Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller Read Free

constable in their home.
    ‘I’m just going to talk to her, Mrs Wilson, that’s all.’
    ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.
    Nightingale smiled. More often than not as a member of CO19 he was treated with contempt, if not open hostility, and the Wilsons were a breath of fresh air. ‘You could certainly put the kettle on, Wilson’ he said. ‘Now, do you know Sophie?’
    ‘We say hello to her, but she’s a shy little thing, wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’
    ‘A happy girl?’
    ‘I wouldn’t say so,’ said Mrs Wilson.
    ‘She cries sometimes,’ said her husband quietly. ‘At night.’
    ‘What sort of crying?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Screaming?’
    ‘Sobbing,’ said Mr Wilson. ‘Her bedroom’s next to our bathroom, and sometimes when I’m getting ready for bed I can hear her.’
    ‘We’ve both heard her,’ added Mrs Wilson. Her husband walked over to her and put his arm around her.
    For a brief moment Nightingale flashed back to his own parents. His father had been equally protective of his mother, never scared to hold her hand in public or to demonstrate his affection in other ways. In his last memory of them they were standing at the door of their house in Manchester, his arm around her shoulders, as they waved him off to start his second year at university. His mother had looked up at Nightingale’s father with the same adoration he saw now in Mrs Wilson’s eyes.
    ‘Any idea why she’d be unhappy?’ Nightingale asked. ‘Did you see her with her parents?’
    ‘Rarely,’ said Mr Wilson. ‘They’ve been here – what, five years?’ he asked his wife.
    ‘Six,’ she said.
    ‘Six years, and I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’ve seen Sophie with her mother or father. It’s always an au pair, and they seem to change them every six months or so.’ He looked at his wife and she nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘One doesn’t like to talk out of school but they don’t seem the most attentive of parents.’
    ‘I understand,’ Nightingale said. He took his lighter and cigarettes from the pocket of his overcoat and gave it to the constable. ‘Why don’t you take a seat while I go out and talk to her?’ he said to the Wilsons.
    Mr Wilson helped his wife onto the sofa while Nightingale went to the glass door that led on to the balcony. It was actually a terrace, with terracotta tiles and space for a small circular white metal table, four chairs and several pots of flowering shrubs, and was surrounded by a waist-high wall.
    The door slid to the side and Nightingale could hear traffic in the distance and the crackle of police radios. He stepped out slowly, then looked to the right.
    The little girl was sitting on the wall of the balcony next door. She was holding a Barbie doll and seemed to be whispering to it. She was wearing a white sweatshirt with a blue cotton skirt and silver trainers with blue stars on them. She had porcelain-white skin and shoulder-length blonde hair that she’d tucked behind her ears.
    There was a gap of about six feet between the terrace where he was and the one where she was sitting. Nightingale figured that he could just about jump across but only as a last resort. He walked slowly to the side of the terrace and stood next to a tall, thin conifer in a concrete pot. In the distance he could see the river Thames and far off to his left the London Eye. The child didn’t seem to have noticed him, but Nightingale knew she must have heard the door slide open. ‘Hi,’ he said.
    Sophie looked at him but didn’t say anything. Nightingale stared out over the Thames as he slid a cigar-ette between his lips and flicked his lighter.
    ‘Cigarettes are bad for you,’ said Sophie.
    ‘I know,’ said Nightingale. He lit it and inhaled deeply.
    ‘You can get cancer,’ said Sophie.
    Nightingale tilted his head back and blew two perfect smoke-rings. ‘I know that too,’ he said.
    ‘How do you do that?’ she asked.
    ‘Do what?’
    ‘Blow