Nightmare

17

Nightingale’s MGB was in the garage having its electrical system overhauled on Monday morning so Nightingale caught a black cab in Bayswater and had it drop him in front of the Wicca Woman shop in Camden. It began to rain as he paid the driver and he jogged across the pavement to the shop, holding a Waitrose carrier bag against his chest.

He opened the door but then had to stand back as two girls in matching Afghan coats and multicoloured Tibetan hats pushed by him. There was only one sales assistant, a chunky teenager with a spider web tattoo across her neck and short hair that had been dyed a fluorescent green. She was wearing a slashed T-shirt and camouflage cargo pants with zipped pockets.

‘Is Mrs Steadman in?’ he asked as he closed the door.

‘Are you Mr Nightingale, the one who rang?’ asked the girl in an almost impenetrable Scots accent. She jerked a thumb at a beaded curtain behind the counter before he could answer. ‘She’s expecting you.’

Nightingale smiled his thanks and went through to the back room, where Mrs Steadman was sitting at a circular wooden table reading the Guardian. She took off a pair of blue-tinted pince-nez and smiled up at him. ‘Mr Nightingale, I was so happy to hear from you,’ she said. She was dressed in a black silk shirt buttoned up to the neck, around which was hanging a large silver crucifix on a delicate chain. She had a bird-like face with a sharp nose and she cocked her head to one side as she looked at him with inquisitive emerald-green eyes. Her grey hair was tied back in a ponytail and her wrinkled skin was almost translucent, but there was a youthful energy about her that made guessing her age difficult if not impossible. If Nightingale had been put on the spot he’d have guessed that Mrs Steadman was in her late sixties but he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she was seventy or even eighty. ‘Would you care for some tea?’

‘That would be lovely,’ said Nightingale.

He took off his raincoat and sat down as Mrs Steadman made a pot of tea. She put the pot, a milk jug and blue-and-white-striped mugs on the table. A gas fire was burning in a black-leaded fireplace casting flickering shadows over the walls.

He passed her the Waitrose carrier bag. ‘A small token of my appreciation,’ he said.

Mrs Steadman smiled like a child who had been given an early Christmas present and she opened the bag and took out two books. He’d selected them from the library in the basement at Gosling Manor. ‘Oh really, Mr Nightingale, you shouldn’t do this,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. ‘They’re far too valuable to give away.’

‘I know you’ll appreciate them, Mrs Steadman,’ he said.

‘You’ve made my day,’ she said. She put the books down and poured the tea. ‘But I get the feeling that you didn’t come all this way just to give me some books. As much as I do appreciate the gift.’

Nightingale felt his cheeks redden, as though he was a naughty schoolboy who had been caught out in a lie. ‘I need some advice, Mrs Steadman.’

She sipped her tea. ‘So it’s not just a social visit?’ She giggled girlishly. ‘I’m only teasing you, Mr Nightingale. ‘Of course I’ll help you in any way that I can.’

Nightingale stretched out his legs and stared at his Hush Puppies, still flecked from the rain outside. ‘Can you tell me how I can talk to the dead?’

Mrs Steadman shook her head sorrowfully. ‘There you go again, Mr Nightingale, wanting to mess with things that you really shouldn’t be messing with.’

‘It’s important, Mrs Steadman.’

‘I’m sure that it is. But it’s a very dangerous area.’

‘It is possible, though?’

She sipped her tea again. ‘You know that you can use Tarot cards, don’t you?’

Nightingale raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought they were for telling fortunes?’

‘Oh they do that, of course, but in the hands of an expert they can be used for so much more.’

‘But you’re not really talking to the dead, are you? You’re getting messages through the cards.’

‘That’s true. But often the dead find it easier to communicate that way. And it can be safer.’

‘Because ghosts are dangerous?’

‘You’re confusing spirits with ghosts, Mr Nightingale.’ She frowned as if she was getting the beginnings of a headache. ‘Really, I must counsel you to be careful, Mr Nightingale. You’re very much an innocent abroad, you know. And it can be dangerous to meddle with things that you don’t fully understand.’

‘I keep telling people that I’m on a pretty steep learning curve,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I’m going to need more than Tarot cards.’

Mrs Steadman poured more tea into her mug. ‘There are Ouija boards, but frankly they’re unreliable and dangerous.’

Nightingale chuckled. ‘Been there, done that,’ he said.

Mrs Steadman put down the teapot. ‘You tried?’

‘A couple of times.’

‘With whom?’

‘My assistant. It didn’t work out so well.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ she said. ‘Who were you trying to contact?’

‘My former partner. Robbie Hoyle.’

‘How did Mr Hoyle pass away?’

‘RTA,’ said Nightingale. He saw the look of confusion on the woman’s face and waved his hand in apology. ‘Sorry, police-speak,’ he said. ‘Road traffic accident. He was hit by a taxi while he was crossing the road.’

Mrs Steadman sighed. ‘In a violent unexpected death, any spirit is going to be confused and disorientated,’ she said. ‘And that’s all you’d get through a Ouija board. Confusion. Anger. Resentment. Even an expert would have trouble controlling such a spirit.’

‘It was a bit hairy,’ admitted Nightingale.

‘And is it this Robbie Hoyle that you want to contact?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s a girl. A girl who killed herself.’

Mrs Steadman pursed her lips and looked down her nose at him. ‘Another violent end,’ she said. ‘You have to be very careful interacting with spirits who pass over with violence,’ she said. ‘Often times the spirits aren’t even aware of the situation they’re in until someone contacts them, and there can be all sorts of repercussions.’

‘Such as?’

‘That depends on the strength of the spirit concerned,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘But you could have objects being moved, flashes of light, flames, even — or worse.’

‘Like a poltergeist?’

‘Like a poltergeist, perhaps, but a poltergeist is something different. And the potential for damage isn’t only there for the one who does the summoning. It can be dangerous for the spirit.’

Nightingale frowned and ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’m confused,’ he said.

‘I’m sure you are,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Tell me more about this girl.’

‘Her name is Sophie and she killed herself just over two years ago. Jumped from an apartment block in Chelsea Harbour. Her father had been abusing her and her mother didn’t do anything about it.’

‘You were there when it happened?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘I told you I was a policeman. I was with CO19, the armed police. But I was also a negotiator, part of the team that talks to people in crisis. That could be a hostage situation or a self-harmer or a domestic. Any situation where someone might get hurt.’ His mouth felt suddenly dry and he took a sip of his tea. ‘When I got the call I didn’t know it was a kid. She was up on the thirteenth floor, talking to her doll. She’d locked the door to the balcony and the au pair had called the police. I was the first negotiator on the scene.’

‘And this Sophie, why was she on the balcony?’

Nightingale leaned forward and put his head in his hands. ‘She wanted to die, Mrs Steadman. There was nothing I could do that was going to stop that. I know that now.’

Mrs Steadman stood up and walked around to stand behind Nightingale. She put her hands on his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly.

‘She was talking to me and then she just slipped under the railing and fell.’ Nightingale shuddered. ‘I don’t know what I should have done differently. I’ve gone over it again and again but I can’t think.?.?.’ He shuddered again. ‘She was just a kid, Mrs Steadman. Her life hadn’t even started, not really.’

‘Is that why you want to talk to her?’ asked Mrs Steadman.

‘She’s the one who’s been trying to contact me,’ said Nightingale.

Mrs Steadman let go of his shoulders and took a step back. ‘What do you mean?’

Nightingale explained what had happened at the hospital and at the nursing home.

Mrs Steadman sat down again and looked at Nightingale, clearly concerned. Nightingale folded his arms and shrugged. ‘I’m not imagining things,’ he said.

‘I wasn’t going to suggest that you were.’

‘I just feel that Sophie wants to talk to me and I want to make it easier for her, if that’s possible.’

‘You have to be careful,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘It could be something else pretending to be the girl, have you thought of that? It could be an evil spirit that wants to do you harm.’

‘Why go to the trouble of pretending to be Sophie?’

‘So that you’ll let your guard down. And by the time you realise what’s happened, it’ll be too late.’

Nightingale rubbed the back of his neck. He wanted a cigarette, badly.

‘I don’t like to ask, but would you help me? Would you show me what to do?’

‘I’m not a medium, Mr Nightingale. It’s not my field.’ She tapped the handle of her mug thoughtfully. ‘You should try a spiritualist association. There are several very good ones in London. You’ll meet experienced mediums there and you’ll be in a safe environment. If Sophie does want to come through she’ll be in the care of people who know what they’re doing. You’ll do the talking through the medium, so you’ll be one step removed. The medium will act as a fuse in a plug, if you like. If there’s a problem the medium will break contact and no damage is done.’

‘I thought that most mediums were charlatans? Con artists.’

‘Some are. But people aren’t stupid, Mr Nightingale. If they are being conned they’ll realise it sooner rather than later. And the true mediums don’t ask for money.’

‘What about doing it myself??’

‘You, Mr Nightingale?’ She chuckled softly. ‘You can do it yourself, if you have the talent. There are summoning spells that are said to work, but they’re not for amateurs.’

‘Have you ever done it?’

‘Summoned a spirit? I have, yes.’

‘And it worked?’

Mrs Steadman smiled. ‘Magic works, Mr Nightingale. If it didn’t my shop and website wouldn’t be as popular as they are.’

‘Could I try? To summon a spirit?’

‘I really don’t think you’re experienced enough,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘And if you were to contact this girl, this spirit, you might do her harm, inadvertently. That would be my main concern.’ She sipped her tea. ‘It’s an inexact science, Mr Nightingale. There are things you can do to increase your chances of success. You can burn lavender, mastic, orris root and frankincense in a brass bowl and you can scatter jasmine flowers, lilies, gardenias and mimosa in the room to appease the spirits. But at the end of the day it’s down to the strength and ability of the medium. And like the Ouija board, you can’t always stop a rogue spirit coming through. You might set out to talk to Sophie and end up confronting a quite different spirit.’

‘A demon, you mean?’

She smiled like a teacher humouring a young child. ‘Demons don’t need to come through a Ouija board,’ she said. ‘If it was a demon that wanted to talk to you, it would just appear. And I’m not sure you’d have much success if you tried to contact one through a Ouija board either. No, I’m talking about an evil spirit. Or a mischievous one.’ She leaned towards him across the table and took his hands in hers. They were warm and dry without a single blemish or mark. ‘Please, Mr Nightingale, promise you won’t do anything stupid. If you’re serious about wanting to contact the spirit of this girl, use a professional.’

Nightingale nodded. ‘I will,’ he said.

She stared at him intently and he felt her small hands grip his own with a strength that was out of proportion to their size. ‘Promise me,’ she said.

Nightingale opened his mouth to say something funny but he could see from the look in her eyes that she was serious. ‘I promise, Mrs Steadman. Cross my heart.’

A smile slowly spread across her face and she let go of his hands. He looked down and saw red marks where her fingers had been digging into his flesh. ‘You’ve got quite a grip there, Mrs Steadman,’ he said.