‘But thirty grand,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s serious money.’ He went through to his office and dropped down on his chair. Jenny got up and followed him through.
‘The cop thinks that she was killed,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m going to ask Robbie to check out the headmaster. He might have been involved.’ He sipped his coffee and then called Hoyle. Hoyle answered on the third ring. ‘Robbie, it’s Jack.’
‘Ask him about Anna,’ mouthed Jenny.
‘How are Anna and the girls, by the way?’ asked Nightingale.
‘What?’
‘Anna. And the girls. Are they good?’
‘They’re great,’ said Hoyle. ‘Anna keeps asking when you’re coming around for dinner.’
‘This weekend works,’ said Nightingale.
‘Why don’t you bring Jenny?’
‘I’ll ask.’ He put his hand over the receiver. ‘Robbie and Anna want you to come to dinner at the weekend.’
Jenny grimaced. ‘I can’t, my parents have a shoot. Tell them I’d love to but sorry.’
Nightingale nodded and put the phone back to his ear. ‘She’s shooting peasants this weekend.’
‘I think you mean pheasants,’ said Robbie.
‘Peasants, pheasants. I think they’re pretty much interchangeable among the upper classes.’
Jenny shook her head contemptuously and walked out of his office.
‘So what do you want, Jack?’
‘Another favour.’
Hoyle laughed. ‘I took that for granted,’ he said. ‘What in particular do you need?’
‘I’m trying to trace the headmaster of a boarding school from forty years ago. If I give you a name and a photograph, do you think you could find him?’
‘Bloody hell, Jack, you don’t ask much do you. Is it an unusual name?’
‘Not really. Charles Nelson.’
‘There’ll be hundreds with that name,’ said Hoyle. ‘Have you got a date of birth?’
‘Just the name and a photograph. Can’t you run it through DVLC or the Passport office.’
‘Why the interest?’
‘There was a case forty years ago that was put down as suicide. I went to see that cop you told me about – Mercer – and he said he thought this guy Nelson might have killed her.’
‘Forty years ago? That’s one hell of a cold case, Jack.’
‘I know, but can you do it for me? I’d really like to talk to this Nelson if he’s still alive.’
‘Even if you find him, what are you going to do? He must be seventy or eighty now, unless he right out confesses I don’t see the CPS being interested.’
‘The client is more interested in finding out what happened,’ said Nightingale. ‘Closure.’
Hoyle sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But don’t expect miracles.’
* * *
Nightingale drove to Camden in his MGB. It was a sunny day so he took the top down and let the wind blow through his hair. He parked in a multi-storey close to Camden Lock market and smoked a Marlboro as he walked to the Wicca Woman shop. Mrs Steadman’s shop wasn’t easy to find unless you knew what you were looking for, it was in a narrow side street wedged between a shop selling exotic bongs and t-shirts promoting cannabis, and another that offered hand-knitted sweaters.
The Wicca Woman window was filled with crystals, candles and pendants, plus crystal balls of differing sizes. There was also a display of books with titles such as ‘Love Spells to Catch Your Man’ and ‘How Wicca Can Fulfill Your Dreams.’
Nightingale flicked away what was left of his cigarette and pushed open the door. The tinkling of a tiny silver bell announced his arrival and he smelled lavender and lemon grass and jasmine.
Alice Steadman was arranging a display of incense sticks next to an old-fashioned cash register and she beamed when she saw him. ‘Mr Nightingale, this is a lovely surprise.’ She was in her late sixties, with pointy features that always reminded Nightingale of a bird. Her grey hair was loose around her shoulders. It was the first time he’d seen her hair like that, usually it was tied back in a ponytail. Her skin was wrinkled and almost translucent but her emerald green eyes burned like coals. She was dressed all in black, a long tunic over a floor-length skirt and a thick leather belt with a silver buckle in the shape of a quarter moon.
‘Would you like tea?’ she asked.
‘I would love some,’ he said.
Mrs Steadman pulled back a beaded curtain behind the counter and shouted up a flight of stairs. ‘Shona, you can leave that for the time being, can you mind the shop for me?’
Nightingale heard the soft pad of bare feet on the stairs and a pretty blonde girl with full tattooed sleeves and several stainless steel face piercings appeared. She avoided looking at Nightingale as she took her place at the cash register while Mrs Steadman ushered him through the curtain into a small room where a gas fire was burning, casting flickering shadows across the walls.
As Nightingale sat at a circular wooden table under a brightly-coloured Tiffany lampshade, 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.
‘Perfect.’
‘So how can I help you, Mr Nightingale,’ she said as she spooned PG Tips into a brown ceramic teapot. ‘I’m assuming this isn’t just a social visit.’
‘I do love your tea,’ he said. ‘But yes, I could do with some advice.’ Nightingale took the drawing of the magic circle from his pocket and spread it out on the table. ‘Have you seen something like this before?’
Mrs Steadman walked over and frowned down at the drawing. ‘Now where did you get that from?’ she asked.
‘It was done in a school,’ said Nightingale. ‘A boarding school.’
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Mrs Steadman. ‘Dear, dear, dear.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Nothing good, Mr Nightingale,’ she said. ‘Nothing good.’
She went back to the kettle and stood with her back to him, her shoulders hunched. 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. Only when she had handed him his tea did she speak. ‘Mr Nightingale, you really shouldn’t be messing with things like this.’ She nodded at the paper. ‘And please, put that away.’
Nightingale picked up the paper, folded it, and put it back in his pocket.
‘What does it mean, Mrs Steadman?’
‘Just walk away from this, please.’
‘You know what it is, don’t you?’
‘So do you. It’s a pentagram.’
‘But it’s special, isn’t it. I’ve never seen those markings before.’
‘They’re…special.’ She shuddered.
‘Special in what way?’
‘Why do you want to know, Mr Nightingale.’
‘A young girl was found dead by one of these circles.’
‘Inside or outside?’ asked Mrs Steadman quickly.
‘Outside.’
Mrs Steadman winced as if she had been struck.
‘Please, I need to know what the significance is.’
‘Of the girl? Or the circle.’
Nightingale frowned. ‘Both, I guess.’
Mrs Steadman took a deep breath, then poured herself more tea. ‘The circle is used to summon Paimonia, one of the kings of Hell.’ She pointed at one of the symbols. ‘This is his sigil. His symbol. He is a demon of the first rank with two hundred legions of followers and really, you don’t want to have anything to do with him. He is powerful, Mr Nightingale. Really powerful.’
‘I just need information, Mrs Steadman. I’m not planning on summoning him.’
She stared at him with her bird-like eyes. ‘I do hope that’s the truth,’ she said eventually. ‘Paimonia is different to most of the demons in that doing a deal with him requires a sacrifice.’
‘A human sacrifice?’
Mrs Steadman nodded. ‘Generally a deal can be struck with a demon once summoned. A quid pro quo. But Paimonia requires more. And because of what he offers, many are prepared to make the sacrifices that are required.’
‘What does he offer?’
‘Eternal life, Mr Nightingale. ‘Or as close to eternal as is possible.’
‘You can live for ever?’
‘At a price, Mr Nightingale. At a terrible price.’
Nightingale sipped his tea and waited for her to continue.
‘Demons are devious, as you know. Paimonia is more devious than most. He offers you immortality, but demands a sacrifice. That sacrifice means that only the most committed move forward. Which is when the rest of the deal is made clear. The sacrifice is not a one-off. It has to be repeated. If it isn’t repeated, the immortality is lost.’
‘So the person has to keep on killing?’
‘Not necessarily doing the actual killing, but they have to supply the sacrifice. The only negotiation is how often the sacrifices have to occur.’
‘I don’t understand, I’m sorry.’
Mrs Steadman sipped her tea. ‘The person who summons Paimonia often doesn’t know about the sacrifice. Those who do a deal with him are sworn to secrecy. When they do realise that a girl has to be killed, they often back out. Those that decide to continue then negotiate how often the sacrifices have to occur. Paimonia has some flexibility. If it’s a soul that he really wants, perhaps the sacrifices take place every fifty years. Or a hundred. If a soul is less valuable, then perhaps Paimonia would insist on a sacrifice every year.’
‘But if the deal is for immortality, Paimonia would never collect. That doesn’t make sense.’
‘Devils have patience, Mr Nightingale. They view time differently.’
‘But if the person never dies, Paimonia won’t get the soul.’
Mrs Steadman smiled sadly. ‘No one wants to live forever, Mr Nightingale. Not really. They think they do, but birth, life and death form a cycle. You can’t fight the cycle for ever. Sooner or later everyone decides it’s time to go.’
Nightingale felt a sudden craving for a cigarette but he knew that Mrs Steadman didn’t approve so he picked up a biscuit and nibbled it.
‘Time means nothing to the likes of Paimonia. He just waits for as long as it takes. And he’s happy to wait because he takes pleasure from the sacrifices.’
‘Always a girl?’
Mrs Steadman nodded. ‘A girl, the younger the better. Sometimes that will be spelled out during the negotiation. Paimonia might insist on a virgin, for example.’ She leaned towards him and stared into his eyes. ‘Mr Nightingale, please don’t even think about getting involved with Paimonia.’
‘I’m sort of involved already,’ he said. ‘It’s a case. I have a client who wants answers.’
‘You won’t get answers from Paimonia. Only grief.’
Nightingale forced a smile. ‘I understand.’
She leaned even closer. ‘I hope you do,’ she said.
Nightingale realised for the first time how dark her eyes were. The irises were almost as black as the pupils. As he stared into her eyes he saw his own reflection, then suddenly his reflection was gone and he was looking at something else, something with a gaping mouth and pointed teeth and slanted red eyes. He flinched and jerked backwards, tea slopping over his hand. He apologised and Mrs Steadman scurried away to fetch a towel. She used it to mop up the spilled tea.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t be silly. There’s no point in crying over spilled tea.’ She sat down opposite him and refilled his mug.
Nightingale smiled. Her eyes were brown now, her pupils clearly defined. ‘This Paimonia, he’s all-powerful, is he?’
‘Most devils are,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘But Paimonia is especially strong. He’s cunning and careful. The only time he takes physical form is at the moment of sacrifice.’
‘Could he be killed then?’
Mrs Steadman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Mr Nightingale…’ she sighed.
He held up his hands. ‘I’m just curious,’ he said.
‘I’m serious about this, Mr Nightingale. You really don’t want to go anywhere near Paimonia.’
‘I’m not planning to. I’d just like to know.’
She sighed and sipped her tea. ‘Then the answer to your question is yes. In theory, Paimonia could be killed at the moment of sacrifice. But you know about the magic circle. You have to stay within it while the devil is present. Or your own life is at risk.’ She waved her hand in front of her face. ‘I really don’t like talking about this, Mr Nightingale. It makes me very uncomfortable.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Steadman. Let’s drop the subject.’ He sipped his tea and smiled brightly. ‘So, what’s new in the world of Wicca?’
* * *
Nightingale was eating duck noodles in Mrs Chan’s Chinese restaurant on the ground floor of the building where he lived when Robbie Hoyle called him. ‘You screwed up with that photograph, it’s not from forty years ago.’
Mrs Chan put a bottle of beer down in front of him and smiled.
Nightingale waved his thanks. ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked Hoyle.
‘Because his name isn’t Charles Nelson and he’s thirty-nine years old.’
‘You must have the wrong guy.’
‘One hundred per cent match on facial recognition,’ said Hoyle. ‘I’m looking at both pictures now, Jack. It’s the same guy, same chip in the front tooth. Where did you get your photograph from?’
‘It was on the wall of the school. He was the headmaster there, forty years ago.’
‘Somebody is messing with you. His name is Richard Hall and like I said, he’s thirty nine.’
‘Have you got an address?’
‘Sure. He’s in north London. But if your guy was a headmaster forty years ago, it’s definitely not him.’
‘You’re a star, mate, thanks.’
Nightingale ended the call and a few minutes later, just as he was finishing his noodles, his phone beeped to let him know he had received a message. Attached to the message was a picture of a driving licence belonging to Richard Hall. The address on the licence was in Highgate, not far from the cemetery where Karl Marx was buried.
* * *
‘Exactly what are you going to say to him?’ asked Jenny. She was behind the wheel of her Audi sports car, parked a short distance from the house in Highgate where Richard Hall was supposed to live.
‘I’ll ask him if he’s Charles Nelson,’ said Nightingale. He was in the passenger seat. She had picked him up in Bayswater at just after seven o’clock in the morning, the idea being that the early bird would catch the worm.
‘And if he denies it, what then?’
‘The picture evidence is pretty convincing,’ said Nightingale.
‘You’d need DNA or fingerprints to be sure,’ said Jenny. ‘Face recognition isn’t an exact science, not yet anyway. And if you’re right – what then?’
‘What do you mean, what then?’
‘Suppose he admits to being Charles Nelson? And that he changed his name to Richard Hall? And that he hasn’t aged a day over the last forty years? You think he’ll just put his hands up to murdering Emily Campbell.’
‘You’d be surprised how many people do confess when confronted with the evidence.’
‘Jack, all you have is a photo on your phone. And the change of name means he wants to cover his tracks.’
Nightingale sighed. ‘I could do with less negativity, frankly.’
‘Yeah? And I could do with a boss who doesn’t use me as a chauffeur before the sun comes up.’
‘You get what this guy has done, right? He’s done a deal with a devil to live forever and in return he has to offer up regular human sacrifices.’
‘You really believe that?’
‘If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be up at sparrow’s fart, would I?’
The front door opened and a man
in a suit stepped out. He was carrying a briefcase. ‘Is that him?’ asked Nightingale, peering at the picture of the Richard hall driving licence on his phone.
‘Hard to tell,’ said Jenny.
The man pulled the door shut and walked down the path towards the pavement.
‘It’s him, no doubt,’ said Nightingale. He climbed out of the car. ‘You stay where you are.’
‘That’s exactly what I was planning to do,’ she said.
Nightingale walked towards the man. He kept his head down and tried to get by but Nightingale held out his arms to block his way. The man stopped, confused. Only then did he look at Nightingale. ‘Mr Nelson? Charles Nelson?’
Nightingale had been a cop long enough to recognise guilt when he saw it, even though it flashed across the man’s face in less than a second. ‘I’m sorry, no, you have the wrong person.’
He tried to get by but Nightingale moved to block his way again. ‘You were headmaster at Rushworth School forty years ago.’
The man froze and his eyes burned into Nightingale’s. ‘Are you stupid? How old do you think I am?’
‘We both know how old you are, Mr Nelson.’
‘Are you mad?’ sneered the man.
‘I’m not mad enough to do a deal with Paimonia,’ said Nightingale. ‘Not now I know what that entails.’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘The name’s Nightingale.’
‘Have you got a card, Mr Nightingale?’
‘Why do you want my card?’
‘I’m in a bit of a rush right now, I’ll call you later.’ He looked over Nightingale’s shoulder at the Audi. ‘The blonde, she’s with you?’
‘All I want is for you to confirm that you used to run Rushworth School. And that you left after Emily Campbell died.’
The man thrust his face close to Nightingale’s. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I told you. Nightingale.’
‘What the fuck do you want?’
‘I wanted you to confirm that you’re Charles Nelson. And you’ve pretty much confirmed that.’
The man moved even closer to Nightingale so that their noses were just inches apart. Nightingale could smell the man’s breath. It was sour, like milk that had gone off. ‘I’ve confirmed fuck all, now you need to get the hell out of my way or I’ll rip your fucking arm off.’ His eyes went completely black and Nightingale flinched as he saw his own face reflected in them. He took a step back and the man pushed past. Nightingale watched him go, then walked over to the Audi. Jenny looked over at him as he climbed in. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.
I Know Who Did It_A Jack Nightingale Short Story Page 3