Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller

by Stephen Leather

  ‘We’ve had a bit of a row,’ explained the landlord. He shrugged. ‘Women, can’t live with them, can’t throw them under a bus.’

  13

  ‘You know we had witches around here, more witches than almost anywhere in the UK?’ said the old man sitting opposite Nightingale. His name was Willie Holiday and he was a retired farmworker, well into his seventies. He was sitting at a corner table, next to the roaring fire, with Nightingale and another of the pub’s regulars, a fifty-year-old former miner who gave his name only as Tommo. Nightingale had bought them several pints and had knocked back four Budweisers himself.

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Nightingale.

  Willie nodded. ‘Loads of them. We were awash with witches in the sixteen hundreds. They had their own way of proving it. They’d stick needles in them and if they were innocent they bled and if they didn’t bleed they were witches.’

  ‘That seems fair enough,’ said Nightingale.

  Willie frowned. ‘Or was it the other way round?’

  The three men laughed. ‘The thing is, though, witchcraft isn’t always a bad thing,’ said Tommo. ‘My wife swears by crystals and pyramids, we’ve got dozens in the house. We even sleep under one.’

  ‘How does that work?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘It’s a paper lampshade, in the shape of a pyramid. And I have to say I’ve never had a bad night’s sleep since she put it up.’ He rubbed his left knee. ‘She uses a crystal on my knee when it gives me grief and that works too.’ He shrugged. ‘Did it when I was down the mines. It’s always worse in the winter but she rubs different crystals over it and the pain goes away.’

  ‘That’s not really witchcraft,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘If it works, it works,’ said Willie. ‘We’ve got haunted houses and spooky castles by the boat-load. You’ve heard about the Devil and Berwick, right?’

  ‘The thumb thing? Yeah. Funny story, that. Makes you wonder why the Devil wanted the town.’

  ‘Must have had his reasons,’ said Willie. He drained his glass and looked at Nightingale expectantly. Nightingale grinned and headed over to the bar. The bill would be going on McBride’s account, so he figured he might as well keep the locals happy.

  He returned to the table with two pints and a bottle of Budweiser and sat down. ‘Speaking of the devil, did you ever come across Jimmy McBride?’

  ‘The guy that shot the kids?’ Willie sighed. ‘Aye that was a rum do, that was.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Used to,’ said Willie. ‘There was a time when I used to give him a hand on the farm when he was busy, but he uses Polish gangs now.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Quiet. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Just got on with whatever needed doing.’

  ‘Never married?’

  ‘He didn’t seem to have much interest, if you ask me. But farming’s like that. You work all hours, you tend not to have much of a social life.’

  Tommo chuckled. ‘How does that explain your six kids and fifteen grandkids, Willie?’

  Willie smiled ruefully. ‘I met the right woman, early on,’ he said. ‘But it’s a real problem for a lot of farmers. Days can pass when you don’t leave the farm. Cows have to be milked, livestock has to be fed, there’s the EU paperwork. You don’t get much time for dating.’

  ‘And what was he like with kids?’

  Willie frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He shot eight kids. Why would he do that?’

  Willie shook his head. ‘God knows,’ he said.

  ‘I wondered if kids had been vandalising the farm, giving him a hard time, something like that?’

  ‘This isn’t the big city,’ said Tommo. ‘We don’t have gangs or vandals or even much graffiti.’

  ‘So why did he do what he did?’ asked Nightingale.

  The two men shook their heads. ‘Who knows?’ said Tommo. ‘We’ve never had anything like that happen before.’

  ‘Happened in Scotland,’ said Willie. ‘Remember? Back in 1996. Dunblane. What was that guy’s name now?’

  ‘Thomas Hamilton,’ said Nightingale. ‘He shot sixteen children in a primary school.’

  ‘They never found out why he did it, did they?’ said Willie. ‘Sometimes people just snap.’

  ‘Did he seem like the type who would snap?’ asked Nightingale.

  Willie shook his head. ‘He was rock steady,’ he said. ‘Never lost his temper, never a cross word.’

  ‘Did you hear about the Satanic stuff?’

  ‘It was in the papers,’ said Tommo. ‘Didn’t he have a black magic thing in his barn?’

  ‘An altar,’ said Nightingale. ‘Yeah, that’s what they said. Do you hear much about devil-worship up this way?’

  ‘It’s a bit cold to be dancing around naked in the open,’ said Willie. ‘That’s what Satanists do, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think they can do it inside as well,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Does anyone really believe in that these days?’ asked Tommo.

  ‘Some people do,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘What? A Devil with horns and a pitchfork?’

  ‘Maybe not horns and a pitchfork, but the Devil, sure.’

  ‘And why would the Devil want him to go out and shoot kids?’ asked Tommo.

  ‘He does move in mysterious ways, doesn’t he?’ said Willie.

  ‘I think that’s God, but I take your point,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘It’s becoming a sick world,’ said Tommo. ‘Maybe there is a Devil and maybe he’s behind a lot of what’s going on.’ He gestured at the television behind the bar. ‘Did you hear about that young girl that got taken in Southampton? That’s the work of the Devil, it has to be. Why would anyone abduct a nine-year-old girl?’

  ‘There’s a lot of sick people in the world, that’s for sure,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I just hope she’s okay,’ said Willie.

  14

  Bella Harper wasn’t okay. She was far from okay. She was lying on a bed, curled up into a foetal ball and sobbing. Sitting next to her was Candice Matthews, Candy to her friends. Candy was twenty-five – her hair was blonde but unlike Bella’s it was dyed, dry and slightly frizzy. Her cheeks were peppered with old acne scars and her nails were bitten to the quick. ‘Please don’t cry, baby,’ she said, patting Bella on the shoulder.

  ‘I want to go home,’ sniffed Bella.

  ‘I know you do. But you can’t just now.’

  ‘I want my mum and dad.’

  ‘I know you do.’

  ‘They’ll tell the police and you’ll get into trouble.’

  ‘We won’t get into trouble, Bella. No one knows you’re here.’

  Bella was wearing the clothes she’d had on at the mall. Skinny jeans and a Guess sweatshirt. That wasn’t what Eric wanted her to wear. Eric wanted her in one of the dresses he liked best. It was a princess dress he’d bought from the Disney store, all soft and flouncy with puffy sleeves. The dress was lying on the end of the bed. Eric always liked the girls to wear the princess dress on the first night. It was one of his ‘things’. Eric had a lot of ‘things’, and what Eric wanted Eric got.

  Candy stroked Bella’s hair. ‘Just put the dress on, baby. It’s like a game.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Eric doesn’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘So let me go.’

  ‘He will do. But first he just wants to show you how much he likes you.’

  ‘He can show how much he likes me by letting me go home.’

  ‘Baby, he will do.’ She stroked Bella’s hair again. ‘He wouldn’t want you to stay here for ever, would he?’

  Bella didn’t answer. She continued to sob softly.

  ‘Baby, you have to stop crying. Eric doesn’t like it if you cry. He’ll get angry and he’s not very nice when he’s angry. Do you understand?’

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘I know you do. And the quickest way for you to go home is to do what Eric want
s. Just be nice to him.’

  ‘I don’t want to be nice to him.’

  ‘Then think of it as a game. You’ve played games, haven’t you? Fancy dress games. That’s all it is. You put on the dress and then you can go home.’

  Bella rolled over and looked at Candy with tear-filled eyes. ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course,’ lied Candy.

  ‘If I put the dress on you’ll let me go home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bella sat up and rubbed her eyes. ‘Okay.’

  Candy smiled and patted the little girl on the arm. They always co-operated if you pressed the right buttons. Eric had taught her that. It was always easier if he stayed away during the first few hours. The girls always accepted the lies when they came from Candy. And by the time they realised that she was lying, it was too late.

  Candy helped Bella remove her sweatshirt and jeans and put on the dress. ‘Wow, you look lovely, as lovely as a princess,’ said Candy. ‘Look in the mirror.’

  There was a mirror on the door of the wardrobe and Bella looked at her reflection. She nodded. ‘It’s pretty.’ She turned to look at Candy. ‘Can I go home now?’

  ‘Soon, baby,’ she said.

  ‘You said I could.’

  ‘Yes, but you need to do something else. Okay? You need to comb your hair and make it look pretty.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s what Eric wants. You have to make yourself pretty for him.’ She picked up a comb from the dressing table and stood behind Bella, combing her hair as she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Tears began to run down Bella’s face. ‘Now don’t cry, baby. Eric doesn’t like it when you cry. He wants pretty, pretty, pretty.’

  Bella sniffed. ‘And when I’m pretty, I can go home?’

  ‘Of course,’ lied Candy. She smiled brightly. ‘Let’s get you looking pretty, pretty, pretty and you’ll soon be home with your mummy and daddy.’

  15

  Nightingale went up to his room just before midnight. He’d drunk eight bottles of Budweiser, and while he wasn’t drunk he was slightly unsteady on his feet. There were only three bedrooms and no locks on the door. He sat down on the bed and reached for his cigarettes and lighter. He was just about to light one when he saw the ‘No Smoking’ sign by the bathroom door. He sighed, grabbed his raincoat, and headed downstairs. The landlord was polishing glasses behind the bar. Nightingale held up his cigarette. ‘I’m heading outside for a smoke,’ he said.

  ‘No problem,’ said the landlord. ‘I won’t be locking up for a while, but if you’re late back, there’s a bell by the front door. Just give it a ring and I’ll come down and let you in. How’s the room, by the way?’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Nightingale. ‘No lock on the door, though?’

  ‘You’re the only guest,’ said the landlord. ‘And you can trust me and the wife.’

  ‘I’ve nothing worth taking anyway,’ said Nightingale. He let himself out and lit his cigarette as he walked down to the beach. There were thick clouds overhead blocking out the moon and stars, but there was enough light spilling out of the pub windows for him to see. He walked onto the sand and stood watching the waves break onto the beach. A bitterly cold wind blew in from the sea and he shivered.

  The sound of the waves was almost hypnotic and he found himself being lulled into a trance-like state, though that could have been a result of all the beer he’d drunk with his new-found Northumbrian friends. He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt towards the water, and was just considering lighting a second when something hard walloped against the back of his head. He fell to his knees and gasped, then something pounded between his shoulder blades and he fell forward. His face was pressing into the sand, and he coughed and spluttered and then something, probably a foot, slammed into the small of his back.

  He twisted his head to the side and saw a pair of heavy mud-splattered workboots and frayed jeans. The foot was still in the middle of his back, so there were at least two of them. He tried to turn his head to the other side but as he did so the foot pressed down, pushing his face into the sand again.

  ‘You don’t want to be asking too many questions around here, Mister Private Detective,’ said one of the men. ‘You’d best be heading back to London.’ His accent was Scottish and didn’t sound like any of the men that Nightingale had spoken to in the pub. ‘Be easy enough to knock you out and drop you in the sea. You wouldn’t be the first southerner to fall foul of the North Sea.’

  Nightingale managed to turn his face to the side and he spat wet sand out of his mouth.

  ‘Do you hear what I’m telling you, Mister Private Detective?’

  Nightingale spat again, and grunted.

  The foot between his shoulder blades gave a final push, and then he heard the two men jogging away across the sand. He rolled onto his back, gasping for breath, but by the time he’d got to his feet they had disappeared into the night.

  He stood up and wiped his face on his sleeve. As he lit a cigarette with trembling hands he heard a car start up and drive away. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered under his breath.

  16

  Candy slid back the bolts and opened the door to the bedroom. ‘Breakfast,’ she said, brightly. She picked up the tray and carried it into the room. Bella was in bed, the quilt pulled up around her neck. The princess dress was lying over the chair in front of the dressing table. Bella didn’t react as Candy put the tray on the bed. ‘I made you Cocoa Krispies,’ she said. ‘And toast.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ Bella said.

  ‘You have to be hungry.’

  ‘I feel sick.’ She curled up into a ball under the quilt. ‘I need to go to hospital.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘What Eric did, it hurt me. Inside.’

  ‘It doesn’t hurt. Every girl in the world does that. It’s natural.’

  Bella sniffed. ‘He hurt me.’

  ‘And I’m telling you it doesn’t hurt. That’s what girlfriends do for their boyfriends.’

  ‘I’m not his girlfriend.’

  ‘Yes you are, baby.’

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘And you will go home. But you have to let Eric do what he wants.’

  ‘Please don’t let him hurt me again, Candy.’

  Candy sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked the little girl’s hair. ‘Eat your breakfast, baby.’

  Bella rolled over and looked up at Candy. ‘Please let me go home. I have to feed Floppy.’

  ‘Floppy?’

  ‘My rabbit. I have to clean his cage. It’s Saturday, and Saturday is the day I have to look after my rabbit. My dad says if I don’t look after Floppy he’ll send him back to the shop.’ Her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Now don’t you start crying again, baby,’ said Candy. ‘You know Eric doesn’t like that.’

  ‘Don’t let him touch me again, Candy. Please.’

  ‘Now why do you say that, baby? You’re his girlfriend now. His little princess.’

  ‘I’m not his girlfriend. I’m not.’

  ‘Yes you are, baby. And you have to accept that. You’re his girlfriend until he says you’re not. Now sit up and eat your breakfast.’

  ‘Then can I go home?’

  ‘We’ll see, baby. Eat your breakfast and then we’ll talk about it.’

  17

  Nightingale woke up at nine. He had a blinding headache, but he wasn’t sure if it was the result of all the beer he’d drunk or the blow to the back of his head. He had a small mirror in his washbag and he used it and the mirror above the sink to check out his scalp, but he couldn’t see any damage and there didn’t appear to be any blood. He showered and shaved, then dressed and had a bacon sandwich in the bar before calling McBride. The call went straight through to voicemail. Nightingale didn’t leave a message, waited fifteen minutes while he drank a second cup of coffee, then phoned McBride again. When he didn’t answer the second time, Nightingale left a brief message saying that he was going out to the school.r />
  He went back up to his room and packed his bag, then went downstairs and paid his bill. He threw his bag onto the back seat of his car and drove to the school. He parked some distance away before climbing out and lighting a cigarette. There was a lone policeman in a fluorescent jacket standing at the school gates, stamping his feet to keep the circulation going. Dozens of bunches of flowers had been laid along the pavement outside the school and the railings were dotted with handwritten notes, mainly from children. Nightingale walked over and nodded at the officer. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  ‘You press?’ asked the policeman. ‘I’m not allowed to talk to journalists. You need to call the press office.’

  ‘I’m not press,’ said Nightingale. He blew smoke and saw the look in the officer’s eyes. He took out his pack and offered him a Marlboro.

  ‘Can’t, I’m on duty,’ said the officer.

  ‘I don’t see any senior officers around, and this being Sunday morning I’m pretty sure that you won’t. Most people are at the church service for the kids, so for the next hour or so I figure it’ll just be me and you.’ He held out the pack.

  The policeman looked around furtively, then took a cigarette. Nightingale lit it for him and the two men smoked for a while in silence.

  ‘You were in the job, yeah?’ said the policeman eventually.

  ‘What gave it away?’

  ‘You’ve got a copper’s eyes,’ he said. ‘London?’

  ‘Yeah. CO19.’

  ‘Armed cop, yeah? I thought it was SO19.’

  ‘They changed it. Around about the time it went from being a police force to a police service.’

  ‘Never wanted to carry a gun,’ said the policeman.

  ‘They’re an acquired taste,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You ever shoot anyone?’

  ‘If you pull the trigger you’ve failed,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s all about containment and resolution. If bullets start flying then you’ve done it wrong.’