Midnight: The Second Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (26 page)

59

N
ightingale sipped his cup of canteen coffee and grimaced. The police had left him in the interview room for the best part of three hours and had only opened the door once, to give him the coffee and a stale cheese sandwich. He’d taken the fact that they hadn’t put him in a cell as a good sign.

The door opened and he recognised a familiar face. Superintendent Chalmers. He was wearing full uniform and carrying a clipboard. ‘Get your feet off the table,’ said Chalmers, closing the door.

‘Why, are you going to charge me with putting my feet on the table? I didn’t realise that was an offence.’

Chalmers slapped Nightingale’s Hush Puppies with his clipboard. ‘Act your bloody age,’ he said.

Nightingale took his feet off the table. ‘They had no right to bring me in,’ he said. ‘I’m the victim in this.’

‘You told the officers at the scene that you were attacked.’

‘My tyre was flat. He stopped to help me change it. Then he hit me with a wrench and pulled out a razor.’

‘But he’s the one who ended up unconscious in the road.’

‘We struggled.’ He pointed at the back of his head. A doctor had put in three stitches and given him Paracetamol for his headache. ‘I didn’t do this to myself, Chalmers.’

‘And you didn’t say anything to provoke him?’

‘I was on my knees working the jack,’ said Nightingale.

Chalmers nodded slowly. ‘You were lucky this time, Nightingale,’ he said.

‘That’s funny because I don’t feel lucky.’ He touched the stitches on the back of his head.

‘The man who attacked you. His name is Eric Marshall.’

‘He told me his name was Chance.’

‘Yeah, well, we went around to Marshall’s house and found a diary that he’s been keeping. It looks as if he’s responsible for a dozen or so unsolved murders over the past five years. One of them is a case I worked on a few years ago. There are details in the diary that only the killer would know.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Do I look like a stand-up comedian, Nightingale? Seems he had a thing going with a coin. Heads you die, tails you live – something like that. Did you see him toss a coin?’

‘I was stunned,’ lied Nightingale.

‘Yeah, well, apparently he let the coin decide whether his victims lived or died. Looks like he slashed your tyre, by the way. Which suggests he was targeting you.’

‘I never met him before tonight,’ said Nightingale.

‘You sure? Never crossed paths with him while you were in the Job? Or did some private case on him?’

‘I’m sure,’ said Nightingale. ‘So you’ve got him, then? Done and dusted?’

‘There’s blood on the razor. Two types. We’re doing DNA analysis now and we’ll cross-check with murder cases, but the diary alone will put him away.’

‘So I’m a hero?’

‘No, Nightingale, you’re an arsehole. But unfortunately I can’t arrest you for that.’ He jerked his thumb at the door. ‘Now get the hell out of my station before I change my mind.’

60

J
enny was sitting at her desk reading through a stack of printed sheets when Nightingale walked into the office just before midday. ‘I got your message,’ she said. ‘Something wrong at Gosling Manor?’

‘Nah, I was looking for a book,’ he said. He held up a Sainsbury’s carrier bag. ‘Found it, too. The Yank wants it and he’s in town tomorrow’

‘Christmas Eve?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Great, the money should come in handy.’

‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘There’s some sort of curse attached to it.’ He took off his raincoat and hung it on the back of the door.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If you sell it you die. That sort of curse.’

‘Well, don’t go swapping it for a handful of magic beans, that’s all. We don’t have much in the way of cash and Christmas is always the quiet time of the year.’

Nightingale looked down at the sheets she was studying. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘Mitchell’s diary,’ she said. ‘The one you took from his house. Took as in stole, of course.’

‘But it’s not mirror writing. I mean, it’s still nonsense but it’s the right way round.’

‘It’s not nonsense, it’s Latin,’ she said. ‘I started doing that thing with the mirror but then I had a brainwave. I scanned all the pages into the computer and then used Photoshop to flip it.’

‘Smart girl.’

‘If I was smart I’d have thought of doing it sooner,’ said Jenny.

‘Any mention of Frimost? Or Lucifuge Rofocale?’

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘It’ll take me some time to work my way through it. I’ve sorted out the mirror image but it’s still in Latin and my Latin is a bit rusty.’

‘Yeah, well, mine’s non-existent.’

‘What happened to your head?’ asked Jenny, noticing the stitches in his scalp for the first time. ‘That’s not from when you got hit in Wales, is it?’

‘I was attacked,’ said Nightingale.

‘When?’

‘Last night. After I’d walked you home.’

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It’s clearly not nothing, Jack. What happened?’

Nightingale smiled ‘Guy wanted to give me a shave.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t mess around, Jack. Spill the beans.’

‘I tell you what – if you make me a coffee I’ll tell you the whole story.’

Jenny raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you forget our deal?’

‘Was it signed in blood?’

‘It was a promise to make me coffee for the rest of the week,’ she said. ‘And I’m holding you to it.’

Nightingale made them both coffee and they went through to his office. ‘I was attacked by a serial killer,’ said Nightingale. ‘Tried to slit my throat but I came off best.’

‘What?’

‘He did one of my tyres then offered to help me change the wheel, and then he pulled a knife.’ He grinned. ‘Turns out he’s got form. Chalmers is on the case.’

‘Why would he attack you? You don’t know him?’

‘Complete stranger,’ said Nightingale.

‘What about the Welsh serial killer? Could it be him?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘This guy wasn’t interested in making it look like suicide,’ he said. ‘He kept a diary, apparently. Detailing his murders. And Chalmers didn’t say anything about them being in Wales.’ Nightingale sipped his coffee. ‘I’ve got a feeling that Proserpine is behind it.’

‘Why?’ Nightingale looked away and Jenny sighed. ‘Not again. What are you not telling me this time?’

‘I sort of did a deal with her.’

‘What sort of deal?’

‘It sounds crazy,’ he said. ‘Until last night I wasn’t sure that I believed it myself.’

‘Everything that’s happened over the past few weeks is crazy; one more thing isn’t going to worry me. What did you do, Jack?’

Nightingale lit a cigarette before he answered. He needed the nicotine but he also needed time to think. ‘Proserpine gave me the information I needed, but there was a price. For every question she answered, she said she’d send someone to kill me.’

Jenny folded her arms. ‘She what?’

‘That was the deal. By the time I’d finished, she said she’d send three killers after me.’

‘She answered three questions?’

Nightingale looked pained. ‘Not really. Two. Well, three, but one of them wasn’t helpful.’ He took another sip of coffee. ‘You had to have been there. She’s cunning.’

‘She’s a demon from Hell, Jack, of course she’s cunning. What did she say?’

‘She told me about a devil called Sugart. He’s on a par with Frimost. If I play it right, I can set them against each other.’

‘How does that help?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘Don’t you think you should have told me this before?’

‘This whole devil thing, I’m not sure what I believe and what I don’t.’

‘But, after last night, you know she means it? She’s going to have you killed?’

Nightingale gingerly touched the wound on his scalp. ‘The bang on the head shows she’s serious,’ he said. ‘One down, two to go.’

‘It’s not funny,’ said Jenny.

‘I’m just trying to lighten the moment.’

‘Yeah, well, you’re failing miserably.’ She sighed and went back into her office.

Nightingale took out his wallet and found the receipt on which Joshua Wainwright had written his mobile phone number. He tapped out the number and the American answered almost immediately.

‘How’re things, Jack?’ he said.

‘Are you psychic?’ asked Nightingale. ‘How did you know it was me?’

Wainwright laughed. ‘Caller ID,’ he said. ‘Technology, not witchcraft.’

‘I didn’t give you my number,’ said Nightingale.

‘I stored it last time you called,’ said Wainwright. ‘You sound mighty suspicious, Jack. Someone giving you a hard time?’

‘No more than usual,’ said Nightingale. ‘Where are you?’

‘Here and there,’ said the American. ‘What’s up?’

‘That diary you wanted. The special one. I found it.’

‘You did, huh? You remember what I said?’

‘About not selling? Sure. Hardly likely to forget something like that. I thought you’d want to see it straight away. You said you might be in London this week.’

‘Darn tooting I’d like it. I’ll be in the Ritz tomorrow. Come round, but you’ll have to ask for Bert Whistler.’

‘Bert Whistler?’

‘Low profile,’ said Wainwright. ‘So what do you want for it?’

‘Why do you think I want something?’

Wainwright chuckled. ‘Maybe I am psychic, after all,’ he said. ‘But I figure that if you can’t sell it then you’ll have come up with a trade. A barter. A quid pro quo.’

‘You’re right,’ said Nightingale. ‘But all I want is some information. Advice.’

‘I’ll see you at the Ritz,’ said Wainwright. ‘I should be there by noon. We can talk then.’

Nightingale ended the call and went through to Jenny’s office. ‘Wainwright’s in London tomorrow and I’m going to take the books round to him.’

‘Jack, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.’

‘I don’t think Satanists are big on Christmas.’

She shook her head in exasperation. ‘You know what I mean. We’re going to my parents tomorrow. Remember? I’m driving you to Norfolk in the morning.’

Nightingale groaned. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Completely slipped my mind.’

‘Yeah, I can see how high up I am on your list of priorities,’ she said.

‘It’s not that,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s just . . .’

‘That there are more important things on your mind,’ she said. ‘I understand.’

‘He’ll be at the Ritz. I’ll drop off the books and then I’ll drive up myself. I’ll be there in the afternoon. It’s no biggie.’ The look of disappointment stayed on her face. ‘Jenny, I’ve already bought your dad a bottle of eighteen-year-old Laphroaig and some lemongrass shower gel for your mum.’

‘Shower gel?’

‘I’m not good at buying gifts for women,’ said Nightingale. ‘But the salesgirl said that it makes your skin go all tingly, so that’s got to be good, right?’

‘Okay, but you’d better be there, Jack. I told them you were coming.’

‘I won’t let you down, I promise.’

61

N
ightingale arrived at the Ritz Hotel at noon. He unbuttoned his raincoat as he walked across the marble floor towards the reception desk, swinging his Sainsbury’s carrier bag.

The receptionist was a man in his mid-thirties with a fifty-pound haircut and a made-to-measure suit that was probably worth as much as Nightingale’s MGB. He smiled professionally at Nightingale and tapped in the name Whistler on a discreetly hidden keyboard. ‘Who shall I say is here to see him?’

‘Tell him it’s his mother,’ said Nightingale.

The receptionist frowned.

‘Whistler’s mother,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s a joke.’ The receptionist continued to stare impassively at him and Nightingale flashed back to when he was at school, explaining to a teacher why he had a packet of Marlboro and a box of matches in his schoolbag. ‘Then again, maybe it isn’t,’ he said. ‘Nightingale. Jack Nightingale.’

The smile reappeared and the receptionist tapped again on the keyboard. ‘Mr Whistler hasn’t checked in yet.’

‘He was supposed to be here at twelve,’ said Nightingale.

‘That’s our understanding too, sir, but, as I said, he’s yet to arrive. Would you like to leave a message?’

‘I’ll wait,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do me a favour and leave a message that I’m in reception.’

Nightingale left the receptionist typing away and walked over to an armchair. He sat down and waited. From where he was sitting he could see the main door and all of the reception area, but an hour passed and there was no sign of the American. He called Wainwright’s mobile phone but it just rang out and didn’t go through to voicemail. At one o’clock he went back to the desk and spoke to another receptionist, this one a pretty blonde girl. She confirmed that Wainwright still hadn’t checked in.

Nightingale sat down again and continued waiting. It was another hour before a man in a black suit, crisp white shirt and black tie appeared in front of him. He had a head that was completely shaved and a small scar under his left ear. At first Nightingale thought he was a hotel employee but then he spotted a discreet clear-plastic earpiece.

‘Mr Nightingale?’ he said, in a soft American accent.

‘That’s me.’

‘Mr Wainwright will see you now,’ he said.

‘I didn’t see him come in,’ said Nightingale.

‘Mr Wainwright uses a private entrance,’ said the man. ‘He prefers it that way.’

Nightingale stood up as the man headed for the lifts. ‘What floor are we going to?’ he asked.

‘Sixth,’ said the man.

‘Room six six six, by any chance?’

The man frowned and shook his head. ‘Six three two,’ he said. ‘He always stays in the same suite.’

‘I know this is going to sound crazy, but can we use the stairs?’

‘Absolutely,’ said the man. ‘I’m no fan of elevators myself.’

They took the stairs to the sixth floor and then Nightingale followed the man along a plush corridor. The door to Wainwright’s suite was opened by a gorgeous blonde in a tight-fitting suit the skirt of which ended a good ten inches above her knees. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Nightingale,’ she said. ‘Do come in. Mr Wainwright is expecting you.’ She had an Afrikaans accent and the bluest eyes that Nightingale had ever seen.

She took him through to a sitting room where Wainwright was sprawled on a sofa reading a copy of the
Wall Street Journal
. He was wearing a blue denim shirt, black 501 jeans and a pair of gleaming lizard-skin cowboy boots.

‘Jack, good to see you,’ said the American. He stood up, shook hands with Nightingale and then waved him to an armchair before sitting down again. ‘Sorry I’m late. I had a thing at Westminster and the guy I was there to see was tied up with your PM.’

Nightingale gave Wainwright the carrier bag and sat down.

The American opened the bag and took out a leather-bound book. His eyes widened. ‘This is . . . indescribable,’ said Wainwright. He looked up at Nightingale. ‘Do you know what this is, Jack?’

‘Aleister Crowley’s diary,’ said Nightingale. He looked around but didn’t see an ashtray. ‘Is it okay to smoke in here?’

‘They block-book the suite for me all year round,’ said Wainwright. ‘We can set fire to the place if we want.’ He held up the book. ‘This isn’t just his diary. It’s not just a first edition. It’s a bound proof copy, with his corrections in ink. He held these pages and made corrections to them, corrections which were then made before the book proper was printed.’

‘But it’s still cursed?’ said Nightingale. He lit a cigarette.

‘I didn’t say it was cursed. I just said that whenever a copy was sold, the buyer and the seller died.’

‘That suggests a curse, doesn’t it?’

‘Not in the strict sense of what is usually meant by a curse,’ said the American. ‘Anyway, curse or no curse, this is beyond price, Jack. This is . . .’

‘Priceless?’ Nightingale finished for him.

‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ said Wainwright. ‘I had no idea that you’d be bringing me this. It’s . . .’ He shook his head, lost for words.

‘Bearing in mind what happens to those who sell it, I want you to accept it as a gift. With my compliments.’

‘I accept, of course,’ said Wainwright, holding the volume against his chest. ‘And I’ll be forever in your debt, Jack. Ask and you shall receive.’ He grinned. ‘Except for cold hard cash, of course.’ Wainwright swung his feet up onto an antique coffee table. ‘On the phone you said you wanted help with something.’

‘That’s right,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need to talk to Lucifuge Rofocale. The devil you said was Lucifer’s negotiator.’

Wainwright’s jaw dropped. ‘Say what?’

‘I need to know how to summon him. I have to talk to him.’

‘Jack . . .’

He nodded at the book. ‘You’ve got what you wanted; all I’m asking is that you give me what I want.’

‘I thought I explained how dangerous it can be to summon the upper echelons.’

‘Duly noted.’

‘You don’t have the experience. Or the power. I’m pretty darn good at it but I don’t have the power to call Lucifuge Rofocale, and even if I did, I wouldn’t. One slip, one sign of weakness and . . . puff! You’d be ashes. Or worse.’ He held up the book he was holding. ‘Crowley? Maybe he could have done it, at the height of his powers. But he was one of the greatest Satanists of the last century. You, Jack, what are you? A disgraced cop turned private eye.’

‘The “disgraced” label is a bit harsh, Josh.’

Wainwright smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off, but I like you, Jack. I really do. And I wouldn’t want you to get sucked into something that could only end badly.’

‘I don’t have much of a choice,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need to resolve the situation with my sister, and he’s the only one who can do that.’

‘You want to do a deal with Lucifuge Rofocale?’

‘Not exactly. I just want to talk to him. Do you know how?’

Wainwright shook his head. ‘He’s way out of my league.’

Nightingale pulled a face. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said.

‘Well, not necessarily.’ Wainwright held up the book. ‘If anyone knew how to call up Lucifuge Rofocale, it was Aleister Crowley. The answer’s almost certainly here.’ He flicked through the pages, a thoughtful frown on his face, while Nightingale sat and smoked. Eventually Wainwright grinned and stabbed at a page. ‘There you are.’

Nightingale stood up, walked across to the American and looked over his shoulder.

‘This is what you have to do,’ said Wainwright. ‘But you have to follow his instructions to the letter. The letter, Jack.’

‘I understand.’

‘Are you sure that you do? Because one mistake, one slip, would mean certain death.’

Nightingale blew a smoke ring towards the ornate ceiling. ‘Everyone dies eventually, Josh,’ he said.

‘True,’ said the American. ‘But not everyone burns in Hell for all eternity.’