‘Jack, come on, you don’t believe in spirits, do you? You don’t really think that you were talking to someone who’d died, do you?’
Nightingale folded his arms and looked across at Jenny. She flashed him a warning look and he realised that she hadn’t told her friend everything. She certainly hadn’t told Barbara that Nightingale had negotiated with a demon from Hell to save his soul from eternal damnation. ‘What do you think happened, Barbara?’ he asked quietly.
‘I think you let your imaginations get the better of you. I think the game went a bit too far and Jenny paid the price.’ She put her hands around her mug. ‘Ouija boards are a way of getting in touch with thoughts and emotions that are usually suppressed. Most people assume that someone is consciously pushing the glass or the pointer or whatever, but in fact that’s often not the case. You might have three or four people around the board and all of them would swear blind that they weren’t trying to influence what was happening. And the thing is, they’d probably all be telling the truth.’
‘You mean they might be doing it subconsciously?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Exactly.’
‘And why would they do that?’
Barbara shrugged. ‘There’s a host of reasons,’ she said. ‘You have to remember that a lot of times people use the Ouija board to try to contact a loved one who’s died. So they’re under a lot of stress to start with. And often there’s something they want to say to that loved one, and something that they want to hear back. So there’s an element of wish-fulfilment. That might be as simple as wanting to hear that they’re still loved. Plus there’s the fear of death, of course.’
‘Fear of death?’ repeated Nightingale.
‘Most people want to believe that death isn’t the end,’ said Barbara. ‘They want to get a message from beyond the grave so the subconscious kicks in and gives them what they want. It’s not a harmless game, Jack. Even for consenting adults. Jenny said that you were trying to contact your partner. Robbie?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘He died a few weeks ago.’
‘And I’m guessing you had unresolved issues with him?’
‘Sure,’ said Nightingale. Jenny was still keeping her head down, unwilling to look at him. ‘I know it was stupid.’
‘And the basement of an empty house wasn’t the best venue. I mean, the house is lovely, but there is some seriously disturbing stuff in the basement.’
‘No argument here,’ said Nightingale. Jenny looked up at him and smiled. ‘You don’t have to come in today,’ he said. ‘You can hang out here with Barbara.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I’ve got lots to do,’ she said. ‘I’ll get changed.’
‘Jack’s right,’ said Barbara. ‘We can try some retail therapy. Karen Millen’s got a pre-Christmas sale.’
‘Really, I’d rather work.’
‘Work rather than shop?’ Barbara looked at Nightingale, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘You’ve done some magic thing on her, haven’t you? Bent her to your will?’
‘I wish,’ laughed Nightingale.
32
N ightingale dropped Jenny off at the office and then drove to Camden. He left his MGB on the third floor of a multi-storey car park close to Camden Lock market. The Wicca Woman shop wasn’t easy to find unless you were looking for it; it was tucked away in a side street between a store selling exotic bongs and T-shirts promoting cannabis use, and another that specialised in hand-knitted sweaters. A tiny bell tinkled as Nightingale pushed open the door. He smelled lavender and lemon grass and jasmine and he saw an incense stick burning in a pewter holder by an old-fashioned cash register.
Alice Steadman was arranging a display of crystals on a shelf by the window. Her face broke into a smile when she saw him. ‘Mr Nightingale, I’m so pleased to see you.’ She was in her late sixties, with pointy bird-like features and grey hair tied back in a ponytail. Her skin was wrinkled and almost translucent but her eyes were an emerald green that burned with a fierce intensity. She was dressed all in black: a long silk shirt-dress that reached almost to her knees, a thick leather belt with a silver buckle in the shape of a quarter moon, thick tights and slippers with silver bells on the toes.
‘Why’s that, Mrs Steadman?’
‘Because the last time we met you were asking me about selling souls to the devil. I must admit you had me worried.’
‘I was just curious,’ said Nightingale. He held up the carrier bag he was holding. ‘I brought you a gift.’
She giggled girlishly. ‘Oh you shouldn’t have. Books? From your collection? Oh let me see.’
Nightingale gave her the carrier bag. Inside were three books that he’d taken from the shelves in the basement of Gosling Manor. They were all old and bound in leather, one was about witchcraft in the Middle Ages and the other two were books of spells, both lavishly illustrated.
Mrs Steadman gasped. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she said. She looked at him, her eyes wide. ‘You can’t possibly give these to me, Mr Nightingale. They’re far too precious.’
‘They’re no use to me, Mrs Steadman,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I’ll be selling most of what I have. I just wanted to thank you for all the help you gave me.’
She clasped the books to her chest as if she was afraid that he might change his mind. ‘Well, let me at least offer you a cup of tea,’ she said.
‘You read my mind,’ said Nightingale.
Mrs Steadman pulled back a beaded curtain behind the counter. ‘Briana, can you take over the shop for me?’ she called.
Nightingale heard soft footsteps and then a punk girl with fluorescent pink hair appeared. Like Mrs Steadman she was dressed all in black and she had a chrome stud in her chin, two studs in each eyebrow and a nose ring. She grinned at Mrs Steadman. ‘Is this your new boyfriend, then?’ she asked in a nasal Essex accent.
‘No, Briana, of course not,’ said Mrs Steadman, but her cheeks flushed. ‘I’m just going to make Mr Nightingale a cup of tea.’
Nightingale followed her through the curtain to a small room where a gas fire was burning, casting flickering shadows across the walls. She put the books on a circular wooden table and waved for Nightingale to sit on one of three wooden chairs. Above the table was a brightly coloured Tiffany lampshade, and on one wall was a flatscreen television tuned to a chat show.
Mrs Steadman picked up a remote and switched off the television. ‘I tell Briana that television destroys the brain cells, but she won’t listen to me,’ she said, going over to a kettle on top of a pale green refrigerator and switching it on. She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘Milk and no sugar,’ she said.
‘You’ve a good memory,’ said Nightingale.
‘I’m not senile yet, young man,’ she said archly.
‘I know that, Mrs Steadman,’ he said. He nodded towards the beaded curtain. ‘How’s business?’
‘Better than ever,’ she said, spooning PG Tips into a brown ceramic teapot. ‘I think the recession means that more people are looking for help.’
‘Spells to make money?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Not just money, but that’s obviously an issue. When times are hard people look for answers and Wicca has them in abundance. Wicca helps you to find your place in the natural order of things and helps you to live in harmony with others.’
When the kettle had boiled she poured water into the teapot and carried it over to the table on a tray with two blue and white striped mugs and a matching milk jug. She sat down and poured the tea, then added milk.
‘How’s your business, Mr Nightingale?’ she asked, watching him like an inquisitive bird.
‘Ticking over,’ said Nightingale. ‘I do a lot of divorce work and when times are hard relationships are always stressed.’
Mrs Steadman sipped her tea and studied him over the top of her mug. ‘I get the feeling that you didn’t come
