Midnight: The Second Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (21 page)

‘Sure.’

‘Well, this is sort of the opposite.’

‘But you have, right?’

‘Jack, please. I’ve already told you that there’s a non-disclosure agreement. Even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn’t. Just leave it at that.’

‘Okay, what about this: there are devils, lots of devils – three billion, right?’

Wainwright frowned. ‘Who told you that?’

‘It was in Sebastian Mitchell’s diary. “There are sixty-six princes under the devil, each commanding six thousand six hundred and sixty-six legions. And each legion is made up of six thousand six hundred and sixty-six devils.”’

‘Too many sixes,’ said Wainwright. ‘You sure that was in his diary?’

‘I got it second-hand,’ said Nightingale. ‘My secretary was reading it. It was in reverse Latin.’

‘Well, someone screwed up,’ said Wainwright. He sipped his whiskey. ‘There are only six hundred and sixty-six legions. That makes the total number just over a hundred and thirty-three million.’

‘That’s still a big number,’ said Nightingale.

‘Hellishly big,’ said Wainwright. He grinned and raised his glass.

‘So how do you know which one to summon?’

Wainwright shrugged. ‘Word gets around,’ he said.

‘Can you do a deal with any of them?’

‘You wouldn’t bother with the rank and file,’ said the American. ‘There’s not much they can deliver. And the princes probably wouldn’t bother with you. You’d be better off going for the heads of the legions or their number twos.’

‘And who’s at the top of the tree? Satan?’

‘Lucifer, yes,’ said Wainwright. ‘Directly below him would be Beelzebuth, a prince, and Astaroth, a grand duke. Beelzebuth and Astaroth are pretty much level in the hierarchy but they’d both probably argue otherwise.’

‘And you can summon them?’

Wainwright laughed, a harsh bark that echoed around the cabin. ‘You really are a lamb to the slaughter aren’t you, Jack?’

‘I’m just curious.’

‘Yeah, well, you know what curiosity did to the cat.’ Wainwright took another sip of his whiskey, then nodded slowly. ‘You can summon all three of them, but it would be the equivalent of opening the door to a nuclear reactor. You couldn’t cope with the power. It would blow you away.’

‘But they do appear sometimes?’

‘If they want to appear, they can choose their form. But if you summon them, they come as they are. And you really wouldn’t want any of the big three appearing in their true form. And even if you were able to bear being in their presence, they’d be hell to deal with.’ He smiled. ‘No pun intended.’

‘But a strong Satanist, someone who knew what he was doing, he could?’

‘Someone who knew what he was doing wouldn’t even attempt it. Even the best, even someone like your late father, wouldn’t go any higher than the six subordinates of the three rulers, and even then they’d be taking a risk.’ He took a long drag on his cigar. ‘You don’t mess around with these guys, Jack. Any sign of weakness, any hint that you’re not completely in control of the situation, and they’ll rip out your heart.’

‘Six subordinates, you said.’

‘Subordinates, or they’re sometimes called inferiors. The three main ones would report to Lucifer. There’s Satanachia, he’s commander-in-chief of the Satanic Army, and Aglaliarept, he’s a commander too. Lucifuge Rofocale functions as a politician, a sort of prime minister, but without elections, of course. All power flows down from Lucifer. But Lucifuge Rofocale has dominion over the wealth of the world and negotiates when there is conflict between the rulers.’

Nightingale smiled ruefully. ‘That’s what I was, in a previous life,’ he said.

‘A negotiator?’

‘Police negotiator. I was the guy called into sieges, hostage situations, suicides, that sort of thing.’ He sipped his beer before asking his next question. ‘This Lucifuge Rofocale. How would I summon him?’

‘Why would you want to?’

‘I’ve got a plan,’ he said. ‘And he’s a crucial part of it.’

Wainwright shook his head. ‘He’s way above my pay grade,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start. You have to know his character, and by that I mean the symbol that represents him. It has to be written on a special parchment and the ceremony is complicated. I doubt that there’re a dozen people in the world who would know how to summon him. And even if you did know how, if you tried it you’d be signing your own death warrant.’

‘Even if I was inside the pentagram?’

‘The pentagram is part of the protection but it’s not the be-all and end-all,’ said Wainwright. ‘You don’t have the experience. Or the power. And, frankly, neither do I.’ Wainwright sucked on his cigar and studied Nightingale with unblinking brown eyes. ‘Look, Jack, I like you. Plus you’ve got access to books that I’d love to have in my collection. So I’m happy to help you, if I can.’ He tapped ash into the ashtray by his elbow. ‘Tell me your situation,’ he said. ‘Think of me as a priest and this jet as the confessional, if that helps.’

‘Interesting analogy,’ said Nightingale.

‘I’m telling you that you can trust me,’ said Wainwright.

Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘I appreciate that, Joshua,’ he said.

‘Call me Josh. And I’m serious.’

Nightingale sipped his Corona. ‘Okay, here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘Gosling gave me away when I was born, and he did the same thing with my sister. He gave her up for adoption and he sold her soul to a devil. Frimost.’

‘So he wanted power over women, then. It’s almost a cliché.’

‘There’s an added wrinkle,’ said Nightingale. ‘She’s a serial killer. She kills kids. Or at least she did kill kids. She’s behind bars now.’

Wainwright’s cigar froze on the way to his lips. ‘You don’t do things by half, do you?’ he drawled.

‘It does get messier by the day,’ said Nightingale.

‘How old is she, your sister?’

‘Thirty-one,’ said Nightingale.

‘So she’s got two years. I’m assuming that Gosling did the same deal as he did with your soul, right?’

‘That’s right. It all goes tits up on her thirty-third birthday.’

There’s nothing you can do to save her, you know that?’

‘There are always options,’ said Nightingale. ‘Room for manoeuvre.’

Wainwright frowned as he sat back in his seat. ‘Once a soul is sold and the person bears the mark, there’s nothing that can be done. I told you that before.’ His raised his glass to his lips but then his eyes slowly widened. ‘You found the mark, didn’t you? On yourself?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Yep.’

‘But you’re still here.’

‘Like I said, there’s always room for manoeuvre.’

‘You escaped Proserpine?’

‘Not escaped, exactly. But she’s off my back. For the time being, anyway.’

Wainwright raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re full of surprises,’ he said.

‘I’m on a steep learning curve,’ said Nightingale. He leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees as he held his beer bottle with both hands. ‘The last time we spoke you said that my father was part of a sect that practised human sacrifice.’

‘The Order of Nine Angles, yes.’

‘My father said I should talk to them. They were connected to my sister’s adoption and he said they might be able to help me.’

Wainwright exhaled through pursed lips. ‘They’re dangerous people, Jack.’

‘I guessed as much,’ said Nightingale. ‘The human sacrifice was the clue.’

Wainwright chuckled. ‘I know you were a cop, and I know you’re a smart guy, but these people are at the sharp end of Satanism. The cutting edge. And they don’t stay there by talking to strangers.’

‘Understood,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I appreciate the warning. But I need to talk to one of the members.’

Wainwright ran a hand through his hair and crossed his legs. He was wearing cowboy boots made from grey and white snakeskin with silver spurs that jangled when they moved. ‘These people won’t open up to strangers,’ he said. ‘Especially strangers who used to be cops.’

Nightingale grinned. ‘I’ll be careful,’ he said.

Wainwright lowered his voice. ‘And I wouldn’t want anyone to know who pointed you in their direction.’

‘Like you said, this is a confessional.’

Wainwright nodded slowly. ‘There’s a man by the name of Marcus Fairchild. He’s a lawyer in the City. He’s in the Order, has been for more than twenty years. But be very, very careful, Jack.’

‘Have you met him?’

Wainwright shook his head. ‘I only know of him by reputation. He’s very well connected, both in the real world and beyond.’

‘Thanks,’ said Nightingale.

‘I’m not sure that you should be thanking me,’ said the American.

The cockpit door opened and a middle-aged man in a starched white shirt with gold and black epaulettes emerged, holding a plastic bottle of Evian water. ‘Excuse me, Mr Wainwright, but we’ll have to start rolling if we’re to get our slot,’ he said.

‘No problem, Don,’ said Wainwright. He shrugged at Nightingale. ‘Unless you want to come skiing, you’re going to have to deplane,’ he said.

Nightingale stood up and shook the American’s hand. ‘When are you back in England?’

‘If all goes well in Switzerland, probably Christmas Eve. Next Friday.’

‘I’ll try to get back to you before then about the books,’ promised Nightingale.

The Gulfstream’s jets kicked into life and the plane vibrated as Nightingale hurried down the stairs to the tarmac.

46

N
ightingale drove home to Bayswater, left his MGB in its spot in the local multi-storey car park and walked around the corner to his favourite Indian restaurant in Queensway. The owner, Maneesh, had his takeaway ready for him.

‘Chicken tikka masala, aloo gobi, pilau rice and two popadoms,’ he said, handing over the carrier bag. ‘You are a predictable man, Mr Nightingale.’

‘I know what I like, Maneesh,’ he said.

‘But we have a large menu, and a chef who has won awards. You should be more adventurous.’

‘Maybe next time,’ promised Nightingale. ‘How are your boys?’ Maneesh had two sons, one a final-year medical student, the other a bond trader in the City.

‘Both working too hard to give me grandchildren,’ said Maneesh. ‘I’ve told them if they don’t find wives within the year I’ll take them to Bangladesh and force them to marry at gunpoint.’

‘Bangladeshi girls are damn pretty,’ said Nightingale.

‘I could introduce you, Mr Nightingale,’ said Maneesh. ‘You’re too good-looking a man to be single.’

Nightingale laughed. ‘And you’re too much of a sweet-talker to be taken seriously,’ he said. He paid for his takeaway and left, still laughing.

Even though it was almost eight o’clock the streets were still busy. The area of Bayswater where he lived was never quiet, the shops and restaurants never seemed to close and there was a constant buzz of conversation and argument in a plethora of languages. On the three-minute walk from the restaurant to his second-floor flat in Inverness Terrace he heard Arabic, French, Chinese, Serbian and Greek and another three or four that he couldn’t identify. He passed a Nigerian in a long white robe, a gaggle of Muslim women swathed from head to foot in black, a Rastafarian with waist-length dreadlocks, two furiously arguing middle-aged Turkish men who looked as if they were close to blows, and half a dozen Japanese tourists who were studying an upside-down map of the city. Bayswater was never boring and Nightingale loved the fact that he could buy cuisine from two dozen different countries without straying far from his flat.

He waited until he’d put his food out on the coffee table and opened a bottle of Corona before phoning Colin Duggan and asking him to run a check on Marcus Fairchild.

‘It’s eight o’clock at night and it’s Sunday – don’t you ever stop working?’ asked the detective.

‘I wanted to strike while the iron was hot.’

‘Are you eating?’

‘Curry,’ said Nightingale.

‘You need a wife and kids, Jack. You’ve been on your own too long.’

‘Remind me again how many times you’ve been married, Colin?’ asked Nightingale.

‘It’s true, a policeman’s life is not a happy one,’ said Duggan. ‘This Fairchild, have you got a date of birth?’

‘Just the name. And he’s a lawyer in the City.’

‘Oh that Marcus Fairchild,’ said Duggan.

‘You know him?’

‘I know of him, sure,’ said Duggan. ‘Don’t you? Human-rights lawyer. He’s the guy they used to call when Cherie Blair was busy. Human-rights cases and libel too. Does the odd high-profile criminal case pro bono. Generally on the side of the underdog and a real pain in the arse. Don’t think he’s ever lost a case.’

‘Interesting,’ said Nightingale.

‘Not much point in doing a CRO check on him,’ said Duggan. ‘If he was ever in trouble with the law it’d be all over the papers. What’s your interest?’

‘It’s personal,’ said Nightingale. ‘Can you see if you can get an address, car registration, the basics. And see if there’s any intel at all that suggests he might be shady.’

Duggan laughed. ‘Shady? Marcus Fairchild? You should Google him, Jack.’

‘I will when I get to the office, mate. But I’m serious. Can you sniff around and see if there’s anything about him that’s not kosher?’

‘Do you want to give me a clue?’

‘Anything that doesn’t seem right,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t have anything specific.’

‘I’ll see what there is,’ said Duggan. ‘But I’d be surprised if there’s anything. It’d be like finding out the Queen had been done for shoplifting.’

Nightingale ended the call and then phoned Jenny, but her mobile went straight through to voicemail. He left a message asking her to call him and then went back to his curry. He spent the evening watching an episode of
Midsomer Murders
in which a portly John Nettles wandered around a picturesque village asking aged gentlemen where they were on the night of the fifteenth and if they had bludgeoned a gay antiques dealer to death. It bore, he knew, no relation to the real world. Even before the advent of DNA, the vast majority of murders were solved within twenty-four hours. Death at the hands of a stranger was rare. Nine times out of ten victims died at the hands of spouses, relatives or neighbours. And in most cases either the perpetrator was caught in the act or they gave themselves up to the police. In the rare cases where a victim didn’t know their assailant, the murderer almost certainly had a criminal record and would be in the system. Only once in a blue moon would detectives go around knocking on doors and looking for clues.

Jenny rang back just as Nettles had gathered the most likely suspects in the church hall. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked before he could say anything.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘It’s Sunday, Jack. You said you wanted me to call you, so I thought something had happened.’

‘I just wanted a chat.’

‘A chat?’

‘See how you were. How the family were.’

‘We’re all fine. We’ve just finished dinner, as it happens.’

‘Yeah? Me too.’

‘Curry?’

‘How did you know?’

‘It’s Sunday night. Chicken tikka masala?’

‘I really am that predictable, aren’t I?’

‘I’m afraid so. What did you do today?’

‘I went to see Wainwright. Flying visit. He gave me a shopping list of books that he wanted.’

‘That’s good news.’

‘I figured I’d have a root through the basement tomorrow morning.’

‘Good luck with that,’ she said.

‘Is there any way I could persuade you to give me a hand?’

‘In the basement?’

‘Just for a few hours.’

‘You are joking, right?’

‘No funny business, I promise. We’ll leave the lights on. It was the Ouija board that caused the problems last time. And I won’t be doing that again.’

‘Jack . . .’

‘Please, Jenny. I’ll pick you up and I’ll bring breakfast. Coffee and croissants.’

She sighed. ‘Banana choc-chip muffins. Two.’

‘Deal,’ he said.

‘Any falling books or cold winds and I’m out of there like a bat out of hell.’

‘You and me both,’ said Nightingale.