Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’m doing my best.’
‘I’m sure that’ll be a comfort to their parents. And the parents of the ones to come.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
Again the mocking laugh. ‘Who said I am? Maybe I just like to watch you run around in circles.’
‘But you know what’s happening. Help me here.’
This time the laughter seemed to come from genuine amusement. ‘Oh Nightingale, you are such an infant. You persist in this idea that I’m on your side. How many people that were close to you are dead now? Why on earth would you expect me to help you? That bus is due now, shall I make you walk under it?’
Nightingale held his hands up in surrender. ‘Okay, I get it, you haven’t come to help.’
‘Nobody will be helping you, Nightingale. You and Wainwright have danced your little jig, and now it’s time to pay the piper.’ She grinned. ‘That’s what this is about, Nightingale. Paying the piper.’
‘Looks like I’ll be going then.’
‘You’ll go when I’ve finished with you, and I haven’t yet. Listen carefully now. I don’t plan to visit Tennessee again any time soon, and I’ve got rather tired of being summoned whenever you think of a question. So don’t do it. I’m not your personal phone-a-friend.’
‘I thought the rule was that you had to come if you were summoned. You have no choice in the matter.’
‘Oh we have to come when we are summoned. But the whole purpose of summoning our kind is to make a deal. There has to be something in it for us. With you, there hasn’t been lately. So I’m making my own deal. You summon me to Memphis and I’ll have to come. But when I go, I’ll be taking someone back with me when I leave. It’ll cost you a life, Nightingale. The life of someone you care about.’
‘There aren’t any of those left.’
She smiled cruelly and fingered the ankh that hung round her neck. ‘Oh really? Not dear little Jenny? Maybe Amy Chen? Didn’t Robbie Hoyle have a wife and kids? What about your long-lost sister? I’ll think of someone. I mean what I say, Nightingale. Don’t even think about summoning me here. If you do, you’ll regret it for the rest of your short, miserable life.’
Nightingale shuddered. She was right, he was always disarmed by the harmless appearance, but beneath it lurked one of the most powerful Devils in Hell. She had told him what would happen, and he knew from experience that he needed to believe every word. He nodded.
‘Looks like I’ll manage without you,’ he said.
‘Probably not too well, is my guess. Remember, this isn’t the movies. The guy in the white hat doesn’t always win.’
The air around her flickered and seemed to fold in on itself, and she and the dog were gone.
Nightingale’s hand was trembling as he lit a cigarette.
CHAPTER 30
Nightingale had the horrible feeling that he was back at square one again. The one source he had was now dead and had seemingly been part of whatever was happening. If Proserpine was behind it all, it could get even nastier than a bunch of dead children. But if she was orchestrating what was happening, why would she show up to warn him off? At the moment it was all far too complicated to think through, and he needed more information in a hurry.
He waited until he was back in his hotel room and had showered and changed before phoning Mrs. Steadman again. A familiar precise voice answered him. ‘Mr. Nightingale? How good to hear from you. I’d been rather worried.’
‘I’m fine, Mrs. Steadman. Thank you for your concern.’
‘I am so glad you got back safely from the Astral Plane. You really should never have tried anything so dangerous by yourself. It’s so easy to find false visions planted in your mind, and for those who want to harm you to block your return.’
‘The big toe thing worked.’
‘Yes, it sounds ridiculously mundane, but focusing on a small, easily visualised piece of reality will usually work to bring someone back. You should never have tried to contact someone on the Astral by yourself, it’s a very advanced technique.’
‘I think I realise that now, ‘said Nightingale. ‘But I couldn’t contact you by traditional methods.’
‘No,’ said Mrs. Steadman. ‘I am rather busy at the moment.’
She didn’t elaborate, so Nightingale didn’t ask. He’d long ago discovered that there was far more to Mrs. Steadman than met the eye. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m just stuck, big-time, and I didn’t know who else to ask. At least I’ve finally got hold of you.’
‘Ask about what?’ she said. ‘What are you involved with now?’
He gave her a condensed version, leaving out Wainwright’s name. Mrs. Steadman listened in silence as he ran through what had happened to the children, and he told her about Kim Jarvis killing herself in front of him. As he spoke, he could visualise her in the back room of the store, surrounded by her Wiccan candles, crystals, pots, jars and herbs, with the kettle perhaps just boiled for her tea. He missed the warmth and welcome of that room.
But that was all in another life.
When he described that morning’s visit from Proserpine, she gasped. ‘Oh dear me, no, She is still pursuing you?’
‘Seems so. Closer than ever this time. Seems I might be on her bad list, and so is Wai...’ He choked off Joshua’s name, but it was too late.
‘Ah, so you are still working for him,’ she said. ‘I think I told you before that I didn’t exactly approve of that idea. He is definitely of the Left-Hand Path, and may well not prove as good a friend as you might think. He does not have your best interests at heart. I really wish you wouldn’t consort with him, Mr. Nightingale.’
‘Yeah, I remember you telling me that,’ said Nightingale. ‘At the moment he seems to be riding with the good guys. He’s horribly scared for his niece. Seems she’s the last name on the list.’
‘And you seem rather scared yourself, Mr. Nightingale, though probably not for his niece. I think there’s something else that you’ve chosen not to tell me.’
Nightingale closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Might have known I wouldn’t be able to pull the wool over your eyes, Mrs. Steadman,’ he said. He opened his eyes again. ‘You remember Sophie Underwood?’
‘The little girl you lost and then saved? Of course.’
‘She’s the thirteenth name on the list.’
There was another gasp, and then she clicked her tongue. ‘Oh dear, oh dear. It really does seem as if someone has rather a grudge against the two of you. I’m not sure that I will be able to help with this.’
‘Why not? There are children at stake here, Mrs. Steadman.’
‘Well, yes. But again this all seems to result from something you and Mr. Wainwright have done. Someone is trying to revenge themselves on you through these children. You are paying the price for interfering in someone else’s activities. In a sense, they are restoring the Balance, and as I have told you before...’
‘It’s your job to try to keep the Balance, not disturb it.’
‘Quite. But still... Do you think you could remember precisely what that awful creature Proserpine said to you? Her exact words.’
Nightingale cast his mind back, visualised the scene, then tried to put his police training back to work, and remember the conversation verbatim. When he’d finished, she was silent for a moment before asking her question slowly and carefully.
‘And you’re quite sure those were her words? ‘You’ve danced your jig and now you need to pay the piper’?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘And remind me of the young lady reporter’s last words.’
That was much easier, and Nightingale told her everything Kim Jarvis had said in her last moments.
‘Oh dear me, I really hope not. For everyone’s sake.’
‘What is it?’
‘I may be wrong, and as I say, it isn’t my place to do anything about it, I think Proserpine knows that, too, when she said there would be nobody to help you.’
‘But...’
&nb
sp; She interrupted him firmly.
‘No, Mr. Nightingale. I really am sorry, but I can’t be of any help to you with this. It’s not my place to interfere, and what happens, happens. If it is meant to be, then so it will be. But I shall watch what happens with interest.’
Nightingale tried to protest again, but it was too late, she had cut the connection. It wasn’t the first time that Mrs. Steadman had declined to help Nightingale, but it was still a serious setback. He was pondering his next move when the room phone rang.
‘Jack Nightingale? Bonnie Parker, I’m down in the lobby. Any chance you could come down?’
‘You’re a little early.’
‘I was just passing, thought I might save myself a little time later.’
‘Just passing?’ said Nightingale. He didn’t believe that for one minute. ‘I’ll be right down.’
‘Right down’ might have taken a little longer than Sergeant Parker would have expected, since Nightingale took the stairs down from the twelfth floor.
Parker looked surprised to see him emerge from the stair door, rather than one of the bank of elevators. ‘Did you need the exercise?’ she asked.
‘Nah, just don’t like lifts.’
‘We call them elevators. You don’t look the claustrophobic type.’
‘I’m not. Just don’t like them.’
Parker nodded and let it pass. She’d obviously managed to find time for a change of shirt since their previous meeting, and the current one was light blue. She looked to be wearing the same suit.
‘You were just passing then,’ said Nightingale. ‘Nothing to do with trying to talk to me before Ms Hutton showed up?’
Parker frowned at him. ‘Mr. Nightingale, that’s an awful thing to say. You’re perfectly at liberty to call her, and not say a word till she gets here.’
Nightingale grinned. ‘Actually I gave her the day off. Can we go someplace where I can smoke a fag or two while we talk?’ He grinned, knowing that she would pick up on the slang. Smoking a fag was what he did in the UK, to the American ear it was a criminal offence.
Parker seemed to ignore his attempt at humour and just nodded. ‘Let’s take a little walk to Beale Street. I’m sure a tourist like you wants to see the home of the Blues.’
‘Just so long as it’s home to an ashtray or two,’ said Nightingale.
A stroll of a few blocks through the heart of downtown Memphis brought them to the city’s most famous street, though at this time of the day it was pretty quiet. Ryan O’Rourke’s Bar might have been a little too mock-Irish for Nightingale’s tastes at night, with too many shamrocks and leprechauns painted on the walls, windows and menus, but it came with patio seating, his favourite Corona beer, and that all important permission to smoke. He proved his theory correct when Parker accepted one of his Marlboro to go with her coffee. ‘I thought I recognised a fellow smoker,’ said Nightingale.
‘Not often,’ said Parker. ‘My husband thinks I quit.’
‘Bet he doesn’t.’
‘Maybe not. Talking of recognising things, I smell cop on you.’
‘Guilty as charged. Metropolitan Police, London. Negotiator and firearms officer.’
‘Really? Most of you guys are still not armed?’
‘That’s right. But I’m not “you guys” anymore. I left years ago.’
‘And what brings you to Memphis, Mr. Nightingale? And specifically to the Memphis Park Cemetery last night to witness two suicides?’
‘So much for small talk,’ said Nightingale.
The detective shrugged but didn’t say anything. It was an interrogator’s technique around the world – leave a silence and wait for the person being questioned to fill it.
Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette, then blew smoke upwards and watched it rise. As ever with the police, he had three choices. Tell them the plain, unvarnished truth, which they would never believe, and which would probably get him arrested or committed. Try to make up some convincing lies, which would mean trying to remember them all, improvise quickly, and hope they stood up to scrutiny. Or stick as close to the truth as possible, but not all of it, and not all at once. As cops went, Parker seemed a pretty straight kind, so Nightingale decided to try option three.
‘Well, first of all, I only witnessed one suicide. The kid was dead long before I got there.’
‘Charmaine Wendover. She deserves her own name.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘She does. I’m sorry. Well, as I say, Charmaine was dead long before I got there.’
‘You checked?’
‘I did. She was cold. Probably a couple of hours before.’
‘What brought you to the cemetery?’
‘I drove,’ he said, but the look of contempt that flashed across her face showed that she didn’t appreciate his attempt at humour. ‘A phone call from Kim Jarvis. We’d been working together...sort of...on the spate of kids committing suicide here in the last few days.’
‘Might make sense for her, as a reporter, but what’s your interest?’
‘Shall we say I’m interested in the unusual? And young kids committing suicide in public is pretty unusual.’
Parker shook her head. ‘That’s not gonna fly, Nightingale. The Peabody says you checked in three days ago, that’s a day before the Robinson boy died at the station. And two deaths isn’t a spate.’
‘What about Olivia Taylor, Timmy Williams, Madison Moore, Susan Johnson, Martin Brown?’
‘I caught the Olivia Taylor case. Little girl hanged herself with her skipping rope from the balustrade of her parents’ house. Suicide for sure. But who are the others?’
‘Timmy Williams ran out under a truck while walking with his mother. Madison Moore drank drain cleaner. Susan Johnson jumped out of her apartment window, and Martin Brown cut his wrists in the bath.’
Parker pursed her lips, took a sip of her coffee and made a disgusted face. ‘That’s a lot of suicides.’
‘And nobody connected them?’
‘Why would we? Suicides generally don’t connect. Yes, it’s pretty unusual, but there’s no suggestion anyone else was involved in the deaths, right?’
‘True enough.’
‘Anyway, we’re wandering from the point. What made you show up in Memphis, all the way from London, in response to two kids killing themselves?’
Nightingale laughed. ‘Nice try. You know full well I didn’t come from London. I’ve been working over here for quite a while. Didn’t you check my immigration status?’
‘Might have. So who do you work for, and what’s their interest?’
‘I might take the Fifth on that one,’ said Nightingale. ‘Let’s just say I work for some people with an interest in the unusual.’
‘You have a licence to work as a Private Investigator in Tennessee?’
‘I’m guessing you know the answer to that one, too.’
‘You guess right. So tell me about Kim Jarvis. Where does she fit in?’
Nightingale recognised Parker’s sudden switch of topic, hoping to wrong-foot him. He bought himself some time by lighting another cigarette, and signalling the waitress for two more coffees. ‘Unless you’re in a hurry?’ he said to Parker.
‘I can go one more. Not like I have a homicide to worry about.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘Something smells wrong, and I’m off duty until three. Now, you’re doing a fine job of trying to change the subject, but tell me about Kim Jarvis.’
Nightingale grinned. Not much got past the detective. ‘I barely knew her. Met her two days ago, I showed up at her office because it was her by-line on the story about Timmy Williams. When I told her about the other suicides, she seemed interested in the possibility of a connection.’
‘I don’t buy any of that. For a start, how did some out-of-town guy even get to hear about the other three? They would never have even made the local papers. And why would an experienced reporter try to make a connection between suicides? She’d have thought you were a nut, and sent yo
u on your way.’
‘Maybe she should have,’ said Nightingale. ‘Unless I wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, she was pretty much on the spot when Timmy Williams stepped in front of the truck, and she knew where to find Charmaine. The stuff she fed me about following her to the Crystal Shrine was nonsense, the girl had been dead for two or three hours before Kim turned up. And why kill herself? In front of me?’
‘A good question, ‘ said Parker. ‘Why not talk me through that?’
Nightingale obliged, covering every detail as accurately as he could, but leaving out her final sentence. ‘So that was it? She says “Bye Dude” and then she shot herself?’
‘That was it.’
‘And she wanted the world to see her tattoos. You know anything about Black Magic?’
The question came out of nowhere, and Nightingale couldn’t stop his face from betraying his surprise. ‘Why would you ask that?’ he said.
‘Maybe you didn’t get a good look at them. I did. All kinds of wizards, witches and mythical creatures. Weird writing in languages nobody in our Department can read. A bunch of symbols they tell me might mean something in Occult circles...and one more little thing.’
Parker lit another cigarette to emphasise her dramatic pause. Nightingale kept quiet.
‘Back of her left shoulder, there was a goat’s head, and a seven pointed star.’
Nightingale kept his face as expressionless as he could. ‘So?’
‘Does it mean anything to you?’
‘Should it? Why pick that one out?’
‘Because it wasn’t just another tattoo. It had been branded into her skin with some kind of hot iron.’
Nightingale gazed intently at the glowing end of his cigarette, and tried to keep his hand steady, as his memory reeled back to the nightmare that had been his final case in England. Followers of The Order Of Nine Angles often had a brand on their body of a seven-pointed star.
‘Branded, eh?’ he said. ‘Must have hurt. Is that kind of thing common over here?’
Tennessee Night (The 8th Jack Nightingale Novel) Page 11
