‘Possibly,’ said Wainwright. ‘But not all demons are in Hell.’
‘And what about Sophie?’
‘What about her?’
‘Where is she?’
Wainwright sighed. ‘Who knows? You say she’s been trying to contact you. Maybe she has, but what if it’s been a demon all the time?’
‘You mean it was never Sophie? It was always something pretending to be her?’
‘I can’t answer that, Jack.’ He looked at his wristwatch, a gold Cartier. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’ He stood up and flexed his shoulders. ‘Promise me you won’t mess around with things you don’t understand.’ He grinned. ‘At least until we’ve done a deal over the stuff you’ve got down here.’
‘Cross my heart,’ said Nightingale.
Wainwright jabbed his cigar in Nightingale’s direction. ‘I’m serious, Jack. You’ve been lucky so far. But you’re messing with things that you barely understand and if you carry on it’s going to end in tears.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, Joshua. Message received and understood.’ He stuck out his hand and the American shook it firmly.
They went back up the stairs and Nightingale walked Wainwright outside. His helicopter was back on the lawn, its rotors turning slowly.
‘I’ll call you when my people are ready to inventory the books and artefacts,’ said Wainwright. ‘But I’ll send you a deposit first. How does a million sound?’
‘Like music to my ears,’ said Nightingale. ‘Pounds, euros or dollars?’
‘You choose,’ said Wainwright. ‘Call me with your bank details.’ The helicopter turbines began to whine and the rotors picked up speed, their wash pulling at Nightingale’s raincoat as Wainwright clapped him on the back. ‘You be careful, you hear?’
‘Always,’ said Nightingale. He watched Wainwright jog towards the helicopter. The American turned and waved before climbing in. Nightingale waved back as the helicopter lifted off, circled above the trees at the edge of the grounds and headed north.
27
Later that evening Nightingale lay on his sofa, reading the book that he’d taken from the basement of Gosling Manor. It was a tough read. The English was stilted and there were a lot of words in it that he didn’t know the meaning of, and Daniel Dunglas Home had a habit of slipping in Latin phrases as if he was keen to show his reader what a smart chap he was. Towards the end of the book there was a chapter titled ‘A Ritual For Communing With The Departed’. He read it twice, then made himself a coffee and read it again, and then he picked up his mobile and called Colin Duggan.
‘What do you want, Nightingale?’ were the first words out of the detective’s mouth.
‘What makes you think I want anything?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Because you called me, and the only time you ever call me is when you want something.’
‘Colin, I’m hurt. Can’t a guy ring his mate and ask him out for a drink?’
‘I’ve stopped drinking, remember? Diabetes.’
‘Are you still on that?’
‘On what? Diabetes doesn’t just go away. I have to eat healthily for the rest of my life or I’ll end up on medication.’
‘Can I buy you a salad, then? Or a carrot juice? Or whatever it is you eat for pleasure these days?’
‘I’m not a bloody rabbit,’ said Duggan. ‘Where are you?’
‘In the flat. Bayswater.’
‘I tell you what, the wife’s gone out to see her mother and I’m a loose end, so you can buy me noodles in that place underneath your building.’
Nightingale winced. ‘I’m not flavour of the month there at the moment,’ he said. ‘Anyway, there’s a better place in Queensway, to the left of the Tube station. When can you get there?’
‘Thirty minutes,’ said Duggan. ‘And you’re buying, okay?’
The detective ended the call before Nightingale had the chance to reply. When it came time to leave, raindrops were splattering on his windows so he grabbed his raincoat before heading outside. He turned right outside the front door so that he didn’t have to walk by Mrs Chan’s restaurant. He knew that at some point he was going to have to bite the bullet and apologise to her, but for the life of him he couldn’t think what to say that would explain away what had happened.
Duggan wasn’t at the restaurant yet so Nightingale took a corner table and ordered a pot of jasmine tea. All the serving staff were elderly men in black pants and red Mao jackets; none of them ever smiled. His tea arrived just as Duggan walked in and looked around. He spotted Nightingale and walked over to his table, taking off a woollen beanie hat to reveal his totally bald head and elf-like ears. He hung his beige raincoat and Burberry scarf over the back of his chair before shaking hands with Nightingale and sitting down.
‘What’s the problem with the other place?’ asked the detective. ‘Their duck noodles are the best in London you always say.’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘Slept with a waitress?’
Nightingale laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he said. ‘No, it’s more complicated than that.’ He sipped his tea. Actually, what had happened in the restaurant had a direct bearing on the favour he was about to ask, but there was no way that he could tell Duggan that. ‘Colin, you trust me, right?’
‘That’s an open-ended question, isn’t it?’
‘But I’ve never lied to you. Never let you down. Always had your back when we worked together.’
‘You were a good cop, Jack. Right up to the moment that you chucked that banker through the window of his office.’ He winked. ‘Allegedly.’ He nodded at the menu. ‘Can we order? I might as well get my food ordered before you put your hooks in.’
Nightingale waved over a waiter. Duggan ordered duck with thin noodles and extra wontons and Nightingale had his regular thick noodles. ‘What are you drinking?’ asked Duggan, pointing at Nightingale’s teapot.
‘Jasmine tea.’
‘Jasmine’s a bloody flower, isn’t it?’ Duggan looked up at the waiter. ‘Have you got Diet Coke?’
‘Just regular Coke,’ replied the waiter, stony-faced.
‘Have you any idea how much sugar there is in Coke?’ He sighed. ‘I hate this diet thing. Why is it that everything that tastes good is always bad for you?’
Nightingale figured the question was rhetorical so he didn’t say anything.
Duggan sighed again. ‘I’ll have water. From the tap.’
The waiter nodded and shuffled away.
‘The staff are a lot friendlier at the other place,’ said Duggan.
‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ said Nightingale.
‘Can you tell me why bottled water is so damn expensive? It’s water, right? How can it cost the same as beer?’
‘I don’t think it does, does it? Mind you, I can’t remember the last time I drank water.’
Duggan sat back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. ‘Yeah, well, keep on eating and drinking the way you do and you’ll soon find out. Practically everyone I know has diabetes these days.’
‘Smoking helps,’ said Nightingale. ‘Keeps the weight off.’
Duggan leaned forward. ‘That’s true, is it? Smoking suppresses your appetite?’
‘I don’t see many fat smokers,’ said Nightingale.
‘And I don’t see many fat heroin addicts,’ said Duggan. ‘Not sure that either is a cure for diabetes.’ The waiter returned with Duggan’s glass of water. He sipped it and grimaced. ‘I really want a beer,’ he said.
‘Bloody hell, Colin, have one, then. One beer’s not going to kill you.’
Duggan crossed his index fingers and held them up in front of Nightingale. ‘Get thee behind me, Satan.’
