Cursed - ebook

by Stephen Leather

Genres: Thrillers

Synopsis

An exciting short story, part of the Jack Nightingale series by bestselling author Stephen Leather - thrillers with an occult twist. Jack Nightingale - lives in the shadows, fights in the dark. Ex-cop turned private eye Jack Nightingale is used to dealing with tricky situations. He's faced down the powers of hell a couple of times, too. In this new short story, he's called in to help a policeman who's lying at death's door. The doctors can't work out what's wrong. But the dying man's colleagues swear blind that he was cursed by a gypsy during the Dale Farm clearance. And Nightingale could be his only hope. Jack Nightingale is the hero of Stephen Leather's supernatural detective novels. There are five books in the critically acclaimed series: NIGHTFALL, MIDNIGHT, NIGHTMARE, NIGHTSHADE and LASTNIGHT.

Release date: December 20, 2011

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 60

Sample

Jack Nightingale figured that he had earned a day off. He’d worked pretty much non-stop over the weekend following a husband who’d told his wife he was attending a sales conference in Somerset when he was in fact giving his secretary a good seeing-to in a five-star spa just outside London. He had plenty of video of the pair together, and a copy of the bill, courtesy of a fifty-pound note he’d slipped to a Slovakian receptionist. It was the perfect surveillance job and since he didn’t have much in the diary he decided to spend Monday getting his MGB serviced and collecting his dry-cleaning, with, hopefully, a few hours in the pub watching Sky Sports.

He phoned his assistant first thing and told her not to expect him in, then shaved and showered before pulling on a suit and tie out of habit. It was only when he was tying his tie that he realised he didn’t need his office gear, but he couldn’t be bothered changing so grabbed his raincoat and headed out in search of breakfast.

He was on his way to Costa Coffee for a cappuccino and an almond croissant when he heard the squeal of tyres behind him and he looked around to see two uniformed cops getting out of a patrol car. He carried on walking but then he heard rapid footsteps and felt a hand on his arm.

‘Jack Nightingale?’

Nightingale stopped and turned to face them. They were both in their late thirties with tired eyes and bad skin, overweight and bored to death with the job. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

‘Maybe?’ said the taller of the two. He had a razor burn across his neck and a pimple on his nose that was about to burst. ‘What sort of answer is that? Show me some ID.’

‘What? You can’t go around asking innocent passers-by for ID,’ said Nightingale. ‘Not unless we entered an alternative reality overnight and we’re now part of Nazi Germany.’

‘Under the Terrorism Act 2000 I have the right to detain you and ascertain your identity,’ said the officer. He was a sergeant; Nightingale saw the stripes as he folded his arms and glared at him.

‘So now I’m a terrorist?’ said Nightingale. ‘What, you think I’m a suicide bomber and under my raincoat I’ve got TNT ready to blow?’

‘It’s him, Sarge,’ said the second policeman. No stripes. A constable. ‘I was on a job with him about five years ago – a jumper on Battersea Bridge. He talked her down.’

‘See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’ said the sergeant. He jerked a thumb at the car. ‘We need you to come with us.’

‘Need? What’s this about?’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger, Mr Nightingale,’ said the sergeant. ‘Superintendent Chalmers wants a word.’

‘And what, he’s forgotten how to use a phone? What does he want?’

‘I’m having a bad day, Mr Nightingale,’ said the sergeant. ‘In fact this month has been bad and the year as a whole has been pretty shitty. The last thing I need right now is a former cop giving me a hard time just because I’m doing what my superintendent told me to do.’

‘Understood, Sarge,’ said Nightingale. ‘Are you okay if I smoke in the car?’

‘Providing you don’t give me any grief you can burst into flames for all I care. Though strictly speaking, as the car is our place of work, you’re prohibited from smoking under the 2006 Health Act.’ He grinned. ‘But if you don’t tell anyone, we won’t.’

They walked to the car and Nightingale climbed into the back and lit a Marlboro. He opened the window and blew smoke as the constable drove the car across the Thames and down through south London to Clapham. They pulled up on the west side of the common.

The sergeant pointed to a cluster of police vehicles parked on the grass. ‘Chalmers is over there.’

‘You’re trusting me to walk over on my own, are you?’ said Nightingale. ‘What if I did a runner?’

‘Then I’d Taser you,’ said the sergeant.

‘He would too,’ said the constable. ‘I’ve seen him do it.’

‘I’ll take your word on that,’ said Nightingale. He got out of the car and walked over to the vehicles. There were two patrol cars, a grey saloon, a white van and an ambulance. Nightingale saw Chalmers standing with two uniforms as they watched a group of Scenes of Crime Officers working around what looked like two dead bodies lying face down.

Chalmers was wearing a black overcoat that glistened like it might be cashmere and there were flecks of mud over his gleaming black shoes. He looked disdainfully over at Nightingale. ‘What took you so long?’ he said, running a hand through his greying hair. Flecks of dandruff peppered his shoulders.

‘I didn’t know we had an appointment,’ said Nightingale. He stood next to the superintendent and nodded over at the SOCO team as he took his cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘What’s the story?’

‘Four black men shot two other black men and a dozen black men and women swore blind they didn’t see a thing.’ The superintendent shivered as a cold wind blew over the common. ‘Welcome to multicultural Britain.’

‘So why are you here and not Trident?’

‘Trident have got their hands full with two shootings in Brixton and a knifing in Lambeth so I’m holding the fort until they can get someone out here.’

Nightingale lit a cigarette and blew smoke. ‘I hope you’re not planning to pin this one on me, because I was in Bayswater all morning.’

‘You’re here because you were a cop once and another cop is in trouble.’

‘So you want me to lend you a few quid, is that it?’

Chalmers glared at Nightingale. ‘Will you just shut up and listen for once in your life?’ he said. ‘And keep that bloody smoke away from me. I don’t want to go home stinking of cigarettes.’ He shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. ‘You ever come across a sergeant, name of Simon Roach? Based at Catford?’

Nightingale . . .