The Whisper Man

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Catherine Dixon, Catherine Dixon.’

  Nightingale focused all his attention on the name and stared hard at the photo. He whispered a sentence in Latin, and imagined the blue aura entering the crystal, helping it to show the direction in which she might be found, opening his mind to an image of the woman and her whereabouts.

  The crystal started to swing, slightly to the left, then heavily to the right. Nightingale moved his head in the same direction and kept repeating the name.

  ‘Catherine Dixon, Catherine Dixon.’

  The crystal kept guiding his hand to the right, then up a little, until it finally stopped and swung in a tiny circle over Norwich.

  It was a start, but Nightingale would need to narrow it down a lot more than that.

  But not tonight.

  He went into the bedroom, flopped onto the bed and closed his eyes. There was a dull thumping sound coming from one of the flats upstairs. New tenants had moved in the previous week and they were obviously night owls, playing music and walking around and possibly assembling furniture until the sun came up. Three nights after they had moved in Nightingale had purchased a box of foam earplugs. He rolled over, fished the box out of his bedside table, and inserted a plug in each ear. He lay back on the bed and sleep came almost at once.

  CHAPTER 20

  Nightingale overslept and didn’t wake up until ten. With the earplugs in he had slept right through his alarm. He phoned the office to tell Jenny that he was on his way in but it went straight through to voicemail. He showered, shaved, pulled on his suit and headed for the office. He stopped off for coffees and muffins because he knew she wouldn’t be happy about his late arrival, but when he got there the office was locked. He opened up, sat down at her desk and phoned her mobile as he sipped his coffee.

  ‘The mobile phone you have called is switched off, or not available.’

  Could she be on the Tube? Seemed unlikely, but maybe her car was playing up. Nightingale glanced at the office clock. It was almost eleven o’clock. She was late. She was very late. And Jenny was never late, unless she’d told him she would be.

  He tried the landline at her house, but gave up after ten rings.

  He lit a cigarette and tried to think of what else he could do. He had her parents’ number, but she’d said nothing about going up there, and he didn’t want to worry them. After all she was only a couple of hours late. It seemed pointless to start looking up numbers and calling the few of her friends he remembered, if she was with them, she, or they would have phoned. He’d just got to the idea of calling local hospitals, when the phone on his desk rang, and he snatched it up.

  ‘Jenny?’

  ‘Jenny? No, Mr Nightingale, it’s Alice Steadman. I promised to call.’ She paused for a moment. ‘What’s happened to Miss McLean?’

  ‘I don’t know that anything has. But she hasn’t come in this morning and I can’t get hold of her. It’s probably not important.’

  There was another pause, and a long exhale. ‘You don’t believe that for a moment, do you?’ said Mrs Steadman eventually. ‘When a very reliable young woman suddenly becomes unreliable, it means something has happened. And her name was in the book.’

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need to find her, and quickly.’

  ‘You do. Perhaps what I have to tell you can help.’

  ‘I’m listening, and I’ve got a pen.’

  ‘There really are very few people in England who might have any knowledge of the Vlach people and their occult traditions. They are notoriously secretive. The only one who would be likely to speak to you is a priest of the Eastern Orthodox Church called Father Mihail Tasić.’

  She spelt it out and explained to Nightingale what an acute accent was.

  ‘And where do I find him?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid it’ll be a bit of a journey if you want to speak to him in person. He runs the Church of Saint Sava, in Norwich.’

  ‘Norwich? Now there’s a thing.’

  He told her about his session with the crystal and that Mrs Dixon might well also be in Norwich. He heard her suck in her breath.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of this, Mr Nightingale. You could be in a great deal of danger here. That book wasn’t left by accident, they want you to know that you are in their sights. And I am very worried about Miss McLean.’

  ‘Me too. Maybe I can do something about finding her first.’

  ‘Oh do be very careful, won’t you?’

  ‘Aren’t I always?’

  Nightingale put the phone down without waiting for an answer, and looked up at the clock on the wall though the time had barely changed since he last looked at it. He tried her mobile and landline again, more out of hope than anything else, then fired up the office computer to check for any e-mails from her.

  Nothing.

  He went to her desk and opened the top drawer. There was a scrunchie there with some of Jenny’s blonde hair and a gym card with a recent photograph on it. He took both and went home. Once again he’d performed the ritual with the crystal, but this time using Jenny’s name, and the scrunchie and gym card. Once again the crystal stopped and circled near the East Coast.

  Norwich.

  He phoned Father Mihail Tasić who agreed to see him once he’d mentioned Mrs Steadman’s name, then he threw some clothes into a bag, just enough for a day or so. Shortly afterwards his green MGB was heading down the A11 towards Norwich with all the speed Nightingale could get out of her. Normally he’d have been enjoying the drive, and the opportunity to get the car out of London, off the motorway and onto what he thought of as a ‘proper’ road. But today all he was conscious of was eating up the miles as quickly as possible.

  One way or another, this would be over by tomorrow night.

  CHAPTER 21

  It was just after four when Nightingale arrived in Norwich. He headed for the city centre, parked the MG in the first multi-storey car-park he saw, and followed signs to the Tourist Information Centre in the Millennium library. Inside five minutes he was outside again, with a map of the city and its surroundings. He also had a list of guest-houses and hotels, not that it looked like he’d be getting much sleep. Finally, and most important at the moment, he had directions to the Orthodox Church of St Sava, about fifteen minutes walk away.

  Nightingale’s idea of an Eastern Orthodox Church involved domes, minarets and thin spires, so he was surprised to find himself in a quiet residential street, in front of a typical, small, English parish church. For a moment he thought he’d been given the wrong directions, but then he saw the board in the grounds giving the name of the church, a list of times of services in English and some other language he didn’t recognise, and the name ‘Father Mihail Tasić’.

  The priest had said he’d be inside this church all afternoon, so Nightingale pulled open the main door and walked inside.

  He stopped dead in surprise as he looked round. Every inch of the interior walls seemed to be covered in icons, hundreds and hundreds of paintings of what he assumed were saints, stretching up to the roof. There were the normal pews at the front of the church, but also, all round the walls, some unusual high armed affairs with backs and arm-rests, but no seats. Nightingale assumed that they were used by worshippers who stood during the services.

  He walked down the nave of the church, towards a screen which ran the width of the church. The screen was also covered in icons, and had a small door on either side, with a much larger one, ornately carved and beautifully decorated, in the middle.

  Even Nightingale’s Hush Puppies must have made enough noise to be heard, and when he was within ten feet of the large door, it opened, and a man in black stepped out and raised a hand.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Nightingale, no further, if you please.’

  ‘No problem, I didn’t mean to offend.’

  ‘No offence given or taken. It’s just that I am meant to bless you before you come through the door, and it’s far easier if we talk out here.’ He smiled and hel
d out his hand. ‘Mihail Tasić.’

  ‘Jack Nightingale.’ They shook hands and Nightingale sized him up. He looked to be around forty, an inch or two taller than Nightingale, dark haired with blue eyes ringed with laughter lines. He wore a long black robe, a stiff black hat and a large silver cross on his chest, hanging from a sturdy silver chain. Judging by his build and the strength of his handshake, the father kept himself in pretty good shape.

  ‘You have a lovely church,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Thank you. As you would probably guess from the outside, it used to belong to the Church of England, St Mark’s, but they decided it was superfluous to requirements, so we were able to take it over. The interior, of course, is all ours.’

  ‘I noticed. Very impressive. What are those strange chairs round the walls?’

  ‘They are called “stacidia”, mostly used by the older people now. The idea is that one should stand in the presence of God, but it’s a tradition that not everyone clings to. It’s quite normal to find pews as well in Western countries. ‘

  ‘You have a decent sized congregation?’

  ‘It keeps on growing, as more and more people come to Britain from Eastern Europe seeking work and a better life for their families.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Yes, my plumber’s Polish.’

  The priest gave a wry smile.

  ‘Indeed, but Poland is not just a nation of plumbers. Nor are my worshippers all Polish, we have representatives from many countries. Doctors, teachers, professors, cleaners, engineers, nurses, and plumbers too.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be glib.’

  ‘No offence taken. Now then, Mr Nightingale, Mrs Steadman said you had some questions for me, and an item to discuss. Do you have it with you?’

  ‘Yes,’

  Nightingale fumbled in his raincoat pocket, but the priest stopped him again with a raised hand. ‘No, no. I should very much prefer that this thing not be brought out in my church. Give me a moment or two to take off my uniform, and we can go across the road for a drink.’

  CHAPTER 22

  The Angel pub was quiet at that time of the afternoon, and the two men took their drinks to an empty corner table. Nightingale would have loved a Corona, but decided to stick to coffee. The priest took a large whisky. Father Mihail had shed the robes, hat and large cross, and wore a dark suit with a clerical collar. He leaned towards Nightingale, and spoke softly.

  ‘Tell me about it, Mr Nightingale.’

  ‘Jack, please.’

  ‘Sure, and call me Mike.’

  Nightingale told him everything, from Dixon’s appearance in his office to Jenny’s disappearance from it. Father Mihail sat motionless and silent, the only sign that he was listening was the deepening frown on his brow. When Nightingale stopped speaking, he gave a heavy sigh. ‘Show me the book,’ he said.

  Nightingale looked round, but nobody seemed to be paying them any attention. He took the book out of his raincoat pocket and slid it across the table. The priest looked at it carefully, but made no move to take it from the evidence bag. He felt the embossed designs on the cover through the plastic and grimaced.

  ‘It looks like Vlach work to me,’ he said quietly. ‘I am not of the Vlach myself, at all. But I have made a study of their folklore. But this is not completely of their tradition.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The ancient Vlach would have been illiterate, so the idea of the Death Book is a later addition, possibly from a different tradition. But it is hard to know.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because the Vlach are obsessively secretive about their ways, particularly those very few of them who practise the dark arts. They would be prepared to kill to keep their secrets from outsiders.’

  ‘Which is why my name and the name of my secretary – Jenny McLean - are in that book?’

  Father Mihail shrugged ‘That does seem odd. From what you say, you knew almost nothing, and certainly could have made no connection to the Vlach. Nor could Mr Dixon. It is hard to see how you could have presented a threat. It’s only the fact that they left the book behind that has drawn you into this. It’s almost as if they are giving you information, then planning to punish you for knowing it.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘There’s something in that,’ he said. ‘But why would they want to do it?’

  ‘I would have no idea. But if they wanted you dead, and they have the power that legend suggests, it would be far simpler to strike you and Ms ...er...’

  ‘McLean.’

  ‘Strike you down without all the rigmarole, and certainly without the warnings.’

  ‘Maybe there is more to it. Fath...Mike, you said you have no connection with the Vlach, except as an academic interest...’

  ‘Pardon me, I didn’t quite say that.’

  ‘I thought...’

  ‘I said I was not one of them, I’m of Serb descent, but my interest isn’t purely academic. My wife comes of a Vlach family,’

  ‘Your wife? But you’re a priest.’

  Father Mihail smiled. ‘That I am, but not a Roman Catholic priest, Jack. There is no obligation on us to be celibate. But we only get one chance at it. I could not have married a divorcée, and if, God forbid, my Dana should die before me, I would not be permitted to remarry.’

  ‘And she’s a Vlach?’

  ‘She comes from a Vlach family, though we met here in Norwich, three years ago. She’s a nurse at the University Hospital. I’d broken my ankle in my last-ever rugby game. It made me see I was too old for it.’

  ‘So she might know more about it?’

  ‘No. She’s made no study of traditional folklore, Jack. She’s a twenty-first century girl. No more interested in spells and curses than the average British girl would be in four-hundred year old love-potions and milk-souring.’

  ‘Might she know someone who did take an interest?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t think so.. Her parents are dead, she’s got a couple of cousins she never hears much from, but otherwise there’s no great connection to her old home. Look.’ Father Mihail took out his wallet and flipped it open to show Nightingale a photograph. The tall blonde in the photo was certainly not Nightingale’s idea of a priest’s wife. She was standing on a beach somewhere, wearing a skimpy red bikini and a beaming smile.

  Nightingale wrinkled his brow a little, she seemed vaguely familiar. He couldn’t place her though, probably looked like somebody he’d seen on TV. ‘Not quite dressed for church,’ he said.

  Father Mihail nodded, but didn’t smile at Nightingale’s joke. ‘No indeed. A fine woman, but she has no faith. Quite the opposite. Would you believe she has never even set foot in my church?’

  ‘Is that common with the Vlach?’

  ‘Not uncommon. They tend to pay lip-service to religion, though they are not always very welcome in church.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They have a tendency to want to dance and sing during prayers. It upsets other worshippers.’

  ‘It’s happened here?’

  The priest shook his head. ‘I know of no other Vlach near here. They are not by nature gregarious. And do not often care to mix with outsiders’

  ‘So do you hear any rumours about Vlach witchcraft round here?’

  The direct question caused Father Mihail’s frown to return, and he was silent for a moment. ‘No, but I doubt that I would. If there are Vlach here, they would be unlikely to seek out a priest. As I said, they pay lip-service to the teachings of the Church, but their core beliefs are from a much older time. They have a deeply rooted belief in life after death. The dead are highly respected and they claim to have contact with them frequently to ensure the afterlife of their souls. And fortune telling, sorcery and witchcraft, whether for good or evil, are very strong traditions within them.’

  Father Mihail was clearly warming to his subject, but Nightingale needed specifics. ‘So what would be involved in the ceremony of killing me?’

  ‘I did a little research after Mrs Steadma
n’s call. The adept would need to perform a summoning ritual, to awaken the spirit of the Carpathian Eagle. This would involve combining herbs and blood from a smaller bird, chants and summoning spells. Then the energy would be focused by rubbing a page of the book with something of yours, writing your name in blood and then a final invocation to unleash the killing spirit.’

  ‘But not in this book?’

  ‘No, that’s by way of a talisman for the individual member of the group to keep. Names of people who stood in their way, but have been removed. The group would have a larger book, with many, many pages to contain all the names of those they had cursed, possibly over many decades. ‘

  ‘How many enemies could one group have?’

  ‘It’s not just a question of personal enemies, there are tales of Vlach witches being paid by Nobles to kill their enemies, by businessmen to remove rivals.’

  ‘So they could be working for someone else to kill me, and Jenny?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Dixon could have been killed by the Eagle spirit,’ said Nightingale. ‘But some of the others seem to have died natural deaths, even suicide.’