Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (28 page)

60

‘
Y
ou’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said Simon Underwood, his eye blazing with hatred.

‘How do you know my name?’ asked Nightingale. ‘I didn’t tell you my name. How do you know who I am?’ Underwood was wearing a dark pinstripe suit that fitted so well it could only have been made to measure. There was a gold Rolex on his left wrist, a gold signet ring on his right hand and a pair of designer glasses on his nose. He was in his forties with a touch of grey at the temples. He was holding a mobile phone and pointing it at Nightingale as if it was a gun. ‘How do you know my name?’ repeated Nightingale.

Underwood turned towards the window behind him. It ran from the floor to the ceiling and gave a panoramic view of the tower blocks of Canary Wharf, home to some of the world’s biggest financial institutions.

‘No!’ said Nightingale, knowing what would come next. ‘No!’ he screamed.

The phone that Underwood was holding began to ring. It was a regular ringtone, an insistent bell, and it got louder and louder until the sound was deafening. Nightingale opened his eyes and groaned as he groped for the phone on his bedside table and squinted at his bedside clock. It was eight o’clock in the morning. ‘Mr Nightingale, this is Alice Steadman. I didn’t wake you, did I?’

Nightingale sat up. His head was throbbing. He had drunk three double whiskies in the pub with Jenny and she’d driven him home where he’d finished off half a bottle of Macallan malt. ‘Who, sorry?’

‘Alice Steadman. From the Wicca Woman store in Camden.’

‘Right,’ said Nightingale.

‘I did wake you, didn’t I? I’m so sorry, I’m an early riser and I was asked to call you first thing to see if you’d be interested.’

‘Interested in what?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not explaining this at all well, am I? I’ve sold two of your books for you, Mr Nightingale, at a very good price. The gentleman concerned is interested in another volume Mr Gosling has in his collection.’

‘Who is this mystery buyer?’

‘An American,’ she said, ‘from Texas. His name is Joshua Wainwright. Like your father, he’s a collector. And apparently he was at several auctions where your father outbid him. Now he wonders whether you’d be prepared to sell at least one of the volumes to him. For more than your father paid, obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ said Nightingale. ‘Which book is it?’

‘It’s called
The Formicarius
, and it’s a first edition. Apparently your father bought it from a dealer in Germany.’

‘I’ve seen the receipt,’ said Nightingale. ‘Sure, I’ll be happy to sell it to him.’

‘If you’re agreeable, he’ll fly over to meet you. He’ll pay you in cash.’

‘I’m certainly agreeable to that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Tell him to give me a call when he gets here.’

‘Mr Wainwright said that if you were prepared to sell he’d fly over this afternoon.’

‘Tell him I’ll have the book ready for him.’

‘And don’t forget my commission, Mr Nightingale.’

‘Heaven forbid.’

He put down the receiver and rolled onto his back. His alarm wasn’t due to go off for another fifteen minutes and he was just wondering whether he was tired enough to doze when the phone rang again. Nightingale sighed and reached for it, assuming that it was Mrs Steadman again. It was Jenny.

‘Jack . . .’ She sounded shaky as if she was close to tears.

‘Jenny, what’s wrong?’

‘Jack, I’m at home – I’ve been robbed. Can you come, please?’

‘Of course,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll be right there.’

‘They had guns, Jack. They said they’d kill me.’

61

J
enny lived in a three-bedroom mews house in Chelsea, just off the King’s Road. The street was quaintly cobbled and the house bedecked with window-boxes. Outside the front door two massive concrete urns contained six-foot conifers. Nightingale parked his MGB in front of the yellow garage door and climbed out. Even after the property crash, Jenny’s house must have been worth close to two million pounds. He had never asked her if it was hers or if she rented it, but either way he knew she couldn’t have afforded it on the salary he paid her.

He pressed the bell, and a few seconds later the door opened on a security chain. He caught a glimpse of unkempt hair and then she closed the door to unhook the chain. She was wearing a dark green Cambridge University sweatshirt and baggy cargo pants and her eyes were red and puffy. ‘What happened?’

She ushered him into the hallway, closed the door and bolted it. ‘I was robbed, Jack. Three men broke in and took the diary.’

‘Mitchell’s?’

‘Of course Mitchell’s diary? Do you think they’d break in to steal my bloody Filofax?’

‘Big men, black suits, sunglasses?’

Jenny nodded. ‘Do you know who they are?’

‘They’re Mitchell’s men, bodyguards, protectors – his house was full of them. Jenny, did they hurt you?’

She went through to the sitting room and dropped onto a flower-print sofa. ‘No, but they scared the life out of me.’

Nightingale sat down opposite her. ‘What happened?’

‘I was leaving for work,’ she said. ‘I opened the front door and they were there. They just pushed me inside, one put his hand over my mouth and brought me in here, while the other two looked for the diary – not that they needed to do much searching. It was in my bag.’

‘Did they say anything?’

‘Not while they were looking for the diary. But when they found it, one pointed a gun at my face and said that if I called the police they’d come back and shoot me.’

‘I’m sorry, baby.’

‘It wasn’t your fault, Jack,’ she said.

‘I should have figured that Mitchell would try to get it back. I should have warned you. He told me Gosling had stolen it from him.’ Jenny’s hands began to shake. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

Nightingale went to the kitchen, all stainless steel with state-of-the-art German appliances. He made the tea, stirred in three sugars and a splash of milk, and took it to her. She sipped it and winced. ‘I don’t take sugar,’ she said. ‘You know I don’t.’

‘It’s good for shock,’ he said, sitting down again.

‘I’m not in shock,’ she insisted.

‘You are – you just don’t know it,’ he said. ‘Do as you’re told and drink it.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘What do you think, Jack? Should I call the police?’

‘I’m not sure what they’d do, to be honest,’ said Nightingale. ‘There are no witnesses, no forensics, and they’ll be back in the Mitchell house, which is like a fortress. I doubt they’ll open the gates without a warrant.’

‘They pointed a gun at me, Jack.’

‘I know. You want me to have them shot? I know people.’

Jenny laughed uneasily. ‘You’re mad.’

‘Tell me about it.’ He stood up. ‘Leave it with me, Jenny. I haven’t finished with Mitchell yet.’

‘I was so scared,’ said Jenny. Tea slopped over the side of her cup into the saucer.

‘Are you okay to go to work or do you want to stay home? We don’t have much on, work-wise.’

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

‘I’ve got to pick up a book from Gosling Manor and take it out to the airport later today. There’s a buyer flying in from the States.’

‘You’re really okay if I don’t go into the office?’

‘Not a problem,’ said Nightingale.

‘I want to get a security company in,’ she said, ‘and have the locks changed.’

‘They won’t be back. They got what they wanted.’

‘I’d just feel safer – you know?’

‘I’m sorry, Jenny. It was my fault. I should never have given you the diary.’

‘You weren’t to know,’ said Jenny.

Nightingale leaned over and kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

‘A pay rise?’

‘I was thinking a bunch of flowers.’ He ruffled her hair and headed for the door. ‘Seriously, though, put all the bills through the office. The least I can do is to pay for your locks. And an alarm if you want it.’

‘Thanks, Jack. But we’re in the red as it is.’

‘Not for long, hopefully,’ he said, and winked. ‘Wish me luck.’

62

I
f you’d asked Jack Nightingale what he thought Joshua Wainwright would look like as he climbed the stairs to the hatch in the Gulfstream jet, he’d probably have frowned and said that he never prejudged people but, if pressed, he’d have hazarded a guess that the man would be old, wearing cowboy boots and a Stetson and smoking a cigar, probably with a bodyguard or two in attendance.

He was wrong on all counts, except for the cigar. Joshua Wainwright was smoking a foot-long Cuban that would have had to be rolled on an especially large thigh, and was wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap. He was sitting in a white leather armchair with his bare feet on a matching leather footstool and looked as if he was barely out of his twenties.

Wainwright grinned when he saw the surprise on Nightingale’s face. ‘I’m guessing you were expecting someone older,’ he said, his voice a lazy Texan drawl. ‘And maybe whiter. That happens a lot. Take a seat.’

‘Just don’t tell me you’re really two hundred years old,’ said Nightingale, placing his briefcase on the table next to him. ‘Or that you’ve a picture slowly going bad in your attic.’

Wainwright laughed. Two pretty blondes in matching charcoal grey Armani suits were standing behind him. ‘Can I get you a drink, Jack?’ he drawled.

‘A whisky would be good.’

‘A man after my own heart.’ Wainwright twisted his head around. ‘Two whiskies, darling,’ he said. ‘Glenlivet.’ He looked at Jack. ‘Okay with you?’

‘In my experience, any malt beginning with a G or an M can’t be faulted,’ said Nightingale. ‘Ice in mine, please,’ he said to the stewardess, who flashed him a perfect gleaming white smile.

The plane was sitting on the Tarmac close to the private aviation terminal at Stansted airport. A black stretch Mercedes limousine had been waiting for Nightingale airside, and a uniformed chauffeur had driven him out to the Gulfstream. The plane was expensively outfitted with four white leather seats the size of armchairs, a three-seater white leather sofa, a large LCD television screen on the bulkhead, and oblong picture windows.

‘Can I offer you a cigar, Jack?’ asked Wainwright.

‘I’m a cigarette smoker,’ said Nightingale. ‘Is it okay to smoke in here?’

‘It’s my plane, we can do what we want.’

Nightingale took out his packet of Marlboro and lit one. The second stewardess placed a large crystal ashtray next to his briefcase.

‘So you’re Ainsley Gosling’s son?’ asked Wainwright. ‘How’s that working out for you?’

‘We weren’t close,’ replied Nightingale. The stewardess gave him his whisky and another beaming smile.

‘But he left you his library?’

‘He left me everything,’ said Nightingale.

Wainwright jabbed his cigar at Nightingale’s briefcase. ‘Is that it?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘It took some finding, I haven’t worked out his indexing system yet. It’s certainly not alphabetical.’ He put down his drink and cigarette and picked up the briefcase. Wainwright licked his lips as Nightingale took out the book. It was almost two feet long, eighteen inches wide and a good two inches thick, the pages yellowing, the white leather binding cracked and faded. It had taken Nightingale almost three hours to find it in the basement. As so many of the books’ spines didn’t show the title he’d had to take them down and open them one at a time.

Wainwright put down his cigar and took the book from him reverently, as if he was holding a baby. His eyes were wide and he had a faint smile on his lips. It was a smile of triumph, Nightingale realised.

‘Awesome,’ said Wainwright. ‘Do you know what it is, Jack?

‘
The Formicarius
,’ said Nightingale, ‘but that doesn’t mean much to me.’

‘This is a first edition, printed in 1475,’ said Wainwright, stroking the cover. ‘Written by Johannes Nider. It took him two years to complete and it was published eight years later. It was the second book ever to be printed that discussed witchcraft. Before
The Formicarius
, everyone thought only men served the devil.’

‘And that’s why it’s so valuable?’

Wainwright shook his head. ‘No, it’s not what’s written inside the book that’s so important. I have a second edition, and a third, so I already have the words. It’s the book itself I wanted. This book.’ He ran his fingertips down the spine. ‘Your father knew, too. That was why he was so determined to get it.’ He grinned. ‘It was supposed to be mine, you know? The bookseller in Hamburg had agreed to sell it to me but somehow your father got to him before I could wire the money. He was a very persuasive man, your father.’

‘So I’m told,’ said Nightingale.

‘He paid a million and half euros, you know that?’

‘I saw the receipt. So what is it about the book that makes it so special?’

‘Are you sure you want to know, Jack?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Why not?’

Wainwright smiled, relishing the moment, then he kissed the book’s front cover. ‘This isn’t leather,’ he said. ‘It’s human skin.’

Nightingale tried not to look surprised but he could see from the satisfaction on the American’s face that he hadn’t succeeded. ‘You don’t say.’

‘Your father paid a million and a half euros, so what say I give you two?’

‘Two sounds good,’ said Nightingale.

Wainwright smiled at a stewardess and she took a small aluminium suitcase from a cupboard and placed it on the table next to Nightingale’s chair. She opened it for him, then went to the rear of the plane. Normally Nightingale would have turned to glimpse her legs but he couldn’t take his eyes off the bundles of banknotes. ‘Wow,’ he said.

‘You’ve got to appreciate the euro,’ said Wainwright. ‘That five-hundred note makes moving cash around so much simpler. If I’d had to use hundred-dollar bills, we’d have needed another suitcase.’

‘It’s not a problem I’m normally faced with,’ said Nightingale.

‘Well, it could be,’ said Wainwright. ‘There’s a few other books in your late father’s library that I might be interested in buying. When you get the chance, can you give me an inventory? There’s not many I haven’t got, but your father was buying books before I was born. I’d be interested to see what he has in his collection.’

‘No problem,’ said Nightingale. He was still staring at the money. Two million euros. He tried to work out how many years he’d have to work to earn that sort of money. Thirty? Forty?

‘Do you want to count it, Jack?’ asked Wainwright.

‘Do I need to?’

Wainwright laughed. ‘If it’s short, give me a call, but it won’t be.’

Nightingale closed the case. ‘Can I keep the case? I don’t think it’ll all fit into mine.’

‘We’ll do a swap,’ said Wainwright. He put the book back into the briefcase that Nightingale had brought with him. ‘Any objections?’

‘I can always buy a new one,’ said Nightingale.

The stewardess who had given him the case stepped forward with a clipboard and a pen. ‘I’ll need you to sign an invoice and a receipt. I’ve copies of both for you,’ said Wainwright.

Nightingale took the pen, a Mont Blanc the size of a small flashlight, and signed his name four times. He frowned when he saw that he was signing in red. ‘Please tell me that’s not blood,’ he said.

‘I like red ink,’ said the American. ‘It’s a quirk of mine. Red is my lucky colour, always has been. Humour me.’

The stewardess took the pen and the clipboard from Nightingale, then gave him a copy of the invoice and the receipt.

‘My cellphone number is on there,’ said Wainwright, ‘and my personal email address. Soon as you have an inventory, I’d like a look. I’ll pay top dollar, cash on the nail.’

Nightingale folded the papers and put them into the inside pocket of his raincoat. He nodded at the briefcase. ‘This stuff works, does it?’

‘Some of it does, some of it doesn’t. It’s a process. It’s something you become better at the more you do it.’ He grinned. ‘That’s why they call it witchcraft. Because it’s a craft.’

‘It seems weird, sitting in a state-of-the-art jet with a suitcase of cash and talking about magic.’

‘So?’

‘So it’s weird, that’s all. Why didn’t you fly over on a broomstick?’

‘You’re thinking Harry Potter. Besides, have you ever tried joining the Mile High Club on a broomstick?’

‘I guess not,’ said Nightingale. ‘So flying broomsticks are bollocks?’

‘Of course they are. But if I wanted to move around the world without the benefits of a Gulfstream, yeah, that’s doable. Astral projection. It’s not easy and it takes a lot of practice, but I can do it. And remote viewing, seeing things at a distance. It’s easier than astral projection, but not as useful.’

‘You’re winding me up,’ said Nightingale, ‘or shitting me, as you Yanks are so fond of saying.’

‘No, I’m serious,’ said Wainwright. ‘Let’s say you’re as good at astral projection as I am. We could arrange to meet somewhere, and at the appointed time we both go into a trance and meet on the astral plane, face to face.’

‘You’ve done that?’

‘I’ve done that with your father, Jack. Many times. He was a master at it.’

‘So how does it work?’

‘Now you’re asking,’ said the American.

‘I’m interested.’

‘I can see that.’ He swung his feet onto the footstool and picked up his cigar. ‘You’ve got a cellphone, right?’ He peered at his cigar and frowned when he realised it had gone out.

‘Sure.’

‘And you know how to use it, right?’ He picked up a box of matches and relit his cigar.

Nightingale wasn’t sure what he was getting at.

‘So, can you tell me how fifty people in a room can have fifty separate cellphone conversations with fifty other people all around the world, and how those fifty people could get into fifty different cars and drive off in fifty different directions, all the time continuing their conversations without a single overlap or lost word?’ He sucked at his cigar and blew smoke without inhaling.

‘I guess not,’ said Nightingale. ‘But you’re not saying that cellphones are magic?’

‘No, I’m saying it’s technology, and we don’t have to understand technology to use it. The occult operates on the same principle.’

‘And anyone can use it?’

‘There are different levels,’ said the American. He patted the copy of
The Formicarius
. ‘This is a tool, and in the right hands, like mine or your father’s, it can accomplish great things. But give it to a child and it’s just a book. You have to know how to use the tools, and that knowledge separates the greats from the wannabes.’

‘But how do you separate the wheat from the chaff, knowledge-wise?’

‘You have to know your source,’ said Wainwright. He pointed at Nightingale’s briefcase. ‘A book like that you can rely on. First editions are best because often there’s information in the illustrations that gets left out if they go on to mass production. Handwritten books, illustrated manuscripts from the Middle Ages, that’s the real gold.’

‘And what about talking to other . . .’ He hesitated, not knowing what word to use. ‘How do I describe guys like you?’ he said.

‘Young, gifted and black.’ He chuckled. ‘That works for me. And with a black man in the White House, it can only get better.’

‘I meant what you guys do,’ said Nightingale. ‘Satanist sounds a bit . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But I guess it’s better than devil-worshipper.’

‘There are all sorts of descriptions,’ said Wainwright. ‘There are straight-up Satanists – theistic Satanists, we call them – there are Luciferians, LaVeyans, Setians, Diabolotors, Demonolators . . . There’s even the Slaytanists.’

‘The Slaytanists?’ echoed Nightingale.

‘Slaytanists,’ said Wainwright. ‘That’s what we call the dabblers, the weekend Satanists who are more interested in the devil-worship than the process.’

‘What process?’

‘The magik. And that’s magik with a K not the sort of magic you see on TV.’

‘So what do you call yourself?’

‘I tend to avoid labels,’ said Wainwright. ‘They’re so limiting.’

‘But do you guys talk to each other, share secrets and stuff?’

‘Chefs don’t give their recipes to other chefs, stage magicians don’t go showing their tricks to their rivals. We guard our secrets jealously. Why do you ask, Jack?’

‘I need information about my father. What he did, what he was capable of, that sort of thing.’

‘You could try the Order of the Nine Angles,’ said Wainwright. ‘You know he was a member?’

‘I know almost nothing about him,’ said Nightingale. ‘Who are they?’

‘They’re a Satanic sect here in England. They’re best known for saying that human sacrifice isn’t necessarily a bad thing, which always guarantees them a bad press. And they’re one of the groups that believe Satan exists.’

‘You said angles, not angels?’

‘A lot of people make that mistake,’ said the American. ‘They figure it’s a group involved with rogue angels, but it’s not. The name comes from their emblem, which has nine lines connecting the seven planets with the seven lower sefirot on the cabbalistic tree of life.’

‘You’ve lost me,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’s a complicated subject,’ said Wainwright. ‘Becoming adept can take a lifetime, which is why men like your father are always looking for shortcuts.’

‘And all these groups worship Satan?’

Wainwright shook his head. ‘Far from it,’ he said. ‘They don’t all even acknowledge that Satan exists. You can believe in Satanic power without believing in Satan. It’s the cellphone analogy again. It’s not why it works that matters, it’s what the effects are.’ He sucked at his cigar. ‘There are some practitioners who call themselves Atheistic Satanists. They believe that a dark force uses entropy to destroy all things, and that force can be used by us here on earth. But they don’t believe that Satan exists as an entity.’

‘And you, what do you believe?’

Wainwright grinned. ‘Me? In the words of the Monkees, I’m a believer.’

‘In the devil?’

‘In God, the devil, the whole nine yards.’

Nightingale blew smoke. ‘I’m told that calling up a devil is fairly easy.’

‘It’s Occult 101,’ Wainwright said. ‘Use any search engine and type in “calling up the devil”. You’ll get thousand of hits.’