‘I didn’t, but Jenny did. Sort of.’ He shrugged. ‘To be honest, it wasn’t a success.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Mrs Steadman, putting her hands around her mug of tea. ‘But there are no guarantees when it comes to spiritualism.’ Jenny held up the pink crystal but before she could say anything Mrs Steadman wagged a finger at her. ‘Crystals are different,’ she said. ‘Crystals I can guarantee, providing they are used correctly. Spiritualism depends on the medium. There are good mediums and bad mediums.’
‘And average mediums,’ said Nightingale.
‘What?’ said Jenny.
‘Medium. Average. It was a joke.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘No, Jack. It wasn’t.’
Nightingale ignored her. ‘The thing is, Mrs Steadman, when we were leaving we were approached by someone who said they could give us a personal viewing.’
Mrs Steadman raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell me more.’
‘It was a man. He gave me his card.’ Nightingale took out his wallet and retrieved Graham Lord’s business card. He handed it to Mrs Steadman. ‘He said that he might be able to help me get in touch with Sophie.’
Mrs Steadman fished her blue-tinted pince-nez from her shirt pocket and perched them on the end of her nose. She still had to hold the card at arm’s length to focus and her lips moved as she read the name. ‘Sophie was the little girl who died?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Sophie Underwood.’ He gestured at the card. ‘Do you know him?’
Mrs Steadman shook her head and handed back the card. ‘I don’t, but I’m not well acquainted with the spiritualists. The groups I told you about are well respected, but I don’t tend to go myself.’
Nightingale put the card back in his wallet. ‘Is that normal, to have someone approach you after a session?’
‘It happens, I suppose,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Did this gentleman say that he had already made contact with Sophie?’
‘That’s why I was interested,’ he said. ‘He seemed very.?.?. confident.’
‘And had you mentioned her name during the session?’
‘Definitely not,’ he said.
He looked across at Jenny, who nodded in agreement. ‘Jack was very careful not to use her name.’
‘And did he suggest payment?’
‘He just offered me a private session,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was worried that he might be setting me up for a con.’
‘That certainly does happen,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘There are a lot of charlatans around. I would say that the true mediums rarely accept payment. They tend to believe that the gift they have shouldn’t be sullied with money. There might be a collection for expenses or to help towards the running of the association but it’s quite unusual for a spiritualist to ask for money up front.’ She waved a languid hand towards the shop. ‘Of course, in a way I’m in a similar position. I am a true believer in the power of Wicca but that doesn’t stop me running a business based on it.’
‘So what do you think, Mrs Steadman? Is he setting me up for a con?’
Mrs Steadman chuckled and reached for her tea. ‘I’m sure you’re a better judge of that than me,’ she said. ‘You were the policeman.’
‘I guess,’ said Nightingale. ‘But how will I know if he’s genuine or not?’
‘Only you will be able to tell, Mr Nightingale.’
‘But here’s what I don’t understand, Mrs Steadman. I went to the meeting to talk to Sophie. I was totally open and receptive, but nothing happened. Why didn’t Sophie contact me then?’
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘You have to think of it in terms of frequencies.’
‘Frequencies?’
‘Imagine a spirit is at one frequency and the living are at a different frequency, which is why most people can’t see spirits. Mediums can tune themselves into the frequency of the spirits. But just because they can see one spirit doesn’t mean they can see them all. It could be that the medium you saw simply couldn’t hear Sophie’s frequency but can hear the frequencies of other spirits.’ She shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry if I’m not being much help. It’s not really my field.’
‘So Sophie might have been there but just couldn’t come through?’
Mrs Steadman nodded. ‘It might just be a case of trying another medium,’ she said.
‘Okay, I will,’ said Nightingale. ‘What harm would it do?’
29
Nightingale dropped Jenny outside her mews house in Chelsea. ‘I feel bad taking the afternoon off,’ she said as she opened the door of the black cab and climbed out.
‘It’s four o’clock,’ he said. ‘And it’s not as if we’re rushed off our feet.’ He grinned. ‘It’s the cold weather: people prefer to commit adultery in the summer. See you tomorrow.’
Jenny closed the door and waved goodbye, then disappeared into her house.
‘Where to, mate?’ asked the driver.
‘Are you okay to go south of the river?’
‘I have to take you anywhere within six miles of the square mile,’ said the cabbie. ‘That’s the law.’
‘Clapham, then,’ said Nightingale. ‘Close to the station.’ He looked at his watch. He wanted to get to Perry Smith’s house before dark but it didn’t look as if he was going to make it.
The traffic was no heavier than normal for a winter Wednesday afternoon. Drivers were switching on their lights as they crossed the Thames and by the time they reached Clapham it was dark outside. Nightingale had the cabbie drop him about a hundred yards from Perry Smith’s house. Dan Evans had given him the address, along with a warning: Perry lived with at least three other gang members in a part of Clapham that the local police regarded as a no-go area, unless they were mob-handed and armed to the teeth. Nightingale paid the cabbie and turned up the collar of his raincoat. As the cab drove away Nightingale shivered and felt very much alone. It wasn’t a part of London that he was familiar with and he was about to confront a man who had already tried to kill him with a hail of bullets. He looked up at the dark sky and shivered again. He took out his cigarettes and lit one.
A black hatchback prowled past, rap music blaring out at such a volume that he felt the vibration in his stomach. There were four black teenagers inside and they all turned to look at Nightingale as they drove by. Nightingale blew smoke and started to walk down the pavement towards Smith’s house.
The houses were in a terrace, two storeys high and with railings around steps leading to a basement. Most of the houses had been split up into flats judging by the multiple bells next to the front doors. There was a big black man in a Puffa jacket standing outside the house, stamping his feet against the cold, his breath feathering around his mouth. He turned to look at Nightingale and stared with undisguised hostility as Nightingale walked towards him.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Nightingale.
The man grunted and continued to glare at Nightingale as he slid a hand inside his Puffa jacket.
‘I’m here to see Perry Smith,’ said Nightingale.
‘We don’t deal here,’ said the man.
‘I’m not here to buy gear. I’m here to talk.’
‘About what?’
‘I’m looking for tips on how to get my roses to grow,’ said Nightingale. ‘What bloody business is it of yours?’
The man took a step towards Nightingale, his upper lip curled back in a sneer.
Nightingale stood his ground. ‘What are you going to do, beat me to a pulp in the street?’
The man jabbed a finger at Nightingale. ‘We own this street. Ain’t no one gonna be calling three nines.’
Nightingale took a step back. ‘Okay, maybe we got off on the wrong foot,’ he said. ‘Tell Perry I’m the guy he tried to shoot in Queensway a while back. The name’s Nightingale.’
‘Like the bird?’
