‘And first thing tomorrow morning the cops get your details and your name goes in the frame for the murder of Danny McBride. So if I were you I’d run far and I’d run fast.’ He jabbed the man again. ‘Now walk away before I change my mind and put a bullet in your leg for the sheer hell of it.’
The man did as he was told, running down the road as if the hounds of Hell were on his heels. Nightingale slid the gun back into his pocket, glad that he hadn’t had to fire the weapon. At least now Perry Smith would take it back.
85
Nightingale parked his MGB on the second floor of a multi-storey car park close to Camden market. He walked around the market for a while, smoking and thinking before making his way to the Wicca Woman shop. Mrs Steadman was standing behind an old-fashioned cash register and she smiled when she saw it was him. ‘Mr Nightingale, so nice to see you,’ she said. ‘Tea?’
‘Tea would be good, Mrs Steadman. Thank you.’
Mrs Steadman pulled back a beaded curtain behind the counter and called upstairs for her assistant. There was a rapid footfall and a teenage girl appeared, dressed in black with green streaks in her hair. Mrs Steadman patted the girl on the arm. ‘I’m making a cup of tea for Mr Nightingale – would you be a dear and mind the shop?’
‘Of course,’ said the girl.
Mrs Steadman patted her arm again, then took Nightingale through the curtain into the back room. There was a gas fire burning against one wall and the overhead Tiffany lamp was throwing multicoloured blocks of light over the floor. Mrs Steadman waved him to a circular wooden table and busied herself with the kettle and teapot. ‘Is everything okay – you look worried?’ she asked.
Nightingale took off his raincoat and sat down. He pulled the
Mrs Steadman laughed. ‘I don’t read any newspapers,’ she said. ‘They’re far too depressing.’ She turned to face him and folded her arms. ‘It’s about the Shade, isn’t it?’
‘She says she wants to speak to the Prime Minister. And the Archbishop of Canterbury. And Prince William.’
‘Of course. It wants to create havoc. That’s what Shades do.’
‘People have died already. A nurse, a teacher, and a journalist. They all spoke to her and then they killed themselves.’
‘It was practising,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Testing itself.’
The kettle boiled and she poured water into a teapot. She opened a green fridge and took out a blue and white striped mug and put it onto a tray, then carried it over to the table. Nightingale moved the paper out of the way.
‘At least now you believe me,’ said Mrs Steadman as she sat down.
‘It was never a question of believing you,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just needed to prove it to myself.’
‘And now you have done?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Is there nothing else that can be done? No other way of handling it?’
Mrs Steadman reached over and put her hand on his arm. It was tiny, not much bigger than a small child’s. ‘I wish there was,’ she said. ‘But there is only one way of dealing with a Shade.’
‘Can’t you find someone else to do it?’
‘It has to be someone of this world,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘And it has to be someone who has a good heart and who believes. Men like you are few and far between, Mr Nightingale.’
Nightingale laughed harshly. ‘A good heart? Is that what you think?’
‘It’s what I know,’ said Mrs Steadman. She poured tea for the two of them and passed him a mug. ‘I realise how difficult this is for you. It’s a terrible thing to ask someone to do, I know that. But if it isn’t done, Mr Nightingale, if the Shade continues on its path, the whole world will suffer in ways that you can only imagine.’
‘What about putting the girl in a place where she can’t speak to anyone?’ said Nightingale, but even as the words left his mouth he realised that he was suggesting the impossible. Put the girl in a dungeon somewhere and throw away the key? They didn’t even do that to terrorists – there was no way it could be done to a nine-year-old girl.
Mrs Steadman didn’t reply, she simply shook her head sadly.
‘Can this Shade thing move around, Mrs Steadman? Say someone talks to Bella, could it move over to that person?’
‘No,’ she said, putting her hands around her mug of tea. ‘A Shade comes from outside and moves into a body at the moment of death. That’s where it stays.’
‘Can it go back to where it came from?’
She nodded. ‘That’s why the eyes must be dealt with first. The Shade enters and leaves through the eyes. Once that avenue is blocked, the Shade dies with the host.’
Nightingale shivered, even though the room was uncomfortably hot. A gas fire hissed and spluttered against one wall.
Mrs Steadman watched him carefully as she sipped her tea. He could feel her weighing up, wondering if he was prepared to do as she asked.
‘I don’t know if I can do it,’ he whispered.
‘Somebody has to,’ she said. ‘And there is no one else.’
Nightingale closed his eyes and shivered again.
‘If you don’t, a lot of people will die. Many of them children. Remember the nurse? He smothered his own sons.’
Nightingale opened his eyes. ‘I thought you said you didn’t read the papers?’
‘Just because I don’t read newspapers doesn’t mean I’m not aware of what’s going on,’ she said. ‘And what has happened so far will pale into insignificance once the Shade hits its stride.’
‘She’s a child,’ whispered Nightingale.
Mrs Steadman shook her head. ‘She was a child, but that child has gone. Her shell is now inhabited by an entity that is pure evil. You will be killing the evil, not the child. Bella Harper is already dead, her soul is no longer in the body.’
‘So where is her soul? Heaven?’
Mrs Steadman looked uncomfortable. ‘So long as the Shade remains in the body, Bella’s soul remains trapped in the Nowhen. She cannot move on.’
‘Can she come back? If I kill the Shade, can her soul come back?’
‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid. Bella Harper is dead.’
‘But in limbo?’
‘Until this is resolved, yes.’
‘Then I know what I need to do,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need to talk to her.’
Mrs Steadman’s eyes widened. ‘Mr Nightingale, talking to the dead is never a good idea.’
Nightingale flashed her a thin smile. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Steadman. I’ve done it before.’
86
Colin Stevenson’s hand tightened on the receiver, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles turned white. ‘Did you hear what I said, Colin?’ The caller was a detective sergeant in the Met, a long-time friend of Stevenson’s who worked in the Paedophile Unit.
‘Yeah, I heard you,’ said Stevenson. ‘Basically I’m fucked.’
‘With a capital F,’ said the sergeant. ‘Look, the investigation is going into overdrive, the shit is well and truly going to hit the fan.’
‘I understand. Is there any way out?’
