku, then?’ Nightingale picked up The Sun and started looking in his top drawer for a pencil.

  ‘You do know that the Sudoku is meant to be a coffee-time distraction, rather than a morning’s work?’ said Jenny.

  ‘Is it my fault I’m not good with figures? Anyway the diary’s virginal white again.’

  ‘Not quite…you’ve got an appointment at eleven thirty.’

  ‘I didn’t know about that. When did that happen?’

  ‘Well, perhaps if you kept normal office hours, you might be here when clients ring. It’s a young couple. Mr and Mrs Grainger.’

  ‘Couple, eh? Well at least it’s not likely to be divorce work if they’re coming together. Anything’s better than that. They say what it’s about?’

  ‘No, but apparently they were recommended to you by Robbie Hoyle. They said it was something rather unusual, but wouldn’t go into details.’

  Nightingale pursed his lips, which might have indicated increased interest. Robbie Hoyle was one of the few people from The Job that he still kept in touch with, and probably the nearest he had to a genuine friend. It was a friendship he valued all the more, since there had been a time when it looked as though it would be lost for ever. Nightingale consulted his watch. ‘Time for another fag before they get here then. Open the window would you, Jenny. I wouldn’t want to give them the wrong impression.’

  ‘Or even the right one.’

  ‘Least of all that.’ The open window had rendered the office almost bearable by the time the Graingers arrived. Jenny showed them in and they sat in the client chairs on the other side of Nightingale’s desk. The man seemed to move and sit very gingerly indeed, which was unusual for someone in his early thirties.

  Nightingale stayed in his chair, not being a man for etiquette or too fond of handshakes, took a good look and gave them the benefit of his trained observational skills. Both early thirties in fact, the man tall and quite good looking, with that Hugh Grant hairstyle that Nightingale always found slightly annoying. Nice suit, looked expensive. The woman was also fairly tall, maybe around five-eight, a definite looker, with long brown hair. Skirt, blouse, jacket in co-ordinating neutral shades, none of which Nightingale could have put a name too. On the border between grey, brown and green, but the overall effect was elegant and tasteful. Jenny offered coffee, but they weren’t keen…probably been warned against the office brew by Robbie Hoyle. She sat at her desk and took out a notepad.

  ‘I’m Sarah Grainger, Mr Nightingale. This is my husband Richard. Inspector Boyle suggested we speak to you.’ The Australian accent came as a surprise, and Nightingale suspected that Jenny had deliberately not mentioned it. Put him at a disadvantage. Revenge for her tortured lungs.

  ‘So, you went to the police first?’

  ‘No, not really. Robbie Hoyle is an old friend of my father’s and we spoke to him privately. He said that it wasn’t really a police matter, but that you….well… you had some experience with unusual cases.’

  ‘A little. Exactly how unusual are we talking about?’

  ‘Someone tried to kill my husband. But they couldn’t have done, it’s not possible.’

  Nightingale gave a smile which was meant to be encouraging.

  ‘As we detectives say, Mrs Grainger, perhaps you’d better start at the beginning.’ She seemed to be the talkative one, as the husband just sat quietly and grimaced. It occurred to Nightingale that he hadn’t actually said a word since coming in. Still, some people weren’t the chatty type. The woman took a packet of cigarettes out of what might have been an expensive handbag for all Nightingale knew, and offered him one. ‘Sorry, Mrs Grainger. You can’t smoke in here. Place of business and all that.’ Nightingale put on his best innocent look and studiously avoided catching Jenny’s eye.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Mrs Grainger, putting away the cigarettes. ‘Well as you can probably guess, Richard and I are from A
ustralia, though we both had British parents. We’ve been married about three years and worked in insurance over there. About six months ago, we were contacted by a British solicitor who was acting as executor for the will of a Mr Cedric Grainger. Apparently he was Richard’s great uncle, though he’d never met him or heard of him.’

  Nightingale wriggled a little in his cheap office chair, trying to make himself comfortable. This looked like a long story. He hated long stories. ‘The old man had died some months before, and the solicitor had been trying to trace his next-of-kin. Apparently Richard was all that was left of that side of the family, so he copped the lot.’

  ‘The lot?’

  ‘Yes, the old boy hadn’t been short of a few bob. A pretty decent sum of money, and the house too. In fact it was enough money for us to give up on the jobs and get ourselves over to the old country. We rather fancied being landed gentry.’

  ‘Tell me about the house.’

  ‘It’s a big old pile, in a village out in Sussex. Bletchingford. Plenty of grounds and its own little lake, Well I call it a lake, but the gardener bloke says duck pond, though it’s only recently we’ve seen a duck on it. Suppose there must have been more of them in the past, because the place is called Duck Lodge.’

  Odd name for a house, thought Nightingale…but then he’d once known a place called Gosling Manor. There was no accounting for taste.

  ‘Anyhow, we moved in last month and it’s taken us a while to get it straight. Some of the old furniture was only fit for the trash, and the plumbing and wiring needed work, but it’s pretty much organised now. The only bit we haven’t got round to is the library. Full of old books from floor to ceiling. We’re neither of us serious readers, so we’ll probably end up just getting them cleared away.’ Nightingale was beginning to regret his smart-arsed comment about smoking. This looked like a very long story. ‘We love the house, and everyone in the village has been so friendly…but then last Friday…Richard, maybe you’d better tell it…’

  Her husband started in his chair, as if he’d been dragged back from a daydream. He took a deep breath and made an effort to focus on Nightingale.

  ‘Yes, that’d be best,’ he said. Well, it was around nineish on Friday night, I’d spent most of the day clearing out a shed in the garden, so I was pretty dirty and weary. Fancied a long bath. There’s a nice old bathtub in the top bathroom…modern plumbing, but it’s huge, so I took myself off up there with a glass of wine and a thriller for a good long soak. I don’t know how to tell you this, Mr Nightingale… you’re going to think I was stoned or something….’

  ‘I’ve heard quite a few strange stories, just tell me as best you remember.’

  ‘Well, the water was good and hot, the wine was nice enough, but the book wasn’t that interesting, so I chucked it down and just relaxed. Maybe I fell asleep…I really don’t know. It seemed that way. Next thing I knew, I thought I heard the sound of a bird fluttering its wings, so I opened my eyes. And there she was. Standing next to the bath. The most beautiful enchanting woman I’d ever seen.’

  The memory seemed to leave him speechless for a moment. Nightingale shot a glance at Sarah. He wasn’t married himself, but Grainger’s last sentence hadn’t seemed the sort of thing that a husband would be best advised to say in front of his wife. Sure enough, her lips were pressed together tightly. Grainger was speaking again.

  ‘She was tall, pale-skinned with the most gorgeous long red hair and flashing green eyes. She just looked at me, and I felt those eyes boring into me. She spoke, I remember it so well, ‘I’ve come for you, Richard.’ That’s what she said.’

  ‘She knew your name?’

  ‘Yes. Odd now you mention it, but it didn’t seem odd at the time. And then I seemed to drift away again, out of the bath, onto cool grass. The sun was shining, She got on top of me. And…well…she took me inside her.’

  Nightingale was starting to feel uncomfortable now, and another glance at Sarah showed he wasn’t the only one.

  ‘It was wonderful the best thing I’d ever felt…but so…well…draining. And then all of a sudden, she reached down with her hands, and she dug her nails in to me and started scratching me so viciously…I’d never felt pain like it. I screamed…God how I screamed…and I passed out.’ Nightingale looked at Sarah again. He was no judge of expressions, but he’d have put money on her not enjoying Richard’s story. ‘A dream? A strange dream for sure, but nothing to get worried about, surely?’

  The woman spoke again. ‘No, Mr Nightingale, there’s a lot more to it than that. I was downstairs when I heard my husband screaming at the top of his lungs. I raced up there and broke the lock off the door to get in. When I did, he was passed out in the bath…and the bath was full of blood. And…. well… show him Rich…..’

  The man stood up, took off his jacket and tie and opened his shirt. Nightingale’s eyes widened and he gasped. The whole of Grainger’s chest was a mass of vicious, deep, livid scratches. They were just beginning to scab over, but he looked as if he’d been set on by some wild cat. ‘I’ve got matching ones on my back, and…er….down there too, Mr Nightingale. I don’t wonder that Sarah lost it when she saw me in the bath…I’d lost enough blood to make the bathwater look pretty gory. Nothing life-threatening, not deep enough to stitch, but Christ they hurt…and will do for a few more weeks.’

  ‘It makes no sense, Mr Nightingale,’ said Mrs Grainger. ‘What could do that to my husband? Dreams don’t leave you with wounds. And before you ask, there’s no way he could have done it himself. Rich is a nail-biter. I’m not, but I could never do that to my husband.’ Nightingale asked all the obvious questions. Were they sure the door had been locked? Could anyone have come in through the small window two stories up? Might Grainger have fallen asleep with his razor in his hand? Did they keep a large aggressive cat? And finally… ‘Had you ever seen this woman before?’

  ‘For sure, no. If I had, I’d never have forgotten her. She seemed almost unhuman, inhuman, more than human.’ He threw up his hands. “I can’t explain it.’

  ‘Can you help us, Mr Nightingale,’ said Mrs Grainger. ‘There has to be some rational explanation for what happened to my husband, surely? We’re scared stiff to be in the house after this.’

  Nightingale gave a good impression of a man who was thinking hard, though, truth be told, he had very few ideas. ‘Are you going home now? I think I ought to drive down this afternoon and take a look. Maybe then I can help.’

  ‘That would be great,’ said Mr Grainger. ‘Would five hundred be OK as a retainer?’

  ‘Just fine. If you’d make the cheque out to Nightingale Investigations. I should be with you around three.’

  *

  A year or so before, Nightingale might really have been confident of finding a rational explanation, but these days he was beginning to feel that the answer might end up being completely irrational. As usual his MGB was in the garage whilst its latest problem was being dealt with, so he was obliged to spend twenty minutes persuading Jenny that her dearest wish was a drive in the Sussex countryside in her smart Audi. Every now and again he thought that it really wasn’t all that good for office politics to have a secretary who was cleverer, more accomplished and much richer than her boss, but he generally decided to forget about it, since there was no chance he’d ever find anyone else to put up with him. The promise of dinner finally swung the deal, and it was just after three that Jenny drove into Bletchingford. It seemed to be an almost stereotypical English village, and they spotted the church, two pubs, a Post Office and a village store as they drove through. Duck Lodge wasn’t hard to find, being the biggest house in the place, set back from the main road behind some impressive gates which opened once Jenny announced their arrival to the intercom.

  There was a drive a few hundred yards long which led up to the imposing Manor House, and they spotted the duck pond over to the left. As a duck pond, it was impressive, but it certainly didn’t qualify as a lake. Maybe a couple of hundred yards across. Nightingale co
uldn’t see any ducks about.

  Jenny stopped in front of the main door, where the Graingers were waiting to meet them. Nightingale was dying for a cigarette, since Jenny had a strict ‘No Smoking’ policy in her car,(‘And besides Jack, it’s a place of business’) but the Graingers ushered the two of them straight inside.

  ‘Coffee for you?’ asked Mrs Grainger.

  Nightingale declined, the thought of coffee without a cigarette was worse torture. ‘Maybe we should take a look at the bathroom first?’

  Sarah Grainger led the way up two flights of stairs, past some sinister portraits of what Nightingale assumed to be Grainger ancestors, and along a landing to an impressive looking oak door. ‘You broke this down?’

  ‘Not really, Mr Nightingale, I’m not Wonder Woman, there was only a small bolt on the other side, held in with some short screws. It came away easily enough.’

  ‘Do you usually lock yourself in the bathroom, Mr Grainger?’

  ‘Yes, I do I suppose. I know a lot of people don’t …but…’

  ‘Would you like to go inside, Mr Nightingale? I’ll wait here if you don’t mind. We’ve been using the ensuite downstairs since Friday.’ Nightingale stepped inside with Jenny behind him. The bathroom was an impressive size, and dominated by the huge bath that stood against the left-hand wall. Nightingale had never seen such an old one, or one of such a size. It stood on four balled feet, and clearly pre-dated the idea of the built-in fixture. Two taps were set into the wall at the far end, but there was no trace of the ubiquitous modern shower fitting. On the opposite wall was a wash basin and a toilet, with a high-level cistern. They weren’t new, but clearly a lot more modern than the bath. Above the wash basin was a medicine cabinet, and between the basin and the toilet stood a large square wicker basket, presumably full of towels. There was one window, quite small and quite high up. Far too small for a full-grown woman to crawl through, even if she had climbed up two storeys.