‘Perhaps,’ said the vicar. ‘We take our converts where we can.’
Nightingale held up his cigarette. ‘Is it okay to smoke?’
The vicar smiled. ‘Of course.’ He gestured at the church. ‘But not inside, we’re covered by health and safety regulations these days.’ He looked wistfully at the cigarette in Nightingale’s hand.
‘You smoke?’ asked Nightingale.
‘I try not to,’ said the vicar, ‘and every year I give it up for Lent.’ Nightingale offered him the packet and he took one. Nightingale lit it for him. ‘Marlboro always make me feel like a cowboy’ he said.
‘It was the packet that got me started on them,’ said Nightingale. ‘Took me a while to get used to the smoke.’
The two men exhaled.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ said Nightingale.
‘Of course,’ said the vicar. ‘Anything but geography – I was always bad at it. How’s anyone supposed to remember all those capital cities?’
Nightingale chuckled. ‘It’s a bit more esoteric than that,’ he said. ‘I wanted to ask you if you believed in the devil.’
The vicar frowned. ‘If one believes in the Lord, one has to believe in the devil. The two come as a package deal, if you like.’
‘Horns, a forked tail and a pitchfork?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said the vicar. ‘But who can doubt that there’s evil in the world?’
‘I believe in evil. But is evil within men or is it an outside force that corrupts?’
‘When there was only Adam and Eve there was no evil. Evil came from without.’
‘Because Satan introduced the serpent into Paradise? You believe in all that?’
‘It’s not my faith that needs examining, is it? What’s troubling you, Jack?’
Nightingale smiled ruefully. ‘You don’t want to go there.’
‘Try me,’ said the vicar. ‘One smoker to another.’
Nightingale sighed. ‘I’m not sure I know what’s going on, what’s real and what’s an irrational fear.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Is it possible to sell your soul?’
‘To the devil?’
Nightingale nodded.
‘Tough question,’ he said. ‘Tougher than geography.’
‘Is that your way of saying you don’t have an answer?’
‘I’ll have a stab at it,’ said the vicar, flicking ash on the path. He took a deep breath. ‘We talk of giving our lives to Christ, so there must also be misguided individuals who give themselves over to evil.’
‘And would such a deal be irrevocable?’
‘A person can always change his mind. The history of the Church is filled with conversions.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Looks like I’m a smoker again.’
‘Once a smoker, always a smoker,’ said Nightingale. ‘What if there was a contract with the devil?’
The vicar looked pained. ‘It’s more a case of coming to believe that Jesus Christ is our Lord and Saviour.’
‘I understand that, but I’m not talking about a contract with Christ. I’m talking about doing a deal with the other side. The dark side. What if your soul is promised to the devil?’
‘I think you’re being too literal, Jack,’ said the vicar. ‘One no more makes a contract with the devil than one does with Jesus. It’s not a matter of signing on the dotted line. It’s a matter of belief.’ He dropped his cigarette butt and squashed it with his foot.
‘And do you believe in hell?’
‘As a concept?’
‘As a place.’
The vicar laughed. ‘There! I told you not to go asking me about geography.’
‘You’ve very good at avoiding questions,’ said Nightingale. ‘You’d be a nightmare to interrogate.’
‘You’re a police officer?’ asked the vicar.
‘In a previous life,’ said Nightingale. ‘So, is there a hell, or not? And if there is, where is it?’
‘Scripture doesn’t give us an exact location,’ said the vicar. ‘It’s a place of real torment that may or may not have a physical location in this universe. A black hole, maybe. Or it might be in another dimension, a place we move to after death.’
‘You believe that?’
‘I believe in God, of course. It’d be difficult to do this job if I didn’t. And I believe that we go from this life to be with God.’
‘But where?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Where do we go?’
‘Heaven,’ said the vicar. ‘That’s what the Bible says.’
‘But where is heaven?’
The vicar smiled. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Geography again.’ He put a hand on Nightingale’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry I can’t answer all your questions. I know how frustrating that can be. So far as I’m concerned, as a Christian, it’s less important where heaven is than to know that one day I’ll be there.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Nightingale.
‘The Church doesn’t have all the answers,’ said the vicar. ‘There has to be faith. Belief is about faith.’
‘And that’s the problem,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m a bit short of both at the moment.’
19
Nightingale lit a cigarette as he steered the MGB with one hand. The vicar hadn’t been much help but, then, Nightingale hadn’t expected he would be. He hadn’t gone to the graveyard for spiritual guidance. Truth be told, he had no idea why he’d felt the need to be there. His questions could only be answered by his parents, and they were dead. Dead and buried.
He wound down his window and blew smoke as he drove. There was no proof that he was adopted. It might turn out to be some perverse mistake, that Ainsley Gosling had simply been wrong, or that he had chosen Nightingale as the victim of some beyond-the-grave hoax. Fathers didn’t sell the souls of their children to the devil, not in the twentieth or twenty-first century. Not in any century. But until Hoyle came back with the results of the DNA analysis, Nightingale had no way of knowing whether Gosling really had been his biological father.
A blue light flashed in his rear-view mirror and Nightingale swore. He hadn’t been speeding but the car had woven a little while he was lighting the cigarette. The siren blipped and Nightingale swore again. He indicated, pulled over and switched off the engine. The police car pulled up behind him and two constables got out. Nightingale gritted his teeth and stubbed out his cigarette. They’d smell the alcohol on his breath. He leaned over, flicked open the glove compartment and groped for the packet of Wrigley’s chewing gum he always kept there. He unwrapped two sticks and slotted them into his mouth, then opened the door and climbed out, keeping his hands where the officers could see them. ‘Sorry, guys, I wasn’t speeding, was I?’
The younger of the two was in his mid-twenties and holding a breathalyser machine. The older man did the talking. ‘Have you been drinking, sir?’ he asked.
‘A few beers, a few hours ago,’ said Nightingale. Even with the spearmint gum he knew he wouldn’t get away with a complete denial. He took out his wallet and showed them his private-investigator identification. ‘Guys, I know this won’t cut me any slack, but I used to be in the job.’
‘If you were in the job, you’d know there’s no slack to be cut,’ said the policeman. ‘We’re going to need a sample of your breath to ascertain if you’ve been drinking. If you’re unable or unwilling to provide such a sample we’ll take you to the station where you’ll have to give a blood or urine sample.’
Nightingale raised his hands in surrender. He knew there was no point in arguing. ‘No problem,’ he said.
The younger policeman handed him the breathalyser unit and showed him what to do. Nightingale took a deep breath, then blew slowly into the tube. A red light winked on accusingly and the officer grinned triumphantly.
