Midnight

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Interesting analogy,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I’m telling you that you can trust me,’ said Wainwright.

  Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘I appreciate that, Joshua,’ he said.

  ‘Call me Josh. And I’m serious.’

  Nightingale sipped his Corona. ‘Okay, here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘Gosling gave me away when I was born, and he did the same thing with my sister. He gave her up for adoption and he sold her soul to a devil. Frimost.’

  ‘So he wanted power over women, then. It’s almost a cliché.’

  ‘There’s an added wrinkle,’ said Nightingale. ‘She’s a serial killer. She kills kids. Or at least she did kill kids. She’s behind bars now.’

  Wainwright’s cigar froze on the way to his lips. ‘You don’t do things by half, do you?’ he drawled.

  ‘It does get messier by the day,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘How old is she, your sister?’

  ‘Thirty-one,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘So she’s got two years. I’m assuming that Gosling did the same deal as he did with your soul, right?’

  ‘That’s right. It all goes tits up on her thirty-third birthday.’

  There’s nothing you can do to save her, you know that?’

  ‘There are always options,’ said Nightingale. ‘Room for manoeuvre.’

  Wainwright frowned as he sat back in his seat. ‘Once a soul is sold and the person bears the mark, there’s nothing that can be done. I told you that before.’ His raised his glass to his lips but then his eyes slowly widened. ‘You found the mark, didn’t you? On yourself?’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Yep.’

  ‘But you’re still here.’

  ‘Like I said, there’s always room for manoeuvre.’

  ‘You escaped Proserpine?’

  ‘Not escaped, exactly. But she’s off my back. For the time being, anyway.’

  Wainwright raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re full of surprises,’ he said.

  ‘I’m on a steep learning curve,’ said Nightingale. He leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees as he held his beer bottle with both hands. ‘The last time we spoke you said that my father was part of a sect that practised human sacrifice.’

  ‘The Order of Nine Angles, yes.’

  ‘My father said I should talk to them. They were connected to my sister’s adoption and he said they might be able to help me.’

  Wainwright exhaled through pursed lips. ‘They’re dangerous people, Jack.’

  ‘I guessed as much,’ said Nightingale. ‘The human sacrifice was the clue.’

  Wainwright chuckled. ‘I know you were a cop, and I know you’re a smart guy, but these people are at the sharp end of Satanism. The cutting edge. And they don’t stay there by talking to strangers.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I appreciate the warning. But I need to talk to one of the members.’

  Wainwright ran a hand through his hair and crossed his legs. He was wearing cowboy boots made from grey and white snakeskin with silver spurs that jangled when they moved. ‘These people won’t open up to strangers,’ he said. ‘Especially strangers who used to be cops.’

  Nightingale grinned. ‘I’ll be careful,’ he said.

  Wainwright lowered his voice. ‘And I wouldn’t want anyone to know who pointed you in their direction.’

  ‘Like you said, this is a confessional.’

  Wainwright nodded slowly. ‘There’s a man by the name of Marcus Fairchild. He’s a lawyer in the City. He’s in the Order, has been for more than twenty years. But be very, very careful, Jack.’

  ‘Have you met him?’

  Wainwright shook his head. ‘I only know of him by reputation. He’s very well connected, both in the real world and beyond.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I’m not sure that you should be thanking me,’ said the American.

  The cockpit door opened and a middle-aged man in a starched white shirt with gold and black epaulettes emerged, holding a plastic bottle of Evian water. ‘Excuse me, Mr Wainwright, but we’ll have to start rolling if we’re to get our slot,’ he said.

  ‘No problem, Don,’ said Wainwright. He shrugged at Nightingale. ‘Unless you want to come skiing, you’re going to have to deplane,’ he said.

  Nightingale stood up and shook the American’s hand. ‘When are you back in England?’

  ‘If all goes well in Switzerland, probably Christmas Eve. Next Friday.’

  ‘I’ll try to get back to you before then about the books,’ promised Nightingale.

  The Gulfstream’s jets kicked into life and the plane vibrated as Nightingale hurried down the stairs to the tarmac.

  46

  Nightingale drove home to Bayswater, left his MGB in its spot in the local multi-storey car park and walked around the corner to his favourite Indian restaurant in Queensway. The owner, Maneesh, had his takeaway ready for him.

  ‘Chicken tikka masala, aloo gobi, pilau rice and two popadoms,’ he said, handing over the carrier bag. ‘You are a predictable man, Mr Nightingale.’

  ‘I know what I like, Maneesh,’ he said.

  ‘But we have a large menu, and a chef who has won awards. You should be more adventurous.’

  ‘Maybe next time,’ promised Nightingale. ‘How are your boys?’ Maneesh had two sons, one a final-year medical student, the other a bond trader in the City.

  ‘Both working too hard to give me grandchildren,’ said Maneesh. ‘I’ve told them if they don’t find wives within the year I’ll take them to Bangladesh and force them to marry at gunpoint.’

  ‘Bangladeshi girls are damn pretty,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I could introduce you, Mr Nightingale,’ said Maneesh. ‘You’re too good-looking a man to be single.’

  Nightingale laughed. ‘And you’re too much of a sweet-talker to be taken seriously,’ he said. He paid for his takeaway and left, still laughing.

  Even though it was almost eight o’clock the streets were still busy. The area of Bayswater where he lived was never quiet, the shops and restaurants never seemed to close and there was a constant buzz of conversation and argument in a plethora of languages. On the three-minute walk from the restaurant to his second-floor flat in Inverness Terrace he heard Arabic, French, Chinese, Serbian and Greek and another three or four that he couldn’t identify. He passed a Nigerian in a long white robe, a gaggle of Muslim women swathed from head to foot in black, a Rastafarian with waist-length dreadlocks, two furiously arguing middle-aged Turkish men who looked as if they were close to blows, and half a dozen Japanese tourists who were studying an upside-down map of the city. Bayswater was never boring and Nightingale loved the fact that he could buy cuisine from two dozen different countries without straying far from his flat.

  He waited until he’d put his food out on the coffee table and opened a bottle of Corona before phoning Colin Duggan and asking him to run a check on Marcus Fairchild.

  ‘It’s eight o’clock at night and it’s Sunday – don’t you ever stop working?’ asked the detective.

  ‘I wanted to strike while the iron was hot.’

  ‘Are you eating?’

  ‘Curry,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You need a wife and kids, Jack. You’ve been on your own too long.’

  ‘Remind me again how many times you’ve been married, Colin?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘It’s true, a policeman’s life is not a happy one,’ said Duggan. ‘This Fairchild, have you got a date of birth?’

  ‘Just the name. And he’s a lawyer in the City.’

  ‘Oh that Marcus Fairchild,’ said Duggan.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I know of him, sure,’ said Duggan. ‘Don’t you? Human-rights lawyer. He’s the guy they used to call when Cherie Blair was busy. Human-rights cases and libel too. Does the odd high-profile criminal case pro bono. Generally on the side of the underdog and a real pain in the arse. Don’t think he’s ever lost a case.’

  ‘In
teresting,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Not much point in doing a CRO check on him,’ said Duggan. ‘If he was ever in trouble with the law it’d be all over the papers. What’s your interest?’

  ‘It’s personal,’ said Nightingale. ‘Can you see if you can get an address, car registration, the basics. And see if there’s any intel at all that suggests he might be shady.’

  Duggan laughed. ‘Shady? Marcus Fairchild? You should Google him, Jack.’

  ‘I will when I get to the office, mate. But I’m serious. Can you sniff around and see if there’s anything about him that’s not kosher?’

  ‘Do you want to give me a clue?’

  ‘Anything that doesn’t seem right,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t have anything specific.’

  ‘I’ll see what there is,’ said Duggan. ‘But I’d be surprised if there’s anything. It’d be like finding out the Queen had been done for shoplifting.’

  Nightingale ended the call and then phoned Jenny, but her mobile went straight through to voicemail. He left a message asking her to call him and then went back to his curry. He spent the evening watching an episode of Midsomer Murders in which a portly John Nettles wandered around a picturesque village asking aged gentlemen where they were on the night of the fifteenth and if they had bludgeoned a gay antiques dealer to death. It bore, he knew, no relation to the real world. Even before the advent of DNA, the vast majority of murders were solved within twenty-four hours. Death at the hands of a stranger was rare. Nine times out of ten victims died at the hands of spouses, relatives or neighbours. And in most cases either the perpetrator was caught in the act or they gave themselves up to the police. In the rare cases where a victim didn’t know their assailant, the murderer almost certainly had a criminal record and would be in the system. Only once in a blue moon would detectives go around knocking on doors and looking for clues.

  Jenny rang back just as Nettles had gathered the most likely suspects in the church hall. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked before he could say anything.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Sunday, Jack. You said you wanted me to call you, so I thought something had happened.’

  ‘I just wanted a chat.’

  ‘A chat?’

  ‘See how you were. How the family were.’

  ‘We’re all fine. We’ve just finished dinner, as it happens.’

  ‘Yeah? Me too.’

  ‘Curry?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It’s Sunday night. Chicken tikka masala?’

  ‘I really am that predictable, aren’t I?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. What did you do today?’

  ‘I went to see Wainwright. Flying visit. He gave me a shopping list of books that he wanted.’

  ‘That’s good news.’

  ‘I figured I’d have a root through the basement tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ she said.

  ‘Is there any way I could persuade you to give me a hand?’

  ‘In the basement?’

  ‘Just for a few hours.’

  ‘You are joking, right?’

  ‘No funny business, I promise. We’ll leave the lights on. It was the Ouija board that caused the problems last time. And I won’t be doing that again.’

  ‘Jack . . .’

  ‘Please, Jenny. I’ll pick you up and I’ll bring breakfast. Coffee and croissants.’

  She sighed. ‘Banana choc-chip muffins. Two.’

  ‘Deal,’ he said.

  ‘Any falling books or cold winds and I’m out of there like a bat out of hell.’

  ‘You and me both,’ said Nightingale.

  47

  Nightingale arrived outside Jenny’s house at eight o’clock the next morning. He parked behind her Audi and rang her doorbell. She opened the door wearing a white Aran sweater and faded blue jeans. ‘You’re bright and early,’ she said.

  Nightingale held up a brown paper bag. ‘A low-fat latte and two banana choc-chip muffins,’ he said.

  ‘I think I let you off lightly,’ she said.

  ‘And a croissant.’

  She waved for him to go through to the kitchen and followed him down the hallway. ‘So Wainwright is up for more books?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  He put the bag down on the counter and took out her latte and the Americano he’d bought for himself. She gave him a plate for the muffins and croissant and then sat down at the kitchen table. He sat down opposite her and sipped his coffee.

  ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘Are you serious? How can you not know when Christmas is? Saturday. This coming Saturday. What plans have you got?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘Same as usual,’ he said.

  ‘Stuck in front of the TV with a microwaved dinner and a bottle of Corona?’

  ‘You make it sound more fun than it is.’ He raised his cup of coffee to her. ‘Don’t worry about me – I’m not into Christmas in a big way.’

  ‘Why don’t you come to the country and have Christmas with my parents?’

  ‘Christmas is for families, kid,’ he said. ‘I don’t think your parents will want me intruding.’

  ‘You don’t know Mummy and Daddy,’ she said. ‘It’s practically open house over the holidays. My brother’s away in Shanghai but there’re half a dozen people coming already. And Mummy and Daddy keep asking after you. I’ve been working for you for over a year and they’ve never met you. They’re starting to wonder if you actually exist.’

  ‘I’m starting to wonder that myself,’ said Nightingale. ‘Okay, I’d love to come. What should I get them?’

  ‘A bottle of wine would be fine. Or, if you really want to impress Daddy, get him a decent bottle of Scotch. I’m going down on Friday, assuming that you’re not going to make me work on Christmas Eve. Why not come with me?’

  ‘Okay, it’s a date,’ he said.

  ‘No, it’s not a date,’ said Jenny. ‘It’s me taking pity on a sad man who thinks that chicken tikka masala is suitable fare for Christmas.’

  Nightingale ran a finger around the lip of his coffee cup. ‘I’ve never understood why you stay with me. You’re way overqualified, I don’t pay you enough and I smoke too much.’

  ‘You’ve got your good points, Jack.’

  ‘Yeah, but if I have they’re few and far between. Whatever the reason, I’m glad you’re working for me and I’ll try not to be so self-absorbed in future.’

  She raised her latte in salute. ‘You’re not so bad,’ she said. ‘And your heart’s in the right place.’ She picked up a muffin and popped a piece into her mouth.

  Nightingale took a folded sheet of paper from his jacket and put it on the table. ‘Wainwright gave me his shopping list,’ he said. ‘He’s marked the ones that he wants and given me a few other titles he wants me to look out for.’

  ‘That’d be great for our cash flow,’ she said. ‘Assuming there’s anything left after you’ve paid the mortgage. Have you heard from the lawyer about your father’s estate?’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’ll give him a call after New Year if he doesn’t get in touch soon.’ He sipped his coffee again. ‘Remember Mitchell’s diary?’

  She nodded. ‘How could I forget it?’

  ‘The number of devils in Hell, remember that? You said there were three billion.’

  ‘I think so, yeah.’

  ‘Well, Wainwright said that it’s much less than that. Still millions, but not three billion.’

  ‘So Mitchell got it wrong?’

  ‘It sounds like it. You know, I’d really like another look at that diary.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To check if he was wrong on the number of devils. And also to see what else is in there. It explained how to summon Proserpine. There might be other demons mentioned.’

  ‘Yeah, well, last time I had the bloody thing men with guns took it away from me, if you remember.’
>
  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I think it’s best that you let sleeping dogs lie. Mitchell got his diary back. That’s the end of it.’

  ‘Mitchell’s dead,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m guessing it’s still in his house in Wivenhoe.’

  Jenny rubbed the left side of her head as if she was getting a headache. ‘Jack, please tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I’m thinking that you’re thinking about breaking and entering, and I’m thinking that if you are thinking that then it’s a very, very bad idea.’

  ‘Mitchell’s not there any more. The house will probably be empty.’

  ‘Empty or not, it’d still be breaking and entering. Forget it, Jack. Bad things happen when you break into houses. And by you I mean you.’

  Nightingale’s mobile rang. He didn’t recognise the number but he took the call while Jenny devoured the rest of the chocolate muffin. It was Alistair Sutton.

  ‘You were asking about her parents,’ said the detective, getting straight to the point. ‘I’ve got an address if you want it.’

  ‘You’re a star,’ said Nightingale, reaching for a pen.

  ‘Just don’t tell anyone where you got it from,’ said Sutton. ‘They pretty much went into hiding when their daughter was arrested. They changed their names after the court case – they’re now known as Adrian and Sandra Monkton.’ The detective gave Nightingale an address in Slough and Nightingale wrote it down on a sheet of paper.

  ‘Have you got a phone number?’

  ‘They’re not listed. We did have a mobile but that’s been disconnected.’

  ‘I owe you one,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Put it on the tab,’ said Sutton. ‘If you’re like most of the PIs I know, it won’t be the last time you ask me for something.’ He ended the call.

  ‘What?’ asked Jenny, breaking a piece off the second muffin.