Still Bleeding (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) by Stephen Leather Page A

off
Connolly. He opened it. Inside were two clear plastic boxes, each
containing a syringe full of colourless liquid.
    Nightingale
picked up the shotgun again and levelled it at Connolly’s
chest.
    ‘What are you
going to do?’ asked Connolly.
    ‘I’m going to
inject this into your arm. Or rather, I’m getting you to do it to
yourself.’ A look of fear flashed across Connolly’s face. ‘If
you’re right and it’s a tranquiliser then you’ll go to sleep,’
Nightingale continued. ‘If you’re lying and there’s poison in it,
then you’ll die. Either way, I’ll go outside and tell your pals to
come and collect you.’
    ‘It’s a
tranquiliser,’ said Connolly.
    ‘Good to know,’
said Nightingale. ‘Good for you, anyway. Frankly I’m easy either
way.’ Nightingale placed one of the plastic boxes on the table.
    And then
what?’
    ‘Assuming
you’re not dead? That depends on you.’ Nightingale reached into his
jacket pocket and took out a small digital recorder. A red light
glowed on the side. ‘If I ever see you again, this recording goes
to the cops. Along with the CCTV footage from my office. And the
DNA we took from the cigarette you smoked in my office.’
    ‘You swabbed my
DNA?’
    ‘Your story
sounded fishy even back then,’ said Nightingale. ‘We’ve already had
the DNA profiled through a lab we use and we’ve got decent
fingerprints off the business card you gave me. And on the cup you
drank your coffee from. This tape is more than enough to have you
sent to prison for a long, long time.’
    Connolly nodded
slowly. ‘And I’m guessing there’s a reason you haven’t already
called in the cops?’
    ‘You read my
mind,’ said Nightingale. ‘Can you figure it out for yourself?’
    ‘You want to
take the pressure off the girl.’
    ‘She has a
name.’
    Connolly
nodded. ‘You want the dogs called off Tracey. And you need me to do
that. Right?’
    ‘Got it in
one,’ said Nightingale. ‘You tell your bosses that she’s faking it.
She made up the whole thing to attract attention to herself. Most
of the cases you look at are fakes, right?’
    ‘That’s
true.’
    ‘So that’s what
they’ll be expecting to hear,’ said Nightingale. ‘You tell them
that it’s over. You do that and this recording stays in a safety
deposit box along with the CCTV footage and the DNA profile, and a
full statement from me just in case something happens to me. Can
you do that for me, Jonah?’
    Connolly said
nothing for several seconds, then he forced a smile. ‘It doesn’t
look like I have much choice, does it?’
    ‘My Plan B is
to call the cops now and have you and your pals charged with
conspiracy to murder and to go public with as many TV and newspaper
interviews as I can give over the next few days. There’s a fair bit
of hysteria out there about what’s being happening to kids
recently, and I think we can both agree that the Catholic Church
has had more than its fair share of bad publicity.’
    ‘I hear what
you’re saying, Nightingale.’
    ‘And we have a
deal?’
    Connolly nodded
slowly. ‘We have a deal.’
    ‘Get up slowly.
And sit down at the table.’
    Connolly did as
he was told.
    Nightingale
grinned. ‘Cool. Now inject that into your arm and we can all go our
separate ways.’
    ‘Are you
serious?’
    ‘Deadly
serious,’ said Nightingale. ‘But if you don’t want to do it, we’ve
still got Plan B.’
    Connolly stared
at the plastic box and then slowly opened it. He took out the
syringe, put the box on the bed and carefully pulled off the small
orange plastic cap off the needle. ‘You don’t have to do this. It’s
a sedative.’
    ‘Then you’ve
nothing to worry about.’ He gestured with the shotgun. ‘Don’t spill
any. And Jonah, maybe you should think about another line of
work.’
    ‘Offering
career guidance now, are you?’
    ‘You need to
ask yourself why the Virgin Mary would appear to a little girl and
not someone like you. And then you have to ask yourself