Grave Doubts (11 page)

Nightingale slowed, waiting for Richard to catch up.

‘Come on! Get the fuck out of it.’ The younger one decided to run but his partner ignored him, confrontation flaming in his eyes as he squared up to Richard.

‘Stay away, fucker.’

Richard stopped when he reached Nightingale. The youth waved a knife in wild arcs as Richard held up his hands, palms out in a gesture of peace.

‘It’s OK, son. Drop the knife.’ He was out of the crazy boy’s reach but not beyond a sudden lunge.

The kid wasn’t listening. He was swinging the knife again, agitated and dancing from foot to foot. The old man lay still on the ground.

‘Stay the fuck away, you fucker. Any closer and I’ll fucking kill you, I mean it.’

‘No need for that. Look I’m just going to stay here.’ Richard glanced at Nightingale. He whispered softly, from the side of his mouth.

‘Where’s back-up? I called this in. They should be here by now. Chase them.’

‘You’ve got my radio,’ she murmured, trying to keep her voice from the boy who was panicking now. His eyes slid from side to side, as if figuring out how and when to attack.

‘Stop talking, you pigs.’ The boy chanced a step closer. Adrenaline rushed through Nightingale. Child or not, he was capable of killing them both.

There was a shout from behind them. Six officers came pounding around the corner of the furthest block. The boy saw them and freaked out. Instead of running he leapt forward and slashed out at Richard. The blade slid off his protective vest but caught the flesh of his forearm. Blood welled up instantly through his shirt. The sight of it threw the boy into frenzy. He struck out in all directions, cutting Richard’s palms as he tried to ward off the attack.

Blood was everywhere, pumping out with arterial force. She tried to attract the boy’s attention, shouting at him, urging him to attack her but the boy only had eyes for the man. As she watched, Richard stumbled, his face bone white, and she reached out to support him. She clamped her hand over his gushing arm, pressing hard, and they backed away giving the boy more room but he paced forward. A wild animal crazed by the chemicals in his brain and the smell and sight of blood, he was circling in for the kill.

She saw people running across the square but they were too far away. The boy lunged again aiming for Richard’s neck, the hatred in his eyes shading them red and black. The blade scratched the skin and pinpricks of blood bloomed on the surface. Nightingale tried to angle Richard behind her, out of the boy’s line of sight, hoping to break the spell of aggression that bound them together. He let out a scream of rage and jumped, knocking them both to the ground.

‘Die, you fuckers!’ He screamed as he stabbed at them.

Nightingale felt the blade jar her protected back and nick her arm before it slid towards Richard, narrowly missing his eye and slicing a thin piece of skin from the top of his ear. He raised his bloodstained hands in defence as the blade swung again.

‘Help me. For God’s sake!’

Nightingale heard the fear in his cry. With a superhuman effort she pulled at him and rolled them both away. Their attacker was on his hands and knees, his teeth bared in a snarl. She raised herself up and dragged Richard further out of reach as the front runners of their rescue party slammed into the boy, knocking him flat and jarring the knife from his grasp. One hundred and sixty pounds of pissed off policeman collapsed on top of him and dragged his arms behind his back, cuffing him so tight that the flesh went white.

As two officers held the spitting, cussing boy, the rest attended to the old man, Richard and Nightingale, muttering meaningless words of reassurance. In the distance she could here an ambulance siren and pressed harder on her partner’s gushing wound.

‘Come in, Louise.’ Superintendent Quinlan looked up at her and smiled. ‘Sit down. How are you feeling?’

‘Fine, thank you.’ She sat obediently, her face expressionless.

‘Ah, Andrew. Good.’

Nightingale started but kept her face forward. She’d been away sick for two weeks during which time a discreet internal investigation had exonerated her completely. Blame had been placed firmly where it belonged for once, on the flu-ridden shoulders of Inspector Blite. He had explained away his error of judgement as a consequence of his illness and the Assistant Chief Constable was inclined to concur. Quinlan had held a diplomatic silence but in the locker rooms and at canteen tables, views were expressed freely and the verdict was that Blite’s penny-pinching habits had been found out at last.

DC Richard Rike would be off work for at least a month, perhaps longer if he needed further surgery on the severed tendon in his wrist. Nightingale had refused the offer of further counselling. After one obligatory visit for assessment she’d locked herself up in her flat with flu remedies, aspirin and Mrs Cooper’s soup. The counsellor who visited her came away concerned and her report was one of many that Superintendent Quinlan had been studying before his officers arrived.

For such a youngster Louise Nightingale’s personnel file was surprisingly thick. It included a commendation for bravery, references to two hospital visits for injuries received in the line of duty and a letter from the barrister for the prosecution complimenting her performance at the Griffiths trial.

He glanced down at the papers, deep in thought, comfortable with the silence that had fallen in his office and unsurprised by it. Neither Fenwick nor Nightingale indulged in small talk. He used to think that there were a lot of similarities between them but now he was less convinced.

Andrew Fenwick seemed to have grown younger. He looked tanned, fit and full of energy. The awful tightness that had locked his mouth and lower jaw rigid during the years of his wife’s illness had softened at last. In contrast Nightingale was paper white and gaunt. Her wrists looked like thin bundles of twigs that could be snapped in a firm grip. The purple half-moons beneath her eyes were the only colour in her face. Although neat and tidy as always, her hair was lifeless and her clothes hung on her body.

Sergeant Cooper had visited her whilst she had been away, taking with him the best of his wife’s home cooking. He hadn’t formally reported back his deep concerns but had talked privately and his views eventually reached the Superintendent’s office. Cooper’s story was that she had been on her own with only some stray cat for company, which he suspected of eating most of his wife’s meat pies.

The woman needed a complete change. The transfer he was going to recommend would be perfect for her.

‘Are you sure that you’re completely recovered, Louise?’

‘Completely
, sir. I would’ve returned on Monday if the doctor hadn’t been such a wimp.’ There was a new harshness in her tone.

‘I see,’ Quinlan was frowning, ‘in that case, I can see no point in delaying further a discussion about your future. As I said when we last spoke, there is absolutely no suggestion of any problem with your progress but a move would be highly beneficial. There are two openings you should consider.’

Nightingale opened her mouth to speak but Quinlan raised a hand for silence.

‘Now I happen to know the chief constable in Leeds and I could put in a word. She’s a first rate leader, runs an excellent operation. You’d fit in very well.’

She couldn’t contain herself any longer.

‘But, sir, I don’t want a transfer. I’m very happy here.’

‘You can’t stay in Harlden forever.’

But Nightingale would not see reason. She argued with a passion that Fenwick hadn’t believed she possessed. He could see Quinlan become agitated and realised that Nightingale had no idea that his ‘suggestion’ was non-negotiable. Her obstinacy would alienate an influential senior officer and he decided that he had to intervene.

‘Nightingale,’ he could not bring himself to call her Louise, it sounded unnatural, ‘you don’t understand. This isn’t a debate. It’s time for you to leave Harlden.’

She looked at him as if he had struck her. Bright spots of colour flushed her cheeks and for an awful moment he thought that she was going to cry. She stood up, her eyes fixed on his, her face a blank.

‘I see. In that case, if you will excuse me.’ She walked out of the room without waiting for permission. Fenwick leapt up after her.

‘Nightingale!’ She didn’t even hesitate.

‘Leave it, Andrew. God knows what’s got into her. The sooner she’s back in a normal environment and not moping around on her own the better. Women!’

Fenwick raised his eyebrows and Quinlan laughed.

‘I know. I’m not allowed to say that anymore but I tell you they’re a race apart.’

‘Well I certainly don’t claim to understand her, but I think there’s something not right here.’

‘It’s pretty straightforward to me: she’s lost her parents, survived an attack by a serial rapist and now this, just as life should have been getting back to normal. Oh, and she hasn’t got a boyfriend. A decent man would put her right.’

‘Bloody hell, sir. Don’t let anyone else hear you say that. Anyway,’ Fenwick frowned, confused, ‘it can’t be true. Someone as attractive as Nightingale must have plenty of offers. Why would she be alone?’

‘Search me. I told you, it’s women, they’re a perverse lot.’

Nightingale stared at the scarred wood of her battered corner desk and tried to force her mind to think straight. After a lot of thought she hadn’t reported her break-in and the anonymous calls because they’d seemed less substantial after the attack on Richard and also because she knew they’d give Quinlan another excuse to ask her to move. Her silence hadn’t done any good. They – he – wanted her out of Harlden. When the Superintendent first raised the idea she’d thought it a temporary over-reaction to the publicity surrounding the Griffiths case but she had been wrong. They wanted her to go and she found that she couldn’t bear it.

Who’s life did they think they were messing with? To them Harlden was simply a convenient posting, one to be written down on a CV, then as promptly written off. They were so wrong, this wasn’t just a job, it was her life. Harlden was where Fenwick worked. He may be in this relationship with Claire Keating but word was that she had pursued him very hard. It might not last.

Her face felt hot. Perhaps she should return to her flat. Blackie would need feeding. The stray was a greedy, graceless cat that had refused to leave her alone. He made it clear that she only represented a convenient meal but she’d become attached to him in the last two weeks despite her original fear. The sight of him sitting outside her door or digging up one of the flowerbeds made her grin. She realised that this need to be needed, even by a mercenary animal, was pathetic but told herself that at least she was honest enough to acknowledge it.

Someone wished her well as she walked the length of the room. Another voice told her to take care of herself. Her face formed itself into the shape of a smile.

At home she made some tea then forced herself to check the answering machine. She dreaded the constant flow of non-messages. Perhaps it was only in her mind but Nightingale felt that the nature of the silence had changed.

Blackie batted her calves with his head so she found him milk and corned beef. The smell of cat food disgusted her but Blackie would eat anything as long as it was meat. Mrs Cooper’s steak and kidney was his favourite. The sight of him munching his way through the mush, favouring the side of his mouth that still had all its teeth, was comforting.

As she put his bowl down on an old newspaper the phone rang, startling her.

‘Hello.’

She could hear the familiar soft breathing from the other end of the line but this time there was the noise of traffic in the background and the unmistakable echo of a mobile.

‘Look, this is becoming a bore. You’re very tedious, whoever you are.’ She replaced the receiver and wondered again whether she should have her number changed.

Blackie climbed onto her lap smelling of food as she cleared the rest of the messages. Four hang-ups. The cat yowled in protest as she stood up and scratched at the door to be let out. He stalked off in a sulk and Nightingale switched on her PC.

There were eight Emails waiting; all of them from Pandora. The first was almost lyrical except for its menace:

WHY DON’T YOU FINISH IT, ARTEMESIA? BRING ON THE NIGHT AND IT’S DEADLY SONG. BEAUTY AND DEATH. HOW OFTEN ARE THEY LINKED IN ART? WHY NOT IN LIFE? DON’T HIDE UP THERE ON YOUR OWN IN THE DARK. COME OUT AND PLAY WITH ME.

This had to stop. Perhaps if she replied dismissively Pandora would go away. She typed in a reply:

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. THE FIELD IS YOURS. I DON’T NEED THE GAME ANYMORE.

When she read the rest of the Emails she was glad that she’d been abrupt. The language grew progressively more insulting with each one. Nightingale deleted them all then did what she always did when she didn’t know what else to do, she went for a run. The concentration on physical effort followed by exhaustion usually stopped her thinking but on this occasion her remedy failed.

When she returned two hours later she was still confused and angry, and the sight of the new message light flashing on her phone made her kick the door closed in frustration. She yanked the phone cord out of the wall and pulled an energy-boosting drink from the fridge. The message on her PC screen told her that she had new mail and she jabbed at the keyboard savagely to call it up.

YOU FUCKING WHORING BITCH! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, USING YOUR BODY IN PEVERTED PROSTITUTION IN THE NAME OF A LAW TOO CORRUPT TO BE WORTHY OF THE PEOPLE YOU CONDEMN. YOU’RE NO BETTER THAN AN ANIMAL. A STINKING PUTRID CAT RUTTING WITH ANY TOM, PRICK OR HARRY. YOU WAIT. YOUR TIME WILL COME SOON. DON’T THINK YOU ARE SAFE. IN YOUR PRISTINE EYRIE UP THERE ON THE FIFTH FLOOR. YOU’RE NOT. LOCK AND BOLT YOUR DOORS AND WINDOWS AS MUCH AS YOU LIKE. I’M COMING TO GET YOU. ONE DAY, ONE NIGHT, WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT YOUR TIME WILL COME.

Nightingale stared at the rambling text in horror, re-reading the stream of hate directed towards her. The sender knew where she lived and that she had changed the locks since Blackie’s arrival. She sipped her drink and tried to direct her analytical detective’s mind to the message despite her shaking hands. She had to accept that her stalker wasn’t going to go away.

It was the first time that she had used that word to describe what was happening and it frightened her. A stalker typically became more violent as their obsession grew. She had no choice now but to alert the station to what had been happening. It would be embarrassing because the threats had been going on for so long but they had become too serious to ignore.

Midnight. It was stiflingly warm. Fenwick raised himself on one elbow and looked down at Claire. A cotton sheet covered her long body. He tried to ease his weight out of bed without disturbing her.

‘Are you going?’

He stifled a sigh and made his tone light.

‘Yes, I must. The children will expect me for breakfast.’

She sat up and switched on the bedside light letting the sheet fall to her waist. The glow caught her body and he automatically compared her with Monique. He shook the thought away with a guilty jerk of his head.

‘One of these days, darling, you must stay. I’d love to see you here when I wake up in the morning. I could make you breakfast…’

He bent over and kissed her mouth quickly, stopping the words and the picture they conjured up of shared domesticity.

‘At least let me make you some coffee so that you’re awake for the drive home.’

‘All right. I mean, thank you.’ He dressed quickly as she pulled a dressing gown around her nakedness and went downstairs.

The coffee was far too hot but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings by rejecting it. She had made herself some tea.

‘Well if we can’t talk tomorrow morning why don’t you tell me about your day now. We barely spoke last night.’ She giggled and Fenwick groaned silently. Conversation was the last thing he wanted but he felt that he owed her some companionship.

‘Not a good day. Too much paperwork, a visit to see Richard Rike, which was depressing, and then a meeting that Quinlan wanted me to join that went badly.’

‘Oh, what was that about? I thought you two got on well.’

‘We do but it wasn’t just us.’

‘The ACC? What was he doing slumming it in Harlden?’

Fenwick laughed.

‘No, the other end of the scale. A young sergeant who doesn’t want to take advice and has no idea of what’s good for her.’

‘Who?’ Claire loved human drama. She had an insatiable curiosity for accounts of life at the station that he was beginning to find tiring.

‘You won’t know her, Louise Nightingale.’

Claire’s eyes narrowed and she stared at him as he tried another sip of coffee.

‘Of course I do. Tall, a bit thin and intense. Good, but accident prone. Well, well. What’s she done now?’

Fenwick experienced a spurt of indignation on Nightingale’s behalf.

‘Oh nothing much. Saved a man’s life, was hurt in the process, had viral flu and refuses to take her medicine. By that I mean that she refuses to accept our advice.’

‘Tell me all about it.’ Claire sat down on one of her smart kitchen chairs, her eyes intent on his face. He found her scrutiny disconcerting but in the interest of a quiet life he told her about the meeting. In response to her astute questioning – she was a psychologist after all – he found himself explaining Nightingale’s terrible year and his fears for her future. When he came to describe his encounter with her in the woods he paused, feeling it too personal to disclose.

‘Well go on. Don’t stop just as it’s becoming interesting.’

He continued, paring the story down to its bare essentials.

‘Now tell me,’ Claire smiled and he recognised the expression; she was enjoying the exercise of analysis, ‘was the jumper washed when she returned it or not?’