‘Sophie’s dead. She can’t come back.’
‘She’s talking to me. She’s asking me to help her. She couldn’t be doing that if she was . . .’ He tailed off, realising that he wasn’t making any sense. Sophie was dead. He’d seen her fall to her death from the balcony at Chelsea Harbour; he’d seen her broken body lying on the tarmac. And Wainwright was right. Dead was dead. The dead didn’t come back and there was nothing he could do to help her. He ran a hand through his hair and then down along the back of his neck. ‘This is doing my head in.’
‘I hear you,’ said Wainwright. ‘I’m not saying you can’t communicate with spirits. But you can’t take someone who’s dead and bring them back to life. That’s the prerogative of . . .’ He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.
‘So if it wasn’t Sophie, who was it? Who was I talking to? And what did they want?’
Wainwright took his feet off the coffee table and leaned forward, the cigar in his right hand. ‘It could have been anyone, Jack. But whoever it was didn’t have your best interests at heart.’
‘What did you see, in the mirror?’
‘I know what I didn’t see. I didn’t see a little girl.’
‘Why are you being so evasive?’
‘Because at the end of the day I think you don’t believe me. I came back here because I thought you were in trouble, and now you’re making me out to be one of the bad guys.’
Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘Okay, I’m sorry. I apologise. Put it down to shock. You did scare the hell out of me, smashing the mirror like that.’ He grinned at the American. ‘The mirror that you were going to pay me fifty grand for, remember?’
‘Yeah, well, it’s not worth that now, that’s for sure.’
‘Because you smashed it.’
Wainwright laughed. ‘I’ll write you a cheque,’ he said. He took a pull on his cigar and then flicked ash into the ashtray. ‘It was a demon, Jack. Big. Scales. Wings. Claws. I couldn’t see much but it was big.’
‘I was definitely looking at Sophie.’
‘They can take on any form they want; you know that by now. So it appeared to you as Sophie but it didn’t know that I was there so I saw it as it really was. Trust me, it was a demon and it was about to pull you into the mirror.’
‘Is that how it works? I’d have been trapped inside the glass?’
Wainwright shook his head. ‘The dark mirror is a portal. If used properly then it’s a way of communicating with spirits. But if you should try to pass through it then you’d go to wherever they were. Or they could come through into this world.’
‘But if it was a devil, it could appear here anyway, right?’
‘It’s not as simple as that. Some can; some are limited in what they can and can’t do.’
‘You think it was trying to pull me in because it couldn’t get to me here?’
‘That’s possible. It could have been appearing as Sophie so that you’d lower your defences.’
‘And it would take me where? To Hell?’
‘Possibly,’ said Wainwright. ‘But not all demons are in Hell.’
‘And what about Sophie?’
‘What about her?’
‘Where is she?’
Wainwright sighed. ‘Who knows? You say she’s been trying to contact you. Maybe she has, but what if it’s been a demon all the time?’
‘You mean it was never Sophie? It was always something pretending to be her?’
‘I can’t answer that, Jack.’ He looked at his wristwatch, a gold Cartier. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’ He stood up and flexed his shoulders. ‘Promise me you won’t mess around with things you don’t understand.’ He grinned. ‘At least until we’ve done a deal over the stuff you’ve got down here.’
‘Cross my heart,’ said Nightingale.
Wainwright jabbed his cigar in Nightingale’s direction. ‘I’m serious, Jack. You’ve been lucky so far. But you’re messing with things that you barely understand and if you carry on it’s going to end in tears.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, Joshua. Message received and understood.’ He stuck out his hand and the American shook it firmly.
They went back up the stairs and Nightingale walked Wainwright outside. His helicopter was back on the lawn, its rotors turning slowly.
‘I’ll call you when my people are ready to inventory the books and artefacts,’ said Wainwright. ‘But I’ll send you a deposit first. How does a million sound?’
‘Like music to my ears,’ said Nightingale. ‘Pounds, euros or dollars?’
‘You choose,’ said Wainwright. ‘Call me with your bank details.’ The helicopter turbines began to whine and the rotors picked up speed, their wash pulling at Nightingale’s raincoat as Wainwright clapped him on the back. ‘You be careful, you hear?’
‘Always,’ said Nightingale. He watched Wainwright jog towards the helicopter. The American turned and waved before climbing in. Nightingale waved back as the helicopter lifted off, circled above the trees at the edge of the grounds and headed north.
27
Later that evening Nightingale lay on his sofa, reading the book that he’d taken from the basement of Gosling Manor. It was a tough read. The English was stilted and there were a lot of words in it that he didn’t know the meaning of, and Daniel Dunglas Home had a habit of slipping in Latin phrases as if he was keen to show his reader what a smart chap he was. Towards the end of the book there was a chapter titled ‘A Ritual For Communing With The Departed’. He read it twice, then made himself a coffee and read it again, and then he picked up his mobile and called Colin Duggan.
‘What do you want, Nightingale?’ were the first words out of the detective’s mouth.
‘What makes you think I want anything?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Because you called me, and the only time you ever call me is when you want something.’
‘Colin, I’m hurt. Can’t a guy ring his mate and ask him out for a drink?’
‘I’ve stopped drinking, remember? Diabetes.’
‘Are you still on that?’
‘On what? Diabetes doesn’t just go away. I have to eat healthily for the rest of my life or I’ll end up on medication.’
‘Can I buy you a salad, then? Or a carrot juice? Or whatever it is you eat for pleasure these days?’
‘I’m not a bloody rabbit,’ said Duggan. ‘Where are you?’
‘In the flat. Bayswater.’
‘I tell you what, the wife’s gone out to see her mother and I’m a loose end, so you can buy me noodles in that place underneath your building.’
Nightingale winced. ‘I’m not flavour of the month there at the moment,’ he said. ‘Anyway, there’s a better place in Queensway, to the left of the Tube station. When can you get there?’
‘Thirty minutes,’ said Duggan. ‘And you’re buying, okay?’
The detective ended the call before Nightingale had the chance to reply. When it came time to leave, raindrops were splattering on his windows so he grabbed his raincoat before heading outside. He turned right outside the front door so that he didn’t have to walk by Mrs Chan’s restaurant. He knew that at some point he was going to have to bite the bullet and apologise to her, but for the life of him he couldn’t think what to say that would explain away what had happened.
Duggan wasn’t at the restaurant yet so Nightingale took a corner table and ordered a pot of jasmine tea. All the serving staff were elderly men in black pants and red Mao jackets; none of them ever smiled. His tea arrived just as Duggan walked in and looked around. He spotted Nightingale and walked over to his table, taking off a woollen beanie hat to reveal his totally bald head and elf-like ears. He hung his beige raincoat and Burberry scarf over the back of his chair before shaking hands with Nightingale and sitting down.
‘What’s the problem with the other place?’ asked the detective. ‘Their duck noodles are the best in London you always say.’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘It’s complicated.’
�
��Slept with a waitress?’
Nightingale laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he said. ‘No, it’s more complicated than that.’ He sipped his tea. Actually, what had happened in the restaurant had a direct bearing on the favour he was about to ask, but there was no way that he could tell Duggan that. ‘Colin, you trust me, right?’
‘That’s an open-ended question, isn’t it?’
‘But I’ve never lied to you. Never let you down. Always had your back when we worked together.’
‘You were a good cop, Jack. Right up to the moment that you chucked that banker through the window of his office.’ He winked. ‘Allegedly.’ He nodded at the menu. ‘Can we order? I might as well get my food ordered before you put your hooks in.’
Nightingale waved over a waiter. Duggan ordered duck with thin noodles and extra wontons and Nightingale had his regular thick noodles. ‘What are you drinking?’ asked Duggan, pointing at Nightingale’s teapot.
‘Jasmine tea.’
‘Jasmine’s a bloody flower, isn’t it?’ Duggan looked up at the waiter. ‘Have you got Diet Coke?’
‘Just regular Coke,’ replied the waiter, stony-faced.
‘Have you any idea how much sugar there is in Coke?’ He sighed. ‘I hate this diet thing. Why is it that everything that tastes good is always bad for you?’
Nightingale figured the question was rhetorical so he didn’t say anything.
Duggan sighed again. ‘I’ll have water. From the tap.’
The waiter nodded and shuffled away.
‘The staff are a lot friendlier at the other place,’ said Duggan.
‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ said Nightingale.
‘Can you tell me why bottled water is so damn expensive? It’s water, right? How can it cost the same as beer?’
‘I don’t think it does, does it? Mind you, I can’t remember the last time I drank water.’
Duggan sat back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. ‘Yeah, well, keep on eating and drinking the way you do and you’ll soon find out. Practically everyone I know has diabetes these days.’
‘Smoking helps,’ said Nightingale. ‘Keeps the weight off.’
Duggan leaned forward. ‘That’s true, is it? Smoking suppresses your appetite?’
‘I don’t see many fat smokers,’ said Nightingale.
‘And I don’t see many fat heroin addicts,’ said Duggan. ‘Not sure that either is a cure for diabetes.’ The waiter returned with Duggan’s glass of water. He sipped it and grimaced. ‘I really want a beer,’ he said.
‘Bloody hell, Colin, have one, then. One beer’s not going to kill you.’
Duggan crossed his index fingers and held them up in front of Nightingale. ‘Get thee behind me, Satan.’
‘One beer, Colin. If it makes you feel better I’ll have one too.’
‘You bastard.’
Nightingale grinned and waved at the nearest waiter. ‘Two beers,’ he mouthed. ‘Coronas.’
‘I don’t want that Mexican shit,’ said Duggan. ‘I’ll have a Tsingtao. Chinese restaurant, Chinese beer.’ The waiter scribbled in his notepad and hurried away. ‘So what can I do for you?’ Duggan asked. ‘I’m assuming that the “do you trust me” question means it’s something heavy.’
‘You made a crack about the banker. Underwood.’
‘Yeah, that bastard deserved what he got. That day, when the little girl died . . .’ Duggan shuddered. ‘You never said anything, after you came down. If you had, if you’d told me what that bastard had done to her, I’d have gone with you, Jack. No question. I’d have thrown him through that window myself.’
‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. ‘You remember the doll she had with her when she fell?’
Duggan nodded. ‘The Barbie doll.’
Nightingale took a deep breath. ‘Can you get it for me?’
‘The doll?’
‘Yeah. The doll.’
‘What the hell are you playing at?’
The waiter returned with two bottles of beer and two glasses. He put them down on the table and walked away.
‘Jack?’
‘I just need to borrow the doll for a day or two. Then I’ll return it.’
‘There’s no live case, so what’s your interest?’
Nightingale sighed. ‘It’s just a thing I’ve got to do.’
‘Someone’s paying you?’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘It’s personal. Look, her death was a suicide, no doubt about that. Her father died that day, and her mother killed herself two weeks after they buried the little girl. So I’m pretty sure that her belongings are still going to be in the evidence room.’
‘That’s what you want me to do? Get into the evidence room and steal the doll?’
‘Borrow. You’ll get it back.’
‘And you want me to do this without telling me why?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You really are full of yourself, aren’t you?’
‘I know I’m asking a lot. And I’ll owe you one.’
‘Since when did a cop need a favour from a private eye? Shit always rolls downhill, remember?’
‘You never know what’s going to happen down the line,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need this, Colin. I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.’
A waiter brought over two bowls of noodles. Duggan waited until he’d walked away before speaking but even then he kept his voice low. ‘Just promise that this won’t come back and bite me in the arse,’ he said.
Nightingale made the sign of the cross on his chest. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ he said. He was joking but the second the words had passed his lips he shuddered.
‘What?’ said Duggan.
Nightingale waved away the question. ‘Just someone walking over my grave,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, mate, I won’t let you down.’ He picked up a fork and grinned. ‘Go on, dig in.’
They ate in silence for a while. ‘What’s the story with you and Dwayne Robinson?’ asked Duggan eventually.
‘What have you heard?’
‘That you shot him in the head and he made a deathbed statement naming you.’
Nightingale swore and put down the fork ‘That’s not what happened,’ he said. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Word on the grapevine,’ said Duggan.
‘Specifically?’
The detective shook his head. ‘Like all the best chefs I’m reluctant to identify my source,’ he said.
‘Yeah, well, Jamie Oliver you’re not. Was it Dan Evans?’
‘Haven’t seen him for months,’ said Duggan. ‘Chalmers is using him as his runner these days, I heard.’
‘I thought everyone understood that I wasn’t involved in the Robinson thing. I was nowhere near Brixton when it happened.’
‘Well, on the street your name’s very much in the frame, Jack.’
Nightingale swore again.
‘Problem?’ asked Duggan.
‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ said Nightingale, wishing that he felt as confident as he sounded.
They finished their noodles and Nightingale paid the bill, then they shook hands outside the restaurant and Duggan climbed into a black cab.
Nightingale phoned Evans on his mobile as soon as he got home. ‘What the hell’s going on, Dan?’ asked Nightingale the moment that the detective answered the call.
‘Yeah, and good evening to you too, Nightingale.’
‘Don’t screw me around, Dan. You said you’d put the word out that the Robinson shooting was nothing to do with me.’
‘I said I’d see what I could do.’
‘Yeah, well it looks now like every man and his dog believes that I pulled the trigger.’
‘Shit,’ said Evans.
‘Yeah, shit,’ said Nightingale. ‘Why have I just been told that the cops think I’m the one who shot Dwayne Robinson?’
‘That’s down to Chalmers. He’s still got your name in the frame.’
‘So you didn’t let Robinson’s gang know t
hat it wasn’t me who shot their boss? That’s what we agreed, right? You were going to get them off my back.’
‘Jack, how could I do that? Chalmers watches me like a hawk. And if he found out that I was sabotaging his investigation he’d have my guts for garters.’
‘Sabotage? Since when has telling the truth been sabotage?’
‘Jack, don’t get on your high horse with me. I did you a favour giving you the details of the Range Rover, and there’s the matter of you not reporting a major crime.’
Nightingale bit down on his lower lip. He wanted to shout and swear at Evans but he knew that wouldn’t get him anywhere. Evans was a cog in the machine, and a small cog at that.
‘I’m sorry, Jack. Really. But my hands were tied,’ said Evans.
Nightingale took a deep breath, calming himself down. ‘Dan, I am in so much shit. You can see that, right? They’ve already tried to shoot me once; if they think I killed Robinson then what’s to stop them trying again?’
‘They know we’re on the case. I don’t think they’ll be stupid enough to have another go.’
‘They’re drug dealers, Dan, that’s not generally a sign of a high IQ.’ He took another deep breath. ‘You checked the Range Rover, right?’
‘Yes, and there were no guns.’
‘And Reggie Gayle’s house?’
‘No guns there either.’
‘And Perry Smith? The face I recognised?’
‘That I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know? He’s one of the guys who shot at me.’
‘Yeah, well, I couldn’t tell Chalmers that without dropping you in it, could I? If I’d told him that Smith was one of the shooters he’d want to know how I knew. It was hard enough getting him to give Gayle a pull. But it’s not all bad news; we interviewed Gayle about the shootings in Queensway so he knows he’s on our radar and he’ll tell Smith.’
‘CCTV footage?’
‘There’s plenty of the car but we can’t ID the driver or any of the passengers. Gayle’s saying it was his missus out shopping. There were no cameras covering the area where the shooters got out of the car, which was probably luck rather than deliberate. And there’s nothing usable of the shooting itself, which is good news for you because if Chalmers knew you were there your feet wouldn’t touch the ground.’
Nightmare Page 15
