Nightmare by Stephen Leather

shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.
    ‘Jack?’
    ‘Please, Mr Nightingale, say something to her.’
    Nightingale swallowed. ‘Yes. It’s me.’
    The old woman’s eyes opened. ‘Please help me, Jack. You have to help me.’ Her voice was a low growl, barely human.
    Nightingale took a step back, shaking his head.
    ‘Mr Nightingale, where are you going?’ asked Mrs Fraser, grabbing him by the arm.
    Nightingale twisted out of her grip and pulled open the door. ‘I have to get out of here,’ he said. He dashed out and ran down the corridor, his coat flapping behind him. He didn’t stop running until he was outside, where he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one with shaking hands. He kept looking at the main entrance, half expecting Mrs Fraser to come after him but the doors stayed resolutely closed.
    He finished his cigarette before pulling up the soft top and fitting it into place. He got into the car and put the key in the ignition. He turned the key and something made a clunking sound under the bonnet. He groaned and tried again and this time there was no sound at all. He made three more attempts before giving up and taking out his mobile to call the AA.

17

    Nightingale’s MGB was in the garage having its electrical system overhauled on Monday morning so Nightingale caught a black cab in Bayswater and had it drop him in front of the Wicca Woman shop in Camden. It began to rain as he paid the driver and he jogged across the pavement to the shop, holding a Waitrose carrier bag against his chest.
    He opened the door but then had to stand back as two girls in matching Afghan coats and multicoloured Tibetan hats pushed by him. There was only one sales assistant, a chunky teenager with a spider web tattoo across her neck and short hair that had been dyed a fluorescent green. She was wearing a slashed T-shirt and camouflage cargo pants with zipped pockets.
    ‘Is Mrs Steadman in?’ he asked as he closed the door.
    ‘Are you Mr Nightingale, the one who rang?’ asked the girl in an almost impenetrable Scots accent. She jerked a thumb at a beaded curtain behind the counter before he could answer. ‘She’s expecting you.’
    Nightingale smiled his thanks and went through to the back room, where Mrs Steadman was sitting at a circular wooden table reading the Guardian . She took off a pair of blue-tinted pince-nez and smiled up at him. ‘Mr Nightingale, I was so happy to hear from you,’ she said. She was dressed in a black silk shirt buttoned up to the neck, around which was hanging a large silver crucifix on a delicate chain. She had a bird-like face with a sharp nose and she cocked her head to one side as she looked at him with inquisitive emerald-green eyes. Her grey hair was tied back in a ponytail and her wrinkled skin was almost translucent, but there was a youthful energy about her that made guessing her age difficult if not impossible. If Nightingale had been put on the spot he’d have guessed that Mrs Steadman was in her late sixties but he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she was seventy or even eighty. ‘Would you care for some tea?’
    ‘That would be lovely,’ said Nightingale.
    He took off his raincoat and sat down as Mrs Steadman made a pot of tea. She put the pot, a milk jug and blue-and-white-striped mugs on the table. A gas fire was burning in a black-leaded fireplace casting flickering shadows over the walls.
    He passed her the Waitrose carrier bag. ‘A small token of my appreciation,’ he said.
    Mrs Steadman smiled like a child who had been given an early Christmas present and she opened the bag and took out two books. He’d selected them from the library in the basement at Gosling Manor. ‘Oh really, Mr Nightingale, you shouldn’t do this,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. ‘They’re far too valuable to give away.’
    ‘I know you’ll appreciate them, Mrs Steadman,’ he said.
    ‘You’ve made my day,’ she said. She put the books down and poured the tea.