The Whisper Man Read online

  THE WHISPER MAN

  By Stephen Leather

  Copyright 2019© Stephen Leather

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the author.

  Smashwords Edition

  He’s charming and good looking, he makes you laugh and he has a twinkle in his eyes. He’s the sort of guy you’d be happy to spend time with. Until the moment when he asks you if you want to know a secret. You say yes, of course, and you lean towards him. That’s when he whispers in your ear and everything changes. Within hours you are dead and your soul is gone forever. You’ve just met The Whisper Man.

  When supernatural detective Jack Nightingale hears about a rash of suicides across London, he realises that it’s more than a coincidence. Something has come from the bowels of Hell to wreak havoc in the world, and only he can stop it. But to do that he’ll have to put his own soul on the line. And to make his life even more complicated, the police have found a book full of names of people who have been marked for death. And Nightingale’s name is in it.

  Jack Nightingale appears in the full-length novels Nightfall, Midnight, Nightmare, Nightshade, Lastnight, San Francisco Night, New York Night and Tennessee Night, and numerous short stories. The Nightingale timeline is complex; The Whisper Man is set between Nightshade and Lastnight, back when Jack Nightingale was in London working with his long-suffering assistant Jenny McLean and his nemesis Superintendent Chalmers was always on his case.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 1

  Lucy Clarke looked at her watch. She was early and she hated sitting at a restaurant table on her own. There was a bar to her left so she walked over and slid onto a stool. A stick-thin barman with slicked-back hair flashed her a toothy smile and asked her what she wanted to drink. She ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio and looked at her watch again.

  ‘Waiting for someone?’

  Lucy turned to see a tall, dark-haired man sitting on the stool next to her. He was wearing a blue suit and a crisp white shirt with a blood red tie. She frowned. She was sure there had been no one on the stool when she had sat down. ‘Two girlfriends,’ she said.

  He smiled, showing perfect, even white teeth. ‘Ah, girls night out?’

  ‘Once a month.’

  His smile widened. ‘Your husband lets you off the leash once a month? That’s nice.’

  ‘No husband,’ she said. She held up her left hand and waggled her ring-free fingers at him. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Footloose and fancy free? Excellent.’

  He had eyes that were a blue so dark that they were almost black. She looked into them and her stomach lurched. She forced herself to look away and she fixed her eyes on her glass. ‘Hardly footloose,’ she said. ‘I have a six-year-old daughter.’

  ‘So you’re a single mum? That must be challenging.’

  ‘It has its moments,’ she said. ‘But I love Charlie more than anything in the world.’

  ‘Charlie? So Charlotte? That’s my mother’s name.’

  She looked back into his smiling eyes and felt herself falling into them. He reached out and took her right hand in his. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, as he turned over her hand to reveal the palm. ‘It’s a hobby of mine.’ His jet black hair fell like a curtain as he stared down at her hand. ‘You’re a happy person and you enjoy life, despite facing many challenges,’ he said. ‘You have been married and have one child.’

  She laughed. ‘I told you that,’ she said.

  ‘But your husband wasn’t your first love. He was your second. No, third. But the two men you loved before him both hurt you and left you. You chose your husband because you knew he could never hurt you. You never really loved him.’

  ‘Hey!’ she said, and tried to pull her hand away but he held her tightly.

  He looked up, smiling. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. Sometimes I talk without thinking when I’m reading.’

  ‘You read that in my hand?’

  His smile widened. ‘Of course.’ He looked down at her hand again and she relaxed. He ran his finger across her palm and she shivered. ‘You like dogs, but not cats. Your favourite colour is blue. You like to eat ice cream but you don’t because you fear it will make you fat.’ He looked up at her and grinned. ‘It won’t.’

  ‘Can you tell my future?’ she asked, her voice catching in her throat.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Come closer. I have to whisper.’

  ‘Whisper? Why?’

  He winked. ‘It’s a secret.’

  She leaned towards him and he put his mouth close to her ear. His voice was soft and comforting and she felt a warm feeling spread across her chest as he whispered to her. As he whispered, he put his hand behind her neck and drew her even closer.

  Her eyes widened as she saw her two friends walk into the restaurant and go over to the greeter. Sally Willis and Laura McKay. Her two best friends. The greeter pointed at the bar and Laura waved over at Lucy.

  ‘My friends,’ she said, straightening up and pulling her hand away.

  ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Have fun.’

  She slid off her stool and walked towards Sally and Laura. ‘Sorry we’re late,’ said Laura.

  Lucy looked at her watch. ‘I was early.’

  ‘And clearly making good use of your time,’ laughed Sally, looking over her shoulder. ‘So who was that?’

  ‘Who was what?’

  Sally grinned. ‘You know who. The guy you were drinking with.’

  Lucy turned to look at the bar. ‘Which guy?’ she asked.

  ‘The tall good-looking guy who slipped out when you came over here,’ laughed Laura. ‘Come on, spill the beans.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking to anyone,’ said Lucy. ‘I was just waiting for you.’

  Laura put a hand on her arm. ‘If you want to keep him as your little secret, that’s fine,’ she said.

  ‘Laura!’

  The greeter came over. ‘I’ll show you to your table,’ she said. Lucy looked over at the bar again, frowning. What on earth were her friends talking about? There hadn’t been anyone there. Had there?

  CHAPTER 2

  Jack Nightingale sighed and looked up at the sign announcing the train times. The next one was due in two minutes but he was pretty sure it had been saying that for some time. It was just after ten so the morning rush hour was over and there were only a dozen or so people on the Tube platform. To his left was a workman in overalls holding a blue toolbox. Behind him was a middle-aged man in a suit who every few seconds looked at his watch and sighed through pursed lips as if the sound would somehow speed up the arrival of the train. A skinhead wearing a combat jacket and cherry red Doc Martin boots was leaning against the wall, glaring at anyone who looked in his direction.

  Nightingale looked up at the sign again. Still two minutes. But as he stared at the screen, it changed to one minute. Maybe he w
asn’t trapped in time after all. A large Asian woman came down the platform in a brightly-coloured sari. She looked up at the sign, sighed and squeezed into a seat, putting her Marks and Spencer carrier bags on the seat next to her.

  A group of young schoolchildren filed onto the platform, shepherded by two middle-aged teachers. The teachers had the pupils line up against the wall. Nightingale looked up at the sign. NEXT TRAIN APPROACHING. He looked at his watch; he had a meeting with his accountant at eleven and there was a client scheduled for one o’clock at his office. Business was slow and that was all he had lined up for the day.

  He felt a breeze on his left cheek, signalling the train’s imminent arrival. The blonde woman took a step towards the platform. Nightingale never understood why people didn’t just wait for the train to come to a stop before crossing over the yellow line. She took another step. Nightingale was watching her openly now, wondering why she was in such a rush. Her third step was a little quicker. She had a Louis Vuitton hanging over her right shoulder and it was swinging freely as she walked. He could hear the roar of the train now, and the breeze was much stronger.

  The woman took another step and she was almost running now. Now time really did seem to slow down for Nightingale. The woman was looking straight ahead, staring at the station wall on the far side of the tracks. Her face was a blank mask, her hands were lightly clenched. The wind was tugging at her blonde hair though she didn’t appear to be aware of it. She took another step, her left foot crossing over the yellow line that ran the full length of the platform.

  Nightingale opened his mouth to shout a warning, even though he knew he’d be wasting his breath. The sound of the train was almost deafening now. The woman planted her left foot and jumped, her face still blank. Nightingale grabbed for the scruff of her neck but she was already out of his reach. The brakes of the train screeched but Nightingale doubted it was because the driver had seen her. The train was still in the tunnel, but at the moment the woman left the platform it appeared and hit her. The sound was something Nightingale would never forget, a slapping sound like a wet towel being thrown against a wall and then she was gone and all Nightingale could see was the carriages whizzing by. The train slowed and came to a stop about halfway down the platform. The schoolchildren screamed and the teachers ushered them away. The train had stopped now but the door stayed shut.

  ‘He pushed her!’ shouted the Asian woman. ‘I saw him! He pushed her!’

  The Asian woman was standing up now. Nightingale shook his head. ‘I tried to stop her.’

  The woman pointed a blood-red nail at his face. ‘He pushed her!’ Her eyes were wide and bulging and her lips were curled back in a snarl. ‘I saw him push her!’

  ‘You didn’t,’ said Nightingale, backing away.

  Hands grabbed his left arm and he turned to look at the teenage skinhead, a swastika tattooed on his neck. ‘I’ve got him!’ shouted the skinhead, his nails biting into Nightingale’s arm.

  ‘Get off me!’ shouted Nightingale.

  ‘He killed her!’ shouted the skinhead.

  Nightingale pushed him away with his free hand but then the businessman grabbed his other arm. ‘Call the police!’ shouted the businessman. ‘Somebody call the police!’

  ‘I was trying to help her!’ shouted Nightingale, trying to get free. ‘She jumped!’

  ‘He pushed her!’ shouted the Asian woman.

  Half a dozen people were now crowding around Nightingale. Now matter how he struggled he couldn’t get free. ‘This is crazy,’ shouted Nightingale.

  The skinhead tried to head-butt Nightingale but the blow glanced off Nightingale’s shoulder. Nightingale tried to move away but something tangled up his legs and he fell to the ground. Within seconds he was trapped under a pile of bodies, unable to breathe.

  CHAPTER 3

  They kept Nightingale in a windowless interview room with only a paper cup of water for company. There were two CCTV cameras up in the ceiling so he didn’t light a cigarette, much as he wanted to. He had taken off his raincoat and put it on the back of the chair he was sitting on, and rested his feet on another chair. His chest and arms still hurt from the manhandling he had been subjected to on the Tube platform, and strictly speaking he was entitled to ask to be examined by a doctor but he was a big boy so he sipped his water and waited. The fact that he had once been a police officer cut him no slack, he knew that. Most serving officers hated their job and seemed to resent the fact that he had moved on to better things, though truth be told living hand to mouth as a private detective wasn’t necessarily a step up, though at least he didn’t have to worry that everything he said and did would fall foul of the Met’s latest PC diktat.

  He sat alone for three hours and had almost finished his bottle of water when the door opened and in walked Superintendent Ronald Chalmers, tall with greying hair and flakes of dandruff on the shoulders of his neatly pressed uniform. There was a younger man with him that Nightingale hadn’t seen before, late twenties with thinning blond hair and wearing a grey suit that appeared to be a size too big for him. Probably a new detective, learning the ropes. Chalmers didn’t introduce him. ‘Get your feet off the chair, Nightingale, you’re not at home now,’ said the Superintendent.

  Nightingale did as he was told. Chalmers used a handkerchief to wipe the chair clean and then sat down. ‘So now you’re pushing women in front of trains, are you?’ said Chalmers. ‘That’s a new low for you.’

  ‘I didn’t push her, she jumped,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was trying to save her.’

  Chalmers held up a hand to quieten him. ‘Save your breath, Nightingale. We’ve reviewed the CCTV. You’re in the clear.’

  Nightingale sighed with relief. ‘Why was that woman so convinced I’d pushed her?’

  ‘You know how unreliable eyewitnesses are,’ said Chalmers. ‘Get five witnesses to a traffic accident and they won’t even agree on the colour of the vehicles.’

  ‘She’d have strung me up there and then,’ said Nightingale. ‘And those two guys who grabbed me were nasty pieces of work. I should sue them.’ He stood up and took his coat off the back of his chair. ‘So I’m free to go?’

  Chalmers waved for him to sit down again. ‘I’ve a few questions for you before you rush off.’

  ‘I’m not under arrest?’

  ‘Just sit down, Nightingale.’

  Nightingale did as he was told. ‘Can I smoke?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course you can’t smoke,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’re aware of the Health Act of 2006, or are you developing early Alzheimer’s?’

  ‘If I’m doing you a favour by listening to you, I thought you’d cut me some slack and let me have a cigarette, that’s all.’

  ‘No slack is being cut, Nightingale. ‘This lady who killed herself. Lucy Clarke. Do you know her?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Just ships that pass in the night?’

  ‘It was morning, but yeah.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything to her? Or her to you?’

  ‘You said you’d seen the CCTV.’

  ‘The quality isn’t great. And you did spend quite a bit of time staring at her.’

  ‘Staring?’

  ‘Staring. Looking. Whatever. So why were you so interested in her?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘She was pretty, I guess.’

  ‘You make a habit of hitting on women on the Tube?’

  ‘I didn’t hit on her,’ said Nightingale. ‘I didn’t even speak to her. I was bored, I was waiting for a train, she was easier on the eye than that horrible woman who started shrieking at me.’

  ‘Did she look uncomfortable?’

  Nightingale’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you suggesting, Chalmers? That something I said made her jump in front of a train? You’re clutching at straws, mate.’

  ‘I’m not your mate, Nightingale,’ said Chalmers. ‘I’m a Metropolitan Police Superintendent investigating a suspicious death. So you need to keep a civil tongue in your head.’


  ‘Suspicious? It’s suicide, open and shut.’

  ‘Lucy Clarke wasn’t a typical suicide victim,’ said Chalmers. ‘She was stable, she was fit and healthy, no history of depression, and nothing had happened that would have caused her to kill herself.’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘Maybe she just snapped.’

  ‘There were no stressors, none that we could find.’

  ‘Money problems?’

  Chalmers shook his head. ‘She was divorced three years ago and her ex-husband supports her and their six year old daughter. It was as amicable a divorce as you can get. He has been spoken to and has no idea why she would kill herself.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Did she look upset? Disturbed?’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘She was your average Tube user, blank face and avoiding eye contact.’

  ‘With hindsight, did she look like as if she had it planned in advance?’

  ‘Do you mean, was she waiting to throw herself in front of a train?’ Nightingale shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She was looking into the tunnel but everyone does that. Did she look tense? Not really, no more than anyone else.’

  ‘So the train emerged from the tunnel and she just jumped forward?’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘It happened really quickly. By the time I realised what she was doing, it was too late.’ He leaned forward across the table. ‘Why are you so interested in a suicide?’

  Chalmers looked pained. ‘We’ve had a number of them over the past three weeks,’ he said. ‘Perfectly sane, perfectly happy people, just killing themselves with no warning, no notice, no reason.’

  ‘No notes?’

  Chalmers shook his head. ‘No. And in all cases, they had something to do. They all had unfinished business. Lucy Clarke was on her way to get her nails done and was supposed to have collected her daughter when school had finished. We had a guy two days ago who drank a bottle of drain cleaner and a bottle of bleach two hours before he was due to get a Waitrose delivery. Another woman made a FaceTime call to a friend to arrange to go for a drink, then went out onto her balcony and jumped to her death. Nine floors, so it definitely wasn’t a cry for help.’