‘Perhaps the deaths were natural. Though I suspect not. Vlach sorcerers are powerful adepts, and could have other ways of working their will. I have heard tales of their enemies walking off mountain ledges, as if in a trance, or being struck down where they stood, as if by lightning.’
Nightingale finished his coffee. ‘I need to find them, and very soon.’
Father Mihail sighed. ‘I wish I could help, but I have no idea who these people might be, or where to find them.’
‘Can this ritual be performed anywhere?’
‘In theory yes, but in practice the adept will always operate under cover of darkness, and use a deconsecrated church. This adds incredible strength to any ritual.’
‘There can’t be many of those around here.’
Father Mihail smiled. ‘You’d be very surprised at exactly how many there are, especially in Norfolk. You were standing in one, just thirty minutes ago. Though of course, it has been reconsecrated now.’
‘Is there a set time for this?’
‘No, though as I said, the hours of darkness are preferred.’
Nightingale looked at his watch. Just after five. ‘So I could have around twenty-five hours to live?’
Father Mihail’s frown deepened. ‘Or maybe much less. You said your names were listed in the book under Friday’s date.’
‘Yes.’
‘If the ritual is started at midnight, it will end a few minutes later. On Friday morning.’
‘Oh shit.’
‘It seems you have no time to waste, my friend.’
‘You genuinely think I could be in that much danger?’
‘It really all depends if you believe in such things, Jack.’
‘Do you?’
‘Oh yes. Definitely.’
Nightingale’s mobile sounded as he walked back towards the car park. No number showed on the display, but he couldn’t afford to ignore anything at this stage. ‘Yes?’
‘Nightingale, where the Hell are you?’
It was Chalmers but Nightingale was in no mood to cooperate. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘You know damn well. I want that book back. Where are you?’
‘I’ll drop it into the station tomorrow, Chalmers. Your fault for leaving it behind.’
‘You better hope you’re still around to do that. Somebody seems to think you’ll be brown bread by then. And where’s your secretary? I sent Mason round to your shitty little office and the place was locked up.’
‘I gave her the day off.’
‘Don’t give me that. And what do you know about a break-in at Dixon’s house last night?’
‘Me, nothing? Why would I?’
‘Because it’s just the sort of thing you would do. Where are you?’
‘I’m out on a case. So what progress have you made investigating the names in the book?’
‘None of your business, this is an active police investigation, and I’m not about to discuss it with a civilian who might be a suspect. Or possibly a victim.’
‘You sound pleased at the prospect, Chalmers.’
‘I won’t lose sleep over it, that’s for sure. Listen, Nightingale, I can tell you this much. We did look at the other names in that book. Some of them appear to have been former colleagues of hers. Others have no known connection to Dixon, or his wife that we can find. Quite a few very common names in there. But we managed to find six deaths that matched one of the names and the dates that were given.’
‘Murders?’
‘No. Natural death or accidents, the whole lot of them.’
‘So they could have been written in after the event?’
‘Of course. Except Dixon. And you two.’
‘Yeah, I spotted that. Changing the subject, what’s happened with Lucy Clarke’s daughter? Is she with her dad?’
‘Why?’
‘I thought maybe I could go and see him.’
‘Why?’
‘I was the last person to see his wife. I thought he might have some questions.’
‘About how she jumped in front of a train? What questions could he possibly have?’
‘It’s about closure, Chalmers. People need closure. You know that as well as I do.’
The Superintendent sighed, then gave Nightingale an address in Notting Hill.
‘Now, I’ve given you something, how about you return the favour. Start with telling me where you are.’
Nightingale gave a long low whistle.
‘Sorry...almers...bad...al...eaking...up.’
He pressed the red button and ended the call.
CHAPTER 23
The Grange Guest House seemed pleasant enough, though Nightingale wasn’t anticipating sleeping there. But the room came with a decent en-suite bathroom, so a thorough shower was no problem. This time the map on the floor was a large-scale map of the local area, and he was once again trying to locate Catherine Dixon. The crystal swung to the right and downwards, and finally settled over a small village near the coast, which bore the unlikely name of Lower Wilverton St Thomas. There was no church marked there, but then if it had been abandoned, there probably wouldn’t be.
He tried again, this time searching for Jenny. The result was the same. If the crystal was doing its job, Mrs Dixon and Jenny were together.
Nightingale put the crystal back into its bag, and shoved it into the pocket of his raincoat. He dressed quickly, in black jeans, black sweater and black trainers, put the used ritual items back into his holdall, and left the Grange just forty minutes after he’d checked in.
If there was a church in Lower Wilverton, it was possible that Father Mihail might know about it, and might be willing to come along. Nightingale was feeling out of his depth and could use all the help he could get. The priest’s mobile phone was turned off, as it well might be if he was officiating, or whatever it might be that Orthodox priests did. There was just a chance that Nightingale might find him at Saint Savas. He parked opposite the church and walked quickly across the road.
He pulled the old wooden door open and stopped in his tracks, his jaw dropping in horror. Father Mihail was halfway down the church, swinging by his neck from a long gold and white sash, which had been looped around one of the beams holding the roof to the side walls. One look at the angle of his neck told Nightingale that there’d be no point calling an ambulance. It looked as if the priest had climbed up onto the back of one of the ‘stacidia’, thrown one end of the sash around the beam, then knotted both ends round his neck before jumping. He’d been quite a heavy man, so the drop had been quite enough to break his neck.
There was nothing Nightingale could do for the man, so he turned and left the church, hoping that there’d been nobody around to see him enter or leave. He’d only known father Mihail for a couple of hours, but had liked the man. Yet again, it seemed that anyone who came into contact with Nightingale found their luck changing for the worse. Nightingale couldn’t stop himself from wondering if the priest might still be alive if he’d never met him.
‘Not my fault,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Not my fault.’
CHAPTER 24
The moon was still full and bright as Nightingale parked the MGB on the verge of the narrow lane that led up to the ruin of St Thomas’s Church. A quick stop at the local pub had produced directions and a few guffaws from the locals.
‘Planning on getting married?’
‘You’ll be waiting a long time for the next service, bor.’
‘Anyone seen the vicar lately?’
After the joking had dried up they had come up with directions to the deconsecrated church. Nightingale had forced a weak smile, thanked them, and headed back to his car.
The old church stood nearly a mile away from the last house in the village, though a few other ruins along the way suggested that it had not always been so isolated. It had obviously been abandoned hundreds of years ago. There was no trace of a roof over the nave, though the walls were still pretty much complete. A tribute to the skills of the ancient stone maso
ns. At the far end of the nave stood a stone tower, which might have held the altar in centuries gone past. Nightingale’s knowledge of church architecture was pretty sketchy.
As he walked closer, he saw light flickering from the bottom of the tower, as a figure seemed to move in front of some candles. He ducked into the shadow that the walls provided from the moonlight, and edged closer, slowly and cautiously, one tentative step at a time, alert for any sound.
By the time he was forty feet away, he could see the figure clearly. It wore a dark robe, and was bent over a small table, on which stood a metal bowl, into which the figure sprinkled something and then poured in a liquid from a small bottle. Behind the figure was a wooden lectern on which stood a huge book, closed for the moment.
As his eyes grew better accustomed to the flickering candlelight, Nightingale was able to make out another figure, standing motionless to the left of the lectern. Dressed in what looked like jeans and thin sweater, and staring straight ahead out into the nave.
Jenny.
He felt a sharp jab in his kidneys and grunted in pain.
‘That was a twelve-bore shotgun,’ said a soft voice behind him. ‘I’m now two feet behind you. At this distance it would blow a very large hole in you. Keep your hands in your pockets, and walk slowly towards the altar. Don’t look round. That’s it. Now stop.’
Nightingale stood motionless, about ten feet from the figure in the grey cloak. From behind him, a second figure in a grey cloak moved to join the first, the shotgun now trained on his stomach. The first figure pulled back the hood of the cloak, shook long blonde hair free, and smiled at him.
‘Jack Nightingale, I assume,’ she said. ‘We were told you would be joining us, but we were beginning to think you’d never arrive.’ Her English was perfect though there was a trace of an East European accent.
‘Dara Tasić, I presume?’
‘I prefer my own name of Ilić. I assume you have met my husband.’
‘Yeah. I’d have been here sooner if he’d been more helpful.’
‘That would have been difficult for him, he has no idea of my...other life. He thinks I am nursing at the hospital tonight. It was a useful fiction, when I needed to be busy.’
‘A priest seems an odd choice of husband for a witch.’
She laughed.
‘An old-fashioned term, but it will suffice. He was harmless, but the marriage was not of my choice, I serve a higher power, and do not question its commands. He served a purpose, I carry inside me a daughter to continue the Vlach line, and to learn our craft. And now the time for husbands has passed, and we move on to a new life and greater power. ‘
‘Are you going to finish the introductions?’
Still holding the shotgun level with the right hand, the second figure swept the left up to the hood and pushed it back. This time the long hair was dark.
Nightingale groaned as he realised who it was. ‘Catherine Dixon. The devoted wife.’
‘Katarina Ilić.’
‘The distant cousin?’
‘The very close sister.’
‘It seems that the husband is always the last to know,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I should have guessed.’
‘It was the way it was commanded,’ said Katarina. ‘He too was to provide me with daughters for our cause. Sadly he was incapable of fathering children, so became dispensable, once his part in the plan was done.’
‘What plan?’ asked Nightingale.
This time it was Dara who spoke. ‘Why, to bring you to this place, Jack Nightingale.’
‘But why?’
‘To witness the death of Jenny McLean. And then to die yourself, in utter despair.’
Nightingale felt every hair on the back of his neck stand up in horror. ‘But why? What have Jenny and I done to you? Why would you go to all these lengths?’
‘I have told you, we serve a higher power. We have been given everything we wish in life, and will be given far, far more in the years to come. In return we practise our craft in safety, remove those who stand in our way, and obey the commands we are given.’
Nightingale stood in silence, trying to take in the horror of what she had just said. His mind raced back through the events of the last three days, and he realised how he’d been guided along this path at every step of the way, by forces far stronger than himself. He shuddered as the question rose in his mind of exactly how long ago this whole plan had been conceived.
But then, hadn’t she told him that time had no meaning? The image of her dark eyes seemed to burn inside him, and he pictured her there, with her dark fringe, the long leather coat, and the ever present hellhound. Perhaps there really was no escape from her vengeance.
Dara was speaking again.
‘Let us proceed. The Eagle must be summoned,’ she said.
Nightingale looked at Jenny, who still stood motionless six feet from him, her eyes unfocused and staring straight ahead.
‘What have you done to her?’ he asked.
‘Very little,’ said Dara. ‘Merely placed her under my will.’
‘Hypnotised?’
‘A crude term, but it will suffice. She was an easy subject, almost as if she were well used to being influenced.’
Nightingale shuddered at a memory he’d tried hard to repress. At least Jenny wouldn’t know what was going to happen to her.
Dara smiled and shook her head.
‘Oh no, Jack Nightingale. That would never do. I shall release her from my influence shortly, so she may feel every slash of beak and talon as the spirit of the Carpathian Eagle tears her apart. And you will feel each wound with her, powerless to help.’
‘Let her go, this is about me, not her.’
‘Of course it is, but she will die, and you will howl in anguish. Now be silent.’
Nightingale bit his tongue, and mentally measured the distance to the shotgun. Not a hope, but maybe if he rushed her, one quick blast would be preferable to the horror ahead. Except that would still leave Jenny at their mercy.
Dara opened the large book on the lectern, and Nightingale saw that the pages she had turned to were blank. She threw some herbs into a small metal bowl, then picked up a long copper knife. She used it to prick her finger, and squeezed in two drops of blood. She threw her head back and shouted a chant in a language Nightingale had never heard.
‘Oschi, oschi, Scaraoschi! Cu gura sa te invat, cu ochii sa nu te vad.’
She repeated the phrase three times, then flung one last handful of herbs into the bowl. Golden smoke began to pour upwards, and Nightingale heard the fluttering of huge wings above his head.
‘The Spirit of the Carpathian eagle has been summoned, it soars above us. It waits my guidance. It will not return to its nest until it has killed and tasted blood. I shall release her, and write her name in the book in my own blood, and then he will strike. But first, I have been commanded to wait exactly two minutes, so you may think of what lies ahead.’
She fell silent, and looked towards the back of the ruined church. Nightingale followed her gaze, but saw nothing. Or was there the hint of two figures, almost human, and almost animal back there? A voice came to his ears. Or was it in his head?
‘All you have to do is call me, Nightingale. No spells, just ask me to help you, and you know I will. Just ask. Just call my name.’
But he knew the price he’d have to pay. Was anything worth that?
Now there was another voice in his head, weaker, but still clear. Mrs Steadman. ‘No, Mr Nightingale. Darkness can never drive out darkness. Only the Light can do that. The Light, Mr Nightingale. The Light...’
‘Silence. Begone, old woman. He is mine, call on me, Nightingale. I can help you. Call on me, call on me.’
Nightingale closed his eyes and shook his head. The voices were gone now, and Nightingale stared back at the book, a choice of paths ahead of him.
‘Wake up, Jenny, ‘said Dara.
The effect was immediate. Jenny’s eyes focused, she looked round in terror and started
shivering.
‘Jack, where are we? What’s happening? I’m so cold.’
‘Stand still, Jenny,’ said Nightingale.
‘She cannot move,’ said Dara. ‘Now, the time has come.’ She took up a long pointed feather and the knife again. This time she drew the knife across the palm of her hand, and blood oozed out immediately. She rubbed it against the feather, until the tip was covered in her blood. She picked up something from the table, and held it up. Nightingale recognised it as Jenny’s mobile. She touched it against the page of the book.
Katarina spoke. ‘Give me my book, Jack Nightingale. I sense you have it here, and I would not have it damaged.’
Dara had written the first four letters of Jenny’s name, and was squeezing out more blood.
Nightingale fumbled in his raincoat pocket and took out Katarina’s book, still in the evidence bag. He held it up.
‘Take it out of that bag and place it gently on the ground in front of you,’ said Katarina, as Dara reached the ‘L’ of Jenny’s surname.
Nightingale did as he was told.
As he straightened up he heard Mrs Steadman’s voice. ‘The crystal, Mr Nightingale. The crystal has the Light.’
Nightingale stared at Dara, watching like a hawk for the split second when her eyes left him and looked down greedily at the book. He put his right hand into his raincoat pocket and eased the crystal out of its leather pouch. It was warm to the touch and felt as if it was pulsing to match the beat of his heart.
The moment came. Dara looked down at the book.
Nightingale’s right hand was instantly out of his pocket, and he threw the crystal at the book. The moment it touched the page, there was a blinding flash of pink light, and pink flames shot from the book, straight into Dara’s face. She screamed in agony, there was an appalling screech from above him and a deafening flapping of giant wings. Nightingale leapt at Jenny, pulled her to the ground, and lay across her in a desperate attempt to shield her.
The awful screeching continued, as did the flapping of wings and the screams of the two women seemed as if they would never end.
The Whisper Man Page 10
