‘Reggie Gayle? Dwayne’s number two?’
Smith nodded again.
‘There you go, then. That’s why I’m getting a bit nervous because how do I know that you and Reggie aren’t in this together?’
‘Because of what I’m going to do to Reggie. And to this bastard Marshal. That’s how you’ll know.’ He shook his head. ‘Reggie bastard Gayle. I’ll have his balls-’
‘I don’t want to know,’ interrupted Nightingale. ‘I just want to know that we’re good.’
Smith stared at him but said nothing.
‘So we’re good?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Good as gold,’ said Smith quietly.
Nightingale stood up. ‘Can I ask you a question, Perry?’
‘You can ask, that don’t mean I’ll answer.’
‘Proserpine. Do you know her?’
Smith frowned. ‘Proserpine?’
‘When you came after me, it was all about Dwayne?’
Smith’s frown deepened. ‘What are you talking about, Birdy?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Nightingale.
‘You need to chill,’ said Smith.
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ Nightingale headed for the door.
39
Graham Lord lived in an innocuous semi-detached house in Highgate, north London. Nightingale parked his MGB close to the driveway of the house and walked past a five-year-old Honda before pressing the doorbell. Lord opened the door and smiled. He was wearing a baggy denim shirt over brown corduroy trousers. He wore reading glasses and his hair was flecked with dandruff. He shook hands with Nightingale. Lord’s hand was limp and lifeless, warm and slightly damp. ‘You’re early,’ said Lord.
‘But you knew I would be, right?’ said Nightingale. ‘Being psychic and all.’
Lord smiled without warmth. ‘That’s an old joke, Mr Nightingale. Or can I call you Jack?’
‘Jack’s fine,’ said Nightingale, taking off his raincoat.
‘First names it is, then,’ he said, adding, ‘I’m Lordy to my friends.’ Lord hung the coat on a wooden rack, then led Nightingale down a woodchip-papered hall and into the front room. The curtains, made of thick dark-blue velvet, were drawn and a small Tiffany lamp cast red, green and yellow blocks of light across the ceiling. There was a bookcase on the wall opposite the window; it was full of books on the supernatural, although, unlike Nightingale’s own collection, they were mainly newish paperbacks.
The flooring was bare boards that had been sanded and polished and they gleamed in the multicoloured light. In the centre of the room was a circular rosewood table with four high-backed chairs around it. There was a small hi-fi on a table under the window, with a flickering candle on either side. New-age music was playing, soft strings with the tinkling of wind chimes.
‘Have you come far?’ asked Lord, waving Nightingale to the chair that had its back to the window.
‘Don’t you know?’ said Nightingale, sitting down.
‘You really are a cynic, aren’t you?’ said Lord. ‘I’m not a psychic; I’m a spiritualist.’
‘Actually, I’ve got an open mind,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here.’
Lord held out his hand. ‘That’s why I ask for the fee up front,’ he said. ‘It shows your commitment better than words ever can.’
Nightingale took an envelope from his jacket pocket and gave it to Lord. Lord left the room, presumably to count the cash and possibly hide the money. Nightingale wanted a cigarette but there was no ashtray around so he took out his pack of Marlboro and placed it on the table in front of him.
Lord spotted the cigarettes as soon as came back into the room. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t allow smoking in the house,’ he said. ‘It interferes with the process.’
‘Smoke’s an impurity, is that it?’ said Nightingale, putting the pack away.
Lord sat down. ‘I have asthma,’ he said. He placed his palms on the table and smiled at Nightingale. ‘Now, I need you to relax, and to open your mind. I don’t work the way the spiritualists do at the centre you went to. I’m not doing a show and I’m not playing to the crowd. I’m acting as a conduit to the person you want to talk to.’
‘Will I see her?’
Lord shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that. I’m not summoning her spirit so I won’t see her and you certainly won’t. It will talk through me. The spirit will pass into my body and talk with my voice.’
‘So I won’t hear her either?’
Lord’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Yes, you’ll hear her. But it’ll be my voice. She will use my voice to talk to you. Assuming that she comes through.’
‘Sometimes they can’t communicate?’
‘There are no guarantees. How could there be? We’re communicating with the spirit world, not making a Skype call. Is it the money you’re worried about? Is that it?’
‘Well, I have just given you two hundred quid up front.’
‘If we’re not lucky this time, you can come back. And you can keep coming back until you’re satisfied.’
‘So now you’re telling me that luck plays a part in all this?’
Lord put his hands together and interlinked his fingers. He looked at Nightingale over the top of his reading glasses. ‘Can you imagine how many spirits there are out there, Jack? Many of them have unfinished business in this world. There are people they want to contact, things they want to say. People like me are in demand in this world, but we’re also in demand in the spirit world. Once I make myself available there’s often a rush as spirits pour into the room and I can’t always choose who speaks through me.’ He nodded, as if encouraging Nightingale to agree with him. ‘But I do know what I’m doing, Jack. You simply have to have faith in me. Okay?’
Nightingale could feel that he was being manipulated but he couldn’t stop himself nodding in agreement.
‘Great,’ said Lord. ‘Let’s get started.’ He put his palms back on the table.
‘I have a question,’ said Nightingale. ‘How will I know if I’m talking to a spirit or you?’
‘You’ll be able to tell,’ said Lord. ‘Trust me.’
‘And can I ask questions?’
‘Of course,’ said Lord. ‘That’s the point of the exercise.’ He scratched the side of his nose. ‘Are you ready?’
Nightingale nodded again. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said.
Lord took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back. He shuddered, then splayed out his fingers on the table. He exhaled slowly, the breath whistling between his teeth, then inhaled again. Nightingale sat and watched him, trying to ignore the nicotine craving that was back with a vengeance. Lord spent several minutes breathing in and out with his head tilted back, then he slowly lowered his chin until it was pressed against his chest. His hands began to tremble and then the fingertips started to beat a tattoo on the table. Nightingale folded his arms and waited. Lord froze, the heels of his hands pressed against the table, then he slowly raised his head and his eyes opened. He seemed to be staring over Nightingale’s right shoulder. Lord’s lips began to move, but there was no sound. Nightingale tried in vain to read the man’s lips but then Lord took another deep breath and closed his eyes again.
‘Jack?’
Nightingale jumped as if he’d been stung. The sound seemed to have come from deep in Lord’s chest. He stared at the man’s mouth.
‘Jack?’
Lord’s lips hadn’t moved.
‘Yes?’ said Nightingale hesitantly.
‘Jack Nightingale?’
‘It’s me,’ said Nightingale.
