Proserpine shook her head. ‘They are more insidious than that. They get inside your head. They plant thoughts, thoughts that you wouldn’t normally have. They bend you to their will.’
‘By talking?’
‘That’s what they do. That is their power. They don’t stab or shoot or bludgeon, they suggest. They manipulate. They charm.’
‘And they are always evil? There are no good Shades?’
She threw back her head and laughed again, louder this time. The shutter pulsed back and forth with the sound of tearing metal and Nightingale felt a hot blast of wind across his face that made him gasp.
‘No, Nightingale, there are no good Shades.’
‘Then answer me this. What do they want? What is their purpose?’
‘Their purpose? They want to cause chaos. They want to cause pain. But it’s instinct, nothing else. There’s no plan, no rhyme, no reason.’
‘So they won’t stop? Once they’ve started?’
‘There is nothing to stop them. They’re not working to a plan or a timetable. They just keep on doing what they do.’
‘And what stops them? Say they move into a body and take it over. How long can they stay?’
‘That depends,’ said Proserpine.
‘On what?’
‘On the strength of the Shade. On the condition of the host. The host will decay. Slowly, but it will decay. And eventually it will die and the Shade will die with it.’
‘And how do you kill a Shade?’
‘That’s what you want to do, Nightingale?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘You try that and I’ll never be able to hold you to your end of the deal. How can you kill something that can change your every thought? Point a gun at a Shade and you’ll shoot yourself in the head. Try to stab a Shade and you’ll put the blade through your own heart.’
‘Assuming that’s true, assuming that you could get close to one, how do you kill it?’
‘I have heard that there are knives, blessed knives, and you have to drive them through the eyes and the heart of the host. But seriously, Nightingale, the best thing to do is to run and to keep on running.’
Nightingale nodded. At least Proserpine had confirmed what Mrs Steadman had told him.
‘Who told you about the Shades?’ asked Proserpine.
‘Why do you think anyone told me?’
‘Shades pass unnoticed in your world,’ said Proserpine. ‘They inhabit the recently dead and are rarely discovered. Was it Mrs Steadman?’
‘I’m going to pass on that,’ said Nightingale. ‘No comment.’
Proserpine laughed and Nightingale felt the vibrations through his feet. ‘You need to be careful of that one,’ she said.
‘She’s on the side of the angels,’ said Nightingale.
‘Are you asking me, or telling me?’
‘She’s never steered me wrong yet,’ said Nightingale. ‘I trust her.’
‘Well, good luck with that,’ said Proserpine. ‘Don’t come crying to me when it goes bad. And it will.’
‘What do you mean?’
Proserpine smiled. ‘For the answer to that question, I’d need your soul,’ she said. ‘Give me your soul and I’ll answer any questions you want.’
‘My soul’s not for sale.’
‘So you say,’ said Proserpine. ‘But you can call me when you change your mind. In the meantime we’re done here. Let me go.’ The dog growled menacingly at Nightingale. Proserpine flicked its chain. ‘It’s all right, we’re going now.’ She looked up at Nightingale. ‘Time to say the words, Nightingale. I’ve got people to see, places to go.’
Nightingale nodded, looked at the piece of paper he was holding, and said the words to release her. Space folded in on itself, there was a flash of light and she and the dog were gone.
Nightingale’s phone rang and he took it out of his pocket. It was Robbie Hoyle. ‘Where are you?’ asked Robbie.
‘The lock-up,’ said Nightingale.
‘That bloody car of yours is a money pit,’ laughed Robbie.
‘It’s a classic.’
‘It’s an old banger. I need to see you, mate.’
‘The Swan?’
‘You read my mind. I’ll be about an hour. Mine’s a pint.’
82
Nightingale saw Robbie walk into the pub and ordered his lager before turning to shake his hand. ‘This is turning into a right can of worms, you know?’ asked Robbie.
‘I’m fine thanks, all good,’ said Nightingale. ‘Whatever happened to the social niceties?’
‘You want small talk or do you want to talk about what’s going on?’
‘I don’t know what’s going on, that’s why I called you.’
The lager arrived and Nightingale paid the barman. He gestured at a table by the fireplace. ‘Bit quieter over there,’ he said.
Robbie took off his overcoat and draped it over the back of a chair before sitting down. Nightingale sat opposite him and sipped his Corona. ‘You should drink that in a glass,’ said Robbie.
‘Tastes better out of the bottle.’
‘Rat piss,’ said Robbie.
‘Nah, I’m serious.’
‘I mean rat piss. Rats run across the crates and pee on the bottles. Mate of mine runs a pub and he says never drink from a bottle, always use a glass.’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s what makes it taste so good.’
Robbie laughed and shook his head. ‘You’re mad,’ he said.
‘Yeah, they do say.’ He put down his bottle. ‘So you’ve got something for me, yeah?’
‘You wanted to know if anyone connected with Bella Harper had died recently. Apart from the nurse who killed his family?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you want to tell me why?’
‘It’s a case, sort of.’
‘Sort of?’
‘I’m just making some enquiries, Robbie.’ He took a drink from his bottle. ‘Have you found something?’
Robbie nodded. ‘I did, yeah. A suicide. Freelance journalist killed himself in Clapham.’
‘What’s the Bella Harper connection?’
‘He talked to her about three hours before he died.’ He saw the look of astonishment on Nightingale’s face and raised his glass. ‘That good enough for you?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘As cancer, mate. He went into a corner shop, bought a bottle of drain cleaner and drank the lot. How do you do that? How do you drink a bottle of it? It’s as corrosive as hell.’
‘I heard of a guy who killed himself by drinking a bottle of furniture polish.’
‘A lovely finish?’
Nightingale grinned. ‘It’s an old joke. So what’s the story?’
Robbie leaned closer as if he was worried about being overheard. ‘Guy’s name was Jeremy Barker. He was a freelance reporter but he wasn’t averse to taking photographs of celebrities behaving badly. He sold titbits to the tabloids and the overseas press. Living hand to mouth, pretty much. His death was suicide, no question of that, but in his jacket was a digital camera and a voice recorder. There were two photographs of Bella Harper on the camera.’
