The Whisper Man

by Stephen Leather

  ‘And how does that happen?’

  ‘Listen very carefully, Mr Nightingale. I shall explain.

  She did, for almost half an hour during which time she made a second pot of tea and opened a packet of Digestive biscuits. When she had finished, he thanked her and was about to put his newly-acquired crystal into his pocket. ‘No!’ she said and put up her hand.

  Nightingale froze. ‘What?’

  ‘On no account must you put the crystal anywhere near that book,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The crystal is a force of goodness. From the right path. That book is the complete opposite. If they come together there is no telling what will happen.’

  ‘Like matter and anti-matter?’

  ‘Something like that,’ she said.

  ‘Can I carry them together?’

  Mrs Steadman winced. ‘You can, but the further apart they are, the better. Under no circumstances should they come into contact with each other.’

  ‘So different pockets of my raincoat would be okay?’

  ‘I would prefer that you didn’t carry them at the same time, but if that is necessary then separate pockets would be satisfactory.’

  The book was in his left pocket so he put the crystal into the right. ‘Mrs Steadman, what are your thoughts on suicide?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a very bad thing, obviously,’ she said as she gathered up the tea things.

  ‘Do you know what happens to people, after they commit suicide?’

  She tilted her head on one side and looked at him quizzically. ‘They die. I would have thought that was self evident.’

  ‘To their souls, I meant.’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  Nightingale smiled. ‘I seem to be hearing that a lot these days. So the souls go to limbo or purgatory? Not to Heaven? Or Hell?’

  ‘Suicides often have problems moving on,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Generally they don’t cross over right away. And often because of the way they die, they make their presence known.’

  ‘As a ghost, you mean?’

  ‘As a spirit,’ she said. ‘Sometimes it’s because they still have things to communicate to their loved ones. But more often it’s because the sprit needs to clear itself of negative thoughts, and to deal with the guilt.’

  ‘Because taking life, any life, is a sin?’

  Mrs Steadman nodded. ‘And because of what they have put their loved ones through.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Do you have a reason for asking?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘I saw a woman kill herself recently. I didn’t have time to stop her.’

  ‘And now you feel a connection with her?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But maybe.’

  ‘That’s perfectly possible. Was it a violent death?’

  ‘She threw herself under a train.’

  Mrs Steadman shuddered. ‘That’s awful. And yes, under those circumstances it is quite possible that the lady’s spirit feels that you and she are connected.’

  ‘We’d never met before that day.’

  ‘No, but you were there when she passed violently. Have you seen her?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You’re not sure?’

  ‘Sometimes out of the corner of my eye, but it’s more just a feeling.’

  ‘Feelings is how the recently departed stay in touch,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, really. It’s probably her way of apologising for what she put you through. The feelings will pass eventually.’

  Nightingale stood up. ‘I hope so,’ he said. He patted the pocket where he had put the crystal. ‘Thank you for this. I’ll put it to good use.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. Just remember to keep it away from that awful book.’ Mrs Steadman stood up and Nightingale followed her back into the shop. She changed the sign to OPEN and then looked up at him. ‘Be careful, Mr Nightingale.’

  ‘I always am, Mrs Steadman.’

  She smiled but he could see the concern in her eyes. ‘I have a feeling that something bad is going to happen.’

  ‘A premonition?’

  ‘Just a bad feeling.’ She opened the door for him. ‘I’ll call you if I get any more information on the Vlach.’

  Nightingale thanked her. He lit a Marlboro as he walked along the pavement. He had made light of Mrs Steadman’s warning, but he too had a feeling of dread hanging over his head, a fear that something bad was about to happen. Something very bad.

  CHAPTER 12

  Jenny was at her desk studying her computer screen when Nightingale walked in. Her face fell when she saw he hadn’t brought coffees with him. ‘Much happen while I was away?’ he asked.

  ‘A couple of phone calls from people wanting their spouses checked out, I explained the costs and they both said they’d get back to me. Other than that, it’s as quiet as the grave. And isn’t that a cheery thought?’

  Nightingale took the book out of his raincoat pocket and put it down in front of her. ‘Good news, bad news,’ he said.

  ‘Wonderful,’ she said.

  ‘The bad news is that it’s a thing. A Vlach Death Book. Once your name is in it, an eagle of death comes to kill you.’

  ‘Mrs Steadman told you that?’

  ‘She’s by no means an expert, but she knows the basics. She’ll ask around for more information.’

  ‘And what’s the good news?’

  Nightingale took out the leather bag and emptied the crystal into his hand. ‘She gave me this.’

  She peered at the pink crystal. ‘And that will what, protect us?’

  Nightingale frowned. ‘No. What? No. She showed me how to use it to find people. I can use it to find out where Mrs Dixon is.’

  Jenny held up a hand. ‘Let me stop you right there. The bad news is that an Eagle of Death is coming to kill us. The good news is that you have a lump of quartz?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  ‘Tomato, potato. Jack, what’s the good news about the death book?’

  Nightingale grimaced. ‘Well, there isn’t any yet. Not really.’ He flashed her what he hoped was a winning smile. ‘Mrs Steadman is on the case.’

  Jenny slumped back in the chair. ‘Tell me what she said.’

  ‘Not much really. Just that there’s this eagle and somewhere there’s a more important book, a master book, and ideally we should find that.’

  ‘Ideally?’

  ‘Jenny, love, it sounds like mumbo-jumbo to me.’ He held up the crystal. ‘And this can help us find Mrs Dixon. I just need something personal of hers.’

  ‘How are you going to get that?’

  ‘I have a plan,’ he said.

  ‘What sort of plan?’

  ‘Best you don’t know,’ he said. ‘In the meantime I could do with a lift.’

  ‘In the building? Why? Are you having trouble with the stairs?’

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Nightingale. ‘To Gosling Manor. There’s someone I need to talk to.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lucy. Lucy Clarke.’

  ‘Lucy Clarke? The girl who jumped in front of the train?’

  Nightingale nodded.

  ‘Please tell me you’re joking.’

  He shrugged. ‘You’re not joking, are you?’

  He forced a smile. ‘No.’

  CHAPTER 13

  Jenny brought her Audi to a stop in front of the gates to Gosling Manor. ‘You really should get electric gates fitted,’ she said.

  Nightingale grinned. ‘It’s second on my list of things to buy when I win the lottery,’ he said. He climbed out of the Audi, unlocked the padlock that chained the gates shut and pushed them open, Jenny drove through and he pulled them closed again. He got back into the car.

  ‘And you need to get a gardener in to do something about the grounds. They’re really overgrown now.’

  ‘Third on my list,’ he said.

  ‘And what’s top of this list, may I ask?’

  ‘To give you a much-deserved raise,’ he said. He pointed down the
driveway. ‘Home, James.’

  She drove to the house and parked next to a massive stone fountain where a tousle-haired stone mermaid was surrounded by leaping fish and dolphins. Nightingale got out of the car and looked up at the two-storey mansion, stone making up the lower story with an upper floor of weathered bricks, topped with a grey tiled roof and four massive chimney stacks. He waited for Jenny to join him and then they walked together towards the ivy-covered entrance. The oak door was huge but it moved easily on well-oiled hinges. They stepped into the wood-panelled hall. Jenny looked around and wrinkled her nose. ‘And a cleaner will be number four on your list?’

  ‘Jenny, it’d take a team of cleaners a week just to dust this place,’ he said. ‘It’s huge.’

  ‘Then sell it.’

  ‘I’ll get around to it. Once I’ve worked out what to do with all the stuff in the basement.’ He walked across the hallway to the section of the wooden panelling that concealed the entrance to the basement library. He pushed it open. There was a light switch just inside the panel and he flicked it on. The fluorescent lights below flickered into life. Nightingale went down the stairs first. Jenny followed him, holding on to the brass banister.

  The basement ran the full length of the house and was lined with laden bookshelves. Down the centre of the basement were two parallel lines of tall display cases. There were two overstuffed red leather Chesterfield sofas at the bottom of the stairs, either side of a claw-footed teak coffee table that was piled high with books. Nightingale took off his raincoat and tossed it onto one of the sofas, then went over to the bookshelves. He ran his fingertips along a row of leather-bound books until he found what he was looking for. ‘Here it is,’ he said, pulling out a green leather-bound book with the author’s name in faded gilt on the spine. It was a slim well-thumbed volume and the cover was scuffed from use. He took it over to Jenny and gave it to her. ‘Chapter twelve,’ he said. ‘Dark Mirrors: Their Use And The Dangers Thereof.’

  She frowned at him. ‘Say what now?’

  Nightingale walked over to a display case filled with crystal balls. Next to it was something covered in a back velvet cloth. He pulled the cloth away to reveal a mirror framed with old wood that had gone black with age. The frame was made up of dozens of carved animals. Jenny went over to get a better look. She saw a snake, a lizard, and something with six legs and claws. The mirror was pitch black, as dark as a pool of oil and she frowned as she realised there was no reflection. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘A dark mirror. Sometimes referred to as a black mirror.’ He rapped the back with his knuckles. ‘In a regular mirror, the back is silvered. But for a black mirror they use black paint, or black tape. But for a real Satanic black mirror they use paint containing blood. Human blood.’

  Jenny took an involuntary step back. ‘Are you serious?’

  He nodded. ‘In the old days they used the blood from corpses taken from the gallows, the fresher the better.’

  Jenny wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘It gets worse,’ said Nightingale. ‘To work best it needs to be blood taken from a criminal who’s been executed. And the worse the criminal, the better. Child-killers and serial rapists would be preferred.’

  She frowned. ‘What do you mean, to work? What does it do?’

  ‘It’s used for scrying. When you use your inner eye.’ He nodded at the book. ‘It’s all in there,’ he said.

  ‘Why are we here, Jack?’

  Nightingale patted the mirror. ‘We can also use it to talk to the woman that killed herself,’ he said.

  Jenny shook her head. ‘There is no ‘we’ in this, Jack,’ she said.

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘I just need your help to move things around.’ He grinned. ‘And a lift back.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Andrew Maxwell sighed and frowned down at the selection of fresh fish laid out on ice. ‘Seriously, you don’t have sea bream?’

  ‘We’ve got sea bass,’ said the fishmonger, a balding man in his fifties whose expanding girth suggested that seafood wasn’t a major part of his diet. Steak and kidney pudding and chips, maybe, thought Maxwell with a smile. Washed down with gallons of beer. And sticky toffee pudding to finish off. Maxwell regarded his body as a temple – the fishmonger’s choice of venue was more likely a fast food joint.

  ‘Sea bass has a totally different taste and texture, and the recipe I’m using calls for sea bream.’

  The fishmonger shrugged. ‘We’re out,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

  He didn’t sound the least bit sorry and Maxwell felt like giving him a piece of his mind but instead he flashed him a cold smile and walked away. There were plenty of other fishmongers in town, it’s just that the one in Waitrose was convenient.

  He carried his basket over to the vegetable section and began going through the pak choi. He knew from experience that the freshest produce was on the bottom so he rooted through the packets, checking sell by dates.

  An arm reached by him, brushing against his shirt, and a well manicured hand picked up a pack. ‘Sorry,’ said a voice, deep and gravelly, it made Maxwell think of a cowboy astride a white horse, a six gun strapped to his waist. He had always been a fan of Westerns. The old ones from the Fifties and Sixties, with heroes like Randolph Scott and Jimmy Stewart. Not the Spaghetti Westerns featuring Clint Eastwood. Maxwell had never been a fan of facial hair.

  Maxwell turned to look at the man and his stomach turned over. He almost gasped. He had the look of a young Pierce Brosnan, back in the day when he was on Remington Steele, square jawed with jet black hair and blue eyes that were so dark they were almost black. ‘I see we’re both fans of pak choi,’ the man said. His accent was difficult to place. The north of England, maybe, but softened from years in London. A bit like Maxwell. He had spent his childhood in Bolton and couldn’t wait to get away, from the town and from his family.

  ‘My favourite Chinese vegetable,’ said Maxwell, immediately mentally kicking himself for such a weak come-back.

  ‘I fry it with garlic and chilli,’ said the man, dropping two packs into his basket.

  ‘I prefer soy sauce,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Each to his own,’ said the man. He held out his hand. ‘Paul,’ he said.

  His grip was firm and dry and he looked Maxwell in the eyes as they shook. ‘Andrew,’ said Maxwell.

  Paul held the handshake for a second or two longer than was necessary. He had perfect teeth, Maxwell realised. White and even. ‘So, you live around here?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Not far,’ said Maxwell. ‘You?’

  ‘Just visiting,’ said Paul. ‘But I’ll be around for a few days. Maybe we could have a drink sometime. I know a place.’

  ‘A place?’

  ‘A bar. One of those pop-up speakeasy places, all mysterious and you need a password to get in.’

  ‘Sounds awesome,’ said Maxwell. ‘I’m cooking for friends tonight but I’m free tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s a date, then,’ said Paul and Maxwell’s stomach lurched again.

  ‘So where do I go?’

  Paul smiled and looked around as if he feared being overheard. ‘I can tell you the address and password, but I’ll have to whisper it,’ he said.

  Maxwell grinned. ‘I love it,’ he said. Paul smiled and leaned closer, putting his lips close to Maxwell’s ear. Maxwell could smell oranges and lavender and then a hint of mint. He shuddered with pleasure as Paul began to whisper.

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘I still don’t think this is a good idea, Jack,’ said Jenny. She was sitting on one of the sofas, watching him as she hugged a red velvet cushion to her stomach.

  He looked up from the five black candles that he was placing around the mirror. ‘It’s a portal for viewing, that’s all,’ he said. ‘Nothing can come through.’

  ‘The book said that demons can move from their plane into this world through the mirror.’

  ‘But I’m not contacting a demon,’ said Nightingale. ‘That�
�s a whole different ballgame. I’m just trying to talk to a lost soul. It’s the occult version of FaceTime.’

  ‘What if something goes wrong?’

  ‘It won’t. But if it did, in the very unlikely event that it did, I just have to break off contact.’

  ‘We’ve had problems with Ouija boards before.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

  She nodded at the stairs. ‘First sign of anything untoward and I’m up those stairs and into the Audi and I’m off,’ she said.

  ‘Agreed,’ he said. He went back to setting out the candles. They were as thick as his arm with foul-smelling wicks that he thought probably had blood in them. He lit them one by one and the air was soon filled with acrid smoke. He picked up a copper urn of herbs that he’d mixed together from a selection of jars and bottles at the far end of the basement, following the recipe given in the book. ‘Do me a favour and kill the lights,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sitting in the basement of a spooky house in the dark,’ said Jenny. ‘I’ve seen enough scary movies to know that never ends well.’

  ‘We’ve got candles,’ said Nightingale. ‘The mirror only works in candlelight.’

  Jenny sighed in annoyance, then stood up and went over to a row of light switches. She flicked them off one by one and the overhead fluorescent lights went out. Eventually most of the basement was in darkness. Jenny stayed where she was, her hand lingering close to the switches.

  Nightingale sprinkled the contents of the urn in a circle around the mirror and candles, then he put it down and moved closer to the mirror. He shivered. It was as if the mirror was sucking the warmth out of the air around it. He had placed the book on the floor in front of the mirror and he bent down to pick it up. He had marked the page he needed and he took a deep breath and composed himself. The words he needed to say were in Latin and he wasn’t sure of his pronunciation but he had used the spell before without any problems.

  ‘Ego astrum in speculum,’ he began, but the words caught in his throat and he coughed. He took another deep breath and began again. ‘Ego astrum in speculum,’ he said. ‘Vos ero tutus. Nusquam hic vadum vulnero vos. Deus vadum servo vos. Ego astrum procul speculum quod volo video vidi visum vos.’