Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (22 page)

46

M
rs Fraser was sitting behind her desk when an assistant showed Nightingale into her office. The Australian male nurse was also there, his arms folded across his chest, his face a blank mask. Mrs Fraser didn’t get up and waved Nightingale to a chair.

‘What happened?’ asked Nightingale.

‘What happened, Mr Nightingale, is that after you visited her for the second time, your mother took a knife and slashed her wrists,’ said the administrator.

‘What was she doing with a knife?’

‘She was eating her dinner. Your mother wasn’t considered a danger to herself or anyone else, so the use of cutlery wasn’t an issue.’

‘Did she leave a note?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Do you have any idea why she did it?’

‘She did it because you upset her,’ said the male nurse. ‘She was fine before you came along.’

‘She was practically psychotic,’ said Nightingale. ‘According to you she never spoke, but she spoke to me.’

‘And then she killed herself,’ said the nurse. ‘What did you say to her?’

The administrator raised a hand to silence him. ‘Darren, please, let me handle this.’

‘What’s to be handled?’ asked Nightingale.

‘The thing is, Mr Nightingale, as things stand we have no confirmation that you are in fact Miss Keeley’s son.’

Nightingale reached into his jacket pocket and took out an envelope. ‘Here’s the result of the DNA test I told you about,’ he said. ‘It clearly shows she was my mother.’

Mrs Fraser took the report out of the envelope and read it. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘How did you get a sample of her DNA?’

‘I borrowed a hairbrush,’ said Nightingale. ‘The cells on the root of the hair are all they need these days.’

‘You stole a hairbrush?’

‘I borrowed it,’ said Nightingale. ‘And, as you can see, I’m quite definitely her son so there’s no problem at all in my visiting her.’

‘Your mother killed herself, Mr Nightingale,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘Questions are being asked as to how that happened, and it might be that our level of care is called into question.’ She gave the report back to him.

‘My mother was upset. I don’t see that anyone can blame you,’ said Nightingale.

‘She died in our care, which means we’re responsible,’ said Mrs Fraser.

‘Have the police been informed?’ asked Nightingale.

Mrs Fraser nodded. ‘Yes, but purely as a formality,’ she said.

‘She died in my arms,’ said the nurse. ‘I was holding her while she bled to death.’ There were tears in his eyes.

‘Did she say anything?’ asked Nightingale.

The nurse shook his head.

‘The point, Mr Nightingale, is that it was clearly your visits that upset Miss Keeley,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘I think we’re all agreed that prior to your visits she was calm, albeit uncommunicative. And afterwards . . .’

‘I understand,’ said Nightingale. ‘I certainly wouldn’t be in disagreement with you on that.’

‘That’s good to hear, Mr Nightingale,’ she said.

Nightingale leaned forward. ‘I’m not looking to blame anyone, Mrs Fraser, and I hope that’s your position. My mother was obviously very disturbed, and I know you were giving her the very best care possible.’ He looked at the male nurse. ‘Darren thought a lot of my mother, and I could see she really appreciated the way he took care of her. I agree that my suddenly turning up upset her, but I don’t think that anyone could have foreseen that she would harm herself.’

They were more concerned about a possible legal suit or bad publicity than they were about why Rebecca Keeley had killed herself, Nightingale realised. The meeting was about avoiding blame, nothing else. ‘As to what I said to my mother, it was just family stuff. I showed her photographs of when I was a kid, and we talked about them. I don’t know why she got so upset in the garden, but as soon as Darren asked me to leave, I did.’

Mrs Fraser nodded, and even managed a smile. ‘Thank you for your understanding, Mr Nightingale. You can imagine how upset we all are. One never likes to lose a resident, especially under such circumstances.’ She picked up a pen and toyed with it. ‘We have to make arrangements,’ she said, ‘for the funeral.’

‘What normally happens?’ asked Nightingale.

‘It depends on whether the resident has family or not. If there’s no one, we arrange a service at the local crematorium.’

‘Can you do that for my mother?’ said Nightingale. ‘So far as I know I’m her only living relative, and it would be a big help.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Mrs Fraser.

‘I’ll pay. Whatever costs there are, just let me know.’

‘Mrs Keeley’s fees were paid by the local authority, and they’ll bear the cost of the funeral,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘Now, what would you like us to do with her belongings? Her clothes and such.’

‘What normally happens?’

‘If there are relatives we give them everything. Otherwise we clean any clothing and send it to charity shops, along with electrical equipment and other articles that people might want. The rest we throw away.’ She grimaced. ‘It’s sad, but most of our residents don’t have much left by the time they come here.’

‘Charity shops sound like a good idea,’ said Nightingale.

‘The crucifix,’ said the nurse. ‘Don’t forget the crucifix.’

‘Oh, yes, your mother always wore it,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘It was a great comfort to her.’

Nightingale turned to the nurse. ‘Would you like it, Darren?’

‘Oh, that’s not possible,’ said Mrs Fraser, quickly. ‘It’s against company policy, I’m afraid. We’re not allowed to accept bequests from our residents. Under any circumstances. We had a bad experience a few years ago.’

‘I understand,’ said Nightingale. He took out one of his business cards and gave it to her. ‘You can send it to me here.’

Mrs Fraser studied the card. ‘I didn’t know you were a private detective,’ she said.

‘For my sins,’ said Nightingale.

‘That can’t be a pleasant occupation.’

‘It has its moments,’ said Nightingale.

47

N
ightingale was driving on auto-pilot, his mind more focused on the death of Rebecca Keeley than on the road ahead, which was why he didn’t see the fox until a second before he hit it. The car slammed into the animal and Nightingale hit the brakes. The rear started to spin and Nightingale pumped the brake as he fought to control it. The road curved to the right, and the sky was obscured by the drooping branches of the woodland he was driving through. He straightened the MGB but realised he was heading for a beech tree. He spun the wheel to the right. The car skidded to a halt and stalled.

Nightingale sat where he was, his heart pounding, gripping the steering-wheel so tightly that his knuckles went white. He had chosen to drive back to London along B-roads rather than take the motorway because he wanted time to think, but his decision had almost cost him his life. He started the engine and carefully drove the car off the road, climbed out and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. The MGB had stopped just a few feet from the tree. If he’d been going any faster or been a fraction slower in braking he would have slammed into it and he was sure the impact would have killed him. He inhaled deeply and blew a plume of smoke skywards. The line between life and death was a fine one at the best of times.

He looked back down the road. There was no sign of the fox. He walked along to where he’d hit the animal. There was no blood on the Tarmac, no indication that there had ever been a fox. He checked the vegetation at the side of the road but found nothing. Had he imagined it? He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. There had been a fox in the middle of the road and he hadn’t imagined the thud as he’d hit it. So where was it? Had it crawled off to die? He walked into the woodland, treading softly through the brambles and nettles, listening for any sounds of an animal in pain, but all he could hear was the territorial chirping of birds high in the trees.

He saw a church spire through the trees and headed towards it. It was surrounded by a dry-stone wall, moss-covered in places, and a sign at the entrance proclaimed it as St Mary’s. It was small, stone-built, with stained-glass windows and a metal cross atop the spire. Nightingale walked towards the oak door. It opened silently, despite its bulk – the hinges were well oiled – and the wood had been polished until it shone. There were fresh flowers in the vestibule and the cloying smell of lilies.

There were a dozen rows of hard wooden benches with an aisle down the centre that led to a pulpit and behind it a stone font. Nightingale felt himself drawn towards the font and walked down the aisle, his hands in his pockets. The air was much cooler inside the church than it had been outside and he shivered.

The stone flags had worn smooth with the thousands of feet that had gone back and forth over the years, making the journey from pew to priest. There were thick oak beams overhead, and statues set into the walls depicting the agony of Christ’s crucifixion. Candles flickered in alcoves, dripping wax onto the stone floor. Nightingale looked around but he appeared to be alone. To the left of the pulpit was a confessional box, the curtains on both sides closed. Nightingale stopped and listened but he couldn’t hear voices.

He walked slowly up to the font and looked down at the water. It was holy water, blessed by the priest. Nightingale smiled to himself. Holy water was supposed to hurt vampires, and he wondered what it would do to a man whose soul had been promised to a devil. Would it burn his flesh, like it did in the movies? If he stuck in his hand, would it strip it to the bone and would he run from the church, screaming in pain? He rolled up his sleeve and held his hand just above the surface of the water. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven,’ he whispered. He plunged his hand into the water. It was cold, colder than he had expected, and he gasped. He flexed his fingers. At least he could touch holy water, which must mean something.

‘Can I help you?’ said a voice behind him.

Nightingale jerked as if he’d been stung. He swung around to find a young priest watching him with unabashed amusement. ‘I was . . .’ he began, but he wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. What exactly was he doing? Checking the potency of holy water?

‘There’s a washroom at the back,’ said the priest. He was in his late twenties with a shock of red hair and freckles across his nose and cheeks. ‘You’re welcome to use that if you want to wash your hands.’

‘I wasn’t washing my hands,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just wanted to . . . To be honest, and I know it makes no sense, I just wanted to touch some holy water, that’s all.’ He shook the drops off his hand and rolled down his shirt sleeve.

‘You look distressed,’ said the priest.

‘It’s been a funny old day,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve just found out that my mother has killed herself, and I narrowly missed wrapping myself around a tree.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said the priest. ‘Was she a Catholic, your mother?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘She wore a crucifix, if that counts for anything.’ He took out his packet of Marlboro and tapped out a cigarette, but the priest wagged a finger at him.

‘I’m afraid smoking isn’t allowed on the premises,’ he said.

Nightingale grinned. ‘You can see the irony in that, can’t you, what with all the candles and incense you burn in here?’

‘Just one of the many regulations that make our lives so much more complicated than they used to be,’ said the priest. ‘Don’t get me started on refuse collections from our church. Would you class unused communion wafers as a foodstuff? Because our local council does. And heaven forbid they find their way into the recycling bin by mistake.’

‘Actually, I’d have thought communion wafers would have been the ultimate in recycling, from bread to the Body of Christ.’

The priest chuckled. ‘I wish I’d thought of that,’ he said. ‘They weren’t consecrated, of course. Once they’ve been consecrated they have to be consumed. These had gone mouldy so they had to be thrown away. But because they were edible they were classed as food so they were in the wrong bin and some jobsworth decided I had to pay a penalty or be taken to court.’ He waved at the door. ‘You can smoke outside and we can carry on our conversation there.’

They walked together out of the church and over to a wooden bench at the edge of the graveyard. A small brass plaque was fixed to the back: ‘In memory of Mary, 1921–98, my soul-mate’. They sat on the bench and Nightingale lit a cigarette.

‘Again, I’m so sorry for your loss,’ said the priest. ‘It’s always difficult to lose a loved one, but the bond between a mother and son is the strongest of all, I think.’

‘Thank you,’ said Nightingale. The truth was that he didn’t feel any sense of loss at the death of Rebecca Keeley, even though she had been his biological mother. She had given birth to him but that was all, and he had no more feeling for her than for a total stranger. But he knew that the priest meant well so he tried to look as if his mother’s death meant something.

‘You’re not a churchgoer?’ said the priest.

‘No,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do you mind me asking how old you are, Father?’

‘I don’t mind at all,’ said the priest. ‘I’m twenty-seven, so you can drop the “father” if that makes you uncomfortable. My name’s Peter.’

‘I’m Jack. That’s young to be a priest, isn’t it?’

‘It is, these days, that’s for sure.’

Nightingale offered him a cigarette but he shook his head. ‘I’ve never smoked,’ he said.

‘Do you drink?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the priest. ‘Definitely.’

‘But no sex?’

The priest’s eyes narrowed as if he suspected Nightingale was being provocative. ‘That door is firmly closed,’ he said.

‘I didn’t meant to pry, it’s just that I can’t imagine why anyone would become a Catholic priest,’ said Nightingale. ‘You have to give up so much.’ He blew smoke, taking care to keep it away from the other man.

‘But we get so much more back,’ he said.

‘But wasn’t it a hard decision to make, to turn your back on everything to enter the Church?’

The priest smiled. ‘You’re looking at it the wrong way. I was turning to God, and that gives me everything I could ever want or need. There is no better way to love one’s life than in the service of the Lord.’

‘And you have no doubts?’

‘I doubt the sanity of the idiots who run our local council, but no doubts at all about God.’

‘And you talk to God?’

‘Of course, all the time. That’s what prayer is.’

‘But does He talk back?’ Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette.

The priest chuckled. It was an old man’s laugh, and he put up his hand to cover his mouth as if he realised that it was at odds with his appearance. ‘I don’t hear voices, if that’s what you mean,’ he said. ‘It’s not like Joan of Arc.’

Nightingale exhaled smoke slowly. ‘But you have a conversation with God, and that’s why you believe in Him?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘But He answers your prayers?’

‘Of course.’

‘So if you prayed to win the lottery, He’d give you the winning numbers?’

‘I wouldn’t pray for that,’ he said.

‘What about world peace? I’m sure Christians everywhere pray for that but the world is still a very dangerous place.’

‘You’re asking why God doesn’t stop all wars, why He doesn’t create heaven here on earth?’

‘I’m asking what makes you believe in God when all the evidence is to the contrary.’

‘Every day I see the evidence of God’s hand, in the beauty of the world, in the people I meet.’

‘Yeah, well, I was a police officer and I tended to see less of the beauty and more of the dark side. And a read through any newspaper will prove that bad things happen to good people all the time.’

‘Again, it’s perception. Maybe you should try talking to God. When was the last time you prayed?’

Nightingale dropped his cigarette butt onto the ground and stepped on it. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘You should try it again,’ said the priest. ‘You don’t even have to go to a church. Just find yourself a quiet place and pray.’

‘Our Father who art in heaven?’

‘Not necessarily the Lord’s Prayer. Just tell Him what’s troubling you.’

‘And He’ll talk to me? I don’t think so.’

‘You won’t know unless you try,’ said the priest.

Nightingale folded his arms and sat back. ‘Here’s what I don’t get,’ he said. ‘God wants us to obey Him, worship Him and all that stuff. And church attendances are down because fewer people believe He exists. So why doesn’t He provide definitive proof? Why doesn’t He let us know once and for all that He exists? If He did that, the whole world would believe, right?’

‘But He did that, didn’t He?’ said the priest. ‘He sent His son, and we killed Him on the cross, and God brought Him back to life. That was definitive proof at the time, and it still is.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Nightingale.

‘A little over two thousand years,’ said the priest, ‘which in human terms is the twinkling of an eye. We can’t keep asking for proof every twenty minutes. He gave us proof, and we have the Bible to remind us of that.’

‘But it’s not enough,’ said Nightingale.

‘For you, perhaps. But have you read the Bible?’

‘No,’ admitted Nightingale.

‘And you’re not a churchgoer, so how can you expect to hear God’s message?’

Nightingale sighed and stretched out his legs. ‘You’re so sure, aren’t you? You’re sure that God exists, you’re sure you did the right thing in becoming a priest.’

‘I am,’ said the priest. ‘Tell me, Jack, can you say the same about the decisions you’ve made in your life?’

Nightingale grinned ruefully. ‘Fair point,’ he said. ‘What about the devil? You believe in the devil?’

‘Without a doubt,’ said the priest. ‘And if it’s proof you want, I’d have thought you were spoilt for choice so far as evidence of the devil’s concerned.’

‘You believe that bad things are the result of the devil’s work?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘In my experience, bad people do bad things,’ said Nightingale.

‘But what makes people go bad? You don’t think there could be some influence at work?’

‘And that influence is the devil? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘The devil. Satan. The Antichrist. Yes, I really do believe that. I believe that Satan wants people to act one way and God wants them to behave in another. We have free will, so it’s up to us to choose whom we serve.’

‘How are you on geography, Peter?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Geography?’

‘I was talking with a vicar a few days ago, asking him about hell.’

‘Church of England?’

‘I guess so,’ said Nightingale.

‘Then you were asking the wrong guy,’ said the priest. ‘The Church of England isn’t great on heaven and hell – they’re more interested in race relations, gay marriages and women bishops. You want to know about hell, you talk to the Catholics.’

‘So you believe in hell?’

‘Absolutely,’ said the priest. ‘And I believe that if you break God’s rules you’ll be punished.’

‘In hell?’

‘In hell,’ repeated the priest.

‘Fire, brimstone, devils with pitchforks?’

‘Not necessarily, but a place where souls would be in eternal torment. The complete opposite of heaven.’

‘And Satan presides over hell and everything that happens there?’

‘That’s what the Bible says.’

‘And where is hell, Peter?’

The priest chuckled. ‘The geography question,’ he said. ‘Hand on heart, I don’t know where hell is. But that’s not important. What’s important is that you don’t get sent there.’