Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  ‘You know what I mean. What’s your problem with him?’ Rain began to spatter on the windscreen and Jenny switched on her wipers.

  Nightingale turned to look at her. ‘Are you serious? Have you forgotten what my sister said?’

  ‘Your sister was under hypnosis. We don’t know if what she said was true. It could have been a false memory.’

  ‘She said that he killed a child. Have you forgotten that?’

  ‘Jack, I’ve known him for as long as I can remember. He knew my father at university.’

  Nightingale looked through the windscreen again. Proserpine was standing in the middle of the road, her dog at her side, her long black coat blowing in the wind behind her. ‘Jenny, stop!’ he shouted and she slammed on the brakes.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  He looked across at her. ‘You nearly ran her over.’

  ‘Who?’

  Nightingale looked back at the road. Ahead of them was only traffic. There was no sign of Proserpine or her dog. ‘She was there,’ said Nightingale. ‘I saw her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Proserpine.’

  ‘There’s no one there, Jack.’

  The car behind them sounded its horn and Jenny waved an apology and moved off.

  ‘She was there, Jenny.’

  ‘She couldn’t have been. I was looking straight ahead.’

  They drove in silence for several minutes, then Nightingale folded his arms. ‘You heard what my sister said about Fairchild. He killed a kid and framed her. And he admitted that he was in the Order of Nine Angles.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Back in the wine bar near the cop shop. Before you arrived. He tried to tell me that it was some sort of charitable organisation.’

  ‘Maybe it is.’ A bus pulled up in front of them and Jenny braked.

  ‘Have you Googled it? The Order of Nine Angles? Trust me, there’s nothing charitable about them. Human sacrifice plays a big part in what they do. They call it culling.’

  Jenny sighed. ‘Jack, even if there is such a thing as the Order of Nine Angles, you don’t know for sure that he’s involved with them.’

  Nightingale took out his cigarettes. ‘He’s got to you,’ he muttered.

  ‘Please don’t smoke in my car,’ she said. ‘And what do you mean? How’s he got to me?’ The bus moved off and Jenny edged the Audi forward.

  ‘You’re not thinking straight and I don’t understand why. It’s like he’s a blind spot so far as you’re concerned.’

  ‘He’s my uncle.’

  ‘No he’s not, Jenny. He’s a friend of your father’s, that’s all.’

  Jenny flashed him an angry look. ‘What are you getting at, Jack?’

  Nightingale slipped his cigarettes back into his pocket. ‘I’m just saying that you don’t seem to think straight when he’s around.’

  ‘Why did you mention my father?’

  ‘Because you keep saying that Fairchild is your uncle and he isn’t. He’s just a family friend.’

  ‘You think that Marcus is a child-killer. Are you now suggesting that my father is as well?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘That’s what it sounded like to me,’ she said.

  ‘Now you’re the one being ridiculous,’ he said.

  Jenny stamped on the brake. For a second time the driver of the car behind them pounded on his horn. ‘Get out,’ she said.

  ‘Oh come on, Jenny.’

  ‘I’m serious. Get out.’

  ‘It’s raining.’

  The driver behind them sounded his horn again and the car behind him joined in too. Jenny stared ahead through the windscreen, her lips clamped together and her chin raised defiantly.

  Nightingale could see that there was no point in arguing with her. He climbed out of the car and slammed the door behind him. As Jenny drove off he took out his cigarettes. He lit one and looked around for a black cab.

  22

  Nightingale opened the office door half expecting Jenny not to be there, but he smiled when he saw her at her desk. ‘Sorry,’ he said, placing a Starbucks bag and two coffees in front of her. Jenny’s desk was always immaculate, in stark contrast to his own, which was usually hidden under stacks of newspapers, files, dirty coffee mugs and overflowing ashtrays.

  ‘You should be.’ She turned away from him.

  ‘I’m an idiot.’

  She steadfastly refused to look at him. ‘Yes. You are.’

  Nightingale moved one of the coffees closer to her. ‘Latte.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said quietly.

  Nightingale gestured at the bag.

  ‘Banana choc-chip muffin. And a croissant. Breakfast of champions.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she repeated. She looked at her watch. ‘But it’s six o’clock in the evening so it’s a bit late for breakfast.’

  ‘I figured if I turned up with a pizza it wouldn’t have been as cute,’ he said. ‘Come on, Jenny, at least give me a smile. I know I’m an insensitive prick sometimes.’

  ‘Sometimes?’

  ‘Okay, most of the time. I was just wrong-footed when Fairchild turned up out of the blue. I shouldn’t have laid into you. I’m sorry.’ He grinned. ‘Especially when you were giving me a lift. You really are heartless, aren’t you?’

  ‘You deserved it,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you weren’t far from the Tube.’

  ‘I did deserve it. And yes, the Tube wasn’t that far, though it was pissing down.’ He put up his hands. ‘But, again, it was my own fault so I’ve only myself to blame. To be honest, I didn’t really expect you to be here.’

  ‘I had work to do.’

  ‘Then I saw the light on and thought the least I could do to make amends was to buy you a very late breakfast.’ He pushed the bag towards her.

  ‘I had work to do,’ she repeated. ‘I thought you’d go straight home.’ Jenny turned away from her computer and opened the bag. She took out the muffin. ‘There’s a bit missing,’ she said.

  ‘I broke off a piece, just to check it was fresh.’

  Jenny raised an eyebrow. ‘You bought me a muffin and then ate it?’

  ‘Checked it for freshness,’ said Nightingale, taking off his wet raincoat. He shook it then put it on the rack by the door.

  ‘Did you try my coffee too?’

  Nightingale went back to her desk and picked up his cup. ‘No. And I didn’t touch the croissant either.’ He sipped his coffee and smacked his lips. ‘So what are you doing later this evening?’

  ‘Why?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘I thought I’d buy you dinner. By way of apology.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’ She held out the muffin. ‘This is enough. Even if you did nibble it.’

  ‘I want to. You can choose the restaurant.’

  Jenny grinned. ‘Money no object?’

  ‘If that means you accept my apology, sure.’ He took another sip of his coffee. ‘Just one thing, can you make it near Marylebone?’

  Jenny sighed. ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to swing by a meeting there.’

  ‘What sort of meeting, Jack?’

  ‘A spiritualist group.’ He walked away from her desk towards his office. ‘Mrs Steadman at the Wicca Woman shop in Camden recommended it. It’ll be fun,’ he said. He stopped and looked at his watch. ‘We’ve got to be there by seven thirty.’

  ‘We? Now it’s “we”, is it?’

  ‘It always is,’ said Nightingale. He grinned. ‘You know I’d be lost without you.’

  23

  The Marylebone Spiritualist Association met in a community centre not far from Madame Tussauds waxwork museum. Three Asian youths in baggy jeans and hoodies were standing outside smoking and Nightingale caught a whiff of cannabis as he and Jenny walked past them. The double doors opened into a reception area where an elderly black man in a shabby blue suit was sitting at a desk. Near him there was an easel supporting a board on which white plastic letters had been stuck to announce ‘Marylebone Spiritualist Association – Gues
t Medium Neil Morgan. Starts 7.30 p.m.’

  ‘We’re here for the MSA meeting,’ Nightingale told the man.

  ‘Five pounds each,’ he said and smiled, revealing a mouthful of broken and stained teeth. Nightingale handed him a ten-pound note. The man took it and pushed a clipboard towards him. Nightingale picked up a pen and added their names to the list, then the man nodded at a door to the left. As Nightingale and Jenny headed in that direction two middle-aged women in long coats and black hats came in from outside, deep in conversation. Nightingale opened the door and let Jenny go in first. The room was kitted out for sports with a wooden floor, basketball hoops at either end and two table-tennis tables that had been pushed against one wall. Orange plastic chairs had been lined up in the middle of the room, ten rows wide and five rows deep, facing a wooden lectern. There were blue screens on either side of the lectern. There were no religious symbols to be seen, though there was a vase of plastic flowers on a small table in front of the lectern.

  ‘I thought it would be more like a church,’ said Nightingale. ‘I thought there’d be crosses and stuff.’

  ‘Clearly not,’ said Jenny. ‘Anyway, I thought the Church frowned on things like this.’

  ‘Things like what?’

  ‘Talking to the dead,’ whispered Jenny. ‘Because that’s what we’re here to do, aren’t we?’

  There were more than a dozen people sitting on the chairs, mostly pensioners by the look of them. Nightingale looked at his watch. It was seven twenty. ‘Front or back?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m guessing at school you were always sitting at the front, right?’

  ‘While you were at the back with the rest of the troublemakers?’

  ‘Let’s compromise and sit in the middle,’ he said.

  ‘I thought the idea was to see if we could contact Sophie. Wouldn’t it be better to sit at the front? Aren’t you more likely to be noticed that way?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a voice behind them. Nightingale and Jenny moved apart to allow a short man in a dark green anorak to squeeze between them. He sat in the back row.

  ‘He’d be a troublemaker, then, would he?’ Nightingale asked Jenny.

  ‘Behave,’ said Jenny. She shuffled along the third row of seats and sat close to the middle.

  An elderly woman in a fur coat came through the door, followed by two middle-aged men wearing suits. The men sat at the front, with an empty seat between them, while the woman went to stand at the lectern.

  Over the next five minutes another couple of dozen people arrived, most of them elderly but there was a sprinkling of teenagers and also a young couple, the woman holding a baby that couldn’t have been more than six months old.

  At seven thirty the woman in the fur coat went outside and returned a few minutes later with a young man in his late twenties. He was wearing a green corduroy jacket, black trousers that were an inch too short and scuffed brown shoes. One of the men in suits picked up a chair and placed it next to the lectern and the young man sat down. He kept his head lowered and every few seconds flicked his hair away from his eyes. He had his hands clasped together but Nightingale could see that his nails were bitten to the quick.

  There was a buzz of excitement among the audience, but it disappeared as the woman in the fur coat walked over to the lectern again. She had far too much make-up on, Nightingale realised, and her bright red lipstick had slipped over the outline of her lips. She smiled at the audience. There was a smear of lipstick across her left canine tooth. ‘We are very fortunate today to have one of England’s most skilled mediums with us,’ she said. She had a soft, regal voice that made Nightingale think of cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off and croquet on the lawn. ‘Neil Morgan is from Leicester and has stopped off to address us on his way over to America, where he will be touring a dozen cities. We’re very lucky to have him.’ She nodded at the man sitting on her left. He was staring at the floor by his feet. ‘Neil has told me that he is feeling a little tired this evening but nevertheless he is happy to give us the benefit of his talent.’

  The audience clapped politely. Jenny clapped along with them but Nightingale sat with his arms folded. Jenny flashed him a withering look and he reluctantly clapped his hands a few times.

  The woman waited for the applause to die down, then said a short prayer. Everyone bowed their head and when she finished there were several ‘Amens’ from the audience.

  ‘So, with no further ado, I’ll leave it to Neil,’ said the woman. She smiled at Morgan. He stood up, avoiding eye contact with her as she took her place at the front of the audience.

  The medium took a deep breath, still staring at the floor. He hadn’t looked up since he’d taken his place behind the lectern, and Nightingale was starting to wonder if he’d been struck dumb with stage fright, but then he suddenly shuddered and straightened up. He cocked his head on one side like an inquisitive budgerigar and then pointed at an elderly woman sitting on the left of the room with a large handbag perched on her lap. ‘I’m seeing a man. He’s bald and he keeps rubbing his head as if he has a headache.’

  ‘My father – is it my father?’ she asked. ‘He passed away from a stroke.’

  ‘A long time ago, yes?’ said the medium.

  The woman nodded. ‘Forty years ago.’ She frowned as she did the calculation in her head. ‘Forty-three years ago.’

  The medium nodded encouragingly. ‘Yes, he said he passed over a long time ago and that he’s happy now with his wife. Your mother passed over too?’

  Nightingale leaned towards Jenny. ‘If she didn’t she’d be more than a hundred by now,’ he whispered.

  Jenny frowned at him and pressed her finger to her lips.

  The old lady was nodding.

  ‘Your father says he loves you and he says he and your mother are watching over you. He says your health isn’t good at the moment but you’re not to worry about him.’ He smiled. ‘He says you need to eat more fresh fruit. Can you take that?’

  The old lady smiled gratefully. ‘Yes, I can take that,’ she said.

  ‘He says you’ve not been feeling well, that your energy levels are low, so eat fruit. Apples and oranges. Can you take that?’

  The woman dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Bless you,’ she said.

  Nightingale looked over at Jenny. ‘What does that mean? They keep saying “take”. I don’t get it.’

  She put her lips close to his ear. ‘I think the idea is that the spirit is giving you the information or advice. You either take it or you don’t. I guess that’s what it means.’

  Morgan looked across at the young couple holding the baby. ‘I see a woman looking at your baby. I think it’s the baby’s grandmother. Would that be right?’

  ‘My mother,’ said the woman.

  ‘She passed recently?’ asked the medium.

  ‘Two years ago,’ said the woman.

  ‘That’s right, before she even knew that you were pregnant,’ said the medium.

  Nightingale leaned over to Jenny. ‘That’s just maths,’ he said. ‘The baby’s not even a year old so of course she died before the girl got pregnant.’

  ‘Jack, stop taking the piss, will you?’ hissed Jenny. ‘You’re the one who wanted to come.’

  ‘I didn’t realise it was going to be a snake-oil salesman we were going to see,’ whispered Nightingale. ‘He’s just telling them what they want to hear.’

  The medium finished talking to the young couple. The woman was crying and her husband put his arm around her and said something to her as she hugged the baby tightly.

  The medium pointed at Jenny. ‘I’m seeing a man near you, an old man. With a beard.’

  Jenny swallowed nervously.

  ‘Does he sound familiar to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He passed over recently, this man. And it was sudden.’

  Jenny nodded. She was staring at the medium, her fingers interlinked in her lap.

  ‘He’s saying his name
is Larry. Would it be Larry?’

  Jenny shook her head.

  ‘No, not Larry,’ said the medium. ‘But something beginning with an L.’

  ‘Lachie,’ said Jenny and Nightingale winced. It was a big jump from Larry to Lachie.

  The medium was smiling enthusiastically. ‘Lachie, yes, that’s it. Would he be your father or grandfather?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he knew your father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The medium smiled at Jenny. ‘He says he’s okay and that you’re not to worry about him. He’s at peace now.’

  ‘Can I ask him a question?’ asked Jenny.

  Nightingale muttered under his breath that she was being conned but she didn’t hear him.

  ‘We can try,’ said the medium.

  ‘Can you ask him why he did it?’

  The medium suddenly cocked his head to one side, his eyes focused several feet to Jenny’s right. Then he smiled and looked back at Jenny. ‘He was unhappy, he says. But he’s happy now. Lachie doesn’t want you to worry about him. He’s with his loved ones and he’s at peace.’ He rubbed his hands together as if he was feeling cold. ‘He took his own life, didn’t he?’

  Jenny nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘When a spirit has passed over under those circumstances there’s sometimes a reluctance to discuss what happened,’ he said. ‘Can I ask you this: were you the one that found the body?’

  Jenny looked over at Nightingale, and then back at the medium. ‘Sort of,’ she said.

  ‘And the gentleman sitting next to you, he was with you?’

  Jenny nodded again.

  The medium cocked his head again and stared off to Jenny’s right. He made several murmuring noises and then looked back at Jenny. ‘Lachie says that he’s sorry for any distress he caused you, and he doesn’t want you to feel any guilt about what happened. He takes full responsibility for what he did.’ He frowned, muttered to himself, then looked at Jack. ‘Lachie wants you to know that the problem you’re facing will be resolved shortly. Does that make sense to you?’

  Nightingale didn’t answer. He felt that the medium was manipulating him, trying to get him to play a part, but he found himself wanting to agree with the man. Morgan was staring at him earnestly, nodding slowly. ‘I suppose so,’ said Nightingale reluctantly.