‘Both sets of parents say no. He was at college but they went to the same High School. Steve was a good friend of Daniel, Sara’s brother. Their paths would cross all the time, but they were never a couple.’ He folded his arms. ‘You’re wondering why she would take her clothes off if she wasn’t his girlfriend?’
‘I’m wondering a whole lot of things,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t see any easy answers.’ He looked at his watch, and then over at Perez. ‘We should be going,’ he said.
‘Before you go, maybe you could give me the name and badge number of the detective handling the Manhattan case,’ said the Deputy.
‘We’ve been talking to a homicide detective by the name of Andy Horowitz, but it’s not his case. Though he’s working the parents.’ She held out a hand. ‘Have you got a card, I’ll get them to call you.’ Driscoll took out his wallet and gave her a business card. ‘You heard about the problems NYPD SWAT had bringing in their perp.’
The Deputy nodded. ‘What was he, high on drugs?’
‘Maybe,’ said Perez. ‘Just, you know, be careful. If you corner the guy, don’t assume he’ll come quietly.’
The Deputy patted his sidearm. ‘I’ll be careful.’
Perez and Nightingale said their goodbyes and then walked out of the barn and over to Perez’s car. ‘Thanks for getting me out of the hole I dug for myself,’ he said. ‘That was a dumb question I asked., about Daniel.’ He climbed into the passenger seat.
Perez got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. ‘There were better ways of approaching it,’ she agreed.
‘But you see what it means? Kate Walker wanted to talk to her dead boyfriend, Sara Moseby wanted to talk to her recently-deceased brother. And they both ended up dead.’
‘Not just dead. Naked and mutilated. Yes, I see the connection. Plus we have Leon Budd, also mutilated and naked after he talked about communicating with his dear departed sister.’
‘I notice you didn’t mention that to Deputy Driscoll.’
‘Jack, I can barely get to grips with what’s happened over the past few days. If we’d dumped all that on to a New Jersey Deputy Sheriff all at once … he’d have thought we were crazy.’ She looked across at him. ‘You’re sure about this? All this possession stuff? I keep wishing, hoping, that we’re just dealing with serial killers here.’
‘I wish we were, too. But no, this is far worse. Far, far, worse.’
CHAPTER 34
The Willoughby farm was easy enough to find, less than a mile from where the Mosebys lived. They didn’t see any cows as they drove up but there were horses and orchards and a sign offering home-produced cider. There was a collection of barns and storage silos next to a large white painted wooden house with a green roof and a wide porch on which there were two large swing seats. Perez parked between two mud-splattered SUVs. ‘I don’t see why we need to talk to the family,’ said Perez.
‘I just want to know what state this Steve was in, before and after the killing,’ said Nightingale.
‘I can’t see that the Willoughbys are going to be any keener to talk to us than the Moseby family,’ said Perez.
‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ said Nightingale.
They climbed out of the car and walked to the front door. There was a brass doorknocker in the shape of a horseshoe on the door and Perez banged it several times. A woman in her forties opened the door. It was clear from the haunted look in her eyes that it was Steve Willoughby’s mother. She was wearing a baggy sweatshirt that Nightingale knew instinctively had belonged to her son, and faded work jeans.
Nightingale let Perez do the talking. ‘We’re so sorry to bother you, Mrs Willoughby, we were told that Deputy Driscoll would be here.’
The woman dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘He’s on his way,’ she said.
‘Can we come in?’ asked Perez.
The woman nodded and walked back into the house, leaving the door open.
Perez looked at Nightingale. ‘I suppose that counts as in invitation,’ she whispered.
Nightingale nodded. ‘After you,’ he said.
Perez followed Mrs Willoughby down a hallway to a large sitting room lined with bookshelves. Nightingale closed the door and followed.
Mrs Willoughby went over to a window overlooking fields where dozens of black and white cows were grazing contentedly. She stared out, her arms folded across her chest. Nightingale looked around the room. There was a large framed photograph above the fireplace. The Willoughby family. Mrs Willoughby, in a pale blue dress, her husband in a dark suit and a tie, and two teenage children. A boy – obviously Steve – and a blonde girl who was much younger.
‘We’re sorry to bother you, Mrs Willoughby, but can you tell us what happened the day Sara passed away?’ asked Perez.
The woman shook her head. ‘She didn’t pass away. She was murdered. And the police say that Steve did it.’ She didn’t turn around and from the way her shoulders were shuddering it was clear she was crying. Perez looked over at Nightingale and narrowed her eyes. The message was clear – she didn’t think they should be there bothering Mrs Willoughby.
‘How had be been during the days before it happened?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Was he upset, or distressed?’
She shook her head.
‘Was he going out with Sara? Boyfriend-girlfriend?’
She shook her head again. ‘They were friends. But there was never anything between them. Steve had a thing for a girl at his college. And when he was at High School all he was interested in was sports. He was the perfect son. I know all parents say that but he really was perfect.’
‘Steve was a friend of Daniel’s?’ asked Nightingale.
Mrs Willoughby turned around to face them. There were tears running down her cheeks but she made no effort to wipe them away. ‘That’s what I don’t understand. He and Daniel were like brothers. He helped carry the coffin at the funeral. How could he be so close to Daniel and do something like that to Sara?’
Perez and Nightingale said nothing but Mrs Willoughby continued to stare at them as if expecting an answer.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Nightingale. ‘Sometimes people act out of character.’
‘What’s happening mum?’ They turned to see the little blonde girl from the photograph standing in the doorway holding a small dog.
‘It’s all right, Lisa. You go back to the kitchen.’
‘Is it the police? Is it about Steve?’
‘Please, Lisa, just go back to the kitchen.’
Lisa looked at Perez. ‘Have you found him? It’s all a mistake, he wouldn’t hurt Sara.’
‘We haven’t found him, no,’ said Perez.
‘Lisa, please,’ said Mrs Willoughby, firmer this time. ‘Kitchen. Now.’
The girl pouted flounced around and stamped down the hallway. Mrs Willoughby forced a smile and went to sit down on a battered leather sofa. There was a box of tissues and she grabbed a couple and dabbed at her eyes. ‘We can’t believe that Steve would do that. He knew Sara. They grew up together. She shook her head. ‘I keep thinking there must have been some horrible mistake, but the police says there’s no doubt.’ She looked tearfully at Perez. ‘There is no doubt, is there?’ she asked.
‘They have DNA evidence,’ said Perez. ‘They seem sure that it was Steve.’
‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ she said. She picked up a cushion and held it to her chest. ‘None of this makes any sense at all. When Daniel died it was awful but it was an accident. It was… understandable. It was a terrible tragedy but we could understand it. Daniel made bad decisions and paid for them with his life. But what happened to Sara makes no sense. Steve wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s the kindest soul you could meet.’
‘Did something happen to him before Sara died?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Absolutely nothing. The night before she was over here and they went for a walk. They talked for ages.’
‘About what, do you know?” asked Nightingale.
‘Steve said she was missing Daniel. That’s understandable, of course. But she went back home before it got dark and he came back in for dinner.’
‘And he was fine then?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Perfectly fine. Even filled the dishwasher without being asked.’
‘And when was the last time you spoke to him?’
She took a deep breath to steady herself, then hugged the pillow tightly. ‘The day it happened. It must have been just afterwards because he came back and there was blood on his shirt. He went upstairs and I went up after him because I thought he’d hurt himself. I kept asking him what was wrong but he wouldn’t talk to me. It was like he couldn’t even hear me. I kept saying to him, tell me what’s wrong, but he just packed a bag and went. I grabbed his arm and he pushed me away, hard. I hit the wall and almost passed out.’ She rubbed the back of her head. ‘It’s still bruised.’
‘Did he say anything?’ asked Nightingale.
She shook her head. ‘He just sneered at me, as if I was beneath contempt. Like I didn’t exist. He just walked out of the house and got into one of our trucks and drove off.’
‘What about his cellphone?’ asked Perez. ‘Did you call him?’
‘He left his phone in his bedroom,’ said Mrs Willoughby. ‘He just walked away without a second look.’
‘He’d changed?’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s as if he wasn’t himself?’
Mrs Willoughby nodded in agreement. ‘It was as if he didn’t know who I was. As if I’d ceased to exist. It was horrible. Like he wasn’t my son any more.’
They heard heavy footsteps in the hallway and a man appeared at the doorway. He was big, well over six feet, broad-shouldered with a thick neck. He was wearing blue overalls and workboots and there was a streak of dirt across his cheek. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘They’re with the police,’ said Mrs Willoughby.
Perez didn’t correct her. ‘We’re just leaving,’ she said. ‘We’re very sorry about what happened.’
‘You and me both,’ snapped the man. He looked at his watch. ‘The vet’s late. Why is he always late?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Willoughby.
‘The fees he charges, you’d think he’d at least make the effort to be on time.’
Perez nodded at Nightingale. Mr Willoughby moved to the side to let them out of the room but made no attempt to show them out. As they walked down the hallway they heard Mrs Willoughby burst into tears.
Perez didn’t say anything until they were in the car and driving towards the main road. ‘That was awkward,’ said Perez.
‘It had to be done,’ said Nightingale. ‘It could have been that Steve was a bad kid who just kicked off. Now we know that something happened to him.’
‘And that something was Sara Moseby, that’s what you think?’
‘You can see the pattern, right?’
‘It’s as obvious as the nose on your face. But just because I can see it doesn’t mean I understand it.’
‘Sara lost her brother and wanted to contact him. She tried with Charlie Charlie and the Ouija board with her brother and that led her to whatever it is that has taken over Steve Willoughby. It took him over and killed Sara.’
‘So you saw a sigil on the girl’s back?’ asked Perez.
Nightingale nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘I didn’t see anything that looked like the other two.’
‘They’re all different. Like snowflakes.’
‘Yeah, but a snowflake looks like a snowflake.’
‘Then it’s a bad example,’ said Nightingale. ‘But yeah, I saw a shape among the damage.’
‘You said you had a CI who could identify the sigils?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘I’m working on it.’
‘Are you going to call him?’
‘It’s a she not a he,’ said Nightingale. ‘And she doesn’t use the phone.’
‘So arrange a face to face.’
‘I think I’ll have to,’ said Nightingale. He blew smoke up at the sky.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘Best not,’ said Nightingale. ‘She’s the jealous type.’
CHAPTER 35
The demon that now inhabited Steve Willoughby’s body was hungry, so hungry that every fibre of its being ached. He was hungry for food, for alcohol, for pain, for fear. He stopped and held up his hands and stared at them. He could feel his heart beating and the blood coursing through his veins. He was standing in Central Park, less than a mile from where he’d dumped the truck and was carrying the holdall with the few things he’d taken from the boy’s bedroom. There were things he had to do to look after the body he now inhabited. It had to be cleaned and made to look presentable. His teeth had to be brushed, his hair combed, body odour had to be regulated. None of those issues applied in Hades, he thought with a smile.
Two mounted police officers came towards him. Their horses were big and black, their coats burnished to a shine. One of the cops was a man in his forties, the other was a woman maybe half his age. Willoughby stopped and stared at them. The horses pricked up their ears as they caught sight of him. The man’s mount stopped and began pawing at the ground. The cop cursed and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks but the animal took no notice.
Steve grinned. He could smell the animal’s fear. He took a step towards them and growled softly. The woman’s horse reared up and she almost slipped out of her saddle. The horse being ridden by the male officer backed away. It tried to turn away but the officer kept yanking on the reins. The horses eyes were wide and fearful and its nostrils flared as it snorted. Steve took another step forward and the female cop’s mount reared up again and this time she fell backwards and hit the ground hard. The horse ran off across the park. As the male officer twisted around in his saddle to check that his colleague was okay his horse managed to slip the bit from between its teeth and bolted off across the grass.
Steve walked away, humming to himself. There was a hot dog vendor at the edge of the park and Steve stopped and put his head back as he sniffed in the smells. The meat, the onions, the bread roll, the ketchup. The vendor was a middle-aged Asian, dark skinned with his sleeves rolled up to show forearms matted with thick black hair.
Steve took out his wallet and handed over two dollars. He wolfed down the hot dog in four bites and ran his tongue over his lips.
‘Hit the spot?’ laughed the vendor.
‘Fuck, yeah,’ said Steve. He handed over another two dollars. ‘Put more of that pickle stuff on.’
‘Sweet relish? Sure?’ The vendor ladled extra relish over the sausage and onions and gave it to him. Steve devoured it in three bites, then burped his appreciation. There were two German tourists behind him waiting to order but Steve made no attempt to move. ‘Another,’ he said.
The vendor grinned and began to prepare another hotdog for him.
‘Excuse me, please, we want to buy the water,’ said the German behind him.
Steve turned to look at the couple. Middle-aged, overweight, carrying guidebooks and with long lensed cameras hanging from straps around their necks. Steve’s eyes flashed red. ‘Nimm Dir das Feinste vor, Du arschfickender Hurensohn, spreiz’ und bums’ die Muschi der Mutti...Sie wird Dir für die liebe Kundschaft danken und um mehr bitten,’ he snarled.
The two tourists stepped back as if they had been struck, then hurried away. Steve turned back to the vendor and took the hotdog from him. He devoured it in two bites. ‘Another he said.’ He pointed at a line of bottles. ‘And Gatorade.’
‘What colour?’ asked the vendor, grabbing a sausage and shoving it into a bun.
‘Don’t care,’ said Steve.
‘My favourite type of customer.’ He heaped onions and relish on the hot dog and handed it over. Steve handed him a twenty-dollar bill and walked away, humming contentedly to himself.
CHAPTER 36
Nightingale spent the best part of an hour scrubbing the concrete floor in one of the meeting rooms. He clo
sed all the blinds and pulled up the grey carpet and tossed it into the open plan office, then carried buckets of water from the bathroom. Only when he was sure that the floor was spotless did he go back to the bathroom and shower. He used coal tar soap and a plastic nail brush to clean under his fingernails and toenails. He shampooed his hair twice and rinsed it for ten minutes, then dried himself on a new towel.
He had bought new clothes from Macy’s and a pair of Nike trainers and he put them on and went back to the open plan office. Everything he needed was in a large cardboard box that had once contained cans of dog food. He took a piece of white chalk and used it to draw a circle about six feet in diameter in the centre of the room. Then he used a small birch branch to gently brush around the outline of the circle. The consecrated chalk would probably be enough to contain Proserpine but the birch branch was a safety net that Nightingale preferred to have in reserve. Just to be on the safe side.
He put the branch back in the box and used a new piece of consecrated chalk to draw a pentagram inside the circle so that two of the five points faced north. Then he chalked a triangle around the circle with the apex pointing north and wrote the letters MI, CH and AEL at the three points of the triangle. MICHAEL. The Archangel.
He removed a glass stopper from a chunky bottle of consecrated salt water and methodically sprinkled water around the circle. Then he placed five large white church candles at the points of the pentagram and used his lighter to light them, moving clockwise around the circle. Once they were all lit he put the lighter in the box and took out a Ziploc bag containing a mixture of herbs and a lead crucible about the size of an ashtray. He moved clockwise around the circle sprinkling the herbs over the candle flames where they spluttered and fizzled and filled the air with acrid smoke. He poured the rest of the herbs into the crucible and placed it in the middle of the protective circle. He moulded the herbs into a neat cone and set fire to it with his lighter.
The herbs burst into flames and a thick plume of eye-watering smoke rose into the air. Nightingale straightened up, coughing. The first few times he had summoned Proserpine he had written down the Latin incantation and read it out loud but these days he knew the words by heart. He slowly turned though three hundred and sixty degrees, checking that he hadn’t forgotten anything, then slowly and precisely spoke the words that summoned Proserpine. He didn’t know for sure what all the words meant, but he knew how to pronounce them perfectly and that was all that was necessary. He raised his voice as he spoke and by he time he reached the final words, he was shouting at the top of his voice. ‘Bagahi laca bacabe!’
New York Night Page 16
