Nightmare (15 page)

The medium was pointing at a middle-aged woman in a cheap cloth coat and asking her if she knew a man called George. She took out a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and then said that yes, George was her husband. The medium rubbed his chest. ‘I feel something here,’ he said. ‘A dull ache.’

‘His heart,’ she said.

‘Yes, his heart wasn’t good,’ said the medium. ‘But he is feeling no pain and says that he is waiting for you. He says you’re not to worry about him.’

The medium continued for another thirty minutes, throwing out names and initials and offering comfort and advice. It was, Nightingale realised, a sham. He’d seen magicians do a far better job of cold reading without any pretence of talking to the dead. Eventually Morgan complained that he was tired and the woman in the fur coat joined him at the lectern. She thanked him, announced that the medium would be available for private consult-ations when he returned from the States, and then led the audience in another prayer.

The two men in suits escorted Morgan out of the room, followed by the woman in the fur coat.

Nightingale stood up and stretched. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Jenny.

Jenny stood up. ‘For what?’

‘For bringing you here,’ he said.

‘It was fascinating,’ she said.

‘You don’t believe it, do you?’

‘That Lachie was trying to contact me?’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Jenny, he didn’t say Lachie. You did. Morgan said it was Larry.’

‘That’s pretty close, don’t you think? And he got the beard right.’

‘He was taking cues from you. He picked up from you that I was there when Lachie died. He was good, but he was still conning you.’

‘How can it be a con? He didn’t want anything from us.’

‘Maybe he just likes to play God. Maybe he hopes you’ll pay him for a private consultation. Who knows? But I know one thing for sure and that’s that he wasn’t talking to spirits.’

Nightingale jumped as a hand touched his shoulder. He looked round and saw a short man standing behind him; he had dark curly hair and was wearing a green anorak. Nightingale recognised him from the audience.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ the man said. ‘But you came to contact somebody, didn’t you?’

‘Isn’t that why people come to a meeting like this?’ said Nightingale. The last members of the audience filed out of the room, leaving the three of them alone.

The man laughed softly. ‘I suppose that’s so,’ he said. ‘Though some are curious to know what if anything lies beyond this life. Sorry, you are . . .?’ He waited expectantly for Nightingale’s name.

‘We’re just on our way home,’ said Nightingale. He started to walk to the door.

‘Is your name Jack?’

Nightingale stopped and slowly turned to look at the man.

He held up his hands as if he feared that Nightingale was going to get aggressive. ‘I’m just interested, that’s all. Are you Jack?’

‘Yes,’ said Nightingale. He frowned. ‘Do you know me?’

‘Did you come to see a girl? A young girl?’

‘Who are you?’ asked Nightingale, taking a step towards him.

The man reached inside his jacket. Nightingale grabbed him by his lapels and threw him up against the wall.

‘Jack!’ shouted Jenny.

The man’s hand was still inside his jacket and Nightingale groped for whatever it was that he was reaching for.

‘My wallet,’ gasped the man. ‘I just want to give you my card.’

Jenny put a hand on Jack’s arm. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she hissed.

Nightingale released his grip on the man’s jacket and stepped back. The man opened his wallet with trembling hands and took out a business card. He held it out to Nightingale. ‘My name’s Graham Lord,’ he said.

Nightingale looked at the simple white card. Underneath the man’s name were the words ‘Spiritual Connections – Private Readings Available’ and a mobile phone number.

‘What do you want from me?’ said Nightingale. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘You came to contact a young girl. With blonde hair? Long blonde hair?’

‘What’s your game?’ asked Nightingale.

‘She was standing behind you,’ said Lord. ‘I couldn’t hear her but I could see her mouth moving and I thought she was saying “Jack”.’

Nightingale frowned. ‘You could see her?’

‘That’s what I do. I talk to spirits.’

‘Like the guy we came to see tonight? The medium?’

Lord sneered. ‘Neil Morgan? He’s a charlatan. Cold reading, that’s what he does. Picks up on physical and verbal cues and plays the percentages.’ He looked across at Jenny. ‘Larry, Lachie. Father, friend of father. Then you effectively told him that Lachie had killed himself.’

Nightingale looked at Jenny. ‘Told you,’ he said.

‘There are very few genuine mediums around and they don’t tend to go to places like this. The real ones don’t bother with shows like we’ve just seen.’

‘What about you, then, Graham? Why were you here?’

‘Lordy,’ said Lord. ‘Everyone calls me Lordy.’

‘So answer my question, Lordy. Why were you here?’

Lord sighed. ‘Because, unlike Morgan, I’m the real thing. I come to places like this because I can see the spirits. There were spirits here tonight trying to communicate, but Morgan can’t see them. He’s too busy playing his games. Remember the young couple with the baby?’

‘The woman whose mum had died? Sure.’

‘Her mum was standing next to Morgan. She was so angry at him because she knew that he was lying.’

‘You really saw her?’ said Jenny.

‘I see spirits all the time,’ said Lord. ‘It’s harder for me to talk to them. To hear what they say. I do that best at home. But tonight I saw the little girl standing behind you. Holding a doll.’

Nightingale felt his head spin.

‘I think she was saying your name,’ said Lord. ‘“Jack” she said.’

‘And what was her name?’ said Nightingale. ‘Do you know?’

Lord nodded earnestly. ‘Sophie,’ he said. ‘She said her name was Sophie.’

Nightingale pressed Lord for more information but the man insisted that he could only help them at a private meeting.

Nightingale and Jenny left Lord in the community centre and walked to where she’d parked her car. As Jenny took out her keys, Nightingale patted her on the shoulder. ‘Give me a minute. I need to call Joshua back.’

‘Joshua?’

‘The American. The guy who keeps buying my books. That was him who phoned back there.’

Jenny unlocked the Audi and climbed in and Nightingale fumbled in his pocket for his mobile. He returned Wainwright’s call and the American answered.

‘Where are you, Jack?’ he asked.

‘London,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m not a world traveller like you. I’m rarely outside the M25.’

‘The M25? What’s that?’

‘The motorway that runs around London, a.k.a. the highway to Hell. I guess you’d call it a freeway. What about you? Where are you?’

‘About two hours away from Stansted Airport,’ said the American. ‘I was calling to see if I could have a look at your father’s book collection tomorrow.’

‘Sure,’ said Nightingale.

‘Ten o’clock in the morning?’

‘Perfect,’ said Nightingale. He looked over at Jenny and flashed her a thumbs up.

24

Nightingale climbed out of his MGB and opened the gates. He’d picked up the car that morning and paid the repair bill of two hundred pounds in cash. The mechanic had given him a knowing wink as he’d pocketed the money, wishing him well and saying that he’d see him again soon, which hadn’t inspired Nightingale with confidence. He left the gates open and drove slowly down the driveway to Gosling Manor. He parked next to the fountain in front of the house and smoked a cigarette as he waited for Wainwright to arrive. He wondered whether Wainwright would arrive in a stretch limo or behind the wheel of an expensive sports car but his question was answered when he heard the far-off throbbing sound of a helicopter. Nightingale grinned when he saw the huge blue and white machine come swooping over the conifers at the edge of the property. It did a slow, lazy circle of the gardens, disappeared behind the house, then reappeared and touched down in the middle of the lawn.

The rotor draught whipped Nightingale’s hair and he flicked the remains of his cigarette away. A door opened and Wainwright climbed out. He bent double under the still-turning rotors as he jogged away from the helicopter, then straightened up and waved at Nightingale. In his left hand he was holding a half-smoked foot-long Cuban cigar. ‘Nice spread you’ve got here, Jack,’ said the American in his Midwestern drawl. He was a big man, a shade over six feet tall, well-muscled and with skin the colour of strong Colombian coffee. He had on a blue New York Yankees baseball cap and a leather baseball jacket; around his neck was a large letter J that Nightingale figured was almost certainly solid gold. He was wearing cowboy boots that looked as if they were made from rattlesnake skin and there was a fanged head on the toe of each boot.

They shook hands, Wainwright’s hand dwarfing Nightingale’s. ‘Do you live here now?’ asked Wainwright as they walked up the steps to the front door.

‘I’m still in my London pied-à-terre,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m not sure what to do with this place. It’s too big for me.’

‘You get used to big places,’ said Wainwright. He held up his cigar as Nightingale opened the door. ‘Are you okay if I take this inside?’

‘Sure, I’m a smoker, remember.’

‘I know, but these days you always have to ask.’ Wainwright followed Nightingale into the hall and looked at the burned staircase and muddy marble floor. ‘Hey, man, what the hell happened?’

‘Had a fire.’

‘Not smoking in bed?’

Nightingale chuckled. ‘No, definitely not that. It was deliberate, as it happens. An arsonist set fire to the place while I was upstairs. I only just managed to get out.’

‘Winning friends and influencing people?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Yeah, the last time we spoke you wanted to talk to Lucifuge Rofocale.’ He waved his hand at the scorched stairway. ‘Is this anything to do with him?’

‘Funnily enough, no. This was Proserpine’s doing. One of her minions.’

Wainwright laughed. ‘What have you done to get her so riled up? Of all the devils on Lucifer’s payroll she’s definitely the one that you don’t want to mess with.’

‘We did a deal,’ said Nightingale. ‘I did the pentagram thing and I summoned her. I wanted some information and she wanted to . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure what she wanted, truth be told,’ he said. ‘It was like she was playing a game with me. Toying with me.’

‘Just because they’re demons from Hell doesn’t mean they don’t have a sense of humour,’ said the American. He flicked ash onto the floor and then grinned apologetically. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just figured that with all the crap on the floor a bit of ash wouldn’t matter.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Nightingale. ‘Hopefully you’ll be paying for the clean-up, anyway.’

Wainwright nodded. ‘If you’ve got the books I want, money’s not going to be a problem,’ he said. ‘So tell me about the deal you did with Proserpine.’

‘I needed help finding my sister,’ said Nightingale. ‘So Proserpine said that she’d answer any questions I had. But the deal was that for every question she answered, she’d send one of her minions to kill me.’

‘Sweet,’ said Wainwright.

‘Yeah,’ said Nightingale. ‘Two down, one still to go.’

‘Good luck with that,’ said Wainwright. ‘Just remember that any time you do a deal with the dark side, the cards are almost always stacked against you.’

‘Yeah, I’m starting to learn that.’

‘Did you ever try to summon Lucifuge Rofocale?’

‘You told me not to, remember?’

‘I had the feeling that you weren’t listening to me. So despite what I said, you summoned him, right?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘And how did it go?’

‘The jury’s still out on that,’ said Nightingale.

‘Jack, I’m serious about this. Be very, very careful with him. With all of them, but especially with Lucifuge Rofocale. They’ve been around for a long, long time and generally in the end they get what they want.’

‘It’s all done,’ said Nightingale. ‘All done and dusted.’

‘You think that, but he might have other ideas.’ He blew smoke up at the massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling and then grinned at Nightingale. ‘Still, you’re here, so that’s got to count for something, right?’

‘Like I said, the jury’s still out.’ He walked over to the secret panel that led down to the basement and pulled it open. ‘Down here,’ he said, switching on the lights.

‘You’re kidding me,’ said Wainwright. ‘A secret door? Your old man had a sense of the absurd, didn’t he?’

‘I think he just didn’t want anyone to know that the books were down there.’

Wainwright followed him down the stairs. He stood at the bottom and whistled softly as he saw how many books there were. ‘These are all on black magic?’

‘Black magic, white magic, witchcraft, devil-worship, spells, theology, philosophy, mythology.’

‘I knew your father was a collector, but I didn’t realise it was on this scale,’ said Wainwright. ‘I’m tempted to make you an offer for the lot.’

‘Have a look around and let me know what you think. They’re no use to me.’

Wainwright walked over to one of the bookshelves and drew on his cigar as he studied the titles.

‘I’ve got another question for you,’ said Nightingale. He dropped down onto a sofa and swung his feet up onto the coffee table.

‘Ask away,’ said Wainwright, taking down a leather-bound book and flicking through it.

‘Talking to the dead,’ said Nightingale. ‘How easy is that?’

Wainwright chuckled. ‘Talking to the dead is easy; the trick is to get them to talk back.’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Nightingale, taking his cigarettes and lighter out of his coat pocket.

‘You want to initiate a conversation with someone who’s dead,’ said the American. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. Anyone in particular?’

‘Yeah.’

Wainwright put the book back and took down another. ‘Have you tried the old faithful? The Ouija board?’

‘Yeah, but it didn’t work out too well.’

‘Someone always pushes,’ said Wainwright. ‘And even if they don’t, you’ve no guarantee who’s going to come through. There’re a lot of mischievous spirits about just waiting for the opportunity of slipping into our world.’ He flicked through the book he was holding. ‘You could try a medium,’ said Wainwright. ‘An intermediary. Someone who knows what they’re doing.’