Jack Nightingale 03 - Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  ‘And what about GSR? Was Gayle checked? Or his car?’

  ‘Chalmers didn’t think it was worth looking for gunshot residue,’ said Evans. ‘Jack, I’m sorry. I did what I could.’

  ‘Okay, I know what a bastard Chalmers can be. But I need one more favour, Dan.’

  ‘Why does my heart always sink when I hear that?’

  ‘Perry Smith. I want his address.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Nightingale, have you got a death wish?’

  28

  Wednesday was a quiet day for Jack Nightingale Investigations. Nightingale gave Jenny two reports to write up but when midday came and the phone hadn’t rung he suggested that they go to Camden and pay Mrs Steadman a visit.

  ‘You’re asking me because your car is playing up again, aren’t you?’ said Jenny suspiciously.

  ‘My car is just fine,’ he said. ‘I’m asking you because you’ve never met her and she’s a sweetheart. And you never know when you might need the services of a white witch.’

  ‘I take it she doesn’t have a pointed hat and a broomstick?’

  ‘You’ve read too much Harry Potter,’ he said. ‘She’s a lovely lady. Trust me.’ He picked up his coat. ‘Come on, we’ll go by cab and I’ll buy you lunch before we go.’

  They locked up the office and went down to the street to hail a black cab. It dropped them off close to Camden Lock market. It was a cold, blustery day and there were very few shoppers around. They ate Caribbean food in the Mango Room restaurant – goat curry, rice, peas and fried sweet-potato fritters – before walking round to the Wicca Woman store.

  Mrs Steadman was standing by the till and she looked up from a receipt when the tiny bell attached to the door tinkled. Her bird-like face broke into a smile when she saw Nightingale. ‘This is a nice surprise,’ she said. She beamed at Jenny. ‘And who is this delightful young lady?’

  ‘This is Jenny. She works with me,’ said Nightingale. ‘I keep talking about you so I thought I’d bring her in to say hello.’

  Mrs Steadman extended a child-sized hand and Jenny shook it. ‘So nice to meet you, my dear,’ she said. She was wearing a black shirt over black jodhpurs and knee-length black boots. Around her tiny waist was a silver filigree belt with a butterfly design.

  ‘I love your shop,’ said Jenny, looking around.

  An incense stick was burning in a pewter holder next to the old-fashioned cash register but there were other smells too, including lemon grass, lavender and jasmine. There were shelves filled with bottles of herbs and spices, open baskets of mushrooms, twigs and leaves, displays of amulets and bangles, pyramids made of every conceivable material, and crystals of every imaginable hue. Jenny picked up a pale pink crystal and held it up to the light.

  ‘Place that under your pillow and you will dream about your future husband,’ said Mrs Steadman.

  ‘Really?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘We have a money-back guarantee,’ said Mrs Steadman.

  ‘Then I have to have it,’ said Jenny, pulling her wallet from her Gucci shoulder bag.

  ‘Don’t be silly, my dear,’ said Mrs Steadman, holding up her hands. ‘Take it as a gift from me. Mr Nightingale has been more than generous to me over the past few weeks.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jenny. She rubbed the crystal against her cheek. ‘It feels so cold.’

  ‘It can help with aches and pains too, but a sapphire crystal is better for pain relief,’ said Mrs Steadman. She put a hand on Jenny’s arm. ‘I always suggest that the day before you use a crystal you should bury it in the ground so that it is fully recharged. Wrapped in silk or cotton, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jenny.

  ‘But if you can’t do that then soaking it in sea salt also helps revitalise the crystal.’ She nodded at the multicoloured beaded curtain behind the counter. ‘Now would you both like a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Jenny.

  Mrs Steadman pulled back the curtain and showed them into the small back room where the gas fire was flickering and hissing. There was a flight of stairs to the left and Mrs Steadman called upstairs, ‘Sweetie, can you take care of the shop? I’m entertaining guests.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Steadman,’ shouted a girl from upstairs, and a few seconds later a punk girl clattered downstairs in boots with four-inch-thick soles, a tartan skirt and a studded motorcycle jacket. She was wearing leather fingerless gloves and she wagged her fingers at Mrs Steadman before disappearing through the beaded curtain.

  Mrs Steadman made them tea as Jenny and Nightingale sat down. ‘So how did you end up working for Mr Nightingale?’ Mrs Steadman asked Jenny.

  Jenny smiled. ‘Serendipity,’ she said. ‘One of those things.’

  ‘Ah, serendipity,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘How boring life would be without it.’

  ‘I really was in the right place at the right time,’ Jenny said. ‘I was near New Bond Street, killing time while I waited to hear about a job that I’d been interviewed for. It was the perfect job, unlike the one I ended up with.’ She flashed Nightingale a smile to show that she was joking. ‘Anyway, I popped into Costa Coffee and got myself a latte. I’d just sat down by the window when the director of human resources rings me to say that I didn’t get the job but he’d keep my name on file and all the rest of the rubbish that means you’ll never hear from them again. I was so disappointed, I really was. Then I picked up a newspaper and it was open at the page with the crossword. Whoever had been doing it had made a pig’s ear of it, but underneath the crossword was Jack’s advert.’

  ‘That was the first day it was in the paper,’ said Nightingale. ‘And the last. I’d paid for three days but I pulled the advert as soon as I’d seen Jenny. And her CV.’

  ‘Which I don’t think he ever read,’ said Jenny. ‘But you see what I mean about serendipity? If I’d got the job with the advertising agency that would have been the end of it. But at the exact moment I get the call saying that I didn’t get the job, Jack’s advert is in front of me. And it was circled, that was the weird thing. As if the person who’d been in the coffee shop before me had been thinking about applying for the job.’ She frowned and looked over at Nightingale. ‘I never thought about that before,’ she said. ‘Did anyone else apply?’

  Nightingale laughed. ‘Are you fishing for compliments? You want me to tell you that you beat a hundred people for the job?’

  ‘Idiot,’ she said. ‘But whoever had circled the advert must have been interested, right?’

  Mrs Steadman carried over a tray with a brown teapot, three blue-and-white-striped mugs and a matching milk jug and sugar bowl.

  ‘You were the first to phone,’ said Nightingale. ‘There were a couple of calls later in the day but by then I’d already hired you.’

  ‘But you can see how luck played a huge part in it. If whoever had circled the ad had phoned you first, maybe you’d have hired her. Or him. Or what if whoever it was had taken the paper with them, or tossed it into the bin? So many ifs, so many maybes.’

  ‘But it all worked out well in the end, didn’t it?’ said Nightingale.

  ‘That’s up for discussion, Jack.’

  ‘At least I wasn’t wrong when I said it would never be boring.’

  ‘Yes, there is that,’ said Jenny.

  Mrs Steadman poured tea into the mugs. ‘So what is it you want from me?’ she asked Nightingale. Nightingale looked surprised and she smiled at him. ‘I’m sure you didn’t come here just for my tea,’ she said.

  ‘We tried one of the spiritualist associations that you mentioned. The one in Marylebone.’

  ‘And it didn’t go well?’

  ‘It just didn’t feel right. It felt forced.’

  ‘You didn’t get a message?’

  ‘I didn’t, but Jenny did. Sort of.’ He shrugged. ‘To be honest, it wasn’t a success.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Mrs Steadman, putting her hands around her mug of tea. ‘But there are no guarantees when it comes to spiritualism.’ Jenn
y held up the pink crystal but before she could say anything Mrs Steadman wagged a finger at her. ‘Crystals are different,’ she said. ‘Crystals I can guarantee, providing they are used correctly. Spiritualism depends on the medium. There are good mediums and bad mediums.’

  ‘And average mediums,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘What?’ said Jenny.

  ‘Medium. Average. It was a joke.’

  Jenny shook her head. ‘No, Jack. It wasn’t.’

  Nightingale ignored her. ‘The thing is, Mrs Steadman, when we were leaving we were approached by someone who said they could give us a personal viewing.’

  Mrs Steadman raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘It was a man. He gave me his card.’ Nightingale took out his wallet and retrieved Graham Lord’s business card. He handed it to Mrs Steadman. ‘He said that he might be able to help me get in touch with Sophie.’

  Mrs Steadman fished her blue-tinted pince-nez from her shirt pocket and perched them on the end of her nose. She still had to hold the card at arm’s length to focus and her lips moved as she read the name. ‘Sophie was the little girl who died?’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Sophie Underwood.’ He gestured at the card. ‘Do you know him?’

  Mrs Steadman shook her head and handed back the card. ‘I don’t, but I’m not well acquainted with the spiritualists. The groups I told you about are well respected, but I don’t tend to go myself.’

  Nightingale put the card back in his wallet. ‘Is that normal, to have someone approach you after a session?’

  ‘It happens, I suppose,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Did this gentleman say that he had already made contact with Sophie?’

  ‘That’s why I was interested,’ he said. ‘He seemed very . . . confident.’

  ‘And had you mentioned her name during the session?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ he said.

  He looked across at Jenny, who nodded in agreement. ‘Jack was very careful not to use her name.’

  ‘And did he suggest payment?’

  ‘He just offered me a private session,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was worried that he might be setting me up for a con.’

  ‘That certainly does happen,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘There are a lot of charlatans around. I would say that the true mediums rarely accept payment. They tend to believe that the gift they have shouldn’t be sullied with money. There might be a collection for expenses or to help towards the running of the association but it’s quite unusual for a spiritualist to ask for money up front.’ She waved a languid hand towards the shop. ‘Of course, in a way I’m in a similar position. I am a true believer in the power of Wicca but that doesn’t stop me running a business based on it.’

  ‘So what do you think, Mrs Steadman? Is he setting me up for a con?’

  Mrs Steadman chuckled and reached for her tea. ‘I’m sure you’re a better judge of that than me,’ she said. ‘You were the policeman.’

  ‘I guess,’ said Nightingale. ‘But how will I know if he’s genuine or not?’

  ‘Only you will be able to tell, Mr Nightingale.’

  ‘But here’s what I don’t understand, Mrs Steadman. I went to the meeting to talk to Sophie. I was totally open and receptive, but nothing happened. Why didn’t Sophie contact me then?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘You have to think of it in terms of frequencies.’

  ‘Frequencies?’

  ‘Imagine a spirit is at one frequency and the living are at a different frequency, which is why most people can’t see spirits. Mediums can tune themselves into the frequency of the spirits. But just because they can see one spirit doesn’t mean they can see them all. It could be that the medium you saw simply couldn’t hear Sophie’s frequency but can hear the frequencies of other spirits.’ She shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry if I’m not being much help. It’s not really my field.’

  ‘So Sophie might have been there but just couldn’t come through?’

  Mrs Steadman nodded. ‘It might just be a case of trying another medium,’ she said.

  ‘Okay, I will,’ said Nightingale. ‘What harm would it do?’

  29

  Nightingale dropped Jenny outside her mews house in Chelsea. ‘I feel bad taking the afternoon off,’ she said as she opened the door of the black cab and climbed out.

  ‘It’s four o’clock,’ he said. ‘And it’s not as if we’re rushed off our feet.’ He grinned. ‘It’s the cold weather: people prefer to commit adultery in the summer. See you tomorrow.’

  Jenny closed the door and waved goodbye, then disappeared into her house.

  ‘Where to, mate?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Are you okay to go south of the river?’

  ‘I have to take you anywhere within six miles of the square mile,’ said the cabbie. ‘That’s the law.’

  ‘Clapham, then,’ said Nightingale. ‘Close to the station.’ He looked at his watch. He wanted to get to Perry Smith’s house before dark but it didn’t look as if he was going to make it.

  The traffic was no heavier than normal for a winter Wednesday afternoon. Drivers were switching on their lights as they crossed the Thames and by the time they reached Clapham it was dark outside. Nightingale had the cabbie drop him about a hundred yards from Perry Smith’s house. Dan Evans had given him the address, along with a warning: Perry lived with at least three other gang members in a part of Clapham that the local police regarded as a no-go area, unless they were mob-handed and armed to the teeth. Nightingale paid the cabbie and turned up the collar of his raincoat. As the cab drove away Nightingale shivered and felt very much alone. It wasn’t a part of London that he was familiar with and he was about to confront a man who had already tried to kill him with a hail of bullets. He looked up at the dark sky and shivered again. He took out his cigarettes and lit one.

  A black hatchback prowled past, rap music blaring out at such a volume that he felt the vibration in his stomach. There were four black teenagers inside and they all turned to look at Nightingale as they drove by. Nightingale blew smoke and started to walk down the pavement towards Smith’s house.

  The houses were in a terrace, two storeys high and with railings around steps leading to a basement. Most of the houses had been split up into flats judging by the multiple bells next to the front doors. There was a big black man in a Puffa jacket standing outside the house, stamping his feet against the cold, his breath feathering around his mouth. He turned to look at Nightingale and stared with undisguised hostility as Nightingale walked towards him.

  ‘How’s it going?’ asked Nightingale.

  The man grunted and continued to glare at Nightingale as he slid a hand inside his Puffa jacket.

  ‘I’m here to see Perry Smith,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘We don’t deal here,’ said the man.

  ‘I’m not here to buy gear. I’m here to talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I’m looking for tips on how to get my roses to grow,’ said Nightingale. ‘What bloody business is it of yours?’

  The man took a step towards Nightingale, his upper lip curled back in a sneer.

  Nightingale stood his ground. ‘What are you going to do, beat me to a pulp in the street?’

  The man jabbed a finger at Nightingale. ‘We own this street. Ain’t no one gonna be calling three nines.’

  Nightingale took a step back. ‘Okay, maybe we got off on the wrong foot,’ he said. ‘Tell Perry I’m the guy he tried to shoot in Queensway a while back. The name’s Nightingale.’

  ‘Like the bird?’

  ‘Yeah, like the bird. Jack Nightingale.’

  The man nodded slowly, then turned and unlocked the front door. He disappeared inside for a few minutes and then returned. He jerked a thumb. ‘In,’ he said. Nightingale stepped inside and as soon as he did the heavy slammed him against the wall, kicking the door closed with his heel. The hallway ran the full length of the house with a kitchen at the far end, purple doors leading off to
the right and a flight of stairs, which had also been painted purple, leading upstairs. A pretty black girl with waist-length dreadlocks was sitting halfway up the stairs, inhaling from a large glass bong. She exhaled a cloud of sweetish smoke and waggled her fingers at Nightingale.

  ‘Easy,’ said Nightingale. His hands had gone up against the wall instinctively and he kept them there as the heavy patted him down, looking for a weapon. He didn’t resist and didn’t say anything. Eventually the heavy was satisfied and he told Nightingale to turn around.

  He took him down the hallway to the first room. The walls were painted a pale purple and there was a huge spherical white-paper lampshade hanging from the middle of the ceiling. There were three large sofas around a coffee table that was piled high with drugs paraphernalia including several bongs and a silver bowl filled with a white powder. Nightingale smiled and shook his head in disbelief. If Chalmers and Evans had turned up with a search warrant the drugs alone would have meant Smith going away for a long time. An episode of The Simpsons was playing on a large TV fixed to one of the walls but the room seemed to be empty.

  The heavy shoved Nightingale against one of the sofas. ‘Hey!’ shouted Nightingale, but before he could say anything else a man stepped from behind the door, grabbed Nightingale by the collar of his coat and pushed him towards the wall again. Something hard pressed under Nightingale’s chin, forcing his head back.

  ‘What the hell you doing here?’ growled the man with the gun.

  ‘It’s a social call,’ said Nightingale, trying to sound as though having a gun jammed against his neck was no big thing. But it was a big thing. A very big thing. Especially when the man holding the gun was a gangster like Perry Smith. ‘I just wanted a word.’

  ‘Fucking comedian, huh?’ said Smith. He pulled Nightingale away from the wall but kept the gun pressed against his flesh. Nightingale could just see the handle of the weapon: a chrome semi-automatic. ‘The cops outside? Because if they are you’re a dead man.’

  ‘If I was with the cops, I’d hardly have come in here on my own, would I?’

  Smith glared at Nightingale, his nostrils flaring as he breathed slowly. Nightingale could feel his heart pounding but he was pretty sure that the gangster wasn’t going to pull the trigger. Not one hundred per cent certain, but close enough that he managed to force a smile.