Still Bleeding (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) Read Free

you
know about stigmata?’ Jenny asked Nightingale as they drove south
over the River Thames towards Beckenham.
    ‘Probably not
much more than you,’ he said. ‘Marks or wounds on the body in
places that correspond to the crucifixion wounds of Christ. The
nails in his hands and feet and the wound in the side.’
    ‘Did you know
that eight per cent of stigmatics are women?’
    ‘I didn’t know
that.’
    ‘Well they are.
Quite a few are nuns. But the most famous was a man – St Francis of
Assisi. These days they almost always turn out to be fakes.’
    Nightingale
turned to look at her, surprised. ‘How come you know so much about
it?’
    ‘I Googled it
while you were in the loo,’ she said, braking to avoid a black cab
that had suddenly decided to do a U-turn in front of them. ‘They’re
usually in poor Catholic countries and it’s usually a way that the
families can make money. They start selling souvenirs or charging
for interviews.’
    ‘That’s not
what’s happening here,’ said Nightingale. ‘They won’t speak to the
priest, or to the Press.’
    She grinned
over at him. ‘But they will talk to Jack Nightingale, private
eye?’
    ‘I was hoping
they’d be more open to his pretty young assistant.’
    Jenny sighed.
‘So I’m not just the designated driver, I’m actually doing the
legwork, too.’
    ‘Just knock on
the door, play it by ear,’ said Nightingale.
    ‘And what to I
tell them exactly?’
    ‘Tell them
you’ve got a kid that’s dying from leukaemia. You heard that their
daughter can help.’
    Jenny’s nose
wrinkled in disgust. ‘Are you serious? You want me to lie to
them?’
    ‘Jenny, honey,
they’re hardly likely to talk to you if you tell them your client
is the Vatican.’
    ‘I’m not
comfortable about inventing a fictional sick child,’ she said.
    Nightingale
sighed. ‘Okay, tell them you work for a charity and that you have
kids who need help.’
    ‘So now I’m
inventing multiple fictional sick kids. Explain to me how that’s
better?’
    ‘It’s less
personal,’ said Nightingale. ‘Look, tell them anything you want,
just see if you can get in and have a chat with Tracey. I’d do it
myself but I know they’ll be more likely to talk to a pretty
face.’
    ‘Yeah,
flattery’ll do the trick every time,’ said Jenny. ‘I tell you,
Jack, this is part of our job that I really don’t like; lying to
people.’
    ‘If you can
think of a way of telling the truth and getting the info we want,
you go right ahead,’ said Nightingale.
     
    * * *

    They
pulled up outside the Spradbery house just after mid-day. It was a
semi-detached house on a council estate, the paint on the doors and
windows cracked and peeling. Moss was growing between the paving
stones that led up to the front door. There was a white van in the
driveway of the Spradbery house and a five-year-old blue Nissan
next door. There was a rusting metal swing set and a BMX bike
leaning against the garage door of the neighbouring
house.
    Jenny climbed
out of the Audi. Three hoodie-wearing teenagers standing outside an
off-licence were smoking and staring at the car. ‘Make sure you
stay put,’ she said.
    Nightingale
chuckled. ‘You’re such a snob.’
    ‘It’s nothing
to do with snobbery, I just don’t want to find my car on blocks
when I get back.’
    ‘They’re just
kids,’ said Nightingale.
    ‘Stay in the
car,’ said Jenny. Nightingale watched as she walked up to the front
door. He took out his cigarettes and lighter but then remembered
that she didn’t like him smoking in the Audi. He put them away as
the front door opened. A middle-aged woman in a flowered apron
spoke to Jenny for several minutes and then closed the front door.
Jenny came back to the car and bent down to talk to him through the
open window. ‘They’re not there.’
    ‘Who did you
speak to?’
    ‘ Mrs
Spradbery’s sister. Tracey’s aunt. She’s in there to feed their
dogs and give the place a clean.’
    ‘Did she say
where