Midnight

by Stephen Leather

‘Yeah, I can see how high up I am on your list of priorities,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s just . . .’

  ‘That there are more important things on your mind,’ she said. ‘I understand.’

  ‘He’ll be at the Ritz. I’ll drop off the books and then I’ll drive up myself. I’ll be there in the afternoon. It’s no biggie.’ The look of disappointment stayed on her face. ‘Jenny, I’ve already bought your dad a bottle of eighteen-year-old Laphroaig and some lemongrass shower gel for your mum.’

  ‘Shower gel?’

  ‘I’m not good at buying gifts for women,’ said Nightingale. ‘But the salesgirl said that it makes your skin go all tingly, so that’s got to be good, right?’

  ‘Okay, but you’d better be there, Jack. I told them you were coming.’

  ‘I won’t let you down, I promise.’

  61

  Nightingale arrived at the Ritz Hotel at noon. He unbuttoned his raincoat as he walked across the marble floor towards the reception desk, swinging his Sainsbury’s carrier bag.

  The receptionist was a man in his mid-thirties with a fifty-pound haircut and a made-to-measure suit that was probably worth as much as Nightingale’s MGB. He smiled professionally at Nightingale and tapped in the name Whistler on a discreetly hidden keyboard. ‘Who shall I say is here to see him?’

  ‘Tell him it’s his mother,’ said Nightingale.

  The receptionist frowned.

  ‘Whistler’s mother,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s a joke.’ The receptionist continued to stare impassively at him and Nightingale flashed back to when he was at school, explaining to a teacher why he had a packet of Marlboro and a box of matches in his schoolbag. ‘Then again, maybe it isn’t,’ he said. ‘Nightingale. Jack Nightingale.’

  The smile reappeared and the receptionist tapped again on the keyboard. ‘Mr Whistler hasn’t checked in yet.’

  ‘He was supposed to be here at twelve,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘That’s our understanding too, sir, but, as I said, he’s yet to arrive. Would you like to leave a message?’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do me a favour and leave a message that I’m in reception.’

  Nightingale left the receptionist typing away and walked over to an armchair. He sat down and waited. From where he was sitting he could see the main door and all of the reception area, but an hour passed and there was no sign of the American. He called Wainwright’s mobile phone but it just rang out and didn’t go through to voicemail. At one o’clock he went back to the desk and spoke to another receptionist, this one a pretty blonde girl. She confirmed that Wainwright still hadn’t checked in.

  Nightingale sat down again and continued waiting. It was another hour before a man in a black suit, crisp white shirt and black tie appeared in front of him. He had a head that was completely shaved and a small scar under his left ear. At first Nightingale thought he was a hotel employee but then he spotted a discreet clear-plastic earpiece.

  ‘Mr Nightingale?’ he said, in a soft American accent.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Mr Wainwright will see you now,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t see him come in,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Mr Wainwright uses a private entrance,’ said the man. ‘He prefers it that way.’

  Nightingale stood up as the man headed for the lifts. ‘What floor are we going to?’ he asked.

  ‘Sixth,’ said the man.

  ‘Room six six six, by any chance?’

  The man frowned and shook his head. ‘Six three two,’ he said. ‘He always stays in the same suite.’

  ‘I know this is going to sound crazy, but can we use the stairs?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said the man. ‘I’m no fan of elevators myself.’

  They took the stairs to the sixth floor and then Nightingale followed the man along a plush corridor. The door to Wainwright’s suite was opened by a gorgeous blonde in a tight-fitting suit the skirt of which ended a good ten inches above her knees. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Nightingale,’ she said. ‘Do come in. Mr Wainwright is expecting you.’ She had an Afrikaans accent and the bluest eyes that Nightingale had ever seen.

  She took him through to a sitting room where Wainwright was sprawled on a sofa reading a copy of the Wall Street Journal. He was wearing a blue denim shirt, black 501 jeans and a pair of gleaming lizard-skin cowboy boots.

  ‘Jack, good to see you,’ said the American. He stood up, shook hands with Nightingale and then waved him to an armchair before sitting down again. ‘Sorry I’m late. I had a thing at Westminster and the guy I was there to see was tied up with your PM.’

  Nightingale gave Wainwright the carrier bag and sat down.

  The American opened the bag and took out a leather-bound book. His eyes widened. ‘This is . . . indescribable,’ said Wainwright. He looked up at Nightingale. ‘Do you know what this is, Jack?’

  ‘Aleister Crowley’s diary,’ said Nightingale. He looked around but didn’t see an ashtray. ‘Is it okay to smoke in here?’

  ‘They block-book the suite for me all year round,’ said Wainwright. ‘We can set fire to the place if we want.’ He held up the book. ‘This isn’t just his diary. It’s not just a first edition. It’s a bound proof copy, with his corrections in ink. He held these pages and made corrections to them, corrections which were then made before the book proper was printed.’

  ‘But it’s still cursed?’ said Nightingale. He lit a cigarette.

  ‘I didn’t say it was cursed. I just said that whenever a copy was sold, the buyer and the seller died.’

  ‘That suggests a curse, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not in the strict sense of what is usually meant by a curse,’ said the American. ‘Anyway, curse or no curse, this is beyond price, Jack. This is . . .’

  ‘Priceless?’ Nightingale finished for him.

  ‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ said Wainwright. ‘I had no idea that you’d be bringing me this. It’s . . .’ He shook his head, lost for words.

  ‘Bearing in mind what happens to those who sell it, I want you to accept it as a gift. With my compliments.’

  ‘I accept, of course,’ said Wainwright, holding the volume against his chest. ‘And I’ll be forever in your debt, Jack. Ask and you shall receive.’ He grinned. ‘Except for cold hard cash, of course.’ Wainwright swung his feet up onto an antique coffee table. ‘On the phone you said you wanted help with something.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need to talk to Lucifuge Rofocale. The devil you said was Lucifer’s negotiator.’

  Wainwright’s jaw dropped. ‘Say what?’

  ‘I need to know how to summon him. I have to talk to him.’

  ‘Jack . . .’

  He nodded at the book. ‘You’ve got what you wanted; all I’m asking is that you give me what I want.’

  ‘I thought I explained how dangerous it can be to summon the upper echelons.’

  ‘Duly noted.’

  ‘You don’t have the experience. Or the power. I’m pretty darn good at it but I don’t have the power to call Lucifuge Rofocale, and even if I did, I wouldn’t. One slip, one sign of weakness and . . . puff! You’d be ashes. Or worse.’ He held up the book he was holding. ‘Crowley? Maybe he could have done it, at the height of his powers. But he was one of the greatest Satanists of the last century. You, Jack, what are you? A disgraced cop turned private eye.’

  ‘The “disgraced” label is a bit harsh, Josh.’

  Wainwright smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off, but I like you, Jack. I really do. And I wouldn’t want you to get sucked into something that could only end badly.’

  ‘I don’t have much of a choice,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need to resolve the situation with my sister, and he’s the only one who can do that.’

  ‘You want to do a deal with Lucifuge Rofocale?’

  ‘Not exactly. I just want to talk to him. Do you know how?’

&n
bsp; Wainwright shook his head. ‘He’s way out of my league.’

  Nightingale pulled a face. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said.

  ‘Well, not necessarily.’ Wainwright held up the book. ‘If anyone knew how to call up Lucifuge Rofocale, it was Aleister Crowley. The answer’s almost certainly here.’ He flicked through the pages, a thoughtful frown on his face, while Nightingale sat and smoked. Eventually Wainwright grinned and stabbed at a page. ‘There you are.’

  Nightingale stood up, walked across to the American and looked over his shoulder.

  ‘This is what you have to do,’ said Wainwright. ‘But you have to follow his instructions to the letter. The letter, Jack.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Are you sure that you do? Because one mistake, one slip, would mean certain death.’

  Nightingale blew a smoke ring towards the ornate ceiling. ‘Everyone dies eventually, Josh,’ he said.

  ‘True,’ said the American. ‘But not everyone burns in Hell for all eternity.’

  62

  Jenny had programmed the address of her parents’ house into his phone’s GPS system so Nightingale had no problems finding it. It was called Edmund House and it was signposted off the main road. Black railings bordered the estate and he drove onto the property and stopped out side a stone building with leaded windows. He smiled as he saw that it was much smaller than Gosling Manor. He was just about to climb out of his MGB when a uniformed security guard appeared and Nightingale realised that the building was the gatehouse.

  ‘Jack Nightingale,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see the McLeans.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the guard, a heavy-set man in his fifties. ‘Just follow the road and park anywhere to the left of the main house.’

  He was talking into a transceiver as Nightingale drove off. The driveway curved to the left and bordered a lake that was several hundred yards across. Then the road bent to the right and the MGB crested a small hill to reveal the house for the first time. Nightingale stopped the car and sat looking at it, shaking his head in wonder. It wasn’t a house, it wasn’t a mansion – it was a stately home that would give Buckingham Palace a run for its money. It was a severe building, grey stone and dark grey slated roof, the main entrance flanked by Corinthian pillars that went up two storeys. He counted a dozen chimneys, with wisps of smoke coming from half of them.

  To the left of the house was a line of expensive cars. A black Bentley, a red Ferrari, four Range Rovers, a 7-Series BMW, a large Mercedes and Jenny’s Audi. Nightingale eased the car forward and drove towards the house. The closer he got the more immense it looked and he realised it must be at least five times as large as Gosling Manor.

  He parked his car next to the Ferrari. As he was taking his suitcase out of the boot a liveried footman hurried over.

  ‘I’ll get that for you, sir,’ he said, in a broad Norfolk accent.

  Nightingale let the man carry his case and followed him up a flight of steps to the double-height front door and into a huge hallway, where the walls were covered in gilt-framed works of art. A butler, slightly overweight and with a receding hairline was waiting for them. He nodded at Nightingale.

  ‘Dinner has already started, sir,’ said the butler. ‘You’re to go straight to the dining room unless you want to freshen up first.’

  ‘I’ll go straight in,’ said Nightingale. He took off his raincoat and gave it to the man holding his case.

  ‘Simon will put your things in your room, sir, and I’ll show you in. Please follow me.’

  The butler strode down a wood-panelled corridor to a set of double oak doors, which he opened with a flourish. ‘Mr Nightingale has arrived,’ he said. He stepped to the side to allow Nightingale through, and then closed the doors behind him.

  The dining room was panelled in a light wood with French windows overlooking the rear gardens. The table was set for ten, with three large silver candelabra and gleaming silverware. The guests had just finished their soup and a waitress in a black and white uniform was collecting the dishes. Jenny had twisted around in her chair and was smiling at him. He winked at her.

  Sitting at one end of the table was a big man with an expensive tan and short curly hair. He was in his mid fifties and was wearing a charcoal-grey suit over a black silk shirt buttoned at the neck. He stood up and walked over to Nightingale, his arm outstretched. ‘James McLean,’ he said. ‘I’m so pleased to finally meet you, Jack. We were starting to worry that you might not actually exist.’

  Nightingale shook McLean’s hand. ‘Oh I’m real enough,’ he said.

  The man had a strong grip and his hand easily enveloped Nightingale’s. There was a gold Rolex watch on his wrist, and a simple gold band on his wedding finger.

  ‘We’re just about to start our main course and the chef hates it if we keep him waiting – but he’s allowed to be temperamental because his last restaurant had two Michelin stars – so let me introduce everyone very quickly,’ said McLean, putting a hand on Nightingale’s shoulder. ‘The lovely lady at the head of the table is my wife, Melissa.’

  Melissa McLean, a few years younger than her husband, and pretty with the slightly softened angular features of a former model, was wearing a red dress cut low enough to show just a hint of cleavage. There was a large diamond pendant around her neck and matching stones hanging from her ears. More diamonds glinted on her fingers when she waved at Nightingale.

  ‘Next to her on the far side of the table is Marc Allen, next to him is Lesley Smith, and if she seems familiar it’s because she’s on Channel 4 most nights.’

  Allen and Smith nodded and smiled. Smith mouthed ‘Hello’.

  ‘You’re sitting between Lesley and Sally, she’s Marc’s wife. Sally’s the brains of the Allen family, and the beauty.’

  Allen raised his glass. ‘Cheers, James.’ He was in his late forties, overweight, with several chins and drooping eyelids. His wife was much younger; she was pretty and, like Mrs McLean, was bedecked with expensive jewellery.

  ‘Opposite Sally is Wendy Bushell, who does a lot of work with George Soros.’

  Bushell was in her sixties, with shoulder-length grey hair and no make-up but when she smiled it was to reveal a gleaming smile that could only have come from dentures or implants.

  ‘Next to Wendy is Danny, Lesley’s husband.’

  Like McLean, Danny Smith was a big man and still fit, with a shock of chestnut hair that was only just starting to grey at the temples. He was wearing a black silk jacket that glistened in the candlelight. He raised his glass to Nightingale.

  ‘Next to Danny is your hardworking and underpaid assistant, or at least that’s how she describes herself.’

  ‘Daddy!’ exclaimed Jenny. She hurried over to Nightingale and gave him a peck on the cheek. She was wearing a short black dress and had a thin gold chain around her neck that he hadn’t seen before. ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ she said.

  ‘I got tied up at the Ritz,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘My favourite hotel,’ said the final guest at the table, a man in his late fifties. He had a mane of grey hair combed back and a square chin with a dimple in the centre. A pair of delicate half-moon glasses nestled on a pug nose that was flecked with broken blood vessels.

  ‘Be careful what you say around this one, Jack,’ said McLean. ‘He’s one of the best lawyers in England and he loves to argue at the dining table as much as he does in court.’

  The grey-haired man raised his hand in greeting. ‘Marcus Fairchild, at your service,’ he said.

  63

  It was the best Beef Wellington that Nightingale had ever tasted. That’s what he told James McLean, and it was the truth, but then it was actually the only Beef Wellington he’d tasted. In fact the pâté around the beef was too salty for Nightingale’s taste and he’d never been a fan of pastry. But he ate and smiled and made small talk with the TV presenter on his left and Sally Allen on his right, who actually was as smart as she was pretty but was clearly only with her husband for the mo
ney. His mind wasn’t on the conversation, or the food; all he could think about was that the man sitting across the table from him was Marcus Fairchild, the Satanist lawyer that Joshua Wainwright had warned him about.

  Fairchild was sitting between Jenny and her mother and had them both entranced with whatever stories he was telling them. The lawyer kept his voice low and Nightingale couldn’t hear what he was saying but every now and again there were peals of laughter from their end of the table.

  McLean extolled the virtues of the wine, which he said was a vintage Nuits-Saint-Georges that he bought by the case, but as Nightingale sipped and swallowed he barely tasted it. Why was Marcus Fairchild in the house? How did he know James McLean? And why was Jenny clearly so relaxed in his company?

  The waitress cleared away the plates and Nightingale took out his packet of Marlboro. He saw a look of concern flash across Jenny’s face and she waggled her finger at him across the table. Before Nightingale could say anything, Mr McLean leaned over towards him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack, but we’re very much a non-smoking house,’ he said. ‘However, if you fancy a cigarette before pudding there’s a terrace off the study with a few nice planter chairs.’ He nodded at the double doors. ‘Back down the corridor, second door on the left.’

  Nightingale thanked him and stood up. He had been craving a cigarette and it would give him a chance to have a quiet word with Jenny. He tried to catch her eye as he headed for the doors but she was deep in conversation with Fairchild again and didn’t look up.

  He headed for the study. It was a comfortable man’s room lined with leather-bound books, with a massive Victorian globe next to the fireplace. On the mantelpiece were half a dozen plaques in recognition of McLean’s charitable work. Nightingale took a cigarette from the packet and reached for his lighter. Above the fireplace were several framed degrees and certificates, including a Law Degree from Oxford and a Masters from Yale. He went over to one of the bookcases, half expecting to see the sort of volumes that were in the basement of Gosling Manor, but instead he found an eclectic mix of thrillers, autobiographies, science and reference books.