‘I can’t see anything,’ said Jenny. ‘I’m getting seasick just watching it. Why’s it moving around so much?’
‘The camera’s clipped to his vest,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’s not aiming it. It just shows what he sees, pretty much.’
The man in the cargo pants was shouting and swearing and then Roach staggered back. He moved to the side and the two officers with shields rushed forward and slammed the man against the wall.
‘Police brutality?’ asked Jenny.
‘He had a knife,’ said Nightingale.
The officers pulled back their shields and the man fell to the floor. A heavyset woman with bleached hair and wearing a blue Adidas tracksuit swung a punch at the sergeant and began screaming abuse at him.
‘Nice to see a woman standing by her man,’ said Jenny.
The sergeant put up his hands to defend himself but the woman began slapping him with both hands.
Another officer in riot gear appeared from behind the camera. He lunged at the woman and grabbed her arms, then wrestled her out of the picture.
The sergeant knelt down, took his handcuffs from a pouch on his belt and handcuffed the man’s hands behind his back. The officers with the shields then grabbed the man’s arms and dragged him away. He kicked out at the sergeant and spat at him.
‘Why would you bother trying to fight trained cops in riot gear?’ asked Jenny.
‘Maybe they don’t have a TV,’ said Nightingale. ‘It probably passes for entertainment.’
The sergeant moved to the far end of the mobile home. Then he jumped as a figure sat up – an old woman who opened her mouth and screamed.
Jenny flinched and then laughed to cover her embarrassment. ‘Where the hell did she come from?’
Nightingale didn’t answer. He was staring at the monitor. The old woman was shouting at the sergeant. She had managed to grab his wrist and flecks of spit were peppering Roach’s face as she screamed at him. She was ancient, at least ninety years old, with wispy white hair through which her skull was clearly visible in places. Her mouth was a pink toothless cave and her lips were thin and bloodless. But her eyes burned with a fierce fire and Nightingale could see that Roach was having problems pulling his arm away.
‘What’s she shouting?’ asked Jenny. ‘That’s not English, is it?’
‘She’s a Romany gipsy. According to that guy’s boss, she’s cursing him.’
‘And you believe that?’
‘He’s lying in the ICU as we speak,’ said Nightingale. ‘And the doctors have no idea what’s wrong with him.’
The old woman was shrieking at the sergeant and he was trying to prise her fingers off his arm. The camera moved closer. Nightingale could make out one word being said over and over again. ‘Sap.’
Eventually Roach managed to release her grip and he took a step back, talking to her in a calm voice. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We’re not here to hurt you.’
‘Sap!’ screamed the woman, pointing at the sergeant. Her fingernail was several inches long, brown and gnarled.
‘Please calm down. No one is going to hurt you,’ said Roach.
Two women PCs in riot gear appeared either side of the camera and moved towards the old woman. One had taken off her helmet. She was in her early twenties, probably young enough to be the old woman’s great-granddaughter.
Roach wiped his forehead and moved out of shot, then the camera moved slowly backwards and eventually left the mobile home.
The man in the T-shirt was being frisked next to a police van. Roach was standing some distance away, rubbing his arm where the old woman had grabbed him. The video came to an end.
‘Is that it?’ asked Nightingale.
‘That’s the lot,’ said Jenny. She tapped on her keyboard then peered at her monitor. ‘Snake,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘The old woman was screaming “sap”. That’s Romani for snake. She was calling him a snake.’
‘Or cursing him.’
‘You think that’s what happened? She put a gypsy curse on him?’
‘I already told you that he’s dying. And he was fit and well up until the moment she grabbed him.’
‘And Chalmers expects you to what? Lift the curse?’
‘Apparently.’
‘So what’s your plan?’ asked Jenny.
‘My plan? How can I have a plan? He gets cursed by an old gypsy and now he’s at death’s door. How could I possibly have a plan?’
‘You could go to see Mrs Steadman.’
Nightingale grinned. ‘Yeah, that was my plan.’
‘Give her my best.’
‘Do you want to come?’
‘I’ve got work to do, Jack.’
‘You think I’m crazy, don’t you?’
She smiled sweetly. ‘I know you’re crazy,’ she said. ‘But I know that Chalmers is right. If he has been cursed then you’re probably the one person that can help him.’
Nightingale caught a black cab to Camden and it dropped him outside the Wicca Woman shop, shoehorned between a shop that sold hand-knitted sweaters and a boutique that specialised in second-hand denim.
A bell chimed as he pushed open the door and Mrs Steadman looked up from the cash register. Her bird-like face broke into a smile. ‘Mr Nightingale, I haven’t seen you for ages,’ she said. Mrs Steadman was in her sixties but she had the bright, inquisitive eyes of a young child. She was dressed from head to foot in black – a tight polo-neck sweater, leggings and elf-like ankle boots. She was barely five feet tall and Nightingale knew that she was standing on a wooden box to reach the cash register.
‘I haven’t needed much in the way of witchcraft supplies lately,’ he said.
‘Tea?’ she asked.
‘You read my mind, Mrs Steadman.’
‘Do me a favour and turn the sign on the door around, will you?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t had a break and neither of my assistants turned up today. Young people, they’ve no sense of responsibility, have they?’
‘Definitely not,’ said Nightingale, turning the sign around so that it was showing ‘Closed’.
Mrs Steadman stepped down off her box and walked around the counter, her boots clicking on the wooden floor. She took him through a beaded curtain and waved him to a circular wooden table and chairs, illuminated by a brightly coloured Tiffany lampshade. A gas fire was burning and Nightingale took off his raincoat and sat down as Mrs Steadman busied herself making tea.
‘I’ve got a bit of a problem, Mrs Steadman,’ said Nightingale, and he told her what had happened to Simon Roach.
‘That’s awful,’ she said as she carried over a tray on which there was a brown ceramic teapot, two blue and white striped mugs and a matching milk jug and sugar bowl. ‘Simply awful.’ She sat down and poured tea for them both. ‘You have to be careful with the gypsies. They lack a certain . . . self-control.’
‘Well, in this case I can tell you the policeman didn’t deserve what happened. I saw a video of the whole thing and he wasn’t being in any way aggressive towards her.’
Mrs Steadman nodded sympathetically as she stirred sugar into her tea.
‘So can you help him?’ asked Nightingale.
Mrs Steadman smiled. ‘Perhaps,’ she said.
‘Perhaps? I was hoping for more than perhaps,’ said Nightingale.
‘Magic is not an exact science, Mr Nightingale. What works for some doesn’t work for all. I can tell you what to do and how to do it, but the rest is up to you.’
‘So what do I need to do?’
‘First, I must sell you some Fiery Wall of Protection crystal salts, made to a recipe of my own.’ She smiled. ‘And I’m afraid they must be purchased because when the salts are given freely they lose their power.’
‘And what’s in them?’
Mrs Steadman laughed. ‘I’m afraid we’re a little like the Coca-Cola company in that respect,’ she said. ‘The ingredients remain a tightly controlled secret. I can tell you that I include sandalwood, black s
nakeroot and rue, but in all there are more than two dozen essences and herbs.’
Nightingale took out his wallet. ‘Sold,’ he said.
‘That will be twenty pounds,’ she said. She got up from the table and went through into the shop, returning a minute later with a purple paper sachet. She gave it to him, then took his twenty-pound note and tucked it under the teapot before sitting down again. ‘It’s a useful mix,’ she said. ‘You can use it for a ritual floor wash or sprinkle it on the path outside your house to attract good luck, and a small amount in your washing machine will keep your clothes smelling fresh all week.’
Nightingale thought she was joking and began to chuckle, but it was clear from the stern look she gave him that she was serious so he turned the chuckle into a throat-clearing cough. ‘And how do I use it?’ he asked.
‘You need to run a full bath,’ she said. ‘When the bath is half full you add the salts and swirl them in a clockwise direction. That is important, Mr Nightingale. It must be clockwise. When the bath is full you place four small white candles at the corners of the tub and light them. You then put the person who has been cursed into the bath and you leave him in the water until the candles have burned down. When they have gone out you pull out the plug and he stays in the bath as the water drains away. The curse will flow away with the water.’
‘That’s it?’ said Nightingale. ‘He takes a Radox bath and the curse will go away?’
Mrs Steadman looked down her nose at Nightingale. ‘It’s hardly Radox,’ she said. ‘If you’d rather try that, of course, you’re more than welcome to return my crystal salts.’
‘I was joking,’ said Nightingale.
‘It’s good that you have kept your sense of humour,’ she said. ‘But please don’t think that a gypsy’s curse is a laughing matter. A genuine gypsy curse leads to just one thing: death. Don’t forget that.’
‘I won’t, Mrs Steadman.’ He stood up. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’d muddle through,’ she said. ‘You usually do.’
The same West Indian nurse was at reception when Nightingale arrived at the ICU. When he asked her if she’d page Dr Patel she flashed him a smile that showed her gold tooth and said, ‘Of course, honey, anything for you.’
Dr Patel arrived five minutes later and, unlike the West Indian nurse, had clearly forgotten who Nightingale was. ‘I’m really busy, Mr Nightingale,’ he said once Nightingale had re-introduced himself. ‘I can’t keep breaking off from work to speak to friends of patients. Mr Roach is getting worse but we’re doing everything we can.’
‘That’s why I’m here, Doctor,’ said Nightingale, taking the purple paper sachet from his pocket. ‘This will help.’
The doctor frowned and took the sachet from Nightingale.
‘You need to fill a bath with water and add the salts,’ said Nightingale. ‘Then you need to put him in the bath and light four white candles, and he has to stay in the bath until the candles burn down.’
‘Are you insane?’ said Dr Patel, looking at Nightingale over the top of his spectacles. ‘What is this? You think because I’m Indian I’m some sort of witch doctor? You think I use mumbo-jumbo to cure my patients?’
‘It’ll cure him,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’s been cursed and that will drive the curse away.’
‘Cursed? What the hell are you talking about, man? He’s got an infection, possibly an auto-immune disease.’
‘Dr Patel, you have to listen to me. It’s the only way of curing him.’
‘Mr Nightingale, I was born in Southall. I studied medicine at Leeds University, where I came second in my year. I have worked in some of the best hospitals in the country. I am not some immigrant doctor who has only just got off the boat. How dare you attempt to tell me how to practise medicine!’ He threw the sachet at Nightingale and it bounced off his shoulder and fell on the floor. ‘Get out, now!’ The doctor turned to the nurse, who had been watching the exchange. ‘Call security and have this man escorted off the premises.’
‘Yes, Dr Patel,’ said the nurse.
The doctor walked off, his coat flapping behind him.
‘Three bags full, Dr Patel,’ she said.
Nightingale bent down, picked up the paper sachet and put it back in his pocket. ‘You’re not really going to call security, are you?’ he asked the nurse.
‘Do I need to?’
‘Nah, I’m all done here.’
The nurse gestured with her chin at the departing doctor. ‘Three years Dr Patel’s been here and he still hasn’t bothered to remember my name.’
‘He’s a very busy man.’
‘It’s not that. He thinks we nurses don’t matter. Especially the ones like me who aren’t graduates.’ She leaned towards him and lowered her voice. ‘You said that Mr Roach was cursed?’
‘Why, are you going to tell me that I’m crazy, too?’
She shook her head solemnly. ‘I believe in curses,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen what they can do.’
‘What’s your name?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Joyce,’ she said.
He held out his hand. ‘I’m Jack. And I’m very happy to meet you.’
They shook hands. ‘The thing is, Dr Patel can’t listen to you,’ said Joyce. ‘No medical man can. If they start to believe in curses then it takes away their power.’
‘Power?’
‘They get power from respect, and they get respect because they can heal people. But if someone can heal without medicine, then they will lose their respect.’
Two male nurses walked by and Joyce stopped speaking until they’d gone past.
‘Doctors don’t know everything, Jack. Not by a long way.’
‘And if you don’t mind me asking, Joyce, how do you know so much about curses?’
She looked left and right to make sure that no one was within earshot. ‘Obeah,’ she said. ‘Jamaican folk magic.’
‘Magic? You mean voodoo?’
Joyce laughed. ‘It’s called Obeah where I come from. Charms play a big part in it, and curses. Voodoo is something else. Now my grandmother, she knew all about voodoo. She was born in Ghana and she had the gift even when she was a child. She tried to teach my mother but my mother didn’t have the gift.’
‘And it works? Voodoo works?’
‘Like a charm, Jack, like a charm.’ She laughed but stopped when she noticed Dr Patel was standing at the end of the corridor, glaring at them. ‘You should go,’ she said. ‘He’ll want to know why I didn’t call security.’
By the time Nightingale got back to the office, Jenny had already left. He sat down at her desk and called her mobile. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘First of all, I’m not twelve years old, and second of all, you’re not my mother,’ she said.
‘Very droll,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to know if you can talk.’
‘I’ve had that nailed since I was two,’ she said.
‘You’re not driving?’
‘No, I’m in a wine bar waiting for Barbara, with a very nice chilled Pinot Grigio on the table and a dark, good-looking waiter who keeps smiling at me.’
‘Dark, good-looking waiters who smile a lot are usually gay,’ said Nightingale. ‘Or looking for a marriage visa. I need help.’
‘Yes, you do,’ said Jenny.
‘I need to look at that video again. I’m sitting at your computer but the screen’s blank.’
‘It’s asleep,’ said Jenny. ‘Wiggle the mouse. The mouse is that—’
‘I know what a mouse is,’ said Nightingale. He moved it and the screensaver appeared. A beach scene; palm trees leaning towards an azure sea.
‘I’m pretty sure that the thumb drive is still in the USB slot,’ said Jenny. ‘Pop your head between your knees and take a look under the desk.’
Nightingale grunted as he did as he was told. ‘Yeah, it’s there.’
‘Right, sit up straight and I’ll talk you through it.’
Five minutes and th
ree false starts later, Nightingale had the police video up on the screen. He thanked Jenny and ended the call. Despite the shakiness of the picture he was able to get the registration number of Sampson Smith’s mobile home.
He called Superintendent Chalmers, who started speaking the moment he took the call. ‘He’s worse, Nightingale. When are you going to do something?’
‘I’m on the case,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I need to track down the gypsy woman. I need to talk to her.’
‘She’s moved off the site, you know that. They were all cleared off.’
‘I know, but I’ve got the registration number of the mobile home. They must have stopped somewhere, probably on another council site. Can you run a check for me?’
Chalmers didn’t speak for several seconds and Nightingale began to think that he was going to refuse. ‘It’ll take some time,’ Chalmers said eventually. ‘A lot depends on whether they moved into another county.’
‘That’s what I figured,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I ring up then I’m just a nosy private eye and they won’t tell me a thing, but if it comes through the Met they’ll take it seriously.’
‘Give me the number,’ said Chalmers.
Nightingale’s ringing mobile woke him from a dreamless sleep. He leaned over and groped for his phone. It was Chalmers. Nightingale squinted at the digital alarm clock on his bedside table. It was 8.10.
‘We got lucky,’ said Chalmers. ‘They’re still in Essex. They’re on a small council site about twenty miles north of Dale Farm. I’ll text you the address.’
‘Thanks,’ said Nightingale.
‘Don’t thank me,’ said Chalmers. ‘Just get it sorted.’ The line went dead.
Nightingale rolled out of bed and phoned Jenny. ‘At the risk of sounding like your mother again, where are you?’ he asked.
‘Just about to get into the car,’ she said.
‘Can you do me a favour and pick me up? We’ve got to go and see a gypsy about a curse.’
‘You know my mileage rate? Plus lunch on you.’
‘Agreed,’ said Nightingale. ‘And can you pick up a coffee and a Danish or something on your way?’ He ended the call and padded to the bathroom.
Jenny rang to say she was outside just as he was pulling on the jacket of his suit. He grabbed his raincoat, hurried down the stairs and climbed into the passenger seat of her Audi A4. He grinned when he saw the Starbucks cup in the cup-holder. ‘You really are a sweetie,’ he said. There was bag containing a Danish pastry on the dashboard and he broke off a piece and ate it.
Cursed_A Jack Nightingale Short Story Page 3