Nightmare

40

Nightingale was back in his Bayswater flat taking a bottle of Corona from the fridge when his mobile rang. It was Jenny.

‘How did it go?’ she asked.

‘Complete waste of two hundred quid,’ he said.

‘Did Sophie talk to you?’

‘Couldn’t shut her up,’ said Nightingale, flopping down onto his sofa and pressing ‘mute’ on his TV remote control. ‘Except it wasn’t Sophie.’ Off in the distance he heard the wail of a police siren.

‘So he was cold reading? Telling you what you wanted to hear?’

‘No, I was careful not to give him anything,’ said Nightingale. ‘But she told me not to feel guilty, that there was nothing I could have done to stop her falling, and that she was happy about what I did to her father.’

‘Jack, that’s amazing!’

‘Is it?’

‘Come on, that’s incredible. How did you get the messages? Was it like a Ouija board or a seance?’

‘He was channelling. She spoke through him.’

‘But he couldn’t have got all that from reading you, could he? Not if you weren’t telling him anything.’

‘It was a con, Jenny.’

‘How?’

‘There was nothing in what he said that he couldn’t have got from Google,’ said Nightingale. ‘The papers reported what happened to Sophie, and to her father. And I was named in several of the reports. He knew my name. Soon as I rang him up. He was showing off, but the point is that once he had my name everything flowed from that.’

‘But he didn’t know who you were. We met him by accident, remember? He couldn’t have known he’d meet you in Marylebone.’

‘He was behind us at one point, and you mentioned Sophie. He could easily have overheard us talking.’

‘Okay, I might have said the name, but it’s not an unusual one, Jack. How does he go from “Sophie” to knowing who you are and what happened?’

‘We signed in at the meeting hall,’ said Nightingale. ‘He could have got my name from that. Then it’s just basic research. Put my name and Sophie’s into any search engine and you’re going to come up with what happened at Chelsea Harbour two years ago.’

‘That’s awful. And he did all that for two hundred pounds?’

‘It’s a long con. He said he had to stop because he lost the contact and that I should try again in a few days. And I’m sure that once I was hooked the price would start to go up. True mediums don’t charge for their services, that’s what Mrs Steadman said.’

‘But you’re a former cop, doesn’t he realise that he’s taking a risk?’

‘I think the emphasis is on “former”. Plus, I probably looked vulnerable. Why else would I have gone to Marylebone in the first place? Everyone in there was looking for something; all he has to do is to find out what it is and then to give it to them. And at the end of the day, how do we prove that he’s conning us? He says there are no guarantees and he’s right about that. How would anyone prove that he wasn’t actually channelling a spirit?’

‘You sound very relaxed for a man who’s just been ripped off to the tune of two hundred pounds.’

‘What was I supposed to do? Take my cash back? I doubt that he would have given it to me and I don’t want to add theft and assault to Chalmers’s hit list. Plus, I have to say, he put on one hell of a performance.’

‘Are you okay, Jack?’

Nightingale lifted the bottle of Corona. ‘Hunky dory,’ he said.

‘Not a phrase one hears a lot these days,’ she said. ‘Are you drinking?’

‘Affirmative.’

‘Corona?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘At least you’re not on the brandy. How many bottles?’

‘What are you, my mother?’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Oh no, she’s dead. In fact they’re both dead, aren’t they? My biological mother and my real mother. Shuffled off this mortal coil.’ He placed the bottom of the bottle against his forehead.

‘How many bottles, Jack?’

Nightingale groaned, took the bottle off his head, rolled sideways and peered down the side of the sofa. There were several empty bottles there and he counted them one by one. ‘Five,’ he said. ‘I’m on my sixth. A baker’s dozen.’

‘Thirteen is a baker’s dozen. Six is half a dozen. Please tell me it’s six.’

‘It’s six. I can handle it.’

‘Do you need company?’

Nightingale sat up. ‘I’m okay.’

‘I can come round.’

‘I’m not drunk, Jenny.’

‘No, but you’re not happy.’

‘Which one of the seven dwarves do you think I am, then?’

‘I’d have to go for Grumpy. Or Moron.’

‘There wasn’t a dwarf called Moron.’

‘That’s what I thought. I’ll settle for Grumpy, then. You’d be better off with coffee.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on. Soon as I’ve finished my beer.’ He sighed. ‘I’m okay, Jenny. Really.’

‘Call me if you need me, all right?’

‘Like the Samaritans?’

Jenny didn’t say anything for several seconds, and when she did speak he could hear the concern in her voice. ‘Why would you say that, Jack?’

‘It was a joke.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m not suicidal.’ He laughed but it came out half bark, half cough. ‘I’m just having a few beers and then I’m going to bed, and I’ll be in the office bright and early tomorrow.’

‘Sometimes you worry me.’

‘I’m sorry. But I really was joking.’ Jenny didn’t say anything. ‘Jenny, I’m okay.’

‘It wasn’t your fault; you know that, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do. Jenny, it’s not about guilt. I’m sure of that.’

‘I know you, Jack. You’re not one of life’s sharers. You bottle things up. And as I’ve said before, that’s not healthy.’

‘Okay, tomorrow I’ll take you for a lunch and we’ll have a heart to heart. I’ll share.’

‘There you go again, making a joke of it. That’s your defence mechanism as soon as anyone tries to get close to you.’

‘I just don’t want you worrying about me,’ said Nightingale. ‘I can take care of myself. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.’

‘I wish I believed that,’ said Jenny, and she ended the call.

Nightingale stared at the phone thoughtfully for a few seconds, then set it to silent and tossed it on the sofa. He picked up the remote, turned on the sound and began flicking through the channels looking for football.