Midnight

by Stephen Leather

‘Is this how you worked when you were a police negotiator, Nightingale? Promise them anything so long as they come along quietly?’

  ‘If you find out what a person in crisis wants, then more often than not you can offer them something that will make their life easier.’

  Proserpine’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not in crisis, Nightingale.’

  ‘No, but I am. Look, I don’t know where my sister is – hell, I don’t even know who she is. But I’ll do whatever I have to do to find her.’

  ‘I’ve already told you, I can’t help you with that.’

  ‘No, but you can help me get her soul back. Assuming that I can find her. But I need intel. Intel that you can supply me with.’

  Proserpine studied him with her unblinking black eyes for several seconds, and then she slowly nodded. ‘You want questions answered?’

  ‘I need to know how to help my sister.’

  ‘From what you’ve said it sounds as if she’s beyond help.’

  ‘That’s what everyone said about me, but I did okay.’

  Proserpine smiled slyly. ‘Maybe you did. And maybe you didn’t.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s not over until the fat lady sings,’ said Proserpine. ‘So how about this? For every question of yours that I answer, you give up ten years of your life.’

  Nightingale’s jaw dropped. ‘What do you mean by “give up”? You mean I go to prison?’

  ‘I mean you die ten years earlier than you would have done.’

  Nightingale’s mouth had gone suddenly dry but he tried not to show his discomfort. ‘I’m not keen on that, frankly,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this, Nightingale?’

  Nightingale ran a hand through his hair. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Are you really sure?’ pressed Proserpine. ‘You don’t even know this person. Why does her welfare concern you so much?’

  ‘She’s my sister.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So she’s the only family I have. She’s blood.’

  ‘And blood isn’t worth ten years?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a bit steep. What else have you got?’

  Proserpine sighed and folded her arms, then cocked her head like a hawk scrutinising potential prey. ‘How about this?’ she said. ‘You want “intel” as you call it. Fine. But for every question of yours that I answer, I’ll send someone to kill you.’

  Nightingale’s brow furrowed. ‘Someone or something?’

  Proserpine smiled. ‘Now you’re thinking,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, they’ll be human. Genetically anyway.’

  ‘And they’ll try to kill me?’

  ‘Oh they’ll be professionals, Nightingale. They won’t be playing with you.’

  ‘And what do you get out of it?’ he asked. The nicotine craving had returned with a vengeance and he gritted his teeth.

  ‘Entertainment,’ she said. ‘Amusement. Plus I can use you as a reward.’

  ‘Reward?’

  ‘A treat. Something to show my minions that I care for them. They do so love to serve me. Do you want the deal or not, Nightingale? If not, say the words and I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ he said. ‘And you’ll answer any question that I ask you?’

  A cruel smile spread across her face. ‘Yes, Nightingale, I will.’ She bit down on her lower lip and watched him.

  Nightingale wondered why she was smiling, then realisation hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. He’d asked his first question and she’d answered it. And that stupid slip was going to cost him an attempt on his life. ‘Okay,’ he said, nodding slowly. ‘I see how it works.’ He stopped speaking as his mind whirled. He was going to have to be very, very careful because the next words out of his mouth would be a matter of life or death.

  31

  There was a white VW Golf parked next to Jenny’s Audi when Nightingale arrived at her house at eight o’clock the following morning. As he climbed out of his MGB, a middle-aged lady in a fur coat, walking two Yorkshire terriers on leads, wished him a good morning. Nightingale resisted the urge to tug his forelock. He rang Jenny’s buzzer and a female voice he didn’t recognise said, ‘Who is it?’ through the speakerphone.

  ‘It’s Jack,’ he said. ‘Jack Nightingale. Is Jenny okay?’

  The speakerphone clicked and went quiet. Nightingale heard footsteps and then the door opened. It took him a couple of seconds to recognise the brunette standing in the doorway. Barbara McEvoy was an old friend from Jenny’s student days, the psychiatrist that Jenny had taken to Gosling Manor. She smiled at him but her eyes were wary as she stepped back and let Nightingale across the threshold.

  Barbara pointed to a door at the end of the hallway. ‘Jenny’s in the kitchen,’ she said, closing the front door as Nightingale headed down the corridor.

  Jenny was sitting at a breakfast bar in a pink bathrobe, toying with a bowl of cornflakes. ‘You’re up early,’ she said. Her hair was tied back in a red scrunchy.

  Barbara came into the kitchen behind him. ‘Ouija boards aren’t toys, Jack,’ she said. ‘They can do a lot of damage.’

  ‘Is that a professional opinion?’ asked Nightingale. Barbara was a psychiatrist at one of the larger London hospitals.

  ‘I’m serious, Jack. I’ve known patients develop all sorts of problems after playing with them.’

  ‘Problems like what?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Depression. Hallucinations. Schizophrenia, in one case.’

  ‘Come on, Barbara, you’re not suggesting that a Ouija board can cause schizophrenia.’

  ‘Of course not, but if someone already has mental-health issues, messing around with the spirit world isn’t likely to help.’ Barbara poured tea into a mug and handed it to him.

  ‘I’m surprised that you’re not accusing us of imagining things.’

  Barbara frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’

  Nightingale sipped his tea. ‘Because you’re a psychiatrist. I didn’t think you’d believe in spirits.’

  ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘But that doesn’t mean that I think Ouija boards aren’t dangerous.’

  ‘But Jenny told you what happened?’

  ‘She said that you were playing with the board in the basement and that you got upset and the candles went out. And that you then forced her to go back to finish the séance.’

  ‘The session had to be finished; the spirit had to be banished.’

  ‘Jack, come on, you don’t believe in spirits, do you? You don’t really think that you were talking to someone who’d died, do you?’

  Nightingale folded his arms and looked across at Jenny. She flashed him a warning look and he realised that she hadn’t told her friend everything. She certainly hadn’t told Barbara that Nightingale had negotiated with a demon from Hell to save his soul from eternal damnation. ‘What do you think happened, Barbara?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I think you let your imaginations get the better of you. I think the game went a bit too far and Jenny paid the price.’ She put her hands around her mug. ‘Ouija boards are a way of getting in touch with thoughts and emotions that are usually suppressed. Most people assume that someone is consciously pushing the glass or the pointer or whatever, but in fact that’s often not the case. You might have three or four people around the board and all of them would swear blind that they weren’t trying to influence what was happening. And the thing is, they’d probably all be telling the truth.’

  ‘You mean they might be doing it subconsciously?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And why would they do that?’

  Barbara shrugged. ‘There’s a host of reasons,’ she said. ‘You have to remember that a lot of times people use the Ouija board to try to contact a loved one who’s died. So they’re under a lot of stress to start with. And often there’s something they want to say to that loved one, and something that they want to hear back. So there’s an element of wish-fulfilment. That might be as simple as wanti
ng to hear that they’re still loved. Plus there’s the fear of death, of course.’

  ‘Fear of death?’ repeated Nightingale.

  ‘Most people want to believe that death isn’t the end,’ said Barbara. ‘They want to get a message from beyond the grave so the subconscious kicks in and gives them what they want. It’s not a harmless game, Jack. Even for consenting adults. Jenny said that you were trying to contact your partner. Robbie?’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘He died a few weeks ago.’

  ‘And I’m guessing you had unresolved issues with him?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Nightingale. Jenny was still keeping her head down, unwilling to look at him. ‘I know it was stupid.’

  ‘And the basement of an empty house wasn’t the best venue. I mean, the house is lovely, but there is some seriously disturbing stuff in the basement.’

  ‘No argument here,’ said Nightingale. Jenny looked up at him and smiled. ‘You don’t have to come in today,’ he said. ‘You can hang out here with Barbara.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’ve got lots to do,’ she said. ‘I’ll get changed.’

  ‘Jack’s right,’ said Barbara. ‘We can try some retail therapy. Karen Millen’s got a pre-Christmas sale.’

  ‘Really, I’d rather work.’

  ‘Work rather than shop?’ Barbara looked at Nightingale, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘You’ve done some magic thing on her, haven’t you? Bent her to your will?’

  ‘I wish,’ laughed Nightingale.

  32

  Nightingale dropped Jenny off at the office and then drove to Camden. He left his MGB on the third floor of a multi-storey car park close to Camden Lock market. The Wicca Woman shop wasn’t easy to find unless you were looking for it; it was tucked away in a side street between a store selling exotic bongs and T-shirts promoting cannabis use, and another that specialised in hand-knitted sweaters. A tiny bell tinkled as Nightingale pushed open the door. He smelled lavender and lemon grass and jasmine and he saw an incense stick burning in a pewter holder by an old-fashioned cash register.

  Alice Steadman was arranging a display of crystals on a shelf by the window. Her face broke into a smile when she saw him. ‘Mr Nightingale, I’m so pleased to see you.’ She was in her late sixties, with pointy bird-like features and grey hair tied back in a ponytail. Her skin was wrinkled and almost translucent but her eyes were an emerald green that burned with a fierce intensity. She was dressed all in black: a long silk shirt-dress that reached almost to her knees, a thick leather belt with a silver buckle in the shape of a quarter moon, thick tights and slippers with silver bells on the toes.

  ‘Why’s that, Mrs Steadman?’

  ‘Because the last time we met you were asking me about selling souls to the devil. I must admit you had me worried.’

  ‘I was just curious,’ said Nightingale. He held up the carrier bag he was holding. ‘I brought you a gift.’

  She giggled girlishly. ‘Oh you shouldn’t have. Books? From your collection? Oh let me see.’

  Nightingale gave her the carrier bag. Inside were three books that he’d taken from the shelves in the basement of Gosling Manor. They were all old and bound in leather, one was about witchcraft in the Middle Ages and the other two were books of spells, both lavishly illustrated.

  Mrs Steadman gasped. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she said. She looked at him, her eyes wide. ‘You can’t possibly give these to me, Mr Nightingale. They’re far too precious.’

  ‘They’re no use to me, Mrs Steadman,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I’ll be selling most of what I have. I just wanted to thank you for all the help you gave me.’

  She clasped the books to her chest as if she was afraid that he might change his mind. ‘Well, let me at least offer you a cup of tea,’ she said.

  ‘You read my mind,’ said Nightingale.

  Mrs Steadman pulled back a beaded curtain behind the counter. ‘Briana, can you take over the shop for me?’ she called.

  Nightingale heard soft footsteps and then a punk girl with fluorescent pink hair appeared. Like Mrs Steadman she was dressed all in black and she had a chrome stud in her chin, two studs in each eyebrow and a nose ring. She grinned at Mrs Steadman. ‘Is this your new boyfriend, then?’ she asked in a nasal Essex accent.

  ‘No, Briana, of course not,’ said Mrs Steadman, but her cheeks flushed. ‘I’m just going to make Mr Nightingale a cup of tea.’

  Nightingale followed her through the curtain to a small room where a gas fire was burning, casting flickering shadows across the walls. She put the books on a circular wooden table and waved for Nightingale to sit on one of three wooden chairs. Above the table was a brightly coloured Tiffany lampshade, and on one wall was a flatscreen television tuned to a chat show.

  Mrs Steadman picked up a remote and switched off the television. ‘I tell Briana that television destroys the brain cells, but she won’t listen to me,’ she said, going over to a kettle on top of a pale green refrigerator and switching it on. She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘Milk and no sugar,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve a good memory,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I’m not senile yet, young man,’ she said archly.

  ‘I know that, Mrs Steadman,’ he said. He nodded towards the beaded curtain. ‘How’s business?’

  ‘Better than ever,’ she said, spooning PG Tips into a brown ceramic teapot. ‘I think the recession means that more people are looking for help.’

  ‘Spells to make money?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Not just money, but that’s obviously an issue. When times are hard people look for answers and Wicca has them in abundance. Wicca helps you to find your place in the natural order of things and helps you to live in harmony with others.’

  When the kettle had boiled she poured water into the teapot and carried it over to the table on a tray with two blue and white striped mugs and a matching milk jug. She sat down and poured the tea, then added milk.

  ‘How’s your business, Mr Nightingale?’ she asked, watching him like an inquisitive bird.

  ‘Ticking over,’ said Nightingale. ‘I do a lot of divorce work and when times are hard relationships are always stressed.’

  Mrs Steadman sipped her tea and studied him over the top of her mug. ‘I get the feeling that you didn’t come just to give me the books,’ she said.

  Nightingale smiled. ‘You can see right through me, can’t you?’

  ‘I’m a good reader of people, that’s true.’

  ‘You’d have made a great detective.’

  ‘I’m sure you mean that as a compliment,’ she said, putting down her mug. ‘So how can I help you?’

  Nightingale ran a hand through his hair. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing, actually.’

  ‘A love potion?’

  Nightingale laughed out loud. ‘Sadly, no,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no lady in your life?’ she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

  ‘Mrs Steadman, I didn’t come here for help with my love life,’ he said. ‘It’s more practical than that. I’m about to lose my driving licence. I did a silly thing and drove after I’d been drinking.’

  ‘That is silly,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Drinking and driving is very dangerous.’

  ‘I know,’ said Nightingale, holding up his hands. ‘It was a stupid thing to do. It’s no excuse but I was under a lot of stress.’

  ‘So the police caught you, did they?’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘I was breathalysed and charged and when it goes to court I’ll lose my licence, unless . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘Unless you can use magic to help you out of your predicament?’

  ‘When you put it like that it does sound ridiculous, doesn’t it?’

  She ran her finger around the rim of her mug. ‘It’s not ridiculous, but it is rather unethical.’

  ‘Sorry, it was a stupid idea,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s just that I really can’t do without my car. Forget I asked.’

  Mrs Steadman chuckled.
‘You do give up easily, don’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Now you’re sending out mixed signals,’ said Nightingale. ‘Is there anything that can be done?’

  ‘What exactly is it that you want?’ she asked.

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘Some sort of lucky charm, maybe. Something that would help me win the case.’ He threw up his hands. ‘I don’t know, Mrs Steadman. The more I talk about it, the crazier it sounds.’

  ‘Actually it’s not at all crazy,’ she said. ‘But you’ll need more than luck, you’ll need something specific. And the more specific the spell, the greater the risk.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Let’s just say that you have to be careful what you wish for.’ She sipped her tea. ‘I’ll give you a spell, Mr Nightingale. Just be careful, that’s all.’

  ‘Magic?’

  ‘Yes, magic. But Wicca magic. Even though, strictly speaking, you’re asking for something that I suppose is borderline illegal.’

  ‘I had been drinking, that’s true,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I wasn’t drunk, and I wasn’t a danger to anyone.’

  Mrs Steadman held up a delicately boned hand. ‘Really, Mr Nightingale, it’s not my concern. I know you’re a good man.’

  ‘I wish that were true.’ He smiled when he saw her face fall and realised she wasn’t used to his sense of humour. ‘Thank you, Mrs Steadman. Really.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said. ‘It’s the least I can do considering the books you’ve brought me. Now, first you need a red candle. It must be three times as tall as its diameter. And it must be a crimson red, not blood red. You need to be in a darkened room, the darker the better, though moonlight is acceptable. This has to be done at night-time, between midnight and two o’clock. You put a horseshoe around the candle. The open end facing you, the closed end facing north. The shoe must have been worn by a white mare that has yet to foal.’

  Nightingale frowned. ‘A mare?’

  ‘A mare is a female horse more than three years old. Prior to that she’s a filly. You’re not an equestrian, are you?’

  ‘I’m more of an internal-combustion aficionado,’ he said. ‘Where am I going to get a white mare’s shoe?’