Jack Nightingale 03 - Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  ‘She’s had a shock, but she’s tough.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked. ‘About Fairchild?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Nightingale, but even before the words had left his mouth he knew that was a lie. He knew exactly what he was going to do about Marcus Fairchild.

  56

  ‘You haven’t finished your coffee,’ said Nightingale, dropping down on the sofa next to Jenny.

  ‘I’m not sure that I need caffeine right now,’ she said. ‘You know what I would like?’

  ‘A chocolate muffin?’

  Jenny laughed. ‘I was going to say a drop of brandy but if you’ve got a banana choc-chip muffin hidden away that would do the trick.’

  ‘No muffin, I’m afraid, and Starbucks is shut at this time of night. Where’s the brandy?’

  ‘Kitchen,’ she said. ‘Cupboard over the fridge.’

  ‘Funny place to store the booze.’

  ‘I cook with it,’ she said.

  ‘What a waste.’

  He patted her on the leg and pushed himself up off the sofa. In the kitchen he found the bottle and two brandy glasses and took them back into the sitting room. He poured two large measures and sat down next to her. They clinked glasses and she gulped hers down before he could say anything. ‘Hey, careful,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, reaching for the bottle.

  He grabbed it and held it out of reach. ‘You’re an amateur when it comes to booze,’ he said. ‘You should leave the hard drinking to the professionals.’

  ‘You, you mean? You drink that poncy Mexican stuff. Now give me that bloody bottle before I break it over your head.’

  ‘See? It’s already making you aggressive.’ He laughed and poured brandy into her glass, a smaller measure this time. ‘Try to savour it and appreciate the bouquet. Don’t just throw it down your neck.’

  ‘I hear and obey,’ she said, taking a sip.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  She shook her head tearfully. ‘It’s going to be a while before I’m okay,’ she said.

  Nightingale swirled his brandy around his glass. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Stop saying that,’ said Jenny. ‘It’s not your fault.’ She sipped her brandy again. ‘Why do you think he did it?’

  ‘He was getting information from you, about the books. Gosling was well known for buying up every Satanic book he could find, so when he died Fairchild must have figured that, as Gosling’s son, the books would have passed to me. So he hypnotised you to find out where they were.’

  ‘You think that’s all there was?’

  Nightingale took a sip of his brandy. It slid down his throat and he felt the warmth spread across his chest.

  ‘You’re not answering my question, Jack.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘How can we know? He erased your memory so we might never know. And I don’t see him telling us, do you?’

  ‘Do you think he . . .’ She shuddered and didn’t finish the sentence.

  She hadn’t said the words but Nightingale knew what she meant. ‘Don’t think about that, kid.’

  ‘How can I not think about it, Jack? There’s an hour missing from my life. And I was showering. Why the hell was I in the shower?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I’m not sure it’s worth guessing.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say, Jack.’

  ‘I’ll take care of it, Jenny. I swear.’

  ‘Take care of it? How?’

  He put his arm around her. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘What are you going to do, Jack?’

  Nightingale took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘Can’t you just leave it, kid?’

  ‘I have a right to know, don’t I?’ She wiped her damp cheeks with her hands. Nightingale got up off the sofa and went to get her a roll of kitchen towel.

  When he got back she was refilling her glass with brandy. He sat down, tore off a couple of pieces of paper towel and gave them to her. She smiled gratefully and dabbed at her face.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ she said. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Nightingale took another sip of brandy. ‘Marcus Fairchild framed my sister for murders she didn’t commit. I’m pretty sure he stole the books from the basement. And he’s done God alone knows what to you. He’s not going to get away with that.’

  ‘So you’ll go to the police?’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘The police won’t help. And even if they did, Fairchild’s a Satanist. He’s got access to all sorts of powers. I’m sure that the police won’t be able to touch him.’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘I’ll take care of it. That’s all you need to know. I’ll do whatever it takes.’

  ‘Promise me one thing?’

  ‘If I can,’ he said.

  ‘Ask him what he did to me. And why. Will you do that?’

  ‘Don’t worry. There’re a lot of questions I want answers to.’

  Jenny nodded and reached for her glass again. Nightingale took her hand. ‘Please don’t,’ he said.

  ‘It helps,’ she said.

  ‘How does it help?’

  ‘It numbs me and that’s what I need now. I need to stop thinking.’

  ‘Alcohol never helps.’

  ‘You think I should try smoking instead?’

  Nightingale laughed. Jenny slipped her hand around the back of his neck and before he could react she had pulled him down towards her and was kissing him. For a second he kissed her back but then he pushed her away.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What do you think I’m doing?’ She pulled him back towards her but he resisted.

  ‘This isn’t a good idea,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re vulnerable. Because you’re in shock. Because you’ve been drinking.’

  ‘What, you’re worried that I’ll accuse you of date rape?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘It won’t be rape, Jack. It’s what I want. It’s what I’ve wanted for a long time.’ She kissed him again and this time he found it harder to resist. Her tongue probed between his lips and he found himself kissing her back, but again he pushed her away.

  ‘Jenny . . .’ he said, his heart pounding.

  ‘You don’t want to?’

  ‘No. I mean yes. Yes, I want to. Of course I want to.’ He felt his cheeks redden. ‘This isn’t a good time.’

  ‘For me? Or for you?’

  ‘For either of us.’

  ‘I want you, Jack. And that’s got nothing to do with what’s happened today or because I’ve been drinking.’

  Nightingale smiled. ‘And what about tomorrow? What happens then?’

  ‘Can we cross that bridge when we get to it?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Shut up and kiss me.’

  Nightingale did as he was told.

  57

  Nightingale opened his eyes and frowned at the unfamiliar ceiling. He looked at the window. Blinds and not curtains. It wasn’t his bedroom. Then the bed moved and he realised with a start that he wasn’t alone. Immediately he remembered where he was and who he was with.

  Jenny had turned on her side with her back to him. He looked at his watch. It was just after ten.

  ‘If you want to do a runner I’ll pretend I’m asleep,’ she murmured.

  Nightingale laughed and rolled over so that he could put his arms around her. ‘Idiot,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry, I . . .’ She didn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘Jenny, I’m here because I want to be here.’

  ‘You don’t have to say that, Jack. I was vulnerable last night and I needed somebody to be with me.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mean that you were just using me.’

  She pushed her backside against him. ‘Now who’s the idiot?’ she said.


  He held her tighter and pushed his face against her hair. ‘I guess this is going to make things harder in the office.’

  ‘Feels like it’s making things hard now,’ she said, pushing against him again.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You and me.’

  ‘More than okay.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Jack, you’re going to talk this to death if you’re not careful.’

  ‘Talk what to death?’

  Jenny twisted around and rolled on top of him. She kissed him on the lips, her hair falling over his face. ‘This,’ she whispered and slipped him inside her.

  58

  Nightingale carefully carried a tray into the room and placed it on the bedside table. He sat down on the bed and gently stroked Jenny’s hair. She opened her eyes sleepily and smiled up at him.

  ‘What time is it?’ she murmured.

  ‘Eleven,’ he said.

  Jenny ran a hand through her hair. ‘Shit, I’m late for work,’ she said. ‘And my boss is an absolute bastard.’

  Nightingale grinned. ‘I’m sure you can twist him around your little finger.’ He nodded at the tray. ‘Coffee, and I warmed a croissant for you.’

  Jenny looked at the tray and frowned. ‘Where’s yours?’

  ‘I’ve got to go out.’

  Jenny rubbed her eyes. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ve got to take care of something.’

  ‘What?’

  He stroked her hair again. ‘Don’t you worry about it,’ he said.

  Jenny sat up and pulled the quilt around her breasts. ‘You’re not going to do something stupid, are you?’

  Nightingale smiled. ‘Do I ever?’

  ‘Frequently.’

  ‘I’ll be okay,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s just tell the police. Let them handle it.’

  ‘Our word against Fairchild’s? What good would that do? He’s a top lawyer, he plays golf with the Deputy Commissioner, he’s probably a Freemason as well as a Satanist. And what evidence do we have? And you can only half remember what happened even when you’re under hypnosis.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to take care of it.’

  ‘Can’t you just forget it?’

  Nightingale took her hand. ‘Can you?’

  Jenny forced a smile. ‘If I’ve got you, maybe I can.’

  ‘You’ve got me, kid. But I need to sort this out once and for all.’

  ‘Sort out what? Your books? Your sister? Me?’

  ‘All of the above,’ said Nightingale. ‘Yes, I want to know what he’s done with my books. But I need to know what he did to you and why. And you need to know too.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When you know everything, what will you do then?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘You can’t tell me not to worry, not when I don’t know what you’re planning to do.’

  ‘I’ll be back this evening, okay? I’ll fill you in then. I promise.’

  She grinned. ‘Fill me in?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ He leaned forward and kissed her. She slipped her hand around his neck and tried to pull him back into bed but he slipped out of her grasp.

  ‘Stay here, Jack,’ she said. ‘Let’s just hang out here, have lunch, fool around.’

  ‘I need to get this done first, kid,’ he said, standing up. ‘Don’t go into the office today. Stay here. Okay?’

  Jenny nodded. ‘You’ll come back? Today?’

  ‘Of course.’ He bent down and kissed her. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Be careful, Jack.’

  ‘Always. I just need one thing from you.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Fairchild’s address.’

  59

  Nightingale put his mobile on hands-free as he drove over Lambeth Bridge and into south London. He called Eddie Morris.

  ‘What do you want, Nightingale?’ asked Morris as soon as he took the call.

  ‘What makes you think I want anything, Eddie?’

  Eddie Morris was an old-school villain who had put a lot of work Nightingale’s way during the two years he’d been a private detective, mainly standing up alibis to keep him out of prison. His speciality was breaking into country houses but he wasn’t averse to burgling city centre apartments if the pickings were right. He was the ultimate gamekeeper turned poacher as he’d once worked for one of London’s top security companies, and there was nothing he didn’t know about burglar alarms and safes.

  ‘Because I only hear from you when you want something.’

  ‘I’ve been hearing that a lot lately,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need to update my Christmas card list.’

  ‘No, you need to start thinking about other people and not just yourself,’ said Morris. ‘It’s time you started sharing.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Eddie, since when did you go all touchy-feely?’

  ‘I’ve been watching a lot of daytime television,’ said Morris. ‘Jeremy Kyle, Oprah, all that crap. So what do you want?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Now? Betting shop.’

  ‘Can I persuade you to come to Epping with me? I’ve a job needs doing. Near the forest.’

  ‘What sort of job?’

  ‘The sort you’re good at. Country house. I assume with all the whistles and bells.’

  Morris sighed. ‘Jack, one of these days you’re going to drop me in it, you really are.’

  ‘I just need you to get me inside. I’ll do the rest. If you get caught you can just say you’re a squatter. The way the world is, squatters have more rights than owners these days.’

  ‘I’ll need a monkey.’

  ‘To help with the locks?’

  ‘Tosser. Five hundred quid. To help with my expenses.’

  ‘How about we take five hundred quid off my next bill?’

  ‘How do you know there’ll be a next bill?’

  ‘Because I know you, Eddie. You’ll be needing my services again. Look, I’m south of the river, can you meet me there? In Epping?’

  ‘Hang on, you just said you wanted me to go with you.’

  ‘I meant to the house. I want you to get me in and then leave me to it. If you’ve got your own transport then you can drive yourself back to London.’

  ‘You’ll pay for the petrol?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll pay for the bloody petrol. Just make sure you’ve got your tools with you.’

  ‘You’re a hard taskmaster, Jack.’

  ‘I’ll text you the address.’ Nightingale ended the call. So far so good.

  60

  Nightingale didn’t recognise the two heavies standing at the door to Smith’s house but he knew the type: big men who spent a lot of time in the gym and who’d probably been behind bars at least once. They were both wearing Oakley shades and heavy leather coats, and their hands were festooned with chunky gold rings. They stared at him as he parked the MGB and climbed out. Nightingale lit a cigarette before walking over to them. From a distance he hadn’t realised just how massive the two men were; up close he had to crane his neck to look at them. ‘I’m here to see Perry,’ he said.

  ‘He expecting you?’ growled the bigger of the two heavies, who was a good six inches taller than Nightingale. He had a gold canine.

  ‘No, but I’m an old friend.’

  ‘You don’t look like no friend of Perry’s,’ said the other. He had a thick scar across his left cheek that missed his eye by millimetres.

  ‘Yeah, well, we used to be lovers,’ said Nightingale, flicking ash from his cigarette. ‘Just tell him Jack Nightingale’s here.’

  ‘Wait there,’ said the one with the gold tooth and he walked inside, turning sideways so that his massive shoulders could fit through the door frame. Nightingale had smoked the cigarette halfway down by the time the heavy returned. ‘I’m gonna h
ave to pat you down,’ he said.

  ‘Be gentle with me,’ said Nightingale. He dropped his cigarette onto the pavement, stubbed it out with his shoe, and raised his hands.

  ‘You know they give you cancer,’ said the heavy as he began to pat Nightingale down. He worked his way along both his arms, then ran his hands over Nightingale’s back and chest.

  ‘What do?’

  ‘Cigarettes,’ said the heavy. His probing fingers found Nightingale’s mobile phone in his jacket pocket. He took it out and examined it. ‘They still make these?’ he said, holding up the Nokia to show his colleague. The other man chuckled.

  ‘It’s a classic,’ said Nightingale, taking the phone from him and putting it back in his pocket. ‘Like the car. Quality never dates.’

  ‘Can’t take video, can it?’

  ‘It’s a phone,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I want a video I use a camera. Did Perry ask you to search me or grill me on my use of technology?’

  The heavy knelt down and patted Nightingale around the groin and between his legs.

  ‘While you’re down there . . .’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Don’t even think about finishing that sentence,’ growled the heavy, starting on Nightingale’s legs. He checked both legs all the way down to Nightingale’s Hush Puppies then straightened up with a grunt.

  ‘Happy?’ asked Nightingale, lowering his arms.

  ‘You a cop?’

  ‘Used to be,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Yeah, you’ve got that cocky thing going, haven’t you?’

  ‘That’s more my natural exuberance,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Yeah, well, you wanna watch that your natural exuberance doesn’t get you your legs broken,’ said the heavy. He turned and knocked on the door and it was opened by another heavy. ‘T-Bone will look after you. You can try your natural exuberance on him.’

  T-Bone was the heavy who had accompanied Smith to the coffee shop, but he showed no signs of recognising Nightingale. He was wearing a dark blue tracksuit and had a fist-sized gold medallion hanging on a thick gold chain around his neck. He turned and walked down the hallway. Loud rap music was blaring out of the back room, something about shooting a cop in the face and stealing a car.

  Smith was sprawled on his sofa, his feet up on the coffee table. He was playing a video game, shooting at soldiers with a sub-machine gun. Sprawled on either side of Smith were pretty blonde girls in short skirts and low halter-neck tops. They were staring with vacant eyes at the screen and rubbing Smith’s thighs. ‘Give me a minute, Nightingale,’ said Smith, before shooting a soldier in the face and then blasting a group of four soldiers with a single hand grenade. He ducked behind a crate, reloaded, popped up again and let loose a burst that cut down three soldiers; then he tossed a grenade into a Jeep, killing another four men. Smith grinned, paused the game and put the controller on the coffee table. ‘You an X-box man or a PlayStation man?’