I Know Who Did It (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) by Stephen Leather Read Free Book Online

Steadman
looked at him fearfully. ‘You can’t, Mr Nightingale. If this man has the
protection of one of the strongest demons in Hell, there’s nothing you can do.’
    Nightingale
sighed. He wanted a cigarette, badly.
    ‘You need to run,
Mr Nightingale. You and your friend need to get as far away from this man as
you can. That’s your only hope, to be somewhere where he can’t find you.’
    ‘I can’t do that,
Mrs Steadman.’
    ‘You have to.’
    Nightingale
rubbed the back of his neck. ‘There’s no way of stopping this man? No way at
all.’
    Mrs Steadman
swallowed nervously. ‘I’m afraid not. So long as he has the protection of
Paimonia, there is nothing you can do.’
    ‘What if this
Paimonia were to die. What then?’
    Mrs Steadman’s
eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘If Paimonia were
to die, what about the people who had done deals with him?’
    ‘Those deals
would no longer be valid, obviously. But Paimonia is all-powerful, only Satan
himself is stronger.’
    ‘I have to go,’
said Nightingale, heading for the door. ‘Thanks for your help.’
    He hurried out,
leaving Mrs Steadman staring forlornly at the door. ‘Mr Nightingale, I didn’t
help you at all,’ she whispered.

 
    * * *

 
    Nightingale drove
south to Streatham, through the town centre and made a right turn and then a
left and then drove down an alley between two rows of houses. There was a row
of six brick-built lock-up garages with metal doors and corrugated iron roofs.
A large black man was waiting for him, next to a black Porsche SUV. He was
wearing a black overcoat and impenetrable wraparound sunglasses. T-Bone worked
for a South London gangster but had a sideline in supplying illicit weapons to
the criminal community. T-Bone grinned as Nightingale climbed out of his MGB.
‘You still driving that rust bucket, Birdman?’
    ‘It’s a classic,’
said Nightingale.
    ‘It’s a piece of
shit,’ said T-Bone. ‘If I sold guns as shit as your motor, I’d be out of
business.’ T-Bone pulled out a set of keys from his coat pocket, unlocked the
door of one of the lock-ups and pushed it up. There was an old Jaguar there,
its boot facing outwards. T-Bone pulled the door halfway down behind them.
‘Don’t want anybody looking in,’ he explained. He used another key to open the
boot of the car. Inside were a dozen or so packages, covered in bubble-wrap.
T-Bone picked up one of the packages and unwrapped it. It was a Glock, similar
to the one Nightingale had used when he was with the Met’s firearms unit.
T-Bone held it out to Nightingale but Nightingale shook his head. ‘Have you got
anything smaller? More concealable?’
    ‘A lady gun, you
mean?’
    ‘I was thinking
of something I could hide.’
    T-Bone nodded and
rooted through the packages before selecting one and unwrapping it. ‘Smith and
Wesson 638 Airweight?’ he said. ‘Aluminium so it’s light, small frame so it’s,
well….the clue’s in the name, innit?’
    Nightingale
nodded and took the revolver. He held it in the palm of his hand. T-Bone was
right, the 638 Airweight was a near-perfect lightweight revolver. It weighed
less than a pound and the barrel was just two inches long. That meant it wasn’t
especially accurate beyond a few yards but it could easily be carried in a
jacket pocket. It only held five rounds but there were thirty eights so would
do a lot of damage.
    ‘Five rounds be
enough for you?’ asked T-Bone as if reading his mind.
    ‘Five should be
overkill,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was never one for spray and pray. How much?’
    ‘I was thinking
six hundred.’
    ‘Four?’
    ‘Five-fifty. And
if you don’t fire it, I’ll buy it back for three.’
    ‘I’ll be firing
it,’ said Nightingale. ‘Five, and I only need five rounds.’
    T-bone pulled out
a plastic bag of bullets and counted out five. He slammed the boot shut and
gave the rounds to Nightingale. ‘Deal,’ he said.
    Nightingale took
out his wallet and handed over ten