Jack Nightingale 03 - Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

  ‘Complete waste of two hundred quid,’ he said.

  ‘Did Sophie talk to you?’

  ‘Couldn’t shut her up,’ said Nightingale, flopping down onto his sofa and pressing ‘mute’ on his TV remote control. ‘Except it wasn’t Sophie.’ Off in the distance he heard the wail of a police siren.

  ‘So he was cold reading? Telling you what you wanted to hear?’

  ‘No, I was careful not to give him anything,’ said Nightingale. ‘But she told me not to feel guilty, that there was nothing I could have done to stop her falling, and that she was happy about what I did to her father.’

  ‘Jack, that’s amazing!’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Come on, that’s incredible. How did you get the messages? Was it like a Ouija board or a séance?’

  ‘He was channelling. She spoke through him.’

  ‘But he couldn’t have got all that from reading you, could he? Not if you weren’t telling him anything.’

  ‘It was a con, Jenny.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘There was nothing in what he said that he couldn’t have got from Google,’ said Nightingale. ‘The papers reported what happened to Sophie, and to her father. And I was named in several of the reports. He knew my name. Soon as I rang him up. He was showing off, but the point is that once he had my name everything flowed from that.’

  ‘But he didn’t know who you were. We met him by accident, remember? He couldn’t have known he’d meet you in Marylebone.’

  ‘He was behind us at one point, and you mentioned Sophie. He could easily have overheard us talking.’

  ‘Okay, I might have said the name, but it’s not an unusual one, Jack. How does he go from “Sophie” to knowing who you are and what happened?’

  ‘We signed in at the meeting hall,’ said Nightingale. ‘He could have got my name from that. Then it’s just basic research. Put my name and Sophie’s into any search engine and you’re going to come up with what happened at Chelsea Harbour two years ago.’

  ‘That’s awful. And he did all that for two hundred pounds?’

  ‘It’s a long con. He said he had to stop because he lost the contact and that I should try again in a few days. And I’m sure that once I was hooked the price would start to go up. True mediums don’t charge for their services, that’s what Mrs Steadman said.’

  ‘But you’re a former cop, doesn’t he realise that he’s taking a risk?’

  ‘I think the emphasis is on “former”. Plus, I probably looked vulnerable. Why else would I have gone to Marylebone in the first place? Everyone in there was looking for something; all he has to do is to find out what it is and then to give it to them. And at the end of the day, how do we prove that he’s conning us? He says there are no guarantees and he’s right about that. How would anyone prove that he wasn’t actually channelling a spirit?’

  ‘You sound very relaxed for a man who’s just been ripped off to the tune of two hundred pounds.’

  ‘What was I supposed to do? Take my cash back? I doubt that he would have given it to me and I don’t want to add theft and assault to Chalmers’s hit list. Plus, I have to say, he put on one hell of a performance.’

  ‘Are you okay, Jack?’

  Nightingale lifted the bottle of Corona. ‘Hunky dory,’ he said.

  ‘Not a phrase one hears a lot these days,’ she said. ‘Are you drinking?’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘Corona?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘At least you’re not on the brandy. How many bottles?’

  ‘What are you, my mother?’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Oh no, she’s dead. In fact they’re both dead, aren’t they? My biological mother and my real mother. Shuffled off this mortal coil.’ He placed the bottom of the bottle against his forehead.

  ‘How many bottles, Jack?’

  Nightingale groaned, took the bottle off his head, rolled sideways and peered down the side of the sofa. There were several empty bottles there and he counted them one by one. ‘Five,’ he said. ‘I’m on my sixth. A baker’s dozen.’

  ‘Thirteen is a baker’s dozen. Six is half a dozen. Please tell me it’s six.’

  ‘It’s six. I can handle it.’

  ‘Do you need company?’

  Nightingale sat up. ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘I can come round.’

  ‘I’m not drunk, Jenny.’

  ‘No, but you’re not happy.’

  ‘Which one of the seven dwarves do you think I am, then?’

  ‘I’d have to go for Grumpy. Or Moron.’

  ‘There wasn’t a dwarf called Moron.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I’ll settle for Grumpy, then. You’d be better off with coffee.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Soon as I’ve finished my beer.’ He sighed. ‘I’m okay, Jenny. Really.’

  ‘Call me if you need me, all right?’

  ‘Like the Samaritans?’

  Jenny didn’t say anything for several seconds, and when she did speak he could hear the concern in her voice. ‘Why would you say that, Jack?’

  ‘It was a joke.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m not suicidal.’ He laughed but it came out half bark, half cough. ‘I’m just having a few beers and then I’m going to bed, and I’ll be in the office bright and early tomorrow.’

  ‘Sometimes you worry me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But I really was joking.’ Jenny didn’t say anything. ‘Jenny, I’m okay.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault; you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do. Jenny, it’s not about guilt. I’m sure of that.’

  ‘I know you, Jack. You’re not one of life’s sharers. You bottle things up. And as I’ve said before, that’s not healthy.’

  ‘Okay, tomorrow I’ll take you for a lunch and we’ll have a heart to heart. I’ll share.’

  ‘There you go again, making a joke of it. That’s your defence mechanism as soon as anyone tries to get close to you.’

  ‘I just don’t want you worrying about me,’ said Nightingale. ‘I can take care of myself. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘I wish I believed that,’ said Jenny, and she ended the call.

  Nightingale stared at the phone thoughtfully for a few seconds, then set it to silent and tossed it on the sofa. He picked up the remote, turned on the sound and began flicking through the channels looking for football.

  41

  Nightingale lit a cigarette and blew smoke towards the Thames. The wind whipped it away.

  ‘Cigarettes are bad for you,’ said Sophie.

  ‘I know,’ said Nightingale. He looked over at her and smiled. ‘That’s why they don’t let children smoke.’

  Sophie held her Barbie doll close to her face and whispered to it. Then she held the doll near her ear and nodded seriously. She clasped the doll to her chest and swung her legs back and forth as they dangled over the edge of the balcony. ‘Jessica says you can get cancer,’ she said.

  Nightingale tilted his head back and tried to blow two smoke rings but the wind was too strong. ‘Jessica’s right,’ he said. A police boat was heading up river, fighting against the current.

  ‘You know you’re going to Hell?’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’

  ‘Doesn’t that scare you?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘Scared or not scared, if it happens, it happens.’

  ‘You don’t care?’

  ‘Shit happens,’ Nightingale said, grinning.

  ‘You shouldn’t say “shit”, Jack. It’s a bad word.’

  ‘What do you want, Sophie?’

  Sophie whispered to her doll. Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette.

  ‘You’re here to help me, aren’t you?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘But you can’t, can you?’

  Nightingale rubbed the back of his neck and his hand came away wet with sweat.
‘I don’t know, Sophie. I don’t know what to do; I don’t know what to say. Can you tell me?’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘I don’t know either.’

  Nightingale felt something cold run down the small of his back and he shivered.

  ‘Jack?’

  He looked over at her. ‘What?’

  ‘Could I just go with you now? Could you take me inside? Will that fix it?’

  Nightingale smiled. ‘I don’t think it will. No.’

  ‘Because I’m dead?’

  Nightingale nodded.

  ‘I don’t want to be dead, Jack.’

  ‘So what do you want, Sophie? Tell me what you want.’

  A single tear rolled down her cheek. ‘I want to be alive, Jack. I want to take back what I did. I thought I wanted to be dead but now I don’t. And only you can help me. Only you.’

  ‘Sophie, I don’t know how,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You said you could help me, remember? You said we could go inside and talk about it. You said that you could help me and you said “cross your heart”, do you remember?’

  Nightingale smiled sadly. ‘I remember, Sophie.’

  ‘So help me now. Cross your heart and help me.’

  ‘It’s too late. There’s nothing I can do.’ He put the cigarette to his lips.

  ‘No one can help me, then,’ said Sophie. She lifted her doll, kissed it gently on the top of its head, and then slid off the balcony without making a sound.

  Sophie’s skirt billowed up around her waist as she fell. He leaned forward and reached out with his right hand even though he knew there was nothing he could do. ‘Sophie!’ he screamed. Her golden hair was whipping around in the wind as she dropped straight down, her arms still hugging the doll.

  He closed his eyes at the last second so that he didn’t have to see her hit the ground but he couldn’t blot out the sound, the dull thump her body made as it slammed into the tarmac at terminal velocity. The cigarette fell from his nerveless fingers and he ran into the apartment.

  There was an old couple sitting on the sofa, holding hands. Mr and Mrs Jackson. They stared up at him with blank faces. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ they said in identical flat, emotionless voices.

  Nightingale hurried by them. There was a young uniformed constable standing at the doorway, his right hand touching the mic on his shoulder. The constable’s radio crackled but as Nightingale drew level with him his eyes misted over. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ he said. Nightingale pushed him out of the way and rushed along the corridor to the emergency stairs. He hurtled down the stairway. The cop shouted something after him but Nightingale was already out of earshot, taking the stairs two at a time.

  He burst into the reception area, where a dozen paramedics and uniformed officers were all talking into their radios. Nightingale pushed through them. One of the men, a heavyset bruiser in a fluorescent jacket, grabbed Nightingale by the arm. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ he said, his voice a deep growl as he stared at Nightingale with unseeing eyes. Nightingale shook him away and ran out of the building, turning left towards the river.

  Two female paramedics crouched over the little girl’s body. The younger of the two was crying. Four firemen in bulky fluorescent jackets were standing behind them. One was being sick, bent double and heaving, while another was wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his gloves.

  Nightingale went over to the paramedics. The younger one looked up at him, her face glistening with tears. Her lower lip trembled, then her face froze and her eyes glazed over. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ she said, staring up at Nightingale, her voice a dull monotone. He elbowed her out of the way and knelt down beside Sophie. A pool of blood was spreading around her shattered skull. Her eyes were closed as if she was sleeping and the Barbie doll was still in her right hand. Nightingale reached out to stroke her hair but as he did so her eyes opened wide. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ she croaked, then she took a long slow breath that rattled in the back of her throat before she began to scream at the top of her voice. The scream turned into the ringing of his mobile phone and that’s when he woke up.

  42

  Nightingale groped for his phone and took the call.

  ‘Jack?’ It was an American voice. Joshua Wainwright.

  ‘Joshua, how’s it going?’ It was still dark outside and Nightingale squinted at his wristwatch. It was half past five. He groaned.

  ‘Sorry, man, did I wake you up?’

  ‘Nah, I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘English humour,’ said Nightingale, sitting up. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘New York,’ said the American. ‘Shoot, what time is it there?’

  ‘Half five in the morning.’

  ‘Man, I’m sorry. I lost track of the time with all the flying I’ve been doing.’

  ‘Not a problem, Joshua.’ He yawned and covered his mouth.

  ‘Are you okay? You sound a bit tense. I can call back.’

  Nightingale rubbed his chin. ‘I’m okay. I just had a bad dream, that’s all. What’s up?’

  ‘Is it that girl? The dream?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because it’s been on your mind, and problems have a way of making themselves known in your dreams.’

  Nightingale sighed. ‘Yeah, so my assistant keeps telling me.’

  ‘I might be able to help,’ said Joshua.

  ‘Is that why you’re phoning? You’re not psychic, are you, Joshua?’

  ‘You mentioned her when I was round at your house. Doesn’t take much to put two and two together. No, I’m calling about the books. My team can be at your house today, if that’s okay. Late afternoon.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Yeah, I know it’s short notice but they’re heading back from Rome and they can stop off in the UK for a couple of days to work on the inventory.’

  ‘Okay, sure,’ said Nightingale. ‘Get them to call me on my mobile when they’re about ninety minutes away and I’ll be there to let them in. I haven’t had time to get any camp beds in, though.’

  ‘They can find a hotel,’ said Wainwright. ‘Now this Sophie thing . . . how determined are you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How serious are you about contacting this girl?’

  ‘I’m still trying,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said the American. ‘I hope you’re steering clear of dark mirrors.’

  ‘I tried a medium but he was a con artist.’

  ‘There’re a lot of them about, Jack. It can be tough separating the wheat from the chaff. But I can put you in touch with a group who might be able to help.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘The thing is, Jack, we’re talking about the dark side. Not as bad as the Order of Nine Angles, but they’re still on the side of the fallen.’

  ‘Devil-worshippers, you mean?’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that, but they do have a track record of dealing with the dead. It’s up to you.’

  ‘What would I have to do?’

  Wainwright chuckled. ‘You wouldn’t have to sell your soul, if that’s what you mean. I know one of the guys in a London group and I could put you in touch.’

  ‘And it’s safe?’

  ‘It’s a hell of a lot safer than what you were trying to do in the basement,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I’ll talk to them and get back to you with the details if they’re cool about it.’

  Wainwright ended the call. Nightingale decided that there was no point in trying to get back to sleep so he shaved and showered and put on his second-best suit, a dark blue pinstripe. He had a meeting with a solicitor in Earl’s Court and wanted to make a good impression. Solicitors were a good source of work and Nightingale was trying to get more legal firms on his books.

  He was in the kitchen frying bacon, wearing a blue-and-white-striped apron over his suit, when he heard his phone beeping to let him know that he’d
received a text message. It was from Wainwright, with a name, a mobile phone number and a brief message: ‘You can trust him.’

  ‘I hope that’s true,’ muttered Nightingale, putting the phone on the coffee table and heading back to finish frying his bacon.

  43

  The meeting with the solicitor in Earl’s Court went really well. He was a middle-aged Bangladeshi wearing what seemed to be a Savile Row made-to-measure suit that probably cost ten times as much as Nightingale’s pinstripe, a gold Rolex wristwatch and handmade shoes that put Nightingale’s Hush Puppies to shame. The solicitor did a lot of immigration work and needed a private detective to do the legwork on cases where failed asylum seekers were being threatened with deportation. Most of the work appeared to be computer-based and Nightingale was confident that Jenny would be able to handle it in her sleep, so after an hour he shook the man’s expensively manicured hand and headed back to his MGB. He’d parked in a multi-storey car park not far from the Exhibition Centre.

  He lit a cigarette, blew smoke, then put the key in the ignition and turned it. There was a dull clunking sound from under the bonnet, then silence. He cursed and tried again. This time there wasn’t even a clunk. He got out of the car and phoned Jenny.

  ‘Dial-A-Cab,’ she said when she answered.

  ‘Is the whole world psychic?’ he asked.

  ‘You drove your MGB; it’s an hour since your meeting started so I’m guessing you’ve just left the solicitor; I doubt that he’s told you anything that merits an immediate phone call, so I’m guessing your car has died again.’

  ‘You should be a detective,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘And you should buy yourself a decent car,’ said Jenny.

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Nightingale. ‘I hang my head in shame. But I’ve got a problem.’

  ‘I know. You’ve to get to Gosling Manor.’

  ‘Can you pick me up?’

  ‘I can. But Jack, you really can’t keep using me as a taxi service. I’ve got a stack of accounts to deal with here and I was going to go to the bank to pay in those cheques that arrived today.’

  ‘Pretty please?’

  ‘You’re the one who’s going to be paying my expenses, so you can do whatever you want. I just think that you could be making better use of my time, that’s all.’

  ‘So you’ll come and get me?’