Still Bleeding (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) by Stephen Leather

STILL BLEEDING
    By Stephen Leather
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    Jack
Nightingale had never been a fan of Fridays. They always seemed to
get in the way of a perfectly good weekend. Friday was always a bad
day to start a case and finishing one on a Friday meant the bill
wouldn’t go out until the following week. All in all, he found it
hard to drum up any enthusiasm for Fridays. There were the odd
exceptions. Bank Holiday Fridays were always a pleasant surprise,
and every now and again New Years Eve and Christmas Day fell on a
Friday. This particular Friday was different, though. As soon as he
stepped into his office, his assistant Jenny McLean told him that
he had a client waiting for him.
    ‘There was
nothing in the diary,’ said Nightingale, hanging his raincoat by
the door.
    ‘I never put
anything in the diary because you never open it,’ said Jenny. ‘He’s
a priest from the Vatican.’ She was wearing a blue dress that
looked expensive and had tied her blonde hair back into a
ponytail.
    ‘The
Vatican?’
    ‘Yes, where the
Pope lives.’
    ‘Italy?’
    ‘Well, strictly
speaking it’s a separate independent city-state, but yes, that’s
the one.’ She pointed at the door to the office. ‘He’s waiting for
you in there.’
    ‘What does a
priest want with a private eye?’
    ‘I don’t know.
Maybe you could ask him.’ She shrugged. ‘Just a thought.’
    ‘You’re in a
sarcastic mood today. Coffee?’
    ‘I’d love
one.’
    Nightingale
grinned and shook his head. ‘I meant would you bring me one in. And
one for the client.’
    ‘I hear and
obey,’ she said.
    ‘How are we off
for chocolate biscuits?’
    ‘Did you buy
any?’
    ‘No.’
    She smiled
sweetly and turned back to her computer monitor. ‘Then we haven’t
got any,’ she said.
    She went over
to their coffee maker as Nightingale headed into his office. A tall
dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes was sitting on the chair
opposite Nightingale’s desk. He was wearing a clerical collar and a
floor-length black cassock. He stood up and offered his hand.
‘Jonah Connolly,’ he said. His accent was difficult to place but it
certainly wasn’t Italian.
    Nightingale
shook hands. ‘You’re from the Vatican, my assistant tells me.’
    Connolly
smiled. ‘I am indeed.’ His hand disappeared inside his cassock and
reappeared holding a slim black leather wallet.
    ‘But you don’t
sound Italian.’
    The priest gave
him a business card and slid the wallet back inside his cassock.
‘Not everyone who works at the Vatican is Italian, Mr
Nightingale.’
    Nightingale
studied the card. The name on it read ‘Jonah Connolly’ and
underneath it was a Post Office Box number in Vatican City. And a
phone number. A