‘I don’t know what the hell they are,’ said Nightingale. ‘They’re fossils so they’ve got to be old. But I don’t think birds ever had teeth, did they?’
‘They look more like lizards than birds,’ said Hoyle. He played the beam of his torch down the basement to the end furthest from the stairs. ‘That looks like the security system,’ he said. There were half a dozen LCD screens on the wall in two banks of three.
The two men walked through the display cases towards them. As they got closer they saw a black wooden desk with a straight-backed chair and a large stainless-steel console dotted with labelled buttons. Nightingale ran his finger along it. ‘This picks up the feeds from the CCTV cameras,’ he said. ‘Look at this. There’s – what? Twenty-four cameras?’
‘Twenty-eight,’ said Hoyle. ‘Overkill, wouldn’t you say?’
‘He’d sit down here watching the screens. But watching for what?’
‘Scared that someone would rip off his collection?’
‘I don’t think he was scared,’ said Nightingale. ‘I think he just wanted to know what was going on in the house. He couldn’t have been alone. He’d have needed a staff – cleaners, gardeners, a driver, an estate manager. Maybe he didn’t trust them. Maybe he didn’t trust anybody.’
‘But when he died, he was alone in the house,’ said Hoyle. ‘That’s what it said in the file.’
‘He must have let the staff go,’ said Nightingale.
Hoyle waved a hand at the rows of display cases behind them. ‘And what is this place? What was Gosling doing down here? It’s not a display or an exhibition. He kept it all hidden away.’
‘You know what it is,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s Witchcraft R Us, that’s what it is. A shrine to black magic. Ainsley Gosling was a Satanist and this was where he plied his trade.’
‘There’s no such thing as magic,’ said Hoyle. ‘Smoke and mirrors and superstition, that’s all there is. This is the twenty-first century, Jack, the third millennium. Magic belongs back in the Dark Ages.’
‘You got the heebie-jeebies over that crystal ball, didn’t you?’
‘That was different. That wasn’t magic – it was…’ He paused, lost for words. ‘I don’t know what it was. Maybe you were right, maybe the light was playing tricks with my reflection.’
‘Okay, but you got married in church, didn’t you?’
‘So?’
‘So that was a religious ceremony, before God.’
‘That’s different,’ said Hoyle, rubbing his wedding band.
‘No, it’s the same. What you did in church with Anna was a ceremony with all the paraphernalia of religion. And remember Sarah’s christening? I had to renounce Satan and all his works.’
‘They’re just words, Jack. Everyone says “until death us do part”, but most marriages end in divorce. They’re words, not spells.’ He waved his arm at the shelves of books. ‘This is bollocks. All of it. And you know it’s bollocks.’
‘I’m not saying it’s not bollocks,’ said Nightingale, ‘I’m just saying that Gosling obviously believed in it, that’s all. And maybe that belief is what drove him to kill himself.’ He moved towards the stairs. ‘Come on, let’s get the hell out of here. We can’t see properly with the torches – I’ll get the power switched on and we’ll come back.’
They walked past an oak desk on the way to the staircase. Unlike the others in the basement it wasn’t heaped with books or papers: there was just a single leather-bound volume open with a Mont Blanc fountain pen next to it. The pages were filled with a handwritten scrawl, but Nightingale couldn’t read it in the torchlight. He picked it up and took it with him.
13
Robbie Hoyle lived in a neat semi-detached house in Raynes Park that he’d bought a couple of years before property prices crashed and was now worth less than the mortgage he’d taken out to pay for it. His wife’s black VW Golf was already in the driveway so he parked in the street.
‘Maybe we should sell this place and move into Chez Nightingale,’ said Hoyle, as they walked down the driveway to the house.
‘I don’t think you could afford the rent, mate.’
‘You could cut me a deal,’ said Hoyle. He unlocked the door. ‘We’re going to need a bigger place – we bought this before we knew we were having twins.’
‘Twin girls, they can share a room,’ said Nightingale.
‘Spoken like an only child,’ said Hoyle, pushing the front door open. ‘Trust me, kids need their own space.’
Anna Hoyle came out of the kitchen, holding a bottle of red wine. ‘Keep the noise down, boys. I’ve only just got the twins to sleep and Sarah’s got an exam tomorrow.’
‘I love you too,’ said Hoyle. He pecked her on the cheek.
‘I’m serious,’ said Anna. She smiled at Nightingale and held up the wine bottle. ‘Hi, Jack. Red okay?’ Nightingale and Hoyle had met Anna at the same time ten years earlier. She had been a probationer at the south London station they were working at and they had both asked her out. She’d said yes to Nightingale first but on the evening they were due to meet he’d been called away to an armed siege at a bank in Clapham. The following evening she’d gone for a drink with Hoyle and things had gone so well that they had married six months later. After three children she was still a stunner, with shoulder-length blonde hair, a trim figure and green eyes that always seemed amused.
‘Red’s fine. Sorry I kept your man out,’ said Nightingale, taking off his raincoat. He dropped it on the back of an armchair and gave her a brotherly peck on the cheek. He’d long ago come to terms with the fact that she’d never be more than a friend, though he still caught himself looking at her legs whenever she left a room.
‘I’ll get the glasses,’ said Hoyle. ‘You sit yourself down. I know you gumshoes spend all your day pounding the streets.’
‘Great,’ said Nightingale. He collapsed onto the sofa and stretched out his legs.
‘How’s business?’ asked Anna, sitting opposite him.
‘Getting by,’ he said, trying not to look at her cleavage. ‘The divorce rate always goes up during a recession. More arguments about money, I guess.’
‘And Jenny?’
‘She’s fine.’
‘Asked her out yet?’
Nightingale groaned. ‘Anna, she’s an employee. She’s staff. Start anything with your staff these days and you end up in an industrial tribunal.’
‘She fancies you something rotten, Jack. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. Why else do you think she works for you?’
Nightingale grinned. ‘We’re a dynamic company with growth prospects,’ he said.
Hoyle returned from the kitchen with three glasses. He put them on the coffee-table and flopped into an armchair while Anna poured the wine. ‘So, did Jack tell you he’s a man of property now?’
‘Really?’ said Anna. ‘Property?’
‘I’ve been left a house.’
‘A mansion,’ said Hoyle. ‘It’s fantastic, babe. You have to see it to believe it. Dozens of bedrooms, a library – the kitchen alone is the size of this place.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Anna. ‘How come?’
‘A relative died,’ said Nightingale.
‘Close?’ asked Anna.
‘My father.’
Anna’s eyebrows shot skywards. ‘Jack!’
‘Okay, somebody claiming to be my father.’
Hoyle sipped his wine. ‘Some sort of Satanist, apparently.’
‘A devil-worshipper?’ said Anna. ‘This is a joke, right?’
‘I don’t know about devil-worship, but he was definitely disturbed. He blew his head off with a shotgun.’
Anna drew her legs up underneath her and held her glass with both hands. ‘I thought your parents died years ago,’ she said.
‘They did, but apparently I was adopted and Gosling was my genetic father.’
‘But you’d know if you were adopted, surely.’
‘It happened at birth. I was given to the Nightingales
and registered as if I was their natural child. Anyway, it might all be bollocks. Some sort of scam.’
‘You should be able to prove if he was your father or not. DNA, right?’
‘I’m on the case,’ said Hoyle.
‘We could ask him now, if you like,’ said Anna.
Nightingale and Hoyle looked at her in amazement. ‘What?’ said Nightingale. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘What was his name – your father?’
‘My genetic father? Ainsley Gosling.’
‘Well, let’s ask Mr Gosling. Let’s go right to the source.’
‘Anna, what’s going on?’ asked her husband.
‘Let’s have a seance,’ she said. ‘Fingers on a glass and you talk to the dead – the spirits. Robbie and I used to do it years ago.’
‘It was a joke, a party game,’ said Hoyle.
‘We had some pretty weird messages.’
‘There’s always someone pushing the glass,’ said Hoyle.
‘Anna, you don’t really believe that you can talk to the dead?’ said Nightingale.
‘It works! I can’t explain why it works but you can get messages from people who’ve passed over.’
Nightingale frowned. ‘You’re serious?’
‘I’m just saying it’s worth a try. And they say that spirits who passed over violently, like when they’ve been murdered or committed suicide, tend to hang around – I suppose because there’s unfinished business.’
‘Well, Jack is certainly that,’ said Hoyle.
Anna smiled brightly at Nightingale. ‘Want to give it a go?’
14
Nightingale, Hoyle and Anna sat at the dining-table. Anna had written the letters of the alphabet on squares of paper, with the words ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. She arranged the letters in a circle with A at the top, and put ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ inside. Hoyle fetched another wine glass from the kitchen and placed it upside down, also inside the circle. ‘Now what?’ asked Nightingale. ‘We stare at it and make spooky sounds?’
‘We have to place our right index fingers on the bottom of the glass,’ said Anna, ‘but first we have to cleanse our auras.’
‘We have to what?’ said Nightingale.
‘I think she’s saying you need a shower,’ said Hoyle.
‘It’s about making the area safe and comfortable for spirits,’ said Anna, ignoring her husband’s sarcasm. She went over to the fireplace, lit three candles and carried one over to the sideboard, close to the dining-table. Then she switched off the lights. ‘The spirits feel more comfortable in the shadows,’ she said.
‘Don’t we all?’ said Nightingale. ‘Why can’t I have my wine?’
‘There must be no alcohol at the table, no cigarettes, no impurities,’ said Anna.
‘Because?’
‘Because impurities attract bad spirits,’ she said.
‘Where do you pick up this stuff?’ asked Nightingale.
‘She reads,’ said Hoyle.
Anna took her seat and held out her hands. ‘Now we form a circle and say the Lord’s Prayer,’ she said.
‘Strictly speaking, it’s a triangle,’ said Nightingale.
‘Don’t quibble,’ said Anna. ‘Now, hold my hands and close your eyes.’
The two men did as they were told and Anna led them in the Lord’s Prayer. It had been a long time since Nightingale had said it and he stumbled twice, mumbling over the words he’d forgotten. When they’d finished they opened their eyes. Anna kept hold of their hands. ‘Let all spirits here within know that we mean you no harm and that we are here solely to do God’s will,’ she said.
‘Amen,’ said Hoyle.
‘Good grief,’ said Nightingale.
Anna looked at him disapprovingly. ‘You have to take it seriously,’ she said. ‘Now, place the index finger of your right hand on the bottom of the glass.’ She did so gently and the two men followed. ‘Right, here we go,’ she said. ‘Is anybody there?’ They sat in silence for ten seconds. ‘Is anybody there?’ Anna repeated.
‘You’re mad, you know that,’ said Nightingale.
‘I’d be careful if I were you,’ said Hoyle. ‘The last person who said she was mad is buried in our back garden.’
Anna glared at him. ‘Is anybody there?’ she said, her voice lower this time.
Hoyle grinned at Nightingale and waggled his eyebrows. Nightingale tried not to laugh. They stiffened as the glass jerked under their fingers.
‘Is anyone there?’ repeated Anna.
Slowly but surely the glass scraped across the table top, heading for the piece of paper with ‘Yes’ written on it.
‘No way,’ said Nightingale, under his breath.
‘Sssh!’ hissed Anna.
The glass stopped next to ‘Yes’, then moved back slowly to the middle of the circle. Nightingale looked at Hoyle, who shook his head as if to say he wasn’t pushing the glass.
‘What was your father’s name again?’ whispered Anna.
‘Ainsley Gosling,’ said Nightingale, his eyes on the glass.
‘We want to speak with Ainsley Gosling,’ said Anna. She tilted her head back. ‘Is Ainsley Gosling there?’
The glass jerked again, and moved inexorably towards ‘Yes’. It stopped halfway, but a few seconds later it began to move again until it nudged the piece of paper.
‘I don’t believe this,’ whispered Nightingale. ‘Someone’s pushing it.’
‘Jack!’ hissed Anna. ‘The spirits sense negativity.’ The glass moved back to the centre of the table. Nightingale knew he wasn’t applying any pressure to it and it didn’t feel as if either Anna or Hoyle were either. ‘Do you have a message for us?’ asked Anna, and even before she had finished the question the glass shot across to ‘Yes’, then slid back to the centre.
‘This is amazing,’ whispered Hoyle. ‘You’re not pissing around, are you, Jack?’
Nightingale shook his head. His finger was aching but he didn’t want to take it off the glass, afraid that he would put a stop to whatever was happening. ‘Now what, Anna?’ he said.
She was still staring at the ceiling. ‘What do you want to say to us?’ she said.
The glass didn’t move. Nightingale willed it to do something, but it stayed defiantly where it was. ‘You’re among friends,’ said Anna, softly. ‘We only want to hear what you have to say.’
The glass moved quickly and, in rapid succession, touched the letters J A C and K.
‘Jack!’ said Hoyle, excitedly. ‘It spelled out your name.’
‘We can all read, honey,’ said Anna. She took a deep breath. ‘Yes, Jack is here with us. Do you have a message for him?’
The glass moved slowly towards ‘Yes’, touched the piece of paper and drifted back to the middle of the table. Then it began to move in small circles, slowly at first and then faster – so fast that Nightingale’s finger almost slipped off it. It raced to the letter I and stayed there for several seconds, slid back to the centre and, almost immediately went to the opposite side of the circle and nudged W. Slowly it spelled out I – W – A – N – T, and stopped.
‘“I want,”’ said Hoyle. ‘Did you see that?’
‘What do you want?’ asked Anna. ‘Please tell us what you want.’
The glass began to move again. It slid over to Y, then O, and slowly spelled out ‘YOU TO’.
It stopped. ‘What?’ said Hoyle, staring at it. ‘What is it you want Jack to do?’
The glass began to move again in a series of jerks, and in rapid succession it picked out S-H-A-G-J-E-N-N.
‘Shag Jenn?’ said Nightingale, then realisation dawned. He cursed and pulled away his finger. Anna and her husband burst out laughing.
‘You two are a couple of kids,’ said Nightingale, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair.
‘Your face,’ said Hoyle.
‘Come on, admit it, we had you going,’ said Anna.
‘It’s not funny,’ said Nightingale.
‘It is from where we’re s
itting,’ said Hoyle. ‘I want you to shag Jenny…’ he said, in a spooky voice, waggling his fingers. ‘That’s what we want in the spirit world. We want Jack Nightingale to get laid.’ He stood, retrieved his wine and returned to the sofa. ‘You bought it, hook, line and sinker.’
‘Only because I trusted you,’ said Nightingale. ‘Which isn’t a mistake I’ll make again.’
Anna gathered up the pieces of paper, screwed them into a ball and threw it at Nightingale. It bounced off his head and fell onto the floor. ‘I’m going home,’ he said.
‘Don’t sulk,’ said Anna.
Nightingale laughed as he stood up. He held out his arms and hugged Anna. ‘Bitch,’ he said.
‘Sticks and stones,’ said Anna.
Nightingale kissed her cheek and waved to Hoyle. ‘I’ll get you back, you know that.’
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ said Hoyle, raising his glass in salute.
15
Nightingale woke up early on Friday morning with Simon Underwood’s words ringing in his ears. It was the second night in a row that he’d had the dream. He sat up and ran his hands through his hair, then caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored door of the wardrobe on the far wall. His face was bathed in sweat and there were dark patches under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept for a week. He groaned and lit a cigarette, smoked it all the way down, then showered and padded to the kitchen naked to make himself a black coffee. As he sipped it, he phoned his uncle Tommy. It was just after six thirty but his aunt and uncle had always been early risers.
His aunt answered again but she didn’t say anything to him, just called for her husband.
Uncle Tommy sounded hesitant. ‘Yes, Jack, how’s things?’
‘Everything’s fine, Uncle. I called you a couple of days ago.’
‘Aye, I’m sorry, lad, I’ve been busy.’
‘I need to talk to you about Mum and Dad.’
‘Aye, Linda said. But it’s complicated, and I’m not sure your dad would want me talking about it.’
‘He’s dead, so I can’t ask him or Mum, but I have to know the truth. You can understand that, can’t you?’
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