Midnight

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Her name is Robyn Reynolds now. In two years’ time, on her thirty-third birthday, you will claim her soul. I want to get it back for her.’

  Frimost laughed and his whole body juddered and shook, from his double chins to the rolls of fat around his ankles. Even after he stopped laughing his flesh continued to slop around his body. ‘A deal is a deal, and once done it cannot be undone,’ he said.

  ‘Well, that’s not strictly speaking true, is it?’ said Nightingale. ‘Deals can be renegotiated.’

  ‘Only if both parties are willing. And in this case I’m not. I have been promised the soul of Robyn Reynolds and in two years’ time her soul will be mine. The deal was done and there is no going back on it.’

  ‘But the deal wasn’t with my sister. It was with our father.’

  ‘It makes no difference. A parent can sell an unborn soul up until the moment of birth. You are wasting your time, Nightingale. And more to the point, you are wasting mine.’

  ‘What if there was something else that you wanted? Something that I could offer you in exchange?’

  Frimost looked at Nightingale, his eyes narrowing. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘That would be up to you,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Would you be prepared to put your soul on the table?’ asked Frimost quietly. ‘Your soul for hers?’

  85

  Sugart reached out a claw towards the pentagram, as if testing it. Robyn took an involuntary step backwards then froze as she saw that she was right up against the chalk outline of the pentagram. She forced herself to move back into the centre of the circle. Sugart’s chest juddered and a grating rumble resonated from its chest. It was laughing, she realised. It was laughing at her.

  ‘How did you know how to call me?’ asked Sugart.

  ‘I asked around,’ said Robyn. ‘Does it matter?’

  Sugart shuffled to the side and cocked its head as it stared at the pentagram. ‘You have practised the dark arts before?’

  Robyn shook her head. ‘I’ve never needed to. But I’m at the end of my tether now and I can’t think of anything else to do.’

  ‘I am your last resort?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sugart smiled. ‘My favourite customer.’ The tongue flicked out. It was several feet long, grey and slimy, and moved as if it had a life of its own.

  ‘Is that what I am? A customer?’

  ‘I can give you what you want. Your freedom. You will have to pay a price for it. That makes you a customer.’

  ‘So you can do it? You can help me escape?’

  ‘Of course. But are you prepared to pay the price?’

  ‘What price?’

  ‘You know what the price is. If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t have summoned me.’

  ‘My soul?’

  ‘Yes. Your soul.’

  ‘What if I don’t believe that I have a soul?’

  ‘Your belief is neither here nor there. All that I require is for you to offer it to me in exchange for what you want.’ The tongue flicked out and just as quickly vanished back into Sugart’s mouth.

  ‘I want to get out of here,’ said Robyn. ‘I want to go far away and I want a new life.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Sugart.

  ‘And I want to never be found, never brought back to this place. I want to keep my freedom.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘You can do that? You can really do that?’

  Sugart’s face twisted into what passed for a grin. ‘If I can’t hold up my end of the bargain, what would be the point of all this?’

  Robyn ran a hand through her hair. ‘Do I have to do something? Sign something?’

  ‘You mean, sign a parchment with your own blood?’ Sugart threw back his head and laughed. ‘That isn’t how it works, Robyn. You tell me what you want, I tell you the price, and if you agree to the price then the deal is done and there is no going back. Your word is your bond.’

  Robyn folded her arms. It had gone icy cold in the room and her breath formed clouds around her mouth. ‘Then let’s do it,’ she said.

  ‘You understand there is no going back, and a deal once done cannot be rescinded?’

  ‘I understand.’

  Sugart nodded and his reptilian tongue flicked out. ‘It is done,’ he said.

  The smoke rippled and there was a deep rumbling noise that vibrated through Robyn’s internal organs, and then Sugart was gone.

  Robyn put her hands on her hips and looked around the room. ‘Now what?’ she said.

  86

  Frimost rolled his head around, pushing his chin against the rolls of fat around his neck. His face was dripping with sweat and it glistened in the candlelight. ‘I am waiting, Nightingale,’ he said. ‘Your soul for your sister’s. That’s a deal I can work with.’

  Nightingale stared at Frimost for several seconds. ‘No,’ he said eventually.

  ‘So you want to save your sister, but not at the expense of yourself?’

  Nightingale grimaced. ‘I went to a lot of trouble to keep my soul. I’m not prepared to give it up now.’

  Frimost shook his head. ‘You have nothing else I want. So say the words and let me go.’

  ‘If I change my mind about my soul, can we deal?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Frimost.

  ‘I’ll get back to you,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I wouldn’t leave it too long.’

  ‘Why? Do I have a sell-by date?’

  Frimost laughed and the walls shook. Small puffs of dust rose up from between the gaps in the floorboards. ‘You’ll find out, soon enough,’ he said. ‘Now say the words and have done with it.’

  Nightingale sprinkled herbs over the smouldering crucible and wrinkled his nose as the pungent fumes assailed his nostrils. ‘Ite in pace ad loca vestra et pax sit inter vos redituri ad mecum vos invocavero, in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.’

  Frimost began to laugh again, then there was a flash of light and an ear-splitting crack and he was gone.

  ‘Nice talking to you, Frimost,’ Nightingale muttered. He took out his cigarettes and lit one. He blew smoke and looked at his watch. If everything had gone to plan, Robyn should just have finished her conversation with Sugart. If she hadn’t, then it had all been for nothing. All he could do now was wait. And hope.

  87

  Nightingale got home just after two o’clock in the morning. He called Jenny to tell her that everything was okay, then he showered and fell into bed, exhausted. He woke at ten and made himself a bacon sandwich and a cup of coffee, and spent the rest of the morning watching television. At just after midday Jenny phoned and asked him if he’d heard anything and he said that he hadn’t.

  ‘I’ve been checking the internet and Sky News and there’s no word of any escape from Rampton,’ she said.

  ‘I’m assuming they’ll phone me if she does get out because I’m down as next of kin,’ said Nightingale. ‘What about your Welshman? Caernarfon Craig?’

  ‘He’s emailing me through Facebook again, fishing for personal stuff, but I’m still ducking and diving,’ she said. ‘I’ve logged onto some of the suicide sites that he’s told me about. There’re a lot of very depressed people out there, Jack.’

  ‘State the economy’s in, I’m not surprised. But you be careful, Jenny. If this guy is behind the Welsh deaths then you could be playing with fire.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ she said. ‘I’m copying everything he’s sent me and once I can identify him I’ll pass it all onto the cops.’

  She ended the call and Nightingale showered again, then shaved and changed into a clean denim shirt and jeans, made himself another mug of coffee and lay on the sofa watching television. At some point he must have fallen asleep because he was woken by the sound of his door intercom buzzing. He went to answer it.

  ‘Open the bloody door, Nightingale, or by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin I’ll blow the thing down.’ It was Superintendent Chalmers.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked
Nightingale.

  ‘I want you to open the door now. If you don’t there are two big men here who’re going to kick it in.’

  ‘Big men? Are you trying to scare me, Chalmers? Because it’s not working.’

  ‘I’ve got a warrant, Nightingale. And I’m counting down from ten.’

  ‘Yeah, using all your fingers, I’ll bet.’

  ‘One way or the other we’re coming in, Nightingale.’

  Nightingale pressed the button to open the downstairs door. He switched off the television and then opened his front door. Chalmers was wearing a dark raincoat and a sour expression as he clumped up the stairs followed by two uniformed officers.

  ‘Where’s the warrant?’ asked Nightingale.

  Chalmers handed Nightingale an envelope and pushed him to the side. He walked into the sitting room and looked around while the uniforms checked Nightingale’s bedroom.

  ‘Nothing here, sir,’ shouted one.

  ‘Check the bathroom,’ said Chalmers. ‘Count the bloody toothbrushes.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’ asked Nightingale.

  Chalmers gestured at the envelope. ‘Not what,’ he said. ‘Who. It’s in the warrant. Your sister.’

  ‘Robyn?’

  ‘How many sisters do you have?’

  ‘She’s in Rampton.’

  Chalmers sneered at him. ‘Not as of today, she isn’t,’ he said.

  ‘She escaped?’

  ‘No one knows what happened,’ said Chalmers. ‘Her room was checked this morning and she wasn’t there. But she’d left a whole lot of weird stuff behind.’

  ‘So what’s that got to do with me?’ asked Nightingale.

  The superintendent pointed a finger at Nightingale’s face. ‘See, there’s a funny thing. Most people would have asked what sort of weird stuff. But not you.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll humour you. What weird stuff?’

  ‘You know what weird stuff. There was a pentagram on the floor, candles, a bowl of herbs. And according to the security logs, you’re the one who took it in to her.’

  ‘I took her a few things that her psychiatrist said might help her. The guards checked everything I took in. Even had a sniffer dog go over it.’

  ‘You helped her escape. I know you did.’

  ‘Yeah, and what exactly did I do? I smuggled in a hacksaw so that she could saw through the bars, did I?’

  ‘The bars were fine, all the doors were locked, there’s nothing on the CCTV. She didn’t walk out, she just vanished.’

  ‘And you think I had a hand in that?’

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘I was in Gosling Manor until about midnight.’

  ‘You had a party there, did you?’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘I was alone.’

  ‘On New Year’s Eve?’

  ‘I just wanted some quiet contemplation,’ he said. ‘I was making my New Year resolutions, if you must know.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that you were there?’

  ‘I told you, I was alone. Then I came back here.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘About two o’clock.’

  ‘Still alone?’

  Nightingale nodded.

  ‘So no witnesses?’ said Chalmers.

  ‘Chalmers, if I was up to something I’d have sorted out an alibi for myself, wouldn’t I? I was in the Job, remember? I know how it works. But I drove, so I’m sure you’ll be able to catch me on CCTV somewhere.’

  ‘What’s going on, Nightingale?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Nightingale put his hand on his heart. ‘I have no idea. And that’s the truth. Scout’s honour.’

  ‘You know who her last visitor was?’

  ‘I’m guessing that would be me.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you guess right. On Thursday you go in to see her. Saturday morning and she vanishes. I don’t believe in coincidences, Nightingale. Let’s go.’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘Gosling Manor.’

  ‘Not without a warrant,’ said Nightingale.

  Chalmers reached into pocket and took out a second envelope, which he thrust at Nightingale. ‘Get your coat,’ he said.

  88

  Graham Kerr lit a match as he watched. He was standing in a clump of trees overlooking the house and had seen the MGB, patrol car and police van arrive. He breathed in the fragrance of the match and shivered with anticipation. At his feet was a can of petrol. He wasn’t happy about using petrol. Petrol was the blunt instrument in an arsonist’s armoury, the equivalent of a sawn-off shotgun or a machete. Kerr preferred subtlety, but in Jack Nightingale’s case there was no time to be clever. Mistress Proserpine wanted him dead and she always got what she wanted.

  Kerr loved to watch his victims. Watching them going about the business not knowing that their days were numbered was part of the pleasure. It was almost as satisfying as the setting of the fires that took their lives. Almost, but not quite.

  Kerr let the match burn down almost to his fingers before blowing it out and slipping it into his back pocket. He didn’t like using petrol but at least he could use his Swan Vestas matches. First he’d have to wait for the police to leave. If Nightingale stayed in the house, that’s where he would die. If he went back to his flat in Bayswater, he’d die there. But one way or another, Jack Nightingale would die.

  89

  Nightingale climbed out of his MGB. ‘Nice of you to let me use my own car,’ he said to Chalmers, who was walking towards the front door.

  A Surrey Police van with half a dozen uniformed officers had been waiting for them at the gates and had followed them in.

  ‘We’ve got better things to do on New Year’s Day than run a taxi service for you,’ said the superintendent. ‘Now open the front door.’

  ‘Anything to stop you doing the chinny-chin-chin thing.’ Nightingale took out his keys and opened the front door as the uniforms piled out of the van. They were led by a bruiser of a sergeant, who glared at Nightingale as if blaming him personally for having to work on New Year’s Day.

  Chalmers put a hand on Nightingale’s shoulder. ‘You hang on outside with me while the men give it the once-over. If she’s in there you’d best tell me now.’

  ‘She isn’t,’ said Nightingale.

  The uniforms filed through into the hallway. Two of them went upstairs and the rest spread out on the ground floor.

  Nightingale tapped out a Marlboro and lit it. ‘Happy New Year, by the way,’ he said.

  ‘What’s going on, Nightingale?’ asked Chalmers. ‘What’s this all about? You inherit this house from a mystery man who blows his own head off. People around you have a nasty habit of coming to a sticky end. A serial killer tries to slit your throat. And your long-lost sister escapes from the most secure mental hospital in the country a couple of days after you pay her a visit. And all this happens over – what, four weeks?’

  ‘It’s been an eventful month, that’s true.’ He blew smoke towards the mermaid fountain.

  ‘Is there something you want to tell me? Something that would explain it?’

  ‘I’m as baffled as you are,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I’m trying to help you here,’ said the superintendent.

  Nightingale held the cigarette away from his mouth. ‘No, you’re not,’ he said. ‘You’re playing good cop in the hope that I’ll give you something you can use to send me down. You didn’t like me when I was in the Job and you don’t like me now, so you can just search the house and then get the hell off my property.’

  Chalmers opened his mouth to reply but then the transceiver he was holding crackled. ‘Superintendent, you need to see this. Third bedroom on the left.’

  Nightingale gritted his teeth. That was the bedroom where he’d summoned Frimost, and he hadn’t cleaned up.

  Chalmers noticed his discomfort and he grinned triumphantly. ‘Something there you hoped we w
ouldn’t find, huh?’ He jerked a thumb at the door. ‘Inside,’ he said.

  Nightingale flicked away his cigarette and went into the hall. The superintendent followed him up the stairs. The panel that hid the secret passageway down to the basement was still in place and Nightingale avoided looking at it. They turned left at the top of the stairs. A constable was standing outside the door to the bedroom, his arms folded. A sergeant was inside the room, looking down at the pentagram and the candles. He nodded at the superintendent.

  ‘No sign of the girl?’ asked Chalmers. The sergeant shook his head. ‘Okay, search the rest of the rooms while I have a word with Mr Nightingale here.’

  The sergeant left the room and Chalmers kicked the door shut, then turned and shoved Nightingale in the chest with both hands. Nightingale staggered backwards. He regained his balance and pulled back his right hand in a fist.

  ‘Go on, do it!’ shouted Chalmers. ‘Do it and see what happens.’

  Nightingale relaxed his hand. ‘You assaulted me.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’ll do it again if you don’t start telling me the truth.’

  ‘So PACE goes out of the window?’

  ‘Screw PACE and screw you.’ He pointed at the pentagram. ‘You did this?’

  Nightingale didn’t say anything.

  ‘There was a pentagram like this in your sister’s room. And candles, and the same strong smell of burned crap. What’s going on? What does it mean?’ Chalmers jabbed his finger at the pentagram. ‘Did she do this? Was she here?’

  ‘I did it,’ said Nightingale quietly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Can’t? Or won’t?’

  ‘Both,’ said Nightingale. ‘So what are you going to do? Hit me again? Because if you do, I’ll break your sodding arm and take my chance in court. I could always say you tripped and fell – that worked for me when I was in the Job.’

  Chalmers glared at Nightingale, then reached for the door handle. ‘I’m going to get you for this if it’s the last thing I do, Nightingale.’