Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Screw you,’ he said, and turned his back on Lucifuge Rofocale. ‘I’ll see you in Hell. Or not.’

  Everything went white again and Nightingale was alone.

  Time passed.

  Or didn’t.

  88

  ‘Mr Nightingale?’

  ‘Yes?’

  There was nothing to see. Just white. Or an absence of white. Then Mrs Steadman was standing in front of him, smiling benignly and dressed in black.

  ‘A decision has been reached.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You are to go back.’

  ‘Back where?’

  ‘To where you were before.’

  ‘And then what happens?’

  ‘That’s up to you.’

  ‘And who has my soul?’

  ‘You do.’ She smiled. ‘Take better care of it this time.’

  ‘Mrs Steadman?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There’s no need to thank me, Mr Nightingale. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Steadman.’

  89

  Nightingale was falling. The wind whipped at his hair and roared past his ears and he saw Sophie and he saw Hoyle, one foot on a large plant pot, just about to launch himself from the next-door terrace. Time seemed to have stopped. Hoyle’s eyes were wide and staring, his right hand stretched out in front of him, his fingers splayed. Directly below Nightingale, Sophie was kissing the top of her doll’s head, her legs sticking under the balcony railing.

  He twisted in the air and reached out with his right hand.

  Hoyle scrambled across the terrace, his arms outstretched.

  Nightingale pushed Sophie back with his right hand just as Hoyle reached her and she fell backwards into his arms.

  Nightingale hit the railing so hard that it knocked the breath from his lungs but he managed to hang on with both hands.

  Hoyle put Sophie on the ground and rushed over to the railing. He reached down, grabbed Nightingale’s collar and hauled him up. Nightingale’s Hush Puppies scraped against the wall and then he fell over the railing and collapsed onto the terrace, gasping for breath.

  Sophie was sitting with her back to the wall. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ croaked Nightingale. ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Jack, don’t ever try a stunt like that again,’ said Hoyle.

  ‘It was a one-off,’ said Nightingale, rolling onto his back. He ruffled Sophie’s hair. ‘Are you all right, Sophie?’

  Sophie nodded but didn’t say anything. She began to sob quietly.

  ‘It’s okay now,’ said Nightingale.

  Hoyle picked her up and hugged her.

  ‘No,’ she sobbed into Hoyle’s chest. ‘It’s not okay.’

  Nightingale got to his feet and brushed himself down. Hoyle looked at him over the top of Sophie’s head. ‘Social Services,’ mouthed Nightingale, and Hoyle nodded.

  While Hoyle took care of Sophie, Nightingale took the stairs down to the ground floor. He lit a cigarette as soon as he was outside.

  Colin Duggan was standing by a patrol car talking into his radio. He finished the call as Nightingale walked over. ‘Please tell me that wasn’t you playing Batman up there,’ he said.

  Nightingale offered him his pack of Marlboro and Duggan took one. ‘All’s well that ends well,’ said Nightingale, lighting the cigarette for him.

  ‘The girl’s okay?’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘No, she’s not. Robbie’s going to take her to Social Services.’

  ‘What about the father?’

  ‘You should pick him up now. The mother too.’

  Duggan nodded. ‘That was Chalmers on the radio. He wants you in the office.’

  ‘Screw Chalmers.’

  ‘You’d better go, Jack.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  Duggan blew smoke. ‘What’s going on, Jack? Do you know this family?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘I just know what’s been going on, that’s all.’

  ‘If that’s the case, why didn’t you do something before?’

  ‘This is the first chance I’ve had,’ said Nightingale. ‘Be lucky, Colin.’ He walked over to his car.

  90

  ‘You’re finished, Nightingale. And not before time.’ Superintendent Chalmers held out his hand. ‘Warrant card,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want your warrant card. Then you can report to Professional Standards.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything to Underwood,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Simon Underwood. The father. I haven’t been near him.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? Who is Simon Underwood?’

  ‘Sophie’s father. He’s been having sex with her. The mother knows what’s going on. She’s either scared of him or doesn’t want to lose him.’

  ‘The girl in Chelsea Harbour?’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘She wanted to end it all because of what her father was doing to her.’

  ‘But she’s not at risk now.’

  ‘Not now, no. She’s with Social Services. But she was serious about wanting to die. She’s going to need a lot of therapy.’

  ‘Look, Nightingale, this isn’t about the girl. This is about you assaulting a member of the public.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m told that on the way into the building you thumped a plumber in the face. Broke his nose and chipped a tooth, as it happens. His lawyer’s already been on to us and he’s looking for six figures. Which, considering the number of people who saw you attack him for no reason, he’ll probably get. And apparently there was a photographer from the Daily Mail there, so expect to see yourself on the front page tomorrow morning.’

  ‘He was a rubber-necker; he only wanted to see her die,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You walked up to him and belted him without provocation.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you had to be there, and of course you never are, are you?’

  ‘Just watch your lip, Nightingale,’ said Chalmers, pointing a finger at him. ‘You hit a civilian, which means you’re out. You can resign or you can wait to be sacked, but either way you’ll be out by the end of the month.’ He tapped the desk. ‘Warrant card. Now. Then you can get yourself over to Professional Standards to make a statement. If you want to take your federation rep with you, fine, but it won’t do you any good.’

  Nightingale took his warrant card out and threw it down, then he took out his cigarettes and lit one.

  Chalmers glared at him. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t smoke in here!’

  ‘What are you going to do, Chalmers?’ asked Nightingale. ‘You’ve already sacked me, right? What else can you do? Arrest me for smoking?’ He blew smoke up at the ceiling. ‘You are full of shit.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, you’re a crap copper. But I’ll be keeping my job and my pension and you’ll be out on your arse.’

  ‘You’ve no idea what happened. You’ve no idea why I did what I did.’

  ‘Get out, Nightingale.’

  Nightingale took a long pull on his cigarette and blew smoke as he stared at Chalmers through narrowed eyes. ‘Okay, I’m going,’ he said. ‘Screw you and screw the job. But you need to look at Underwood. He’s a banker, over at Canary Wharf. You need to get a doctor to examine Sophie, run a rape kit too. With the right sort of handling Sophie will talk and I’m pretty sure the mother will give evidence against him once he’s taken away from the family. Okay?’

  Chalmers nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Now get the hell out of my office.’

  91

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  Nightingale sipped his coffee and looked out of the window at the wealthy housewives walking by with their designer bags and coats that cost more than he earned in a month. He filled in another crossword answer but realised that left him with a word ending in ‘J’ so he figured that he’d made yet another mistake. H
e’d never been good at crosswords but he was even worse at Sudoku.

  He saw Jenny walking down New Bond Street. She was carrying a leather attaché case and looking at her watch. Nightingale knew that she was expecting a call from an advertising agency that had interviewed her. She wasn’t going to get the job. The director of human resources would be calling to tell her just that.

  Underneath the Evening Standard crossword were classified adverts including the one that he’d paid for: ‘Private Investigator seeks bright assistant with a good telephone manner and Microsoft Office skills for a job that will never be boring.’ Nightingale wasn’t sure whether in modern Britain he was allowed to advertise for someone bright, as that presumably discriminated against all the stupid people in the nation’s capital, but the wording had been accepted without comment by the woman who’d taken his advert over the phone.

  Jenny walked into the Costa Coffee and ordered a latte. She was wearing a blue suit under a long raincoat with the collar turned up, and she had clipped up her hair at the back. He’d never seen her with her hair done that way before and it suited her. He smiled to himself. Strictly speaking, of course, he’d never laid eyes on her before. They’d never met or spoken. That was all in the future.

  Nightingale took out his pen and circled the advert, then dropped the paper down on the table. He stood up just as Jenny was collecting her coffee. She smiled when she saw that there was an empty seat but Nightingale turned away so that she couldn’t see his face. As he walked by her he caught the scent of her perfume.

  As he left the coffee shop she was sitting down and putting her attaché case on the table, next to the newspaper. He stopped, lit a cigarette and watched through the window as she sipped her coffee. ‘Catch you later, kid,’ he whispered, and walked away.

  Also by Stephen Leather

  Pay Off

  The Fireman

  Hungry Ghost

  The Chinaman

  The Vets

  The Long Shot

  The Birthday Girl

  The Double Tap

  The Solitary Man

  The Tunnel Rats

  The Bombmaker

  The Stretch

  Tango One

  The Eyewitness

  Spider Shepherd thrillers

  Hard Landing

  Soft Target

  Cold Kill

  Hot Blood

  Dead Men

  Live Fire

  Rough Justice

  Fair Game

  Jack Nightingale supernatural thrillers

  Nightfall

  Midnight

  About the Author

  Stephen Leather is one of the UK’s most successful thriller writers. Before becoming a novelist he was a journalist for more than ten years on newspapers such as The Times, the Daily Mail and the South China Morning Post in Hong Kong. Before that, he was employed as a biochemist for ICI, shoveled limestone in a quarry, worked as a baker, a petrol pump attendant, a barman, and worked for the Inland Revenue. He began writing full time in 1992. His bestsellers have been translated into more than ten languages. He has also written for television shows such as London’s Burning, The Knock and the BBC’s Murder in Mind series and two of his books, The Stretch and The Bombmaker, were filmed for TV. You can find out more from his website, www.stephenleather.com.