49
Duggan blew smoke across the street, a look of contentment on his face. He looked at the cigarette. ‘My wife’ll kill me if she finds out I had a smoke.’ He moved aside to allow two men in paint-stained overalls to push through the door into the pub.
‘One cigarette’s not going to kill you, mate. And neither’s one whisky. Everything in moderation.’
They both looked to the left as a police siren started up and their heads swivelled as a car went by with two uniformed officers inside. The driver looked as if he was barely in his twenties and the officer in the passenger seat was borderline obese, with rolls of fat protruding from under his stab vest.
‘How many a day are you on now?’ asked Duggan. ‘You were two packs a day when you were in the job.’
‘It varies,’ said Nightingale. He shrugged. ‘Everybody dies, Colin. I’d rather die happy than die healthy.’
Duggan laughed ruefully. ‘I like that. Die healthy.’
‘It’s true. Lots of very healthy people die.’
‘Sophie’s father, for one,’ said Duggan. He grinned. ‘He was in the prime of life when you threw him through his office window.’
‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. He took a long drag on his cigarette.
The two men stood in silence for a few minutes, people-watching. Queensway was always busy and was one of the most multicultural areas of London, and while they smoked they heard conversations in Chinese, Arabic, French, Italian, Japanese and half a dozen that Nightingale didn’t recognise. There were students, tourists, workers heading home, couples heading out, mates on the way to the pub or a restaurant. He watched two African women walk by in brightly coloured long dresses with headdresses made from the same material, laughing loudly at something one of them said. The one closest to Nightingale saw that he was watching her and she flashed him a beaming smile. Nightingale grinned back and winked. As the two women walked away the one he’d winked at turned and gave him another smile.
‘You seeing anyone these days?’ asked Duggan.
‘Nah,’ said Nightingale.
‘Why not? You were a bit of a lad when you were in the job. There was that blonde sergeant over at Harrow Road. And the dog handler, the cute one. You put yourself about a bit, back in the day.’
Nightingale laughed. ‘Yeah, that’s true.’
‘You need to settle down, get yourself a wife. How old are you now?’
‘Thirty-three.’
‘You’re not getting any younger.’
‘Who is?’ said Nightingale. He smoked his cigarette. ‘You ever think about death?’ he asked quietly.
‘I’m a cop. What do you think? How many bodies did you come across when you were in the job? As a bobby you’ll see one a month. Accidents, suicides, murders. In my first year on the beat I saw half a dozen pensioners who’d swallowed all their sleeping tablets and as many junkies who’d overdosed. Death’s part of the job, you know that.’
‘I meant your own death. Dying.’
Duggan chuckled ruefully. ‘I didn’t until this diabetes thing hit me,’ he said. ‘But the doc read me the riot act and didn’t pull any punches.’
‘So what do you think happens to you after you die?’
Duggan turned to look at him. ‘Bloody hell, what’s brought this on?’
‘It’s the biggest question of all time, isn’t it? It’s the only question that matters and yet it’s the one question you never hear asked. Turn on the news and it’s about the economy and politics and conflict, and the one thing that really matters is never mentioned. What happens to us when we die? Is this it? Is this all there is?’
‘People don’t talk about it because they’re scared.’
‘You think?’ said Nightingale.
‘It’s easier to sweat the small stuff, right? Keeps you from thinking about the big stuff because the big stuff is very, very scary.’
Nightingale didn’t say anything. He smoked his cigarette and stared at Whiteleys Shopping Centre on the other side of the road.
Duggan looked over at him, the cigarette on the way to his mouth. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You sure?’
Nightingale laughed but he could hear the unease in his voice. He smoked his cigarette.
‘I’m serious, Jack. You look a bit tightly wound, truth be told.’
‘I’ve a lot on my plate at the moment. Did you hear about the fire at my house?’
‘I heard there was an arsonist trying to burn your place down while you were inside. And you’re doing your old trick of changing the subject when anyone asks you an awkward question. So I’ll ask you straight out – are you thinking about topping yourself ?’
Nightingale’s jaw dropped. ‘Am I what?’
Duggan turned to face him. ‘You’re showing all the signs. You’re under stress, you’re drinking, you’re talking about death and dying. And you’re two years out of the job. A lot of former cops end up killing themselves, you know that.’
‘Come on . . .’
‘I’m serious, Jack. You wanting that kid’s doll, that’s the last straw.’ He nodded at Nightingale’s coat pocket. ‘That’s irrational, that is.’
‘I swear, cross my heart and all that, I’m not planning to top myself.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m amazed you’d even think it.’
‘If you need anyone to talk to, you call me,’ said Duggan earnestly.
‘Colin . . .’
Duggan gripped Nightingale’s shoulder, tightly. ‘Listen to me, you stupid bastard. I don’t know what’s going through your mind but I’ve got a really bad feeling about this. Promise you’ll call me.’
‘Hell’s bells, Colin, I promise. But it’s not going to happen. Topping myself is the absolute last thing on my mind.’
Duggan’s nails bit into Nightingale’s shoulder, then he relaxed and took his hand away. He flicked ash on the pavement. ‘See what happens when you get me drinking and smoking again? I go and get all emotional.’ He took a final drag on his cigarette and dropped the butt onto the ground.
‘One for the road?’ asked Nightingale, doing the same with his cigarette.
Duggan snorted softly. ‘You really are the devil, aren’t you?’ he said.
50
Nightingale parked by the mermaid fountain and climbed out of his MGB. It was already dark and there were thick clouds overhead. He took a torch from his glove compartment and flicked it on as he climbed out of the car. He was holding the Tesco carrier bag that Duggan had given him and he juggled the bag and the torch as he locked the car. Off in the distance a fox barked and a second or two later another answered from behind the house. Nightingale pointed the torch at the front door and walked up the steps. It was cold and his breath feathered in the beam of light as he fumbled for his keys and unlocked the door. He shivered and looked over his shoulder but there was nothing there, just the darkness. He pushed open the door and flicked the light switch. The two dozen bulbs in the huge chandelier in the centre of the hallway flickered into life, though their coating of ash muted the light.
It was cold inside, only a few degrees above zero. There was a huge oil-fired central heating system powered by a huge boiler off the kitchen but it cost a small fortune to run and Nightingale had turned the thermostat right down. He shivered again as walked over the muddy floor to the panel that hid the entrance to the basement. After flicking on the lights he was just about to head down into the basement when he heard a noise upstairs, a short scraping sound as if something was being dragged across the floor. He walked back into the hall and listened intently but whatever the sound was, it had stopped. He was about to call out but realised immediately that would be a waste of time. Animals couldn’t speak and burglars wouldn’t answer.
He went to the bottom of the stairs and listened again but he couldn’t hear anything. Jenny had been right: the house was far too big for one person. He couldn’t even remember how many bedrooms there were upstairs. And having hear
d a noise, what was he supposed to do? How long would it take to go through every room in the house, to check every possible hiding place? He’d never be sure that there wasn’t an intruder somewhere in the house, especially now that the CCTV console had been smashed beyond repair. He stood stock still and listened as he stared at his mud-splattered Hush Puppies for a full minute, counting the seconds off in his head, then he went back to the panel and down into the basement. He went over to the trunk containing the candles and rooted through it to find two light blue candles, each about a foot long. He took two gold candleholders from a display case and carried them over to the coffee table.
From the carrier bag he took a framed photograph of Sophie. He’d found the picture on the internet. It was a school photograph that the Evening Standard had used to illustrate their story on her death. He’d bought the frame from a shop in Bayswater. It didn’t say in Daniel Dunglas Home’s book that the picture had to be in a frame but Nightingale had felt that a frame was somehow more appropriate.
He placed the frame between the two candles, face down, then took the Barbie doll out of the bag. He held it in his hands and felt tears well up in his eyes. It was the last thing Sophie had held before she died. He flashed back to the moment she’d slid off the balcony, the doll clutched to her chest. He brought the doll up to his face and sniffed it gently before placing it next to the photograph. Already on the table was the book that described the ritual he was about to attempt.
He went over to a display cabinet that was filled with vases and bowls and chose a small brass bowl with no markings. He took it over to the coffee table. The last item in the carrier bag was a small box of purified sea salt that he’d bought from Mrs Steadman’s shop in Camden. He poured some of the salt into the bowl.
He switched on the torch and went back up the stairs to turn off the lights. Using the torch beam to guide his way he walked back to the coffee table and sat down. He lit the candles and then turned off the torch and put it on the floor. He took several slow, deep breaths, closed his eyes and tried to remember as much as he could about Sophie, her face, her hair, her clothes, her voice. His mind kept drifting to the moment that she’d fallen from the balcony but he tried to blot that image out. He remembered what they’d talked about on the balcony. Smoking. Birds. How to programme a video recorder. Nightingale had tried to keep her talking, to keep her focused on his voice rather than on the ground far below.
Nightingale opened his eyes, then licked the index finger of his right hand and dabbed it into the salt. He touched the salt to his tongue and without swallowing he turned over the framed photograph. He stared at the picture, then dabbed more salt onto his tongue. This time he swallowed and fought against the gag reflex.
‘Sophie,’ he said. ‘Are you there? Sophie, it’s Jack.’
The candles flickered but only for a second and then the flames steadied. Nightingale placed his hands palm down on the table and took two deep breaths and then closed his eyes. Again he tried to visualise Sophie. Her pale white skin. Her long blonde hair. The tears in her eyes.
He opened his eyes, dabbed his wet finger on the salt and then touched it against his tongue again. ‘Sophie, can you hear me?’
Nothing happened. Nightingale picked up the book and opened it at the page that described the ritual. He read through it again to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything.
‘Sophie. This is Jack Nightingale. Can you hear me?’
The candles flickered again and he heard a creaking sound above his head. He looked up. There was a second, slightly longer creak, then silence.
‘Sophie? Is that you?’
The panel at the top of the stairs rattled and Nightingale flinched. The light from the two candles illuminated only the seating area; the stairs were in darkness.
‘Sophie?’
Nightingale felt a cold draught run along the back of his neck and he shivered. There were no windows in the basement and no ventilation ducts so draughts were a physical impossibility.
‘Sophie?’
He heard a fluttering sound from the desk where he’d left the yellow legal pad on which Jenny had written the inventory. Nightingale peered into the gloom and could just about see that the pages were moving slowly, as if someone was flicking through them one by one.
‘Sophie?’
The pages stopped moving. Nightingale dabbed more salt on his tongue. He wondered if saying a prayer would help, but there had been no mention of that in the book.
‘Jack?’
Nightingale froze. He wasn’t sure if he’d actually heard his name being spoken or if he’d imagined it, but it had been a little girl’s voice. The draught was back and he shivered. He stared at the doll, lying on the coffee table. Its hair was moving slowly, curling around its head as if it had a life of its own. ‘Sophie, can you hear me?’
‘Jack?’
There was no doubt the second time. It was Sophie’s voice, but little more than a whisper. ‘Sophie? Can you hear me? Where are you?’ asked Nightingale.
‘I’m here, Jack.’
Nightingale felt something brush against the back of his head and he flinched. He started to turn.
‘No! Don’t turn round,’ said Sophie.
Nightingale forced himself to keep looking forward. The doll’s hair had stopped moving and was spread out like a golden halo around its head.
‘If you see me, I’ll go back,’ she said.
‘Go back where?’ asked Nightingale.
‘I don’t know,’ said Sophie. She sniffed. ‘It’s cold. And dark.’
‘Sophie, honey, what do you want?’
‘I want you to help me.’ She sniffed again. ‘I want to go home.’
‘I don’t think you can go home, honey,’ said Nightingale, clasping his hands together.
Sophie began to cry softly. Nightingale started to turn. ‘No!’ she said urgently. ‘You mustn’t. I told you.’
Nightingale turned back to look at the photograph. She looked so happy in the picture. It had been taken two years before she died, and she was wearing her school uniform and smiling as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Nightingale wondered if her father had already started interfering with her and felt a wave of sadness wash over him. He had been a cop for too long to believe that there was any sort of fairness in life, but what had happened to Sophie was just plain wrong. ‘Sophie, I do want to help you, but you have to tell me what you want.’
‘I told you already. I want to go home.’
‘Honey, do you know what happened to your mother? And your father?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really? You know?’
‘They’re dead,’ whispered Sophie.
Nightingale shivered. ‘Aren’t they with you?’
‘I’m alone, Jack.’ She began to sob quietly.
Tears pricked Nightingale’s eyes. He wanted to help but felt completely powerless. Sophie was dead. Dead and buried. He stared at the doll and then slowly picked it up and stroked the hair softly.
‘Jack?’
‘Yes, honey.’
‘You have to come and get me.’
Nightingale frowned. ‘How do I do that?’
She sniffed once again. A cold wind blew by Nightingale’s left ear, ruffling his hair.
‘You know how,’ she said.
That was when the candles blew out and Sophie screamed as if she was in pain.
51
Nightingale groped for his torch. He found it and switched it on, then he ran the beam quickly around the basement and up the stairs, his heart pounding. The wicks of the candles were smouldering. He frowned as he stared at the candles. There were no draughts in the basement but something had blown them out.
He was heading for the stairs to switch on the lights when his phone burst into life. It was the American.
‘Jack, are you okay?’ asked Wainwright.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just a feeling. What are you doing?’
‘I’m in the
basement of Gosling Manor.’
‘That’s why I’m calling. Amy told me what happened. What’s going on?’
‘I was robbed.’
‘Amy said they took everything.’
‘Just the books. They left the artefacts and stuff, but cleaned me out of every single book. Must have taken them ages. Sorry I wasted your time.’
‘Don’t worry about that. But do you have any idea who might have done it?’
‘Hardly anyone knew that the basement was there,’ said Nightingale. ‘You, me, my assistant. Her friend. That’s about it, so far as I know.’
‘What about Marcus Fairchild?’
‘What? What about him?’
‘Did you ever take him down there, did you show him the books?’
‘No.’
‘You’re certain of that?’
‘Of course. Why? What’s going on?’
‘Word on the grapevine is that Fairchild has come into some books. Some very old, very expensive volumes. And bearing in mind what happened at Gosling Manor, that’s one hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Jack, I wouldn’t be calling you if I wasn’t sure.’
Nightingale said nothing. He ran a hand through his hair. Marcus Fairchild? How had he discovered the hidden library? He knew about the mansion, but how could he have known about the books?
‘Jack, are you there?’
‘Yeah, I’m here, Joshua.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Do? I guess I need to have a talk with him.’
‘Be careful,’ said Wainwright. ‘He’s a dangerous man.’
‘I’ll be okay. I’ve met some real hard bastards in my time.’
‘Not like Marcus Fairchild. He’s off the Richter scale.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m serious, Jack. Fairchild is pure evil. Don’t even think about taking him on. He’s got the whole Order of Nine Angles with him. You go up against one and you’ll be facing them all.’
Nightmare Page 27
