Blood Bath (Seven Free Jack Nightingale Short Stories)

‘But that was. It’s a photograph of the only contemporary portrait of Erzsébet Báthory. It went missing in the 1990s.’

  ‘You as always are a fountain of knowledge.’ Nightingale drained his coffee and then steeped his fingers. ‘So going on what your librarian friend said, Blood Bath is a missing painting and may or may not be the work of Felix Hippopotamus and as such is very rare. Our client is a collector so therefore must have it. Simple.’

  ‘Yes.’ Jenny sighed and looked pointedly at her watch. ‘It’s past six so if it’s fine with you I’m calling it a day.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘Don’t forget to lock up.’

  ‘Have I ever?’

  Jenny shrugged, slipped off the desk and left his office. Nightingale studied Jenny’s papers. A crazy thought had formed in his head, something was telling him that the man he had met the day before was the same James Gaskin who appeared in the photograph taken in 1854. But how could this possibly be true? Nightingale drummed his fingers on his desk. The only explanation he could imagine was that Gaskin had done a deal with a devil for immortality. He had met devils, he had cheated devils and his own soul had even been sold to one. But was it possible to bargain for immortality? Anything was possible. No, he was jumping to conclusions again. Gaskin was an eccentric collector, no more and no less. Nightingale yawned, sitting at a desk made him tired. He needed more coffee. No, he needed a real drink. He stood, stretched and walked over to the coffee maker with the intention of switching it off. His hand had just reached the jug handle when the lights went out. He remained still, calm. It was probably a power cut, or a circuit breaker or – he wasn’t an expert. A chair scraped the floor behind him. Nightingale turned as something hard hit him in the stomach. He doubled up but as he did so managed to swing the half full coffee pot. There was an angry grunt, a curse and the sound of the glass breaking. A pair of strong hands gripped his arms and forced them behind his back. A flashlight shone in his eyes, making all around him even darker.

  ‘Stay away from the auction Nightingale.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Nightingale panted.

  ‘Who we are doesn’t matter!’ A leather-clad fist collided with his jaw, Nightingale slumped sideways but the hands clamping his arms prevented him from falling. His hair was grabbed and his head pulled up. ‘We know where you live. We know where the lovely Jenny lives. I’m sure she’d welcome the pair of us.’

  The man holding Nightingale now spoke. ‘She’d love it.’

  ‘But we’ll leave the both of you alone if you stay away from the auction.’ He jerked Nightingale’s head. ‘Got it?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Good.’ The flashlight switched off and without warning the fist struck again. The hands let go and Nightingale fell to the floor.

  * * *

  In the back room of the Wicca Woman shop Nightingale prodded his jaw and winced. Mrs Steadman looked inquisitively over the top of her blue-and-white-striped mug of tea. ‘You have been in the wars, haven’t you, Mr Nightingale?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘I need your advice, Mrs Steadman.’

  ‘Of course, I am always happy to help. What can I advise you on?’

  ‘Is it possible for someone to become immortal?’

  Mrs Steadman’s emerald-green eyes narrowed and her mouth turned up slightly. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I think I may have met one.’ Nightingale explained his meeting with Gaskin and because he trusted Mrs Steadman broke his confidentiality agreement by talking about the painting.

  ‘It is certainly possible to sell the soul of another to the devil, as you well know.’ She placed her mug back on her wooden table before adding, ‘You may have encountered an immortal. But immortality is such a great gift that it would only be bestowed on an individual who had something very precious to offer.’

  ‘You mean a lot of souls?’

  ‘Perhaps, or perhaps not. Our realm is made up of not only humans but of others too. This person may not have had to make a deal with a devil. They may have become immortal in another way.’

  Nightingale took a mouthful of tea, another thought struck him. ‘Do vampires exist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Nightingale frowned. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. But they are very rare, and very discreet.’

  ‘Have you ever met one?’

  ‘No, and nor would I ever want to. They are evil creatures who view humans as cattle to be milked.’

  ‘How would I go about killing one?’

  ‘A vampire?’ Mrs Steadman’s face became serious. ‘Why would you ask such a question? Have you met one?’

  ‘No, but if ever I do I’d like to be able to defend myself.’

  Mrs Steadman nodded. ‘I see. Well all the methods you read about, or see in films are correct. Which is probably why vampires are so rare, and so careful in revealing themselves to you mortals.’

  Nightingale smiled. ‘You said “you” mortals?’

  ‘I meant us, Mr Nightingale.’ Mrs Steadman raised her right index finger and a wide smile appeared on her face. ‘I’ve been a bit slow haven’t I, in linking this? ‘Blood Bath’. Hmmm. This is about Elizabeth Báthory, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m just curious.’

  ‘She was a vampire, a real one. Her blood lust was the strongest ever documented. But she is dead.’

  ‘Is there any link between her and this painting?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘I don’t know the answer to that. Do you believe your Mr Gaskin to be a vampire?’

  ‘To be honest that thought hadn’t crossed my mind until now.’

  ‘Did you meet him in daylight?’

  ‘I met him inside, during the day.’

  ‘Was there any direct sunlight?’

  ‘He was standing by a window and the sun was coming into the room around him.’

  Mrs Steadman smiled. ‘Then he cannot be a vampire. Mr Nightingale I do hope that you are not going to put yourself in any more danger over this painting?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’m just going to buy it for my client, how dangerous can that be?’

  ‘I’m sure you already know the answer to that.’ Mrs Steadman replied.

  * * *

  Nightingale found Jenny at her desk talking on the telephone when he arrived at the office. He hung his raincoat on a rack by the door, waited until she had finished her call and then deposited a brown paper bag in front of her. ‘Elevenses, a Banana chocolate-chip muffin, and as the coffee maker is broken a latte. Don’t say that this job doesn’t come with its perks.’

  Jenny looked up from her desk quizzically. ‘What happened Jack?’

  ‘I broke the coffee jug when I used it to hit an intruder.’

  ‘And your face?’

  ‘The intruder hit me. His accomplice held my arms behind my back.’ Nightingale sipped his own double espresso.

  She looked worried. ‘Have you reported this to the police?’

  ‘I’m fine, just a bit bruised. The one that hit me told me not to attend the auction.’

  Jenny folded her arms. ‘They don’t know you very well do they?’

  Nightingale smirked. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Any idea who they were?’

  ‘No, kid. They cut the lights, I didn’t see their faces and they didn’t say who had sent them.’ Nightingale dropped into a client chair.

  Jenny unwrapped the muffin. ‘So where have you been?’

  ‘Who was on the phone?’

  ‘You’re avoiding my question.’

  ‘Client?’

  ‘Potential client. A Mr Peters, he thinks his neighbour’s been stealing his guitars.’

  ‘I bet he’s got the blues, man.’

  Jenny didn’t smile. ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Drinking tea with Mrs Steadman.’

  Jenny raised her eyebrows. ‘And?’

  ‘She didn’t know anything about the painting, but
she did tell me that Elizabeth Báthory was a real vampire.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Just Hmmm?’

  ‘I know you like the old dear, but really? It’s all myths and legends, mumbo jumbo.’

  ‘You’re right. So what have I got on for the rest of the day?’

  ‘Here, take this.’ Jenny hefted a heavy book onto her desk.

  ‘An Argos catalogue?’

  ‘We need a new coffee maker, and quickly or you’ll be climbing the walls.’

  * * *

  Nightingale sat in the pub and finished his second bottle of Corona. He was playing hooky from the office on the pretext of getting a new coffee-maker. He’d braved the nearest branch of Argos and after pushing past several severely overweight young mums had collected his order, a De’Longhi coffee machine, from the service point. His next stop was a bookshop where he bought a volume about war paintings which had an entire chapter devoted to Felix Philippoteaux. He had to admit that Philippoteaux’s work was impressive, if he were an art collector Philippoteaux paintings would be high up on his to buy list. Nightingale got up from his seat and ordered another Corona at the bar. After paying he returned to his table and was about to take a swig of beer when he saw that there was something written on his book. It was written in red. He felt a sudden chill. He raised the book to his nose and sniffed to confirm his suspicion. The massage ‘Stay Away Nightingale’ was written in blood. Nightingale frowned - the blood was bone dry. He searched the bar with his eyes, no one new had arrived. He necked his beer in two gulps and left the pub. Outside the street was quiet, the lunchtime sandwich brigade had returned to their offices and the mums had not yet collected their kids from school. Apart from a few errant tourists he had the street to himself. As Nightingale walked away from the pub the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He stopped and looked in the nearest shop window. In the reflection he saw two men several steps behind him. They had stopped dead on the pavement and were making no attempt to conceal their presence. Nightingale turned sharply to face them, but they had vanished. There was a loud quacking sound. Nightingale reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone. ‘Yes what’s up?’

  ‘Where did you go to get the coffee-maker Columbia or Kenya?’

  Nightingale smirked. ‘The pub.’

  ‘You’re the boss Jack.’

  ‘So what’s up?’

  ‘Another potential new client, wants to know your availability.’

  ‘Can you check my schedule?’

  ‘I didn’t need to, I wrote your schedule.’

  ‘OK. I’ll see you back at the ranch.’ Nightingale ended the call and started to walk again back to the office. In the corner of his eye he noticed two figures on the other side of the road watching him. He stopped dead and stared at them. He couldn’t make out their faces but from their physical size they were unmistakable. And then his phone quacked again. The voice was heavily accepted and gruff. ‘Keep away Nightingale this is your last warning.’

  ‘Who is this?’ Nightingale asked but the line was already dead.

  * * *

  The next day Nightingale was fiddling with the new coffee maker when Jenny arrived at the office. He looked up with a smile on his face but it vanished when he saw how pale she was. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Jenny dropped her bag and held out her phone. ‘Look at this.’

  Nightingale frowned and took the iPhone. There was a photograph displayed on the screen. He realised it was Jenny, asleep in bed. She was on her side and her satin sheets were just above her breasts.

  ‘No jokes Jack, please.’ She looked him in the eyes. ‘I found this on my phone this morning. It wasn’t there when I went to bed.’ She took back the phone.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Someone took a photo of me in my sleep!’

  ‘They broke in? Has anything been taken?’

  ‘Oh I’m ok, thank you very much.’

  ‘Jenny, I didn’t mean…’ A tear suddenly rolled down her cheek, Nightingale stepped forward and put his arms around her.

  ‘Who could have done this? Why?’ She started to shake and buried her head in his chest.

  ‘Have you reported it?’

  ‘Reported what? All the doors and windows were still locked and the burglar alarm was on, it’s the one Uncle Marcus recommend I have installed. There is no way anyone could have got in without me hearing them.’

  They stood silently for a moment until Nightingale reluctantly moved away. ‘Jenny, I think you should go and stay with your parents for a few days, just until the auction is over?’

  ‘Why?’ She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. ‘Do you think this is somehow related?’

  Nightingale looked down. He’d made a mistake and he felt awful. ‘The men who attacked me knew your name, and said they knew where you live.’

  Jenny reddened. ‘And you didn’t think to tell me about this?’

  ‘I had no idea if they were serious or not. I’m sorry.’

  Jenny folded her arms. Her eyes were now dry. ‘I could have been murdered, or worse!’

  ‘Worse than murdered?’

  ‘I’m leaving now.’ She picked up her bag and looked angrily over her shoulder at him before she stepped back out onto the street.

  ‘Shit.’ Nightingale balled his fists for several seconds before he decided not to punch anything. He was useless. The one person in his life who actually meant anything to him and he’d let her down. He retrieved his cigarettes from his pocket, tapped one out of the packet and lit it. He inhaled greedily and held the smoke deep in his lungs before exhaling slowly. She’d come back, of course she would. She had to.

  The salesroom was crowded, Nightingale had managed to get one of the last remaining seats. He had a Christie’s paddle in his hand and was ready to bid. He’d worn his best suit but still felt out of place amongst the toffs and art dealers. Nightingale got the distinct feeling that he was being watched. There were several large men in the room and any of them could have been the ones who had attacked him. Surprisingly ‘Blood Bath’ was not a headline lot, that honour had gone to a Russian icon which too had apparently appeared out of the blue. Nightingale knew nothing about art, but he knew what he liked. His favourite impressionist was Mike Yarwood. He smiled to himself, it was an old joke and no one ever laughed, except Jenny. The auctioneer drew Nightingale back to the present as he announced ‘Blood Bath’. Because of the sheer size of the painting it could not be displayed in the salesroom, instead an LCD screen showed an image of the work. Nightingale started to feel nervous and realized that his palm was wet around his paddle. His instructions were to secure the painting at any cost, Nightingale just hoped that the personal cost to him would not get any higher.

  The bidding started at the price of a luxury car and within a few bids had increased to the price of a small house. There seemed to be two eager telephone bidders and one more in the salesroom. Nightingale looked at the man bidding who was a row in front and half a dozen seats over. He had a swarthy complexion, a large droopy moustache and jet-black hair slicked back away from his forehead. If Nightingale had ordered a Mexican from ‘Central Casting’ he doubted one would have looked much better. The Mexican raised his hand to bid again and the room fell silent as the sales staff representing the telephone bidders each in turn shook their heads.

  ‘Going once…going twice…’

  Nightingale thrust his hand into the air. He knew that he could just waddle the paddle but wasn’t taking any chances.

  ‘To you sir, new bidder in the dark blue suit! At two hundred and ninety thousand pounds.’

  The Mexican turned his head and stared. There was a sneer beneath the moustache. In his peripheral vision Nightingale could sense two large men move ever so slightly.

  ‘Do I have three hundred thousand pounds?’ The auctioneer asked.

  The Mexican raised his hand. Moments later the auctioneer asked Nightingale if he would increase the bid. Nightingale raised his paddle. Th
e bidding continued until the Mexican shook his head over a hundred thousand pounds later. Nightingale held up his paddle for the number to be taken and his auction was over. His heart was pounding in his chest, he felt shaky and was desperate for a smoke. As soon as he could Nightingale left the salesroom. As he stood the edges of his vision started to grey out, he shook his head and blundered towards the exit. He pushed first through the door of the salesroom and into the reception area before opening the main door and bursting out into the bracing air of Old Brompton Road. Immediately turning right Nightingale started to move away from the auction house. He took deep breaths to steady himself as gradually his vision improved. At a junction on the left he saw a pub – ‘The Zetland Arms’ and went inside.

  ‘What can I get cha?’ The barman was ten years his junior and Australian.

  ‘A Corona and a double vodka.’

  ‘Ice?’

  Nightingale frowned as he leant against the bar. ‘In the beer?’

  ‘Nah mate, in the vodka.’

  ‘No.’

  The barman placed his drinks on the bar. ‘There, cheers.’

  ‘Bottoms up.’

  The barman smiled widely. ‘It ain’t that sort of a bar, ducky!’

  Nightingale downed the vodka in one go, shuddered and then sipped his Corona. What had happened to him at Christie’s had been odd and he couldn’t understand it. He’d been under extreme pressure back in the day with the force and since then on several other occasions but he’d never felt like fainting. He needed a smoke. He removed his packet of Marlboros from his coat pocket, took one out and absentmindedly tapped it against the side of the packet. He put the packet away, retrieved his phone and thought about calling Jenny again. She had been ignoring his calls. It had been three days and he was starting to worry. Worry perhaps that she wasn’t going to come back. The door opened behind him and in the mirror above the bar Nightingale saw three men enter the pub. The two large men hung back whilst the Mexican joined Nightingale at the bar.

  ‘You are a very persistent man, Jack Nightingale.’ The accent wasn’t Mexican.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘In other circumstances it would be an asset, but this time it will be your downfall.’ The accent was Russian, Nightingale realised.

  Without turning his head Nightingale locked eyes with the man in the mirror. ‘If you are trying to chat me up at least buy me a drink.’