‘I’m not an agony aunt. I take souls. You’re starting to try my patience, Nightingale.’
Nightingale put up his hands. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘How about a deal? What would you want to answer a few questions?’
‘What are you offering?’
‘Proserpine, I have enough trouble buying birthday presents for my secretary, how on earth would I know what you want? I’m guessing that book tokens wouldn’t cut it.’
Proserpine threw back her head and laughed. The room shook and the bottle of consecrated salt water fell out of the cardboard box and shattered. The dog’s tail swished from side to side as it arched its head to look up at its mistress. The herbs flared in the crucible and a shower of sparks rained down on Nightingale’s shoulders. ‘You want to buy information from me?’ she asked. ‘With trinkets?’
‘What do you want?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Tell me what you want and maybe we can do a deal.’
‘Is this how you worked when you were a police negotiator, Nightingale? Promise them anything so long as they come along quietly?’
‘If you find out what a person in crisis wants, then more often than not you can offer them something that will make their life easier.’
Proserpine’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not in crisis, Nightingale.’
‘No, but I am. Look, I don’t know where my sister is — hell, I don’t even know who she is. But I’ll do whatever I have to do to find her.’
‘I’ve already told you, I can’t help you with that.’
‘No, but you can help me get her soul back. Assuming that I can find her. But I need intel. Intel that you can supply me with.’
Proserpine studied him with her unblinking black eyes for several seconds, and then she slowly nodded. ‘You want questions answered?’
‘I need to know how to help my sister.’
‘From what you’ve said it sounds as if she’s beyond help.’
‘That’s what everyone said about me, but I did okay.’
Proserpine smiled slyly. ‘Maybe you did. And maybe you didn’t.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s not over until the fat lady sings,’ said Proserpine. ‘So how about this? For every question of yours that I answer, you give up ten years of your life.’
Nightingale’s jaw dropped. ‘What do you mean by “give up”? You mean I go to prison?’
‘I mean you die ten years earlier than you would have done.’
Nightingale’s mouth had gone suddenly dry but he tried not to show his discomfort. ‘I’m not keen on that, frankly,’ he said.
‘Are you sure you want to do this, Nightingale?’
Nightingale ran a hand through his hair. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Are you really sure?’ pressed Proserpine. ‘You don’t even know this person. Why does her welfare concern you so much?’
‘She’s my sister.’
‘So?’
‘So she’s the only family I have. She’s blood.’
‘And blood isn’t worth ten years?’ she asked.
‘It’s a bit steep. What else have you got?’
Proserpine sighed and folded her arms, then cocked her head like a hawk scrutinising potential prey. ‘How about this?’ she said. ‘You want “intel” as you call it. Fine. But for every question of yours that I answer, I’ll send someone to kill you.’
Nightingale’s brow furrowed. ‘Someone or something?’
Proserpine smiled. ‘Now you’re thinking,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, they’ll be human. Genetically anyway.’
‘And they’ll try to kill me?’
‘Oh they’ll be professionals, Nightingale. They won’t be playing with you.’
‘And what do you get out of it?’ he asked. The nicotine craving had returned with a vengeance and he gritted his teeth.
‘Entertainment,’ she said. ‘Amusement. Plus I can use you as a reward.’
‘Reward?’
‘A treat. Something to show my minions that I care for them. They do so love to serve me. Do you want the deal or not, Nightingale? If not, say the words and I’ll be on my way.’
‘It’s a deal,’ he said. ‘And you’ll answer any question that I ask you?’
A cruel smile spread across her face. ‘Yes, Nightingale, I will.’ She bit down on her lower lip and watched him.
Nightingale wondered why she was smiling, then realisation hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. He’d asked his first question and she’d answered it. And that stupid slip was going to cost him an attempt on his life. ‘Okay,’ he said, nodding slowly. ‘I see how it works.’ He stopped speaking as his mind whirled. He was going to have to be very, very careful because the next words out of his mouth would be a matter of life or death.
31
T here was a white VW Golf parked next to Jenny’s Audi when Nightingale arrived at her house at eight o’clock the following morning. As he climbed out of his MGB, a middle-aged lady in a fur coat, walking two Yorkshire terriers on leads, wished him a good morning. Nightingale resisted the urge to tug his forelock. He rang Jenny’s buzzer and a female voice he didn’t recognise said, ‘Who is it?’ through the speakerphone.
‘It’s Jack,’ he said. ‘Jack Nightingale. Is Jenny okay?’
The speakerphone clicked and went quiet. Nightingale heard footsteps and then the door opened. It took him a couple of seconds to recognise the brunette standing in the doorway. Barbara McEvoy was an old friend from Jenny’s student days, the psychiatrist that Jenny had taken to Gosling Manor. She smiled at him but her eyes were wary as she stepped back and let Nightingale across the threshold.
Barbara pointed to a door at the end of the hallway. ‘Jenny’s in the kitchen,’ she said, closing the front door as Nightingale headed down the corridor.
Jenny was sitting at a breakfast bar in a pink bathrobe, toying with a bowl of cornflakes. ‘You’re up early,’ she said. Her hair was tied back in a red scrunchy.
Barbara came into the kitchen behind him. ‘Ouija boards aren’t toys, Jack,’ she said. ‘They can do a lot of damage.’
‘Is that a professional opinion?’ asked Nightingale. Barbara was a psychiatrist at one of the larger London hospitals.
‘I’m serious, Jack. I’ve known patients develop all sorts of problems after playing with them.’
‘Problems like what?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Depression. Hallucinations. Schizophrenia, in one case.’
‘Come on, Barbara, you’re not suggesting that a Ouija board can cause schizophrenia.’
‘Of course not, but if someone already has mental-health issues, messing around with the spirit world isn’t likely to help.’ Barbara poured tea into a mug and handed it to him.
‘I’m surprised that you’re not accusing us of imagining things.’
Barbara frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’
Nightingale sipped his tea. ‘Because you’re a psychiatrist. I didn’t think you’d believe in spirits.’
‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘But that doesn’t mean that I think Ouija boards aren’t dangerous.’
‘But Jenny told you what happened?’
‘She said that you were playing with the board in the basement and that you got upset and the candles went out. And that you then forced her to go back to finish the seance.’
‘The session had to be finished; the spirit had to be banished.’
