Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (37 page)

Robbie slid the driving licence out and looked at it. ‘Lives in Berwick.’

‘Might have been a cop,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m pretty sure they were the ones who killed my client.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Come on Robbie. Don’t you think it’s one hell of a coincidence? Danny McBride is found hanging in his brother’s barn and the guys who broke into my flat brought rope with them? I don’t think they were planning to go skipping with me, do you?’

‘And you fought them off? Since when did you turn into Chuck Norris?’

‘There wasn’t much fighting, truth be told,’ said Nightingale. ‘But if they’ve got any sense they’ll be on the lam already. Any news on that front?’

Robbie nodded. ‘There is a Met team looking at abuse in Berwick and north of the border. Operation Springboard. Half of the Operation Yewtree team have been moved over now that the Savile thing is coming to an end. They’re going to be moving in next week.’

‘And the stuff I sent?’

‘The paedophile unit handed it over to the Operation Springboard team. One of my mates has been seconded to the unit. They can’t work out how the email came from Stevenson’s computer but they’re not looking in the mouths of any gift horses. It’s going to be huge, Jack. Bloody huge. Some very big names are in the frame.’

‘They deserve everything they’ve got coming to them,’ said Nightingale.

‘Pity you won’t get any credit for it.’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘There’s no credit for anyone in all this,’ said Nightingale. ‘There’s something wrong with a society that allows this to happen. A lot of people have to turn a blind eye for organised abuse like that to take place. The world can be a sick place at times.’

‘You did a good thing, Jack,’ said Robbie. He leaned over and clinked his glass against Nightingale’s bottle.

Nightingale forced a smile. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I guess I did at that.’

M
arcus Fairchild lit a cigar and blew a cloud of bluish smoke across the back seat of the Jaguar. His driver didn’t complain; he was a heavy smoker, one of the reasons that Fairchild had hired him ten years earlier. They were driving into central London. Fairchild had three meetings fixed up at his City office, high-powered clients who paid seven-figure retainers for his legal expertise, and later he was going to take Jenny McLean for dinner. And after dinner he would do to her what he’d been doing to her ever since she was a child. He felt himself grow hard as he pictured himself on top of her, entering her. She never remembered, of course, A combination of drugs and hypnotic suggestion mean that she had no idea of what they did during their time together.

He opened his copy of the
Financial Times
and turned to the editorial comment page. It always amused him to see what journalists thought was important in the world. Most of them had next to no idea what really went on behind the scenes, which is how it was supposed to be. The true rulers of the world preferred to stay hidden from view and they would certainly never let journalists know what they were up to. And on the very rare occasions that a journalist did discover the truth, well, there were ways of dealing with them.

The Jaguar slowed and Fairchild looked up to see a red light ahead of them. He sighed. London traffic seemed to be getting worse year by year, which was why he tended to avoid the city centre whenever possible.

There was nothing on the editorial page to hold his attention so he flicked through the paper to the share prices. The traffic light changed to green and three cars moved forward, but the black BMW in front of the Jaguar stayed where it was. Fairchild’s driver waited a couple of seconds and then beeped his horn, a quick blip to alert the driver. Road rage was something else that was on the increase in London and a mistimed horn could easily result in a violent confrontation. The BMW stayed put and the driver blipped the horn again.

‘Why the hell isn’t he moving?’ said Fairchild.

‘Engine trouble, maybe,’ said his driver. ‘The road ahead’s clear.’

‘Well, pull around him, we can’t sit here all day.’

The driver turned on his indicator, but before he could turn the wheel a powerful motorcycle roared up next to them and came to a halt next to the rear passenger door.

‘Now what?’ said Fairchild.

The motorcycle rider was a big man dressed from head to foot in black leather. He was wearing a red full-face helmet with a tinted visor. He gunned the engine and turned to look at Fairchild.

‘Tell him to get out of the way,’ said Fairchild. He looked at his watch and tutted in annoyance.

As the driver began to wind down his window, the motorcyclist reached inside his jacket and pulled out a squarish gun with a snub barrel. Fairchild knew enough about weapons to recognise it. A MAC-10. It wasn’t the most accurate of weapons but at such a close range accuracy wasn’t an issue.

Fairchild opened his mouth to roar with rage, but before he could make a sound the motorcyclist had pulled the trigger with a gloved finger and the gun spat bullets at a rate of more than a thousand a minute. The clip emptied in a fraction of a second and more than half of the thirty-two bullets slammed into Fairchild’s face and chest. He was dead before he pitched across the seat and the motorcyclist sped off down the road, followed by the black BMW.

N
ightingale turned into the alley and saw the church ahead of him. He looked at his watch. He was ten minutes early. He took his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one, then walked back to the main street and window-shopped as he smoked. When he’d finished he tossed the butt into the gutter and headed back to the church. It was built of grey stone and appeared to be several hundred years old. It was hemmed in by much taller steel and glass office blocks that had been built around it over the years.

There was an arched oak door and next to it a noticeboard covered with plastic sheeting detailing the service times and announcing that there was a coffee morning every Saturday to which everyone was invited. There were black metal studs set into the door and heavy hinges and a large metal keyhole. Nightingale half expected the door to be locked but it swung open easily.

He stepped inside. The floor was large granite slabs and the walls rough stone. There was a Virgin Mary set into the stone to his left and to his right were wooden plaques containing the names of parishioners who had fallen during the two world wars. There were two lines of oak pews facing a small altar on which there was a brass cross, and to the left of the altar a wooden podium with a large Bible open on a lectern. Behind the altar was a huge arched stained-glass window, with Jesus putting his hand on the head of a young child.

The church was empty. Nightingale looked at his watch again. It was three-thirty. He looked back at the door.

‘Mr Nightingale?’

Nightingale whirled around. Mrs Steadman was sitting in the front pew on the right. He frowned. How had he missed her? She was wearing a black coat with the collar turned up and a black beret. She motioned for him to join her. He walked down the centre aisle, towards the altar. He wasn’t religious but he had a sudden urge to bow his head and make the sign of the cross on his chest. He shuffled along to join Mrs Steadman and sat down next to her. ‘I wasn’t sure that you would come,’ she said.

‘I said I would.’

‘Do you always do what you say you’ll do?’

‘I try,’ said Nightingale. He looked up at the stained-glass window. It was impossible to tell if the child that Jesus was blessing was a boy or a girl. ‘Why here, Mrs Steadman? Why a church?’

Mrs Steadman reached into a shapeless black leather shoulder bag by her side and took out a small leather roll, fastened with a braided leather strap. ‘These have to be handed over on hallowed ground,’ she said. ‘They must be returned the same way.’ Nightingale put out his hand to take the roll but Mrs Steadman moved it out of his reach. ‘Once taken, there is no going back, Mr Nightingale,’ she said. ‘You must understand that.’

‘I’m not sure that I do.’

‘The knives in the roll have an energy that needs to be controlled. That is why they have to be given on hallowed ground. Once they are in your possession that energy will start to wane. If you do not do what has to be done within a day, the knives will be rendered useless for ever. That must not be allowed to happen, Mr Nightingale.’

‘So it has to be done today?’

‘Within twenty-four hours. And the clock starts ticking from the moment the knives are in your possession.’ She undid the braided strap and unrolled the sheet of oiled leather. She lifted a flap to reveal the metal hilts of three knives. The two outer knives were about four inches long. The hilts were ornate spheres made up of a mesh of dozens of small crosses. The knife in the centre was about twice as long, and its handle was a crucifix with a figure of Christ on it. All three knives were pitted and blackened with age.

‘They’ve been used before?’

‘Several times,’ said Mrs Steadman.

‘I assumed that they would be left in the body,’ said Nightingale.

Mrs Steadman shook her head. ‘Oh no, Mr Nightingale. These are the only knives of their type. They have existed in this form for more than a thousand years.’ She took out one of the shorter knives. ‘These are for the eyes,’ she said. ‘They should be plunged in at the same time if that’s possible. If they have to be done one at a time then it needs to be done quickly. They have to be thrust in right up to the hilt.’

Nightingale nodded, trying not to think what it would look like to see the knives piercing a child’s eyes.

Mrs Steadman slid the knife back into its slot and took out the longer knife. It was made of copper, dull and mottled with age. She held it delicately, just under the crucifix, her fingers just touching the feet of the Christ figure. ‘This has to go into the heart,’ she said. ‘It must pierce the heart and go right through it. The blade must stay in the heart until the Shade dies.’

‘How will I know that the Shade is dead?’ asked Nightingale.

‘The Shade will die with the host,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Once the host is dead, you are to remove the knives and return them to me. Do not clean them, just return them as they are. I will do what has to be done. Now, this is important, Mr Nightingale. There are words you must say at the moment you insert the third knife.’

‘Words?’

‘An incantation. In Latin. Do you speak Latin, Mr Nightingale?’

Nightingale smiled. ‘Sadly, no. I went to a comprehensive.’

‘You must say the incantation perfectly,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘And it cannot be written down. It must be said from the heart.’

‘Okay,’ said Nightingale.

‘You have to memorise it,’ she said. ‘Word for word. Now listen to me carefully.’ Mrs Steadman spoke for almost a full minute. ‘Do you think you can repeat that?’

‘There’s more chance of me growing wings and flying around this church,’ he said.

‘Then I’ll break it down into smaller sections,’ she said, ignoring his attempt at humour. ‘But this is important. As important as the placing of the knives. Without the incantation, the knives will not work.’

Nightingale nodded. ‘I understand.’

For the next fifteen minutes Mrs Steadman went through the incantation with Nightingale until he was able to repeat it faultlessly, even though he had no idea of the meaning of the words. Mrs Steadman said that it didn’t matter whether he understood it or not, the words themselves held the power. When she was satisfied, Mrs Steadman asked him if he was ready to accept the knives.

Nightingale felt suddenly light-headed and he took a deep breath and exhaled through pursed lips. ‘I guess so.’

‘I need you to be more positive than that,’ she said. She replaced the knife, flipped the flap back and carefully fastened the strap around the roll. ‘Now, are you ready, Mr Nightingale?’

Nightingale forced a smile. ‘As I’ll ever be,’ he said. He could see from the admonishing look on her face that his answer wasn’t positive enough so he nodded earnestly. ‘Yes,’ he said, more confidently. ‘Yes, I am.’

She nodded and handed the roll to him. ‘God bless you, Mr Nightingale.’

N
ightingale parked his car a couple of hundred yards away from Bella Harper’s house and smoked a Marlboro before climbing out. He locked the door and walked slowly along the pavement. He’d driven down the street a couple of times during the day to get a feel for the place. It was a neat semi-detached house with a small wall and a wrought iron gate that opened onto a path leading to the front door. There was no garage, but half of the front lawn had been paved over as a parking space for the family’s five-year-old Hyundai.

He eased open the gate, slipped inside and closed it behind him, then walked carefully down the path, squeezed by the car and walked around the side of the house. He stopped and peered through the kitchen window until he was sure that there was no one there, then walked to the kitchen door. He tried the handle and wasn’t surprised to find that it was locked. He looked up at the back of the house. The curtains on the bedroom window had Hello Kittys on them, so he figured that was where Bella slept. There was a small window open in what was probably a bathroom and at a pinch he reckoned he could reach it by climbing the drainpipe. He squinted up at the window and tried to work out if he’d be able to slip through. He made his mind up that the window was out of the question when he tapped the drainpipe and discovered that it was plastic. He moved past the kitchen door. There was a large glass sliding door that led into the sitting room. The curtains were drawn but there was enough of a gap to see that the room was in darkness. He pulled on a pair of grey surgical gloves and took a screwdriver from his pocket. It took him only seconds to force the screwdriver into the gap between the door and the wall and pop the lock. He gently slid the door open, pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the sitting room. He stopped and listened for a full minute, then tiptoed across the sitting room and into the hallway, listened again, and then headed up the stairs, keeping close to the wall to minimise any squeaking boards.