Nightshade

92

Nightingale parked his car a couple of hundred yards away from Bella Harper’s house and smoked a Marlboro before climbing out. He locked the door and walked slowly along the pavement. He’d driven down the street a couple of times during the day to get a feel for the place. It was a neat semi-detached house with a small wall and a wrought iron gate that opened onto a path leading to the front door. There was no garage, but half of the front lawn had been paved over as a parking space for the family’s five-year-old Hyundai.

He eased open the gate, slipped inside and closed it behind him, then walked carefully down the path, squeezed by the car and walked around the side of the house. He stopped and peered through the kitchen window until he was sure that there was no one there, then walked to the kitchen door. He tried the handle and wasn’t surprised to find that it was locked. He looked up at the back of the house. The curtains on the bedroom window had Hello Kittys on them, so he figured that was where Bella slept. There was a small window open in what was probably a bathroom and at a pinch he reckoned he could reach it by climbing the drainpipe. He squinted up at the window and tried to work out if he’d be able to slip through. He made his mind up that the window was out of the question when he tapped the drainpipe and discovered that it was plastic. He moved past the kitchen door. There was a large glass sliding door that led into the sitting room. The curtains were drawn but there was enough of a gap to see that the room was in darkness. He pulled on a pair of grey surgical gloves and took a screwdriver from his pocket. It took him only seconds to force the screwdriver into the gap between the door and the wall and pop the lock. He gently slid the door open, pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the sitting room. He stopped and listened for a full minute, then tiptoed across the sitting room and into the hallway, listened again, and then headed up the stairs, keeping close to the wall to minimise any squeaking boards.

When he reached the landing he stopped and listened again. There were four doors. There was one to the rear of the house, which he assumed was Bella’s bedroom. The door immediately to his left was open. The bathroom. He guessed that the bedroom facing the street would be the master bedroom, where Mr and Mrs Harper were sleeping. The door was open slightly and Nightingale tiptoed over to it, breathing shallowly.

He pushed it open. Mrs Harper was closest to him, sleeping on her side. Her husband was on his back, snoring softly. Nightingale took a handkerchief and a can of diethyl ether from his pocket, twisted the top off the can of ether and soaked the material with the fluid. He tiptoed across the carpet and held the ether-soaked handkerchief under the woman’s nose for the best part of a minute, then draped it over her face.

He prepared a second handkerchief and did the same to the husband.

When he was satisfied that they were both unconscious, he tiptoed out of the room and pulled the door closed behind him. His heart was racing and he stood where he was a for a full minute, composing himself, before soaking a third handkerchief with ether and pushing open the door to Bella’s bedroom.

She was lying on her back, breathing slowly and evenly. Her eyes were closed and her blonde hair was spread across her pillow. Her skin was as pale as porcelain, unlined and unblemished the way only a nine-year-old’s could be. Her hands were clasped together on top of the duvet as if she was praying. Nightingale closed the door quietly, wincing as the wood brushed against the carpet. When he turned back to the bed, Bella’s eyes were wide open and she was staring right at him.

‘You’re Jack Nightingale, aren’t you?’ she said.

Nightingale said nothing.

‘You’ve come to kill me, haven’t you?’

Nightingale stared at her in silence.

The girl smiled at him. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’ She slowly raised her hand and beckoned him to come closer. ‘I’ve a message for you,’ she said. ‘From Jesus.’