Jack Nightingale 03 - Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  The Saab pulled up next to the MGB and Nightingale climbed into the passenger seat then sat with the coat on his lap. ‘Not cold?’ asked Morris.

  ‘Adrenaline,’ said Nightingale. He felt the gun shift and held the coat tighter.

  ‘Do you want me to park on the road or what?’

  ‘Let’s just drive straight up to the house,’ said Nightingale. ‘I know the guy so just in case there’s somebody inside I’ll ring the bell. If there is someone there I’ll spin them a line and we’ll get the hell out of Dodge.’

  ‘You said the place was empty.’

  ‘I said the guy isn’t there. He’s in London. And as far as I know he lives alone. But there’s a chance he has a housekeeper or something.’

  ‘And if he has, then what?’

  ‘Then we have a rethink. But there’s no point in counting chickens.’

  Morris turned off the road and pulled up in front of the house. He stayed in the car while Nightingale got out. Nightingale kept a tight hold on his coat as he walked up to the front door. He pressed the doorbell twice but no one answered. He turned and gave Morris a thumbs up.

  Morris joined him at the front door, carrying a black gym bag with a Nike swoosh across the side.

  ‘How do you want to play this?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘I’ll go in through the back,’ said Morris. He lifted the bag. ‘I’ve got the gear to get through most locks here but if all else fails I’ll go through a window. You’ll hear the alarm start to beep inside once the sensors kick off but I’ll get straight to the console and get it sorted.’

  ‘Go for it,’ said Nightingale. ‘If there’s a problem I’ll call you.’

  Morris nodded and walked around the side of the house. Nightingale unrolled his coat, put it on, then lit a cigarette. He was halfway through it when he heard a beeping sound from the hallway. Then he heard footsteps hurrying across a wooden floor. The beeping continued and Nightingale pulled a face as he anticipated the burglar alarm bursting into life. There was a muffled curse from the other side of the door and then the sound of something metallic hitting the floor, another curse followed and then the beeping stopped. Nightingale flicked what was left of his cigarette across the lawn. The front door opened and Morris stood aside to let Nightingale in.

  ‘Any problems?’ he asked.

  Morris gestured at a control panel on the wall by the stairs. The panel had been opened to expose the circuitry. ‘They’d removed the factory settings so it took me a bit longer than usual, but all good. In fact I’ve added another code so you can come back whenever you want. Just key in four nines and Robert’s your father’s brother.’ He went over to the console and began to reattach the cover.

  ‘I doubt that I’ll be back,’ said Nightingale. ‘But thanks.’ To the right was a huge open-plan room with exposed beams high overhead and a brick fireplace. ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘Kitchen door. It wasn’t bolted and I didn’t damage the lock. You can lock it from the inside and leave by the front door and no one will be the wiser. Or are you planning on staying until he gets here?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  Morris finished fixing the burglar alarm console and picked up his holdall. ‘Let’s just say that either you’re very pleased to see me or that’s a gun in your pocket.’

  Nightingale’s hand went instinctively to his pocket. The gun was weighing down his coat on that side. ‘Thanks for getting me in, Eddie. You can head off now.’

  ‘What’s going on, Jack?’

  ‘Just go, Eddie.’

  ‘I’ve known you a long time. Since you were a copper, remember? I know that you’re not a cop any more but you’ve always played by the rules. That’s why I put business your way. People trust you because they know you’re a straight shooter.’ He grinned. ‘Now isn’t that an unfortunate choice of words?’

  ‘This is personal, Eddie, and you don’t know the background.’

  ‘I know that guns don’t solve anything.’

  ‘I think the army might beg to differ.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re not in the army. And you’re not a cop. You’re Joe Soap, just like the rest of us. And just carrying a firearm will get you ten years. And you pull the trigger in anger and they’ll throw away the key.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re lecturing me on the law,’ said Nightingale. ‘It seems to be my day for receiving advice.’ He nodded at the door. ‘I know what I’m doing, Eddie. I’ll be fine.’

  Morris shrugged, clearly not convinced. He forced a smile and headed out of the door. Nightingale closed it and waited until he heard the Saab drive away before taking out the gun and clicking the safety off.

  63

  Nightingale walked up the stairs, the gun in his hand. At the top of the stairs was a hallway off which there were four doors. One was to a wet room, all grey marble, stainless steel and glass. Next to it was a bedroom with a Japanese theme; it contained a futon bed, black lacquered chests with brightly coloured birds on the sides, and a framed kimono on one wall. The door next to the Japanese bedroom was locked. Nightingale bent down and squinted through the keyhole but the room beyond was in darkness. He straightened up then stiffened as he heard a car horn. He hurried back into the Japanese room and carefully peered through the slatted wooden blinds, but the driveway was empty. The horn sounded again and he saw a white van in the road trying to overtake a Volvo towing a caravan.

  Nightingale reached for his cigarettes but then realised that smoking in the house wouldn’t be a good idea. Fairchild was a cigar smoker but even so he’d probably smell the cigarette smoke as soon as he opened the front door. He went back to the landing. The final door led through to the master bedroom. This room had thick beams running overhead, a large picture window looking over the garden and a small orchard, a big-screen plasma television on one wall and a king-size bed with leopard-print duvet and pillows. To the right was a door leading to another bathroom; this one had a large roll-top bath with clawed feet. One wall was mirrored and Nightingale stared at his reflection. His hair was unkempt and his face looked strained. He tried smiling but it felt more like a snarl. ‘Are you looking at me?’ he said to his reflection in a passable attempt at a Robert de Niro impersonation, and took aim with the gun. ‘Because I don’t see anyone else standing here.’ He grinned and winced as he realised that he appeared even more manic.

  He went back into the main bedroom. There were black wooden cabinets on either side of the bed, and standing on the top of each one was a modern chrome lamp. He went over to the cabinet on the right side and pulled open a drawer. Inside were several packs of Viagra and a bottle of massage oil. Nightingale chuckled and closed the drawer.

  He went back downstairs feeling less apprehensive now that he was more familiar with the layout of the house. He walked through the sitting room, which was an interesting mix of old and modern. The furniture was Italian – low, white leather sofas and black leather and chrome chairs – and there was a huge plasma screen on one wall with a state-of-the-art sound system. The bare floorboards had been polished like glass, but overhead were old blackened beams dotted with woodworm holes, and there were various rusting agricultural implements on the walls, including a ploughshare and an enormous scythe. The walls were criss-crossed with more original beams, blackened with age. In one wall was a huge brick fireplace that was big enough to walk into and there was a metal grate piled high with logs.

  As he stood in the middle of the room he realised that there was nothing of a personal nature to be seen. No photographs, no souvenirs, no books or magazines. It was as if he was standing in a show house that had yet to be occupied. The sensation was so strong that he went back upstairs and slid open the wardrobe door. There were suits and shirts lined up on hangers and a rack of ties; in the drawers there were socks and underwear. He closed the door, satisfied that Fairchild did actually live there.

  Downstairs again he found that opposite the sitting room was a door that opened into a study. It had a low
ceiling, with half a dozen parallel beams, and a small fireplace with ashes in the grate that suggested it had been used recently. Dark wooden bookshelves lined the walls, and in front of the old desk was a captain’s chair. For the first time since he’d set foot in the house Nightingale saw personal items: framed certificates for educational and professional qualifications on the wall behind the desk, a humidor on a table. He opened the humidor and inhaled the heady aroma of top-quality cigars. There was a green-leather winged armchair next to the fireplace and on the mahogany table by the side of it was a crystal ashtray containing a couple of cigar butts.

  Nightingale ran his finger along a line of books. They were mainly concerned with criminal law, psychology and politics. He checked all the shelves but couldn’t find any volumes about witchcraft or devil-worship.

  He went back to the hallway and along to the kitchen. There were more beams across the ceiling but the appliances and units were all of stainless steel and the worktops of black marble. There was a door leading to the rear garden, and another one next to the large double-fronted fridge. Nightingale frowned as he wondered where the second door led, then realised that it could only open into the double garage. He tried to open it but it was locked. Glancing around the kitchen he saw a row of keys on a rack close to the back door. There were several that looked as if they might fit the lock to the garage door so he took them and tried them one by one. The third one that he tried worked. He put the keys down on a worktop and pushed the door open.

  The double garage had been filled with metal trunks, dozens and dozens of them, and Nightingale knew immediately what they contained. He went over to the nearest trunk and saw it had catches on either side of the lid and a lock in the middle. Selecting a hammer from the rows of tools hanging on one of the walls, he used it to smash the lock, then he undid the catches. He pulled open the lid to find the trunk filled with leather-bound books. The first one he picked up and opened had a woodcut of a devil holding a pitchfork and standing in front of a woman with long hair; above it was the title Spells To Repel A Curse And Other Magiks. Nightingale flicked through the book. It had been handwritten in copperplate script, the ink fading in places. Nightingale put the book back into the trunk. ‘Got you, you bastard,’ he muttered under his breath.

  He jumped as his phone rang. It was Jenny.

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Fairchild’s house,’ he said. ‘The books are here. All of them. In dozens of metal trunks. He must have had a small army helping him.’

  ‘What are you going to do? Call the police?’

  ‘The police won’t do anything, kid. I can’t even prove that the books are mine and anyway I’d have to explain how I got into the house.’

  ‘Did you break in?’

  ‘No, he left a key under the mat.’ He laughed. ‘Of course I broke in.’

  ‘So are you coming back now?’

  ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I’m going to lie down. Don’t be too late.’

  Nightingale ended the call and went back to the sitting room. He put the gun on the coffee table and sat down on one of the chrome and leather chairs. It wasn’t comfortable but that was a good thing because he didn’t want to fall asleep.

  64

  Jenny woke up to the sound of buzzing and she groped for her alarm clock. As she fumbled for the off switch she realised that it wasn’t her clock; it was the door intercom, buzzing in the kitchen. She blinked as she stared at the clock. It was just after nine. She pulled on her robe and hurried downstairs. As she reached the bottom she remembered that she hadn’t checked the intercom. She turned to go back upstairs but then the buzzer rang again, longer this time. It was probably Nightingale. ‘Okay, okay,’ she said, hurrying across the hall to the front door. She opened it but froze when she saw who was standing on her doorstep. It was Marcus Fairchild. He was wearing a double-breasted blazer, beige slacks and shiny brown shoes. He smiled and his eyes sparkled.

  ‘Good evening, darling,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise you went to bed so early.’

  Jenny took a step back, clutching her robe around her neck. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  His smile broadened. ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ he said, stepping towards her. ‘There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.’ Jenny backed down the hallway. She could feel the strength draining from her legs. ‘Now listen to me, darling, listen to me very carefully.’

  65

  Nightingale groaned and stretched and slapped his right cheek a couple of times, trying to wake himself up. He was sitting on one of Fairchild’s sofas, his feet on a glass coffee table that was balanced on three large marble spheres. At just after ten o’clock he’d raided the fridge and found some cheese, tomatoes and celery and he’d eaten them with a couple of slices of bread and butter, and a can of Carlsberg. By his feet was a crystal ashtray with half a dozen cigarette butts in it. Once he’d found all the books in the trunks in Fairchild’s garage he’d decided that there was no point in keeping a low profile. One way or another it would all be over by morning, so he’d sat and he’d smoked and he’d waited.

  Every book from the basement of Gosling Manor had been packed into the trunks and transported to Epping. It would have needed a huge truck and quite a bit of manpower. Nightingale hadn’t even considered calling the police. He wasn’t sitting there in the dark because he wanted to talk to Fairchild about stolen books. He wanted to talk to Fairchild, that much was true. But Nightingale wanted to know exactly what the man had done to Jenny, and why. And he was sure that Fairchild would tell him, not because of the gun that Nightingale would be pointing at his chest but because the lawyer was arrogant, one of life’s boasters. He’d want to tell Nightingale everything, to revel in his superiority. Nightingale would listen to Fairchild, he’d hear everything that the man had to say, and then he’d pull the trigger.

  He reached for his pack of Marlboro. There were only three cigarettes left. He cursed under his breath. Why hadn’t Fairchild come home? When ten o’clock had come and gone Nightingale had assumed that Fairchild had gone for dinner in London, but now it was starting to look as if he wasn’t coming home at all.

  Standing up, he paced around the room as he smoked, then he stood at the window and looked out over the garden towards the road. He looked at his watch. It was just after midnight. He had no choice now: he had to wait until Fairchild came home because when he did he’d smell the smoke and he’d notice the missing food and he’d realise that someone had been in the house.

  Nightingale flinched as his mobile burst into life. He went over to the coffee table, picked up the phone and looked at the screen. It was Jenny. He pressed the green button to take the call. ‘Hi, kid, are you okay? I thought you were going to sleep.’

  ‘Where are you, Jack?’

  ‘I’m still in Epping. Fairchild hasn’t come back yet.’

  ‘Jack, I want you to come back. Now.’

  ‘I want to wait until Fairchild comes home.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Best you don’t know, kid. But I’ll take care of it. He’ll never hurt you again; I’ll make sure of that.’

  Jenny sniffed. ‘Please come back, Jack.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m scared. I need you.’

  ‘Jenny, just a few more hours.’

  ‘Please, Jack.’ She began to cry.

  ‘Jenny, honey, let me do this and then I’ll be straight back.’

  Jenny said nothing but he could hear her sobs.

  ‘What’s wrong, Jenny?’

  ‘I don’t want to be on my own. I’m scared.’

  ‘Did something happen?’

  ‘I just need you here. Now.’

  The line went dead.

  66

  Nightingale parked outside Jenny’s house. He climbed out of the MGB and pressed the buzzer on the intercom. There was a chill in the air and his breath feathered around his mouth as he stamped his
feet to warm them up. He pressed the buzzer a second time. He stood back and looked up at the upper windows of the mews house. There was a light on in the front bedroom. He reached out to knock on the door but realised that it was ajar. He pushed it open. The light was on in the kitchen at the end of the hallway. Nightingale looked back at the MGB. He’d left the gun in the glove compartment because he knew that if Jenny saw it she wouldn’t be happy.

  ‘Jack, is that you?’

  Nightingale peered down the hallway. ‘Jenny? The door’s open.’ There was no answer. ‘Jenny, are you okay?’

  ‘I’m in the kitchen.’

  Nightingale stepped inside the hall and closed the door. ‘How are you feeling?’ he called. There was still no answer. ‘Jenny?’

  He heard what sounded like a sob and he hurried down the hallway. She was sitting at the kitchen table wearing her pink bathrobe. He walked towards her.

  ‘Jenny?’ he said.

  She was trembling and then she looked to her left and Marcus Fairchild stepped from behind the kitchen door. He was holding a carving knife.

  Nightingale froze.

  ‘Don’t be shy, Jack,’ said Fairchild. ‘Come and join us.’

  Nightingale took out his mobile phone.

  ‘Don’t even think about making a call,’ said Fairchild, walking behind Jenny and thrusting the knife against her neck. He grabbed her hair with his left hand and pulled her head back, exposing her neck.

  ‘There’s no need for that, Marcus,’ said Nightingale. He put the phone away and raised his hands. ‘We can sort this out. There’s no need for anyone to get hurt.’

  Fairchild laughed harshly. ‘You think you can negotiate with me, Jack? Big mistake.’ He pressed the knife harder against Jenny’s throat. Jenny stared at Nightingale, her eyes wide with fear but she didn’t put up any resistance.