Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (26 page)

‘That’s not going to happen,’ said Robbie. ‘I’m sorry. But if you want me to look at the PNC, I can do that. But I’ll have to do it under someone else’s log-in because there’s a good chance it’ll be red-flagged.’

‘No, you’re right. There’s no point. If I’m going to do something, it’ll have to be more decisive.’

Robbie turned to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Best you don’t know. Or at least best I don’t say.’

‘Don’t do anything stupid, Jack.’

‘Since when have I ever done anything stupid?’ said Nightingale, straight-faced. He managed to hold it for a few seconds before both men burst into laughter.

Anna appeared at the back door. ‘What are you two laughing at?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ said Robbie.

‘Well, come and get your coffee.’

Robbie patted Nightingale on the back as they headed into the kitchen. ‘Whatever you decide to do, be careful,’ he said.

‘Careful is my middle name.’

‘I thought danger was your middle name.’

Nightingale grinned. ‘Changed it by deed poll.’

Anna appeared at the kitchen door. ‘Do you two guys want to stay out there all night or are you going to come in for coffee?’

‘Coffee sounds good,’ said Robbie. He patted Nightingale on the back. ‘Seriously, mate, you be careful.’ They walked back to the house together. Nightingale knew that his friend was right. He had to be careful. But he had to do something about Marcus Fairchild. Something drastic.

T
he telephone rang and Sandra Harper went to answer it. Bella was sitting next to her father on the sofa watching television. Will Harper was eating Kentucky Fried Chicken but Bella’s lay untouched on her plate.

Sandra picked up the phone, listened to whoever called and then said: ‘No, we’re not interested. And please don’t call again.’ She replaced the receiver and scowled at her husband. ‘Bloody journalists. That was the
Mirror
. They just won’t give up.’

‘I don’t know why you answer the phone,’ said her husband. ‘They’re just about the only people who call on the landline. I told you we should have gone ex-directory.’

‘We did go ex-directory, last week,’ said Sandra. She squeezed onto the sofa next to Bella. ‘Are you not hungry?’

Bella shook her head. ‘I had a big lunch at school.’

‘Yeah? What did you have?’

‘Pizza.’

‘Do you want pizza now? I can order one for you.’

‘Mum, I’m fine.’ Sandra leaned closer to her daughter and sniffed. Bella turned away. ‘Mum, don’t fuss.’

‘Are you cleaning your teeth?’

‘Of course.’

‘Your breath smells bad. Really bad.’

‘I’m cleaning my teeth, Mum.’

‘If your breath isn’t better in a day or two I’m going to take you to the dentist.’

‘Okay, okay.’

Sandra leaned over and took a drumstick off her husband’s plate and bit into it.

‘Mum, why don’t you want me to talk to the journalists?’

‘Because they want to talk about what happened to you and it’s best that we forget about it. We have to move on.’ She put her arm around her daughter and gave her a hug. ‘It’s in the past. You’re home now and we’re just going to enjoy that.’

‘But they said they’d pay, didn’t they?’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I heard you and Dad yesterday. You said that one of the papers had offered you ten thousand pounds for an interview and more if you’d agree to a photograph.’

‘You heard me say that? I thought you were upstairs.’ She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She was tired and finding it hard to think. ‘Your dad and I just decided it was best not to say anything to anybody.’

‘Your mum’s right,’ said Will, reaching for a piece of chicken. ‘You can’t trust journalists, everybody knows that.’

‘And we don’t want everyone knowing our business,’ said Sandra. ‘We don’t need to tell the world what you went through, honey.’ She gave her daughter another squeeze. ‘We just need to put it behind us, like it never happened.’

‘But I could tell them that I saw Michael. And Jesus.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, honey,’ said Will. He bit into his chicken and chewed noisily.

‘But I could talk about that, and you and Mummy would get ten thousand pounds. Maybe more.’

‘We don’t need the money that badly, Bella,’ said Sandra.

‘You could put it towards my university fees,’ said Bella. ‘Put it in the bank to pay my tuition fees.’

‘University?’ said Sandra. ‘You want to go to university?” She exchanged a surprised look with her husband. He shrugged.

‘Of course,’ said Bella. ‘What harm could it do, Mum? I could tell them about Jesus and everything.’

‘What do you think?’ Sandra asked her husband.

Will swallowed and shrugged again. ‘She’s got a point. University’s expensive, we could put the money in an ISA or something. Save it for when she needs it. How many papers have asked for interviews?’

‘All of them,’ said Sandra. ‘And the magazines.’

‘Why don’t you talk to them, see how much they’d pay?’

‘You think?’

Will picked up another piece of chicken. ‘What harm could it do?’ he asked.

N
ightingale took a black cab to Clapham and had it drop him a hundred yards or so from Smith’s house. It was late Saturday evening and the sky was threatening rain but he hadn’t wanted to risk driving in his MGB. Smith was a nasty piece of work and wouldn’t think twice about riddling the car – or Nightingale – with bullets if the conversation didn’t go well. Smith’s house was in a terrace, two storeys tall and fronted with black railings around steps that led down to the basement level. Most of the houses had been converted into flats and bedsitters but Perry had kept his house as a single unit. There were two large black men standing outside the front door, wearing matching Puffa jackets over tracksuits. Nightingale recognised one of the men. He lit a cigarette before walking over to talk to then.

There were deep booming vibrations coming from inside the house – rap music being played through an expensive sound system. Nightingale doubted that the neighbours would complain. Not more than once, anyway.

The heavy that Nightingale knew was big, close to seven feet tall. He had wraparound Oakley sunglasses pushed on to the top of his head. ‘Hi T-Bone, how’s it going?’

The heavy’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know you?’

‘In another life, maybe.’

‘Yeah? Well, I sure as hell don’t know you in this one, so keep on moving.’

‘I need to talk to Perry.’

‘He know you?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘We’re back to that another life thing.’

‘You Five-0?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’m a private dick, as they say.’

‘Well, if you don’t want your private dick shoved between your private lips, you’d better walk away right now.’

Nightingale put up his hands. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot. I just want a word with Perry. You don’t know me, but I do know you. I know how you got your nickname, for a start.’

‘Everyone knows that,’ said T-Bone.

‘Do they all know that he was coming at you with a machete when you shoved the stake in him? And I know about the lock-up in Streatham where you keep the guns.’

T-Bone’s eyes narrowed. ‘You sure you’re not Five-0?’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

‘Yeah, well, if you’re lying that could well happen.’

‘If I was Five-0, or if I wanted to screw you over, one phone call is all it’d take for that lock-up to be busted and you along with it.’

T-Bone’s forehead creased into deep furrows as he struggled to follow Nightingale’s logic.

‘Look, I want to put some business Perry’s way. To be honest I’d be happier just talking to you but I know how important the hierarchical thing is.’

‘What’s he talking about?’ asked T-Bone’s companion.

‘Stay there,’ said T-Bone. He opened the front door and disappeared into the house. Nightingale held out his pack of cigarettes to the second heavy but he shook his head.

‘Cigarettes kill you,’ he growled.

‘I think the jury’s still out on that.’

‘Evidence seems pretty compelling to me.’

‘I’ve met people who’ve smoked for thirty-odd years and they’ve never had a problem. And thousand of non-smokers die of cancer every year.’ Nightingale shrugged. ‘Each to his own, I guess.’

‘Makes your teeth go yellow,’ said the heavy.

‘Yeah, I was wondering about that. Do you think I should get them whitened?’ He bared his teeth at the heavy, but before the man could reply the door opened and T-Bone reappeared.

‘In,’ said T-Bone. ‘But lose the cigarette.’

Nightingale took a final drag on the cigarette and then flicked it into the gutter. He followed T-Bone into the hallway. It ran the full length of the house, with a kitchen at the far end. There were purple doors leading off to the right and a flight of stairs leading upstairs that had been painted purple. The hallway was throbbing with rap music that vibrated up through the floorboards and into the soles of his feet.

T-Bone turned and without saying a word pushed Nightingale up against the wall and professionally frisked him. ‘I’m not carrying, in fact that’s why I’m here,’ said Nightingale.

‘Yeah, well, forgive me for not taking your word for that,’ said T-Bone. He jerked his thumb at the door to Nightingale’s right. ‘In there.’

Nightingale opened the door. His ears were immediately assaulted by a sound system being played at full blast, so loud that it made him wince. The walls of the room were painted a pale purple and there was a huge white spherical lampshade hanging in the centre. There were three large leather sofas around a glass coffee table that was loaded with all sorts of drugs paraphernalia, including several multi-coloured bongs and a crystal bowl filled with white powder. There were half a dozen lines of the powder at one side of the table, along with two teaspoons and a cigarette lighter. There was a flat screen TV dominating the wall opposite the sofas, showing an episode of
Family Guy
. Nightingale couldn’t tell if the sound was muted or if it was just being drowned out by the sound system.

Perry Smith was sitting in the middle sofa with his feet up on the coffee table. He had a remote in his left hand and a gun in his right. He waved the remote at the sound system and the volume decreased markedly.

‘Who the fuck are you and how do you know about the Streatham lock-up?’ snarled Smith.

‘Name’s Nightingale. Jack Nightingale.’

‘Like the bird?’

‘Yeah. Like the bird.’

‘Well, you need to start singing, Bird-man.’ He stood up and dropped the remote, but kept the gun pointing at Nightingale’s chest. ‘You hear me?’ Smith was wearing a silver tracksuit and gold Nikes and had several heavy gold chains on both wrists.

‘I hear you,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just want to do some business, that’s all.’

‘Business?’

There were two teenage girls sitting together on one of the sofas. One of them rolled a fifty-pound note into a cylinder and leaned forward to sniff up one of the lines of white powder.

‘I want to buy a gun.’

‘Do this look like a gunshop?’

‘I need someone I can trust, and strangely enough I know that I can trust you.’ He moved his hand slowly inside his raincoat. Smith aimed the gun at Nightingale’s face. ‘Don’t try anything funny,’ he said.

‘T-Bone frisked me already,’ said Nightingale. His hand reappeared holding a brown envelope. He tossed it onto the sofa next to Smith. ‘There’s a monkey in there. I know you’re a fan of the MAC-10, but I want something simpler. A revolver will do it so that I don’t leave any cases behind. And six rounds will be more than enough. I’m not a big fan of spray and pray.’

‘What you mean by that?’ said Smith, frowning.

‘By what?’

‘I’m a fan of the MAC-10, you said.’

‘It’s your weapon of choice, right?’

‘How did you know that, Bird-man? You got a file on me?’

‘Like I told T-Bone, if I was a cop I’d have had your Streatham lock-up busted and you in a cell.’ He nodded at the bowl of white powder. ‘There’s enough coke there to have you put away for a ten-stretch, and the gun in your hand’s worth another ten. But I’m not a cop. I just want to buy a gun. Ideally something that can be traced back to someone else.’

‘Say what?’

‘A gun that was used in a gang thing, maybe. So that when I’ve used it, the cops will be off on the wrong scent.’

‘And what are you gonna do with this gun that I might or might not sell you?’

The second girl took the rolled-up banknote and sniffed a line of white powder, then collapsed into giggles. The first girl hugged her and they lay back on the sofa.

‘I’m going to shoot someone.’

Smith grinned. ‘Are you now?’

‘In the head,’ said Nightingale.

‘And why would you want to do something like that?’

‘Because he’s evil. He abuses kids. He kills them, too.’

Smith frowned. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘I said. He’s evil. He thinks he gets power by killing them.’

‘And you know this how?’

‘Same way I know about your lock-up and your choice of weapon. Same way I know how T-Bone got his nickname. I know things.’

Smith frowned and cocked his head on one side as he looked at Nightingale. ‘Do I know you, Bird-man? We met before?’

‘Not in this life, Perry.’

‘I feel like I know you.’

‘In a way, you do,’ said Nightingale. ‘But no, we’ve never met. But I know that I can trust you. I know that you’re a gangster and that you’ve got blood on your hands. I know you deal drugs and you do all sorts of other shit that turns my stomach. But I need a gun and I know that you can sell me one. So how about it?’

Smith put the gun down on the coffee table next to the remaining lines of white powder and picked up the envelope. He opened it and flicked through the fifty-pound notes with his thumbnail. ‘A paedo, yeah?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Dyed in the wool.’

‘I fucking hate nonces,’ said Smith. ‘Fucking scum.’ He tossed the envelope back to Nightingale. It hit him in the chest but he managed to catch it with fumbling hands. ‘You can have this on the house,’ he said.