Nightmare

50

Nightingale parked by the mermaid fountain and climbed out of his MGB. It was already dark and there were thick clouds overhead. He took a torch from his glove compartment and flicked it on as he climbed out of the car. He was holding the Tesco carrier bag that Duggan had given him and he juggled the bag and the torch as he locked the car. Off in the distance a fox barked and a second or two later another answered from behind the house. Nightingale pointed the torch at the front door and walked up the steps. It was cold and his breath feathered in the beam of light as he fumbled for his keys and unlocked the door. He shivered and looked over his shoulder but there was nothing there, just the darkness. He pushed open the door and flicked the light switch. The two dozen bulbs in the huge chandelier in the centre of the hallway flickered into life, though their coating of ash muted the light.

It was cold inside, only a few degrees above zero. There was a huge oil-fired central heating system powered by a huge boiler off the kitchen but it cost a small fortune to run and Nightingale had turned the thermostat right down. He shivered again as walked over the muddy floor to the panel that hid the entrance to the basement. After flicking on the lights he was just about to head down into the basement when he heard a noise upstairs, a short scraping sound as if something was being dragged across the floor. He walked back into the hall and listened intently but whatever the sound was, it had stopped. He was about to call out but realised immediately that would be a waste of time. Animals couldn’t speak and burglars wouldn’t answer.

He went to the bottom of the stairs and listened again but he couldn’t hear anything. Jenny had been right: the house was far too big for one person. He couldn’t even remember how many bedrooms there were upstairs. And having heard a noise, what was he supposed to do? How long would it take to go through every room in the house, to check every possible hiding place? He’d never be sure that there wasn’t an intruder somewhere in the house, especially now that the CCTV console had been smashed beyond repair. He stood stock still and listened as he stared at his mud-splattered Hush Puppies for a full minute, counting the seconds off in his head, then he went back to the panel and down into the basement. He went over to the trunk containing the candles and rooted through it to find two light blue candles, each about a foot long. He took two gold candleholders from a display case and carried them over to the coffee table.

From the carrier bag he took a framed photograph of Sophie. He’d found the picture on the internet. It was a school photograph that the Evening Standard had used to illustrate their story on her death. He’d bought the frame from a shop in Bayswater. It didn’t say in Daniel Dunglas Home’s book that the picture had to be in a frame but Nightingale had felt that a frame was somehow more appropriate.

He placed the frame between the two candles, face down, then took the Barbie doll out of the bag. He held it in his hands and felt tears well up in his eyes. It was the last thing Sophie had held before she died. He flashed back to the moment she’d slid off the balcony, the doll clutched to her chest. He brought the doll up to his face and sniffed it gently before placing it next to the photograph. Already on the table was the book that described the ritual he was about to attempt.

He went over to a display cabinet that was filled with vases and bowls and chose a small brass bowl with no markings. He took it over to the coffee table. The last item in the carrier bag was a small box of purified sea salt that he’d bought from Mrs Steadman’s shop in Camden. He poured some of the salt into the bowl.

He switched on the torch and went back up the stairs to turn off the lights. Using the torch beam to guide his way he walked back to the coffee table and sat down. He lit the candles and then turned off the torch and put it on the floor. He took several slow, deep breaths, closed his eyes and tried to remember as much as he could about Sophie, her face, her hair, her clothes, her voice. His mind kept drifting to the moment that she’d fallen from the balcony but he tried to blot that image out. He remembered what they’d talked about on the balcony. Smoking. Birds. How to programme a video recorder. Nightingale had tried to keep her talking, to keep her focused on his voice rather than on the ground far below.

Nightingale opened his eyes, then licked the index finger of his right hand and dabbed it into the salt. He touched the salt to his tongue and without swallowing he turned over the framed photograph. He stared at the picture, then dabbed more salt onto his tongue. This time he swallowed and fought against the gag reflex.

‘Sophie,’ he said. ‘Are you there? Sophie, it’s Jack.’

The candles flickered but only for a second and then the flames steadied. Nightingale placed his hands palm down on the table and took two deep breaths and then closed his eyes. Again he tried to visualise Sophie. Her pale white skin. Her long blonde hair. The tears in her eyes.

He opened his eyes, dabbed his wet finger on the salt and then touched it against his tongue again. ‘Sophie, can you hear me?’

Nothing happened. Nightingale picked up the book and opened it at the page that described the ritual. He read through it again to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything.

‘Sophie. This is Jack Nightingale. Can you hear me?’

The candles flickered again and he heard a creaking sound above his head. He looked up. There was a second, slightly longer creak, then silence.

‘Sophie? Is that you?’

The panel at the top of the stairs rattled and Nightingale flinched. The light from the two candles illuminated only the seating area; the stairs were in darkness.

‘Sophie?’

Nightingale felt a cold draught run along the back of his neck and he shivered. There were no windows in the basement and no ventilation ducts so draughts were a physical impossibility.

‘Sophie?’

He heard a fluttering sound from the desk where he’d left the yellow legal pad on which Jenny had written the inventory. Nightingale peered into the gloom and could just about see that the pages were moving slowly, as if someone was flicking through them one by one.

‘Sophie?’

The pages stopped moving. Nightingale dabbed more salt on his tongue. He wondered if saying a prayer would help, but there had been no mention of that in the book.

‘Jack?’

Nightingale froze. He wasn’t sure if he’d actually heard his name being spoken or if he’d imagined it, but it had been a little girl’s voice. The draught was back and he shivered. He stared at the doll, lying on the coffee table. Its hair was moving slowly, curling around its head as if it had a life of its own. ‘Sophie, can you hear me?’

‘Jack?’

There was no doubt the second time. It was Sophie’s voice, but little more than a whisper. ‘Sophie? Can you hear me? Where are you?’ asked Nightingale.

‘I’m here, Jack.’

Nightingale felt something brush against the back of his head and he flinched. He started to turn.

‘No! Don’t turn round,’ said Sophie.

Nightingale forced himself to keep looking forward. The doll’s hair had stopped moving and was spread out like a golden halo around its head.

‘If you see me, I’ll go back,’ she said.

‘Go back where?’ asked Nightingale.

‘I don’t know,’ said Sophie. She sniffed. ‘It’s cold. And dark.’

‘Sophie, honey, what do you want?’

‘I want you to help me.’ She sniffed again. ‘I want to go home.’

‘I don’t think you can go home, honey,’ said Nightingale, clasping his hands together.

Sophie began to cry softly. Nightingale started to turn. ‘No!’ she said urgently. ‘You mustn’t. I told you.’

Nightingale turned back to look at the photograph. She looked so happy in the picture. It had been taken two years before she died, and she was wearing her school uniform and smiling as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Nightingale wondered if her father had already started interfering with her and felt a wave of sadness wash over him. He had been a cop for too long to believe that there was any sort of fairness in life, but what had happened to Sophie was just plain wrong. ‘Sophie, I do want to help you, but you have to tell me what you want.’

‘I told you already. I want to go home.’

‘Honey, do you know what happened to your mother? And your father?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really? You know?’

‘They’re dead,’ whispered Sophie.

Nightingale shivered. ‘Aren’t they with you?’

‘I’m alone, Jack.’ She began to sob quietly.

Tears pricked Nightingale’s eyes. He wanted to help but felt completely powerless. Sophie was dead. Dead and buried. He stared at the doll and then slowly picked it up and stroked the hair softly.

‘Jack?’

‘Yes, honey.’

‘You have to come and get me.’

Nightingale frowned. ‘How do I do that?’

She sniffed once again. A cold wind blew by Nightingale’s left ear, ruffling his hair.

‘You know how,’ she said.

That was when the candles blew out and Sophie screamed as if she was in pain.