‘But you’re not really talking to the dead, are you? You’re getting messages through the cards.’
‘That’s true. But often the dead find it easier to communicate that way. And it can be safer.’
‘Because ghosts are dangerous?’
‘You’re confusing spirits with ghosts, Mr Nightingale.’ She frowned as if she was getting the beginnings of a headache. ‘Really, I must counsel you to be careful, Mr Nightingale. You’re very much an innocent abroad, you know. And it can be dangerous to meddle with things that you don’t fully understand.’
‘I keep telling people that I’m on a pretty steep learning curve,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I’m going to need more than Tarot cards.’
Mrs Steadman poured more tea into her mug. ‘There are Ouija boards, but frankly they’re unreliable and dangerous.’
Nightingale chuckled. ‘Been there, done that,’ he said.
Mrs Steadman put down the teapot. ‘You tried?’
‘A couple of times.’
‘With whom?’
‘My assistant. It didn’t work out so well.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ she said. ‘Who were you trying to contact?’
‘My former partner. Robbie Hoyle.’
‘How did Mr Hoyle pass away?’
‘RTA,’ said Nightingale. He saw the look of confusion on the woman’s face and waved his hand in apology. ‘Sorry, police-speak,’ he said. ‘Road traffic accident. He was hit by a taxi while he was crossing the road.’
Mrs Steadman sighed. ‘In a violent unexpected death, any spirit is going to be confused and disorientated,’ she said. ‘And that’s all you’d get through a Ouija board. Confusion. Anger. Resentment. Even an expert would have trouble controlling such a spirit.’
‘It was a bit hairy,’ admitted Nightingale.
‘And is it this Robbie Hoyle that you want to contact?’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s a girl. A girl who killed herself.’
Mrs Steadman pursed her lips and looked down her nose at him. ‘Another violent end,’ she said. ‘You have to be very careful interacting with spirits who pass over with violence,’ she said. ‘Often times the spirits aren’t even aware of the situation they’re in until someone contacts them, and there can be all sorts of repercussions.’
‘Such as?’
‘That depends on the strength of the spirit concerned,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘But you could have objects being moved, flashes of light, flames, even – or worse.’
‘Like a poltergeist?’
‘Like a poltergeist, perhaps, but a poltergeist is something different. And the potential for damage isn’t only there for the one who does the summoning. It can be dangerous for the spirit.’
Nightingale frowned and ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’m confused,’ he said.
‘I’m sure you are,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Tell me more about this girl.’
‘Her name is Sophie and she killed herself just over two years ago. Jumped from an apartment block in Chelsea Harbour. Her father had been abusing her and her mother didn’t do anything about it.’
‘You were there when it happened?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘I told you I was a policeman. I was with CO19, the armed police. But I was also a negotiator, part of the team that talks to people in crisis. That could be a hostage situation or a self-harmer or a domestic. Any situation where someone might get hurt.’ His mouth felt suddenly dry and he took a sip of his tea. ‘When I got the call I didn’t know it was a kid. She was up on the thirteenth floor, talking to her doll. She’d locked the door to the balcony and the au pair had called the police. I was the first negotiator on the scene.’
‘And this Sophie, why was she on the balcony?’
Nightingale leaned forward and put his head in his hands. ‘She wanted to die, Mrs Steadman. There was nothing I could do that was going to stop that. I know that now.’
Mrs Steadman stood up and walked around to stand behind Nightingale. She put her hands on his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly.
‘She was talking to me and then she just slipped under the railing and fell.’ Nightingale shuddered. ‘I don’t know what I should have done differently. I’ve gone over it again and again but I can’t think . . .’ He shuddered again. ‘She was just a kid, Mrs Steadman. Her life hadn’t even started, not really.’
‘Is that why you want to talk to her?’ asked Mrs Steadman.
‘She’s the one who’s been trying to contact me,’ said Nightingale.
Mrs Steadman let go of his shoulders and took a step back. ‘What do you mean?’
Nightingale explained what had happened at the hospital and at the nursing home.
Mrs Steadman sat down again and looked at Nightingale, clearly concerned. Nightingale folded his arms and shrugged. ‘I’m not imagining things,’ he said.
‘I wasn’t going to suggest that you were.’
‘I just feel that Sophie wants to talk to me and I want to make it easier for her, if that’s possible.’
‘You have to be careful,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘It could be something else pretending to be the girl, have you thought of that? It could be an evil spirit that wants to do you harm.’
‘Why go to the trouble of pretending to be Sophie?’
‘So that you’ll let your guard down. And by the time you realise what’s happened, it’ll be too late.’
Nightingale rubbed the back of his neck. He wanted a cigarette, badly.
‘I don’t like to ask, but would you help me? Would you show me what to do?’
‘I’m not a medium, Mr Nightingale. It’s not my field.’ She tapped the handle of her mug thoughtfully. ‘You should try a spiritualist association. There are several very good ones in London. You’ll meet experienced mediums there and you’ll be in a safe environment. If Sophie does want to come through she’ll be in the care of people who know what they’re doing. You’ll do the talking through the medium, so you’ll be one step removed. The medium will act as a fuse in a plug, if you like. If there’s a problem the medium will break contact and no damage is done.’
‘I thought that most mediums were charlatans? Con artists.’
‘Some are. But people aren’t stupid, Mr Nightingale. If they are being conned they’ll realise it sooner rather than later. And the true mediums don’t ask for money.’
‘What about doing it myself ?’
‘You, Mr Nightingale?’ She chuckled softly. ‘You can do it yourself, if you have the talent. There are summoning spells that are said to work, but they’re not for amateurs.’
‘Have you ever done it?’
‘Summoned a spirit? I have, yes.’
‘And it worked?’
Mrs Steadman smiled. ‘Magic works, Mr Nightingale. If it didn’t my shop and website wouldn’t be as popular as they are.’
‘Could I try? To summon a spirit?’
‘I really don’t think you’re experienced enough,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘And if you were to contact this girl, this spirit, you might do her harm, inadvertently. That would be my main concern.’ She sipped her tea. ‘It’s an inexact science, Mr Nightingale. There are things you can do to increase your chances of success. You can burn lavender, mastic, orris root and frankincense in a brass bowl and you can scatter jasmine flowers, lilies, gardenias and mimosa in the room to appease the spirits. But at the end of the day it’s down to the strength and ability of the medium. And like the Ouija board, you can’t always stop a rogue spirit coming through. You might set out to talk to Sophie and end up confronting a quite different spirit.’
‘A demon, you mean?’
She smiled like a teacher humouring a young child. ‘Demons don’t need to come through a Ouija board,’ she said. ‘If it was a demon that wanted to talk to you, it would just appear. And I’m not sure you’d have much success if you tried to contact one through a Ouija board either. No, I’m talking about an evil spirit. Or a mischievous one.’ She leaned towards him a
cross the table and took his hands in hers. They were warm and dry without a single blemish or mark. ‘Please, Mr Nightingale, promise you won’t do anything stupid. If you’re serious about wanting to contact the spirit of this girl, use a professional.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘I will,’ he said.
She stared at him intently and he felt her small hands grip his own with a strength that was out of proportion to their size. ‘Promise me,’ she said.
Nightingale opened his mouth to say something funny but he could see from the look in her eyes that she was serious. ‘I promise, Mrs Steadman. Cross my heart.’
A smile slowly spread across her face and she let go of his hands. He looked down and saw red marks where her fingers had been digging into his flesh. ‘You’ve got quite a grip there, Mrs Steadman,’ he said.
18
Nightingale walked into the office and found Jenny sitting at her desk looking very unhappy. He hung his raincoat on the rack and held up his hands in surrender. ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I had to go and see Mrs Steadman in Camden.’
Jenny shook her head and pointed towards Nightingale’s office and he looked over to see Superintendent Chalmers and Inspector Evans standing by his desk. Chalmers was flicking through a file on Nightingale’s desk. He was wearing a dark blue suit that looked as if it had been made to measure. Evans was wearing a sheepskin jacket over a cheap sports coat and trousers that had gone baggy around the knees.
‘You can’t touch anything without a warrant,’ said Nightingale, walking into the office and picking up the file.
‘It was in plain view,’ said Chalmers.
‘Well, it isn’t now,’ said Nightingale, dropping it into one of the desk drawers. He didn’t want to sit down so he moved to stand behind his chair. He looked over at Evans, wondering why the two detectives were in his office. The inspector avoided eye contact and looked out through the window at the street below. Nightingale’s mind whirled. Had Evans told Chalmers about Nightingale’s involvement in the Bayswater shooting? ‘What’s this about, Chalmers?’
‘We need you to come down to the station.’
‘Are you arresting me?’
‘Not unless we have to,’ said the superintendent. ‘But you’re in big trouble and I’d suggest that you agree to cooperate with us.’
Nightingale looked over at Evans again but he was still avoiding eye contact.
‘You know, I’m getting fed up with you dragging me in for questioning every time you get a case you can’t solve. If you want me to come in of my own accord then you’re going to have to tell me what it’s about.’
Jenny came to stand in the doorway, her arms folded.
‘Where were you yesterday?’ asked Chalmers.
Nightingale felt relief wash over him. He’d seen Evans in the park on Saturday so it couldn’t have anything to do with the Dwayne Robinson shooting. ‘At home.’
‘Just at home?’
Nightingale sighed in frustration. ‘I got a call from Hillingdon Home and I went down to Basingstoke to see the administrator there. Elizabeth Fraser. It’s a nursing home.’
‘I know what it is. And while you were there you spoke to a woman by the name of Fiona McFee.’
‘Are you asking me or telling me?’
‘We have a number of questions regarding Mrs McFee,’ said Chalmers.
‘In what sense?’
‘In the sense that she’s dead,’ said Chalmers.
Evans turned away from the window and put his hands in the pockets of his sheepskin jacket.
‘Chalmers, Fiona McFee was getting on for a hundred years old and she was in a coma when I went to see her.’
‘Eighty-nine years old, to be precise,’ said Chalmers. ‘But it wasn’t old age that killed her.’
‘She was in a coma when I left,’ said Nightingale.
‘That’s as maybe,’ said Chalmers. ‘But not long after you left she managed to get up to the roof and jump to her death.’ He slammed his hand down hard on the desk and Nightingale flinched. ‘Now stop messing me about and get your coat.’
19
Evans pressed ‘record’ and nodded at Superintendent Chalmers. Chalmers noted the time and date and both officers said their names for the benefit of the tape. Chalmers looked expectantly at Nightingale.
‘Jack Nightingale,’ he said. ‘Helping the police with their enquiries. Again.’
‘On Sunday you went to Hillingdon Home in Basingstoke?’
Nightingale nodded.
‘For the tape, please.’
‘Yes. I was asked to go there by the administrator. Elizabeth Fraser.’
‘She wanted you to see a patient there?’
‘They don’t call them patients. They’re residents.’
‘Her name was Fiona McFee?’
‘Apparently. Yes. That was the first time I had laid eyes on her.’
‘So you don’t know who she is?’
‘At the risk of repeating myself, Sunday was the first time I had ever seen the lady.’
‘And she was in a coma.’
‘Apparently, yes.’
‘But despite being in a coma, she said your name.’
Nightingale nodded again.
‘For the tape, please,’ Chalmers repeated.
‘Yes,’ said Nightingale.
‘Do you have any explanation for that?’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘No.’
‘What time did you leave Hillingdon Home?’
‘Just after eleven thirty.’
‘Are you aware that at seven o’clock on Sunday evening Mrs McFee went up to the roof and threw herself off ?’
‘I wasn’t until you told me, no.’
‘Can you think of any reason why Mrs McFee would have wanted to kill herself after you went to see her?’
‘You make it sound as if the two events are connected.’
‘Aren’t they?’ said Chalmers.
‘I spent less than a minute in her room.’
‘During which time she said your name several times.’
Nightingale sat back, yawned and stretched out his arms.
‘Mr Nightingale is refusing to answer the question,’ said Chalmers.
‘You didn’t ask a question,’ said Nightingale. ‘You stated a fact.’
‘And isn’t it also a fact that last year you visited your mother at Hillingdon Home and that shortly afterwards she took her own life?’
‘My mother was disturbed,’ said Nightingale.
‘But she hadn’t shown any suicidal impulses until you visited her,’ said Chalmers. He tapped his slim gold pen on his notepad. ‘And while we’re on the subject of suicides, isn’t it the case that on November the thirtieth last year you were in the home of one Constance Miller in Abersoch minutes after she took her own life by hanging?’
‘That was a coincidence,’ said Nightingale.
‘It’s one hell of a coincidence, isn’t it? Three visits, three suicides. And it doesn’t stop there, does it? There seem to be a lot of deaths around you these days. Your uncle and aunt. Robbie Hoyle. Barry O’Brien who was driving the cab that ran over Hoyle. And of course good old Simon Underwood, who took a flyer through his office window while you were talking to him.’
Nightingale said nothing. Chalmers flashed Evans a quick smile, playing to the crowd. ‘Then there’s Christmas Day. You were in the country. Shooting.’
‘Shooting pheasant,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I wasn’t. I was watching. Never seen the fun in killing things.’
Chalmers raised an eyebrow, opened his mouth to say something but then seemed to think better of it. He settled back in his seat. ‘One of the gamekeepers blew his head off with a shotgun.’
‘Yeah, pretty much.’
‘Lachie Kennedy. He’d been with the family for years.’
‘So I gather.’
‘And he was standing next to you when he decided to kill himself.’
Nightingale folded his arms but didn’t say anything.
‘Bit strange that, don’t you think?’ pressed the superintendent.
Nightingale said nothing.
‘Did you know that game shooting is illegal in England and Wales on Christmas Day?’
‘I didn’t, no.’
‘Well, it is. Across most of the country. But that house is one of the few places where it’s allowed. Seems that Edward the Seventh went shooting there and so did George the Fifth. Because of the royal connection they got special dispensation and they’re allowed to shoot on Sundays and Christmas Day, unlike the rest of the country.’
‘Like I said, I’m not a fan of shooting.’
‘That’s a strange thing for a former member of CO19 to say.’
‘Just because I was in CO19 didn’t mean that I went around shooting people. If a CO19 officer fires his weapon then he’s failed to do his job. The job is about containing situations, not escalating them.’
‘I’ll take your word for that,’ said Chalmers.
‘I resent the implication of what you’re saying. You’re implying that I was somehow involved in the shooting of Lachie Kennedy, but it was clearly self-inflicted. There were plenty of witnesses.’
‘Now you’re sounding defensive, Mr Nightingale. Why is that?’
‘I was there when Lachie blew his head off. It’s a touchy subject.’
‘And what about Dwayne Robinson? Were you there when he was shot in the head?’
Nightingale leaned forward and clasped his hands together so tightly that his knuckles whitened. ‘That was nothing to do with me. I wasn’t in Brixton. You were in my office today. You saw my assistant. She would have confirmed that.’
‘Miss McLean? Yes, we did ask her about your whereabouts and she said that you were in a pub. With Robbie Hoyle, who sadly is no longer with us.’
Nightingale’s eyes hardened. ‘Tread very carefully, Chalmers,’ he said.
‘Are you threatening me, Mr Nightingale?’ asked Chalmers, glancing at the recorder.
‘I was with Robbie Hoyle, but I’ve spoken with the landlord and he remembers us being in the pub at the time that Robinson was shot.’
‘That could be classed as interfering with a witness,’ said the superintendent.
‘I was doing your job,’ said Nightingale. ‘Establishing my alibi.’ He sat back in his chair.
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