I Know Who Did It (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) (4 page)

The Wicca Woman window was filled with
crystals, candles and pendants, plus crystal balls of differing sizes. There
was also a display of books with titles such as ‘Love Spells to Catch Your Man’
and ‘How Wicca Can Fulfill Your Dreams.’

Nightingale flicked away what was left of
his cigarette and pushed open the door. The tinkling of a tiny silver bell
announced his arrival and he smelled lavender and lemon grass and jasmine.

Alice Steadman was arranging a display of
incense sticks next to an old-fashioned cash register and she beamed when she
saw him. ‘Mr Nightingale, this is a lovely surprise.’ She was in her late
sixties, with pointy features that always reminded Nightingale of a bird. Her
grey hair was loose around her shoulders. It was the first time he’d seen her
hair like
that,
usually it was tied back in a
ponytail. Her skin was wrinkled and almost translucent but her emerald green
eyes burned like coals. She was dressed all in black, a long tunic over a
floor-length skirt and a thick leather belt with a silver buckle in the shape
of a quarter moon.

‘
Would you like tea?’ she asked.

‘
I would love some,’ he said.

Mrs Steadman pulled back a beaded curtain
behind the counter and shouted up a flight of stairs. ‘Shona, you can leave
that for the time being, can you mind the shop for me?’

Nightingale heard the soft pad of bare feet
on the stairs and a pretty blonde girl with full tattooed sleeves and several
stainless steel face piercings appeared. She avoided looking at Nightingale as
she took her place at the cash register while Mrs Steadman ushered him through
the curtain into a small room where a gas fire was burning, casting flickering
shadows across the walls.

As Nightingale sat at a circular wooden
table under a
brightly-coloured
Tiffany lampshade, she
went over to a kettle on top of a pale green refrigerator and switched it on.
She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘Milk and no sugar,’ she said.

‘
Perfect.’

‘
So how can I help you, Mr Nightingale,’ she said as she spooned PG
Tips into a brown ceramic teapot. ‘I’m assuming this isn’t just a social
visit.’

‘
I do love your tea,’ he said. ‘But yes, I could do with some
advice.’ Nightingale took the drawing of the magic circle from his pocket and
spread it out on the table. ‘Have you seen something like this before?’

Mrs Steadman walked over and frowned down
at the drawing. ‘Now where did you get that from?’ she asked.

‘
It was done in a school,’ said Nightingale. ‘A boarding school.’

‘
Oh dear,’ sighed Mrs Steadman. ‘Dear, dear, dear.’

‘
What does it mean?’

‘
Nothing good, Mr Nightingale,’ she said. ‘Nothing good.’

She went back to the kettle and stood with
her back to him, her shoulders hunched. When the kettle had boiled she poured
water into the teapot and carried it over to the table on a tray with two blue
and white striped mugs and a matching milk jug and sugar bowl. She sat down and
poured tea for him, then added milk. Only when she had handed him his tea did
she speak.
‘Mr Nightingale,
you really shouldn’t be messing with things like this.’ She nodded at the
paper. ‘And please, put that away.’

Nightingale
picked up the paper, folded it, and put it back in his pocket.

‘What does it
mean, Mrs Steadman?’

‘Just walk away
from this, please.’

‘You know what it
is, don’t you?’

‘So do you. It’s
a pentagram.’

‘But it’s
special, isn’t it. I’ve never seen those markings before.’

‘They’re…special.’
She shuddered.

‘Special in what
way?’

‘Why do you want
to know, Mr Nightingale.’

‘A young girl was
found dead by one of these circles.’

‘Inside or
outside?’ asked Mrs Steadman quickly.

‘Outside.’

Mrs Steadman
winced
as
if she had been struck.

‘Please, I need
to know what the significance is.’

‘Of the girl? Or
the circle.’

Nightingale
frowned. ‘Both, I guess.’

Mrs Steadman took
a deep breath, then poured herself more tea. ‘The circle is used to summon
Paimonia, one of the kings of Hell.’ She pointed at one of the symbols. ‘This
is his sigil. His symbol. He is a demon of the first rank with two hundred
legions of followers and really, you don’t want to have anything to do with
him. He is powerful, Mr Nightingale. Really powerful.’

‘I just need
information, Mrs Steadman. I’m not planning on summoning him.’

She stared at him
with her bird-like eyes. ‘I do hope that’s the truth,’ she said eventually.
‘Paimonia is different to most of the demons in that doing a deal with him
requires a sacrifice.’

‘A human
sacrifice?’

Mrs Steadman
nodded. ‘Generally a deal can be struck with a demon once summoned. A quid pro
quo. But Paimonia requires more. And because of what he offers, many are prepared
to make the sacrifices that are required.’

‘What does he
offer?’

‘Eternal life, Mr
Nightingale. ‘Or as close to eternal as is possible.’

‘You can live for
ever?’

‘At a price, Mr
Nightingale. At a terrible price.’

Nightingale
sipped his tea and waited for her to continue.

‘Demons are
devious, as you know. Paimonia is more devious than most. He offers you
immortality, but demands a sacrifice. That sacrifice means that only the most
committed move forward. Which is when the rest of the deal is made clear. The
sacrifice is not a one-off. It has to be repeated. If it isn’t repeated, the
immortality is lost.’

‘So the person
has to keep on killing?’

‘Not necessarily
doing the actual killing, but they have to supply the sacrifice. The only
negotiation is how often the sacrifices have to occur.’

‘I don’t
understand, I’m sorry.’

Mrs Steadman
sipped her tea. ‘The person who summons Paimonia often doesn’t know about the
sacrifice. Those who do a deal with him are sworn to secrecy. When they do
realise that a girl has to be killed, they often back out. Those that decide to
continue then negotiate how often the sacrifices have to occur. Paimonia has
some flexibility. If it’s a soul that he really wants, perhaps the sacrifices
take place every fifty years. Or a hundred. If a soul is less valuable, then
perhaps Paimonia would insist on a sacrifice every year.’

‘But if the deal
is for immortality, Paimonia would never collect. That doesn’t make sense.’

‘Devils have
patience, Mr Nightingale. They view time differently.’

‘But if the
person never dies, Paimonia won’t get the soul.’

Mrs Steadman
smiled sadly. ‘No one wants to live forever, Mr Nightingale. Not really. They
think they do, but birth, life and death form a cycle. You can’t fight the
cycle for ever. Sooner or later everyone decides it’s time to go.’

Nightingale felt
a sudden craving for a cigarette but he knew that Mrs Steadman didn’t approve
so he picked up a biscuit and nibbled it.

‘Time means
nothing to the likes of Paimonia. He just waits for
as
long as it takes. And he’s happy to wait because he takes pleasure from the
sacrifices.’

‘Always a girl?’

Mrs Steadman
nodded. ‘A girl, the younger the better. Sometimes that will be spelled out
during the negotiation. Paimonia might insist on a virgin, for example.’ She
leaned towards him and stared into his eyes. ‘Mr Nightingale, please don’t even
think about getting involved with Paimonia.’

‘I’m sort of
involved already,’ he said. ‘It’s a case. I have a client who wants answers.’

‘You won’t get
answers from Paimonia. Only grief.’

Nightingale
forced a smile. ‘I understand.’

She leaned even
closer. ‘I hope you do,’ she said.

Nightingale
realised for the first time how dark her eyes were. The irises were almost as
black as the pupils. As he stared into her eyes he saw his own reflection, then
suddenly his reflection was gone and he was looking at something else,
something with a gaping mouth and pointed teeth and slanted red eyes. He
flinched and jerked backwards, tea slopping over his hand. He apologised and
Mrs Steadman scurried away to fetch a towel. She used it to mop up the spilled
tea.

‘I’m so sorry,’
he said.

‘Don’t be silly.
There’s no point in crying over spilled tea.’ She sat down opposite him and
refilled his mug.

Nightingale
smiled. Her eyes were brown now, her pupils clearly defined. ‘This Paimonia,
he’s all-powerful, is he?’

‘Most devils
are,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘But Paimonia is especially strong. He’s cunning and
careful. The only time he takes physical form is at the moment of sacrifice.’

‘Could he be
killed then?’

Mrs Steadman’s
eyes narrowed. ‘Mr Nightingale…’ she sighed.

He held up his
hands. ‘I’m just curious,’ he said.

‘I’m serious
about this, Mr Nightingale. You really don’t want to go anywhere near
Paimonia.’

‘I’m not planning
to. I’d just like to know.’

She sighed and
sipped her tea. ‘Then the answer to your question is yes. In theory, Paimonia
could be killed at the moment of sacrifice. But you know about the magic
circle. You have to stay within it while the devil is present. Or your own life
is at risk.’ She waved her hand in front of her face. ‘I really don’t like
talking about this, Mr Nightingale. It makes me very uncomfortable.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs
Steadman. Let’s drop the subject.’ He sipped his tea and smiled brightly. ‘So,
what’s new in the world of Wicca?’

* * *

Nightingale was
eating duck noodles in Mrs Chan’s Chinese restaurant on the ground floor of the
building where he lived when Robbie Hoyle called him. ‘You screwed up with that
photograph, it’s not from forty years ago.’

Mrs Chan put a
bottle of beer down in front of him and smiled.

Nightingale waved
his thanks. ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked Hoyle.

‘Because his name
isn’t Charles Nelson and he’s thirty-nine years old.’

‘You must have
the wrong guy.’

‘One hundred per
cent match on facial recognition,’ said Hoyle. ‘I’m looking at both pictures
now, Jack. It’s the same guy, same chip in the front tooth. Where did you get
your photograph from?’

‘It was on the
wall of the school. He was the headmaster there, forty years ago.’

‘Somebody is
messing with you. His name is Richard Hall and like I said, he’s thirty nine.’

‘Have you got an
address?’

‘Sure. He’s in
north London. But if your guy was a headmaster forty years ago, it’s definitely
not him.’

‘You’re a star,
mate, thanks.’

Nightingale ended
the call and a few minutes later, just as he was finishing his noodles, his
phone beeped to let him know he had received a message. Attached to the message
was a picture of a driving licence belonging to Richard Hall. The address on
the licence was in Highgate, not far from the cemetery where Karl Marx was
buried.

* * *

‘Exactly what are
you going to say to him?’ asked Jenny. She was behind the wheel of her Audi
sports car, parked a short distance from the house in Highgate where Richard
Hall was supposed to live.

‘I’ll ask him if
he’s Charles Nelson,’ said Nightingale. He was in the passenger seat. She had
picked him up in Bayswater at just after seven o’clock in the morning, the idea
being that the early bird would catch the worm.

‘And if he denies
it, what then?’

‘The picture
evidence is pretty convincing,’ said Nightingale.

‘You’d need DNA
or fingerprints to be sure,’ said Jenny. ‘Face recognition isn’t an exact
science, not yet anyway. And if you’re right – what then?’

‘What do you
mean, what then?’

‘Suppose he
admits to being Charles Nelson? And that he changed his name to Richard Hall?
And that he hasn’t aged a day over the last forty years? You think he’ll just
put his hands up to murdering Emily Campbell.’

‘You’d be
surprised how many people do confess when confronted with the evidence.’

‘Jack, all you
have is a photo on your phone. And the change of name means he wants to cover
his tracks.’

Nightingale
sighed. ‘I could do with less negativity, frankly.’

‘Yeah? And I
could do with a boss who doesn’t use me as a chauffeur before the sun comes
up.’

‘You get what
this guy has done, right? He’s done a deal with a devil to live forever and in
return he has to offer up regular human sacrifices.’