The Whisper Man

by Stephen Leather

  ‘It is,’ said Chalmers. ‘His name and the date he was murdered.’

  It was the first time Chalmers had admitted to it being a murder case. ‘So what?’ repeated Nightingale.

  ‘Try the next page.’

  Again Nightingale turned the page, and this time lost his poker face. The gold letters seemed to glow more brightly than all the others. Jack Nightingale 10 March.

  ‘See what I mean, Nightingale?’

  ‘I don’t see anything, Chalmers. Except my name and a date. So what?’

  ‘So we’ve done a little checking. Most of the people in that book we haven’t traced yet, but the last three we have. Dixon, Fletcher and Jackson. Their names are in there against the dates they died.’

  ‘So? Someone’s morbid hobby. They’re collecting dates of deaths. Like collecting car numbers, I suppose.’

  ‘Maybe, but whoever wrote Dixon’s date of death in there probably killed him. Nobody else could have known. As for you, maybe it’s wishful thinking.’

  ‘Well thanks for the sympathy, Chalmers. Anything else I can do for you?’

  ‘Just turn the next page, Nightingale.’

  Nightingale swallowed. He had a bad feeling about this. He turned the page.

  Jennifer McLean 10 March. Nightingale said nothing, but looked up from the page and across at Chalmers, who had pressed his fingertips together and raised his eyebrows. Chalmers broke first. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Your name’s in that book. So is your secretary’s. Quite a few of the people in that book are dead, Nightingale. Maybe all of them. Looks to me like you’re on somebody’s “To-Do” list.’

  ‘And that worries you?’

  ‘Less than you’d think. I’d hate to see anything happen to Miss McLean though.’

  ‘Ms,’ corrected Nightingale automatically.

  Chalmers ignored him. ‘Suppose you tell me all about it, Nightingale. The whole Dixon business.’

  Nightingale spread his hands, palms uppermost. It was meant to be a gesture of openness, but he doubted Chalmers would buy it. ‘He came here yesterday to try to get me to find his wife. I said I couldn’t help. He left. I’ve got nothing to add.’

  Chalmers sighed deeply. ‘Let’s try it another way then, Nightingale. Where were you last night.? Let’s say between ten pm and five am.’

  ‘I was asleep.’

  ‘From ten?’

  ‘Okay, I was watching Sky Sports and then I slept. I was at home.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm your alibi?’

  ‘Oh come on, Chalmers. It’s not an alibi. It’s what I did. It’s what most people do at night. They have a takeaway curry, they watch TV and they go to bed.’

  ‘You had a takeaway curry?’

  ‘Chicken chilli masala. And two poppadoms.’

  ‘Rice?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’m trying to lose weight.’

  ‘Delivery or did you collect it?’

  ‘I picked it up myself.’

  ‘Well for your sake let’s hope they have CCTV. Give me the name of the restaurant.’

  Nightingale gave the name and address of the curry house and Mason wrote it down.

  ‘But even if you have an alibi, don’t imagine we’ll be leaving it there. This is a murder case.’

  ‘Yes, and someone’s trying to involve me in it. Now tell me Chalmers, how did he die?’

  Chalmers pushed his lips in and out for a few seconds, then made his mind up. ‘The post mortem’s not been done yet. But the cause of death was a slit throat, there’s no doubt about that. But somebody had given him a very thorough going over before that.’

  ‘They wanted information?’

  ‘Who knows, either that or pure sadism. But I’ll tell you something, if they were after information, I’d bet my pension that they got it out of him.’

  ‘That bad?’

  Chalmers grimaced. ‘Worst I’ve seen.’

  Nightingale was about to reply when they all heard the sound of high-heeled shoes on the stairs, and Jenny opened the door. DS Mason stood up, but Chalmers stayed where he was, turned his head and grunted in her direction. Jenny’s eyes opened a little wider as she saw the policemen, and she looked enquiringly at Nightingale. He said nothing, but waved her to a spare chair. She sat, straightened her skirt and gazed at Chalmers, who flushed a little. His tone was noticeably less hostile when he spoke. ‘Morning, Ms McLean. A few questions, if you don’t mind.’

  The next hour saw Nightingale’s blood pressure steadily rising. Chalmers took Jenny through the same questions he’d asked Nightingale, and Nightingale kept waiting for her to blow a hole in his story. Fortunately Chalmers missed a trick or two, by asking her if she could confirm Nightingale’s account of Dixon’s visit, rather than getting her to tell it in her own words. A few discreetly raised eyebrows from her employer, plus her own good sense, ensured there was no mention of the whole witch story. But there was nothing Jack could do to warn her about Chalmers’s best trick. ‘Would you take a look at this, Ms McLean,’ handing her the book. ‘Ever seen it before?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. What’s it got to do with anything?’

  ‘Open it please.’

  ‘Chalmers,’ said Nightingale, but the superintendent flashed him an angry look and wagged his finger.

  Jenny turned the book over a few times, then opened the cover and started to go through the pages. She looked puzzled. ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘Some of them we haven’t traced yet. The ones we have traced are dead.’

  ‘My God, Professor Dixon is in here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you, Jack...’

  ‘I know.’

  She stared at the page she’d just turned. ‘Oh my God. Oh my God. It’s me...’

  Chalmers tried some more fruitless questions. Jenny had no idea how or why her name came to be in the book, no idea why anyone should want to kill Dixon, and had been nowhere near Twickenham the previous night. She’d been out to dinner in Central London, and the names of her dinner companions caused the policemen’s eyebrows to shoot up in surprise. They hadn’t expected her ‘family friends’ to come with titles, but it wasn’t news to Nightingale. He’d often wondered why a woman who moved in the higher echelons of society chose to earn her living as assistant to a detective who was pretty much living from hand to mouth.

  Eventually the superintendent ran out of questions. He jabbed a warning finger at Nightingale. ‘This is typical of the weirdo nonsense you get mixed up in. None of it ever makes any sense, but there’s always some poor sod ends up messily dead. I’m telling you now, you haven’t heard the last of this by a long chalk. And if I find you getting in the way of my investigation, I’ll have you locked up and the key thrown away.’ He stood up and headed for the door, with Mason so close to his heels that when he stopped short Mason almost ran into him. ‘If your unreliable memory manages to think of anything useful, or if you hear even a whisper, you’d better be on to me pretty damned quick,’ said Chalmers, and he left with Mason following.

  ‘Jack, he left the book behind,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Didn’t he just.’

  She frowned. ‘It was deliberate?’

  ‘Look, love, Chalmers is a complete disgrace as a human being, but he’s a very experienced and successful policeman. There’s no way he left that book behind by accident. He has no idea what it means, but he thinks I might be able to find out.’

  ‘You don’t think...’

  ‘Yeah, in his rather clumsy, obnoxious, threatening way...he’s asking for my help.’ He picked up the book. ‘And to be honest, I actually might be able to help him.’

  CHAPTER 11

  The battery on Nightingale’s MGB had gone flat again so he caught a black cab to Camden and had it drop him close to Camden Lock market. The Wicca Woman shop was in a side street between a store selling bongs and t-shirts promoting cannabis use, and another that sold hand-knitted sweaters. The window display had change
d since he had last visited and pride of place was now taken by a wooden chair on which were a dozen packs of Tarot cards. Nightingale pushed open the door and a tiny bell tinkled to announce his arrival. Alice Steadman was standing behind the counter, frowning at an ancient cash register. Nightingale had no idea how old she was, but if he had to guess he would have gone for late sixties. She had pointy bird-like features, wrinkled, almost translucent skin and grey hair tied back in a ponytail. Her green eyes sparked as she looked over at him. ‘Why Mr Nightingale, what a pleasant surprise.’ She was wearing a long black silk shirt and grey tights. She walked around the counter and silver bells on the toes of her slippers jiggled with every step.

  She barely reached his shoulder as she smiled up at him. ‘Is everything okay?’ She touched him lightly on the arm.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Because usually you only visit when you have a problem.’

  He grinned. ‘You are my go-to person when I get out of my depth,’ he said.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘I would love one, Mrs Steadman, thank you.’

  She went over to the door and flipped a small sign from OPEN to CLOSED.

  ‘You don’t have to shut up shop for me,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t have an assistant today and I need a rest,’ she said. ‘It’s difficult to find good help these days.’ She took him through a brightly-coloured beaded curtain into a small room where a gas fire was burning. She waved for Nightingale to sit on one of three wooden chairs around a circular table. She went over to a kettle on top of a pale green refrigerator and switched it on. She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘Milk and no sugar,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. Mrs Steadman had a razor-sharp mind and a memory that put his to shame.

  She spooned PG Tips into a brown ceramic teapot. ‘Your aura seems very disturbed, and I sense danger approaching you. Tell me about it.’

  Nightingale explained about Professor Dixon and what had happened to him, and about the visit from Superintendent Chalmers and the book full of names.

  When the kettle had boiled she poured water into the teapot and carried it over to the table on a tray with two blue and white striped mugs and a matching milk jug and sugar bowl. She sat down and poured tea for him, then added milk.

  ‘Awful,’ she said, when he had finished speaking. ‘And you’ve brought the book, of course?’

  Nightingale pulled it out of his raincoat pocket and handed it to her, but she flinched. ‘No, no. Put it on the table, please.’

  Nightingale set the book down on the table and Mrs Steadman picked a teaspoon and used it to move the book closer to her. She lifted the golden pince-nez on the chain round her neck and placed them on her nose, then peered nervously downward. She studied the engraving on the cover, then focused on the large bird. ‘Oh my goodness. Oh dear, oh dear. How awful.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Nightingale. ‘I take it you know what it is?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I can feel its vibrations from here. I really don’t want to touch it at all; it would be most painful for me. It’s a thing of pure evil. Don’t you feel it?’

  ‘Just a little tingle when I touch it.’

  ‘Of course, you are not a sensitive. Not so much yet, anyway. Open the book for me, please.’

  Nightingale opened the book, and turned the pages slowly, explaining the significance of the names he knew. Mrs Steadman drew in her breath sharply when he reached Professor Dixon’s name, then shook her head vigorously when he opened the page with his own name. At Jenny’s name, she gave a gasp of horror. ‘Oh no, how awful. Close it please.’

  Nightingale closed the book, and she put out one thin, claw-like hand and held it a foot above the book, shuddering all the while. After a minute, she pulled her hand back and slumped down back in her chair. ‘Put it away again, please,’ she said, waving at his coat.

  Nightingale put the book back into his raincoat pocket.

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Nightingale, you must think me such a silly old woman, but that really is very disturbing. You’ll need to know about it, of course.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve never seen such a thing before...never been in the presence of such evil...’ She took a deep breath and sat bolt upright. ‘Mr Nightingale, that is a Vlach Death Book.’ She took another deep breath to steady herself. ‘It’s a very old tradition, which some say comes from Egypt, but which seems to have become most widespread in the Carpathian Mountains. The bird on the cover is the Carpathian Golden Eagle. In the folklore of the area, it is considered an Emissary of Death, which adepts can direct to destroy those who oppose them or stand in their way. Not literally of course, they don’t use a corporeal bird. Rather they project a force. A killing force.’

  ‘That can happen?’

  ‘Oh yes, many traditions claim to be able to direct something similar. In the magic of voodoo for example, adepts use a doll to direct force against those they wish to harm.’

  ‘And where are the Carpathian mountains?’ Nightingale asked. ‘I was never good at geography.’

  ‘In central and eastern Europe, mostly in Romania from what I remember, and Poland and Serbia. Some other countries whose names have changed since I was at school.’

  Nightingale wondered exactly where and when Mrs Steadman might have been at school, but stuck to the point. ‘So what would the book be doing in Twickenham?’

  ‘People don’t always stay where they’re born, particularly not these days, and when they move they can bring old customs and beliefs with them.’

  ‘So how exactly would this book be used?’

  ‘The name of the proposed victim would be written inside, with the date of...er...removal. On that date, the adept would hold a ceremony, make a sacrifice and unleash the force, the Eagle of Death.’

  ‘You said sacrifice. What sort? Animal or human?’

  Mrs Steadman shook her head. ‘I don’t know, I only have a vague knowledge of their traditions. They are rarely spoken about. The Vlach people were notoriously secretive, nomads with a strong belief in ancient traditions, especially in the afterlife, and claiming bonds with the dead as well as the living. ‘

  ‘Is there anyone else I could talk to, maybe find out more?’

  ‘Possibly, but I would need to speak to some of my contacts. I will call you as soon as I get any information that might help.’

  ‘Thanks. But, our names are in there, does that mean we’re brown bread on Friday?’

  ‘Brown bread?’

  ‘Dead.’

  Mrs Steadman winced at the word. ‘Not necessarily, but it does mean you’re in terrible danger, both of you. And someone wants you to know it. I very much doubt the book was shown to you by accident. They wanted to send you a message.’

  ‘Yeah, that occurred to me. So how do I stop it?’

  ‘Well, the easiest way is to stop the ceremony from taking place at all. Even better would be to destroy the Master Book.’

  ‘Master Book? This isn’t the only one?’

  ‘No, I think the adept, the sorcerer, would give one to each follower, with the names of their personal enemies in there. For the purpose of the rituals, a much larger book would be used, which would contain the names of all the enemies of the followers. And be used to direct harm at them.’

  ‘Sounds nasty.’

  ‘Yes, it certainly is. And you’ll need to find them to stop it.’

  ‘So, you’re telling me I need to find some unknown Eastern Europeans and a big book, somewhere in Britain? That really is a needle in a haystack.’

  She smiled. ‘Well, it’s not quite that bad, is it, Mr Nightingale? I think if you were to find Mrs Dixon that would be a good start.’

  ‘Except I have no idea where she is.’

  ‘Oh, I think I can help you there...’

  She got up and walked across to an old, black wooded sideboard at the other side of the room. She opened a drawer and pulled out a large, square mahogany b
ox, which she set on the table. It was covered in carved symbols, none of which Nightingale recognised, and the top had a large blue stone inlaid into the centre. She opened the lid, to reveal a tray, partitioned into twelve compartments. Each one held a large crystal, all of different colours and shapes, but all roughly the size of a pigeon’s egg. Each one had a gold mount attached to the top, with a length of gold chain. Nightingale put out his hand to touch one, but Mrs Steadman tapped it away.

  ‘No, no. They are all fully charged, and must only be touched by their partners.’

  ‘Who are their partners?’

  ‘That remains to be seen. Now, I want you to extend the index finger of your right hand and bring it as close to each one in turn as you can, but without touching any of them. As you do that, I want you to try to picture a blue aura round your hand, and try to imagine projecting it around the stone. Can you do that? ‘

  Nightingale had long since ceased to be surprised at anything Mrs Steadman asked, and so he simply nodded. He concentrated hard on projecting his aura, and brought his finger as close as possible to the first crystal, a vivid blue stone. He held it there for a full minute.

  ‘Try the next one,’ instructed Mrs Steadman.

  It was the fifth one he tried when it happened. A large pink crystal. As Nightingale’s finger approached, it seemed to pulse with an inner light, and he felt as if an electric spark had jumped from the stone to his finger. He flinched.

  ‘That’s the one,’ she said. ‘It has chosen you.’

  ‘Lucky me.’

  She gave him a reproving glance, lifted the tray of stones out of the box, and took one of several small leather bags out of the compartment beneath. She held it out to Nightingale. It looked incredibly old, but felt as soft and pliable as tissue paper. ‘Put your crystal into the bag.’

  He did as he was told. ‘Thanks. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing, the crystals sense their partners, they cannot be bought or sold.’

  ‘Well thank you. But what’s it for?’

  ‘To the skilled adept, the crystal has a whole host of uses. One of the least of them is locating people.’