Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (27 page)

‘Thanks.’

Smith grinned. ‘Yeah, you can owe me one.’

Nightingale held out the envelope. ‘I’m happy to pay.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m happy not to take your fucking money. You can owe me one. Okay?’

Nightingale nodded, wondering for a moment if Smith was going to ask for his soul as well. ‘Okay,’ he said.

Smith waved his hand at T-Bone. ‘You get Bird-man sorted,’ he said.

‘Whatever you say, boss.’ T-Bone patted Nightingale’s shoulder with a massive hand. ‘Let’s roll.’

B
arbara McEvoy was lying on a yoga mat trying to get her left leg behind her head when her doorbell rang. She was in her late twenties, with dark green eyes and freckles peppered across her nose and cheeks. She sighed, untangled herself, and padded barefoot to the front door. She grinned when she saw Jenny McLean. ‘This is a nice surprise,’ she said.

‘Just passing by,’ said Jenny. She nodded at Barbara’s lilac tracksuit. ‘Pilates?’

‘I was doing a few relaxation exercises, but now you’re here I might as well switch to alcohol. Wine?’

‘Go on then, twist my arm.’

Jenny went into Barbara’s sitting room and dropped down onto the sofa while Barbara went into the kitchen, returning a short time later with a bottle of pink champagne and two glasses. Barbara’s two-bedroom flat was close to Portobello Road in Notting Hill, and street parking was almost impossible when the market was in full flow on a Saturday, so Jenny had taken a taxi to see her friend. The flat doubled as an office, and Barbara had converted her spare bedroom to a consulting room where she saw patients on the days when she wasn’t based at one of the many hospitals where she worked.

‘Are we celebrating?’ asked Jenny.

‘It’s Saturday. Best day of the week for champagne, right?’

Barbara sat down on the sofa next to Jenny and looked at her over the top of her glass as she sipped her champagne. ‘What’s wrong?’

Jenny raised her eyebrows. ‘What on earth makes you think there’s something wrong?’ she asked.

‘Darling, I’m a clinical psychiatrist. It’s my job to read people. And you’re as tense as a kitten in a cage of Rottweilers.’

Jenny laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it.

‘And it’s Saturday and we almost never get together on a weekend unless I’m in the country with you.’ She frowned. ‘Weren’t you going to Norfolk today to see the folks?’

‘I decided not to,’ said Jenny.

‘And you came to see me instead,’ said Barbara. ‘Is that significant?’

Jenny leaned back and drew up her legs. ‘You’re good.’

‘I’m damned good,’ said Barbara. ‘But unless you tell me what’s wrong I won’t be able to help.’

Jenny sipped her champagne. ‘This is going to sound crazy,’ she said.

This time it was Barbara who laughed. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many of my patients start off by saying that,’ she said. ‘The thing is, most of them ARE crazy.’

‘I might be, too,’ said Jenny. She sighed and then took a deep breath. ‘Okay, this is it. Jack is being really weird about Uncle Marcus. He keeps asking me if I’m seeing him and he went very strange when Uncle Marcus turned up at our office unannounced.’

‘Marcus? He’s a sweetie. He’s a bit pompous but he wouldn’t harm a fly.’

‘That’s what I keep telling Jack. I’ve known him since before I could walk. He’s one of Daddy’s oldest friends.’

‘And what’s Jack’s problem with him?’

‘Jack won’t say. He does that Jack thing of just changing the subject or making a joke. But here’s the thing, Barbara. Now I’ve been having … I don’t know what they are. Flashbacks? Déjà vu? Just a feeling that there’s something wrong.’

‘In what way?’

Jenny sighed in exasperation. ‘That’s the crazy thing. I don’t know. It’s a feeling of … I don’t know … dread, I guess. Uncle Marcus is in Norfolk today doing some shooting with Daddy and his friends and I was supposed to be there.’

‘And you changed your mind?’

‘I keep getting these feelings, Barbara. A sense that something is wrong.’

‘Dread, you said.’

‘I know, it sounds silly. And really, I can’t put my finger on it.’ She sipped her champagne and sighed. ‘Maybe it’s just Jack’s silliness rubbing off on me. Like you said, Uncle Marcus is a sweetie.’

‘Jack has never said anything concrete about Marcus?’

‘Never.’

‘And you don’t feel uncomfortable when you’re around Marcus?’

‘Uncle Marcus? Of course not. He’s my godfather, Barbara.’

‘But the fact that you’re here suggests that subconsciously at least there is something wrong.’

Jenny shrugged. ‘I guess.’ She sighed again. ‘I thought that maybe you could do that regression thing of yours. Put me under and see if you can find out what’s causing this.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘You do it with your patients all the time.’

‘Not all the time,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s not helpful in all cases.’

‘But if there is something worrying me then it would be one way of getting to the bottom of it, wouldn’t it?’

Barbara nodded and put her champagne down on the coffee table. She went into her consulting room and returned with a small digital recorder.

‘What’s that for?’ asked Jenny.

‘When you come out of it you won’t remember anything,’ said Barbara, sitting down in the armchair facing the sofa. ‘I’ll be able to play the recording back to you.’

‘We’re going to do it now?’ asked Jenny.

‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ said Barbara. ‘Kick off your shoes, lie back and let’s see how we go.’

J
ack Nightingale was eating a bacon sandwich and watching football on Sky Sports when his mobile rang. He didn’t recognise the number but he took the call anyway. ‘Jack? It’s Barbara.’

It took Nightingale a couple of seconds to pull the name from his memory – Barbara McEvoy, one of Jenny’s oldest friends. ‘Barbara, how the hell are you? Long time no hear.’

‘I need to see you, Jack. Now.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

‘Is it about Jenny?’

‘Just get yourself over here now, Jack. Now.’

Nightingale left his half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table, grabbed his raincoat and hurried downstairs. He flagged down a black cab in Inverness Terrace and fifteen minutes later it dropped him close to the Portobello Road. It was market day, and the street was packed with tourists and locals milling around the stalls selling antiques, bric-a-brac and cheap clothing. He threaded his way through the crowds and down the side street where Barbara lived.

She buzzed him in and had the door open for him when he reached her second-floor flat. ‘Is everything okay?’ asked Nightingale. ‘You sounded a bit panicky on the phone.’

‘Go through to the sitting room,’ she said, closing the door behind him.

‘Is Jenny here?’

‘She left just before I phoned you,’ said Barbara.

‘Is she okay?’

‘She’s fine. Or at least she thinks she’s fine.’

‘Barbara, you’re talking in riddles.’

He turned to look at her but she put her hand on his shoulder and pushed him into the sitting room. ‘Sit,’ she said, pointing at the sofa.

Nightingale did as he was told, but then stood up again to take off his raincoat. Barbara dropped down onto the armchair. ‘What do you know about Marcus Fairchild?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’ He put his coat on the arm of the sofa and sat down.

‘Marcus Fairchild. Uncle Marcus. Jenny’s godfather. She said you had a thing about him, you thought he wasn’t to be trusted.’

‘Is that what this is about? Jenny’s asked you to give me a bollocking?’

Barbara shook her head and looked at a small digital recorder on the coffee table. ‘That’s not it, Jack. Jenny doesn’t know you’re here.’

‘What’s happening, Barbara?’ asked Nightingale. He frowned as he looked at the small metal recorder.

Barbara sighed and sat back in the armchair, crossing her arms. Nightingale didn’t have to be an expert in body language to know that something was troubling her.

Barbara sighed again and slowly shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it, Jack. I don’t want to believe it.’

‘You regressed her,’ said Nightingale.

Barbara’s jaw dropped. ‘How do you know that?’

‘You regressed her and she remembered what Fairchild has been doing to her.’

Barbara shook her head in amazement. ‘Have you suddenly become psychic?’ she asked. She leaned forward and picked up the recorder. ‘You need to listen to this.’ She held out the recorder to him but Nightingale didn’t take it. ‘I don’t,’ he said, ‘I know what’s on it. You regressed Jenny and she remembered Fairchild abusing her. He’s been doing it since she was a child. She doesn’t remember because he does something to her. Hypnosis or drugs.’

‘You knew about this and you didn’t say anything?’

‘Did you tell her?’

Barbara didn’t reply and avoided looking at him.

‘The fact that I’m here on my own suggests that you haven’t told her. Why?’

‘I wanted to talk to you first.’

‘Because you know that if you tell her it’ll destroy her, right?’ Barbara nodded. ‘So you regressed her, then what? Doesn’t she remember?’

‘I took her back to the last time she met Fairchild at her parents’ house in Norfolk. Fairchild went into her bedroom late at night.’ She winced. ‘The things he did to her, Jack. He’s an evil bastard.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Then I regressed her back to when she was a teenager. And younger. Fairchild is always there, Jack. Abusing her. I don’t understand how he manages to get away with it.’

‘He uses hypnotism. Or drugs. Or a combination of the two.’

‘When I brought Jenny back, she didn’t remember anything. And I kept it that way.’

‘You lied to her?’

‘I can’t tell her what happened, Jack. Not without a lot of preparation. When she finds out, it could destroy her.’

‘So why regress her in the first place?’

‘She asked me to. She’s starting to get a feeling that something isn’t right. Maybe because of the comments that you’ve been making. But I lied. I said she remembered nothing of any significance.’ She gestured at the recorder. ‘I told her that I’d switched off the recorder because there was nothing of interest on it.’

‘And she believed you?’

‘I’m her friend, Jack. Of course she believed me.’ She forced a smile. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘You’re not going to do anything, Barbara. You’re going to destroy that recording and try to forget what you heard.’

‘How long have you known?’

‘Not long. And like you, I don’t know what to do about it. The cops won’t take a regression session as evidence, and even if you play that tape to her she still won’t remember. There’s no forensic evidence, no physical signs of abuse. And he’s Marcus Fairchild, a top QC with a lot of very influential friends.’

‘You’re going to do something though, right?’

Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘It’s in hand.’

‘What? What are you going to do?’

‘Best you don’t know, Barbara. Best you forget about it. But trust me, I’ll take care of it.’

K
athy Gibson pointed at the semi-detached house ahead of them. ‘There you go, number twenty-six, park anywhere near here,’ she said.

The photographer’s name was Dave McEwan, a dour Scot. He was a freelance but pretty much worked full-time for the
Express
. Kathy was staff and had been for six years, but she was considering an offer to move to the
Mail on Sunday
. The Bella Harper interview was just what she needed to get the
Mail
to increase their offer.

McEwan found a parking spot and reversed into it. Kathy checked her make-up in the overhead mirror while McEwan pulled his camera bag out of the boot.

‘Let’s get the family shots done right off,’ said Kathy. ‘It’ll give me the chance to get them talking. Then we’ll do the interview, then maybe hit the park.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ said McEwan. ‘You got an angle?’

‘Pretty much writes itself,’ said Kathy. ‘Kidnap girl back in the bosom of her family, hopes and plans for the future. Great Sunday for Monday feature. We’re pretty much guaranteed a good show. Piece on the front and a centre spread.’

‘How much are they getting paid?’

‘You’re such a cynic.’

‘Just asking.’

‘Twenty-five grand is what I heard.’

McEwan grimaced. ‘Not much for what she went through,’ said Kathy.

‘That’s the thing. No one knows for sure what he did to her.’

‘They said raped, right? That was the charge, wasn’t it? Rape and abduction.’

‘One of my cop contacts says she was dead. Says that when they got into the house she was dead but the paramedic bought her round.’

‘Bastards,’ said McEwan. ‘It’s the woman I don’t get. Why would she help a paedophile?’

‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ said Kathy. ‘I’d hang the two of them without a moment’s thought. Have you got kids?’

‘In theory,’ said McEwan. ‘The wife has them now and I get to see them every second weekend. You?’

‘No, but I’ve got nieces that are Bella’s age and if anything happened to them …’ She shuddered. They reached the front door and Kathy pressed the bell.

Bella’s mother answered the door. Kathy remembered her from the numerous television appearances she’d made with her husband when her daughter was missing. She’d looked drawn and haggard back then, dark patches under her eyes from lack of sleep, her skin blotchy, her hair greasy and unkempt. But now she looked ten years younger, her hair was glossy, and she smiled brightly as Kathy introduced herself and the photographer.

Sandra shook hands with them both and showed them into her neat semi-detached home. Her husband was sitting on the sofa next to Bella. He’d put on weight since Bella had been found, and looked a lot happier. Like most of the viewing population, at the time Kathy had suspected that Will Harper had been involved in his daughter’s disappearance. It was almost a cliché that the male family member who appeared most often on television when a child had been killed turned out to be the murderer. Bella’s case had been unusual in two respects – she had come back and her kidnappers had been total strangers.