‘In the devil?’
‘In God, the devil, the whole nine yards.’
Nightingale blew smoke. ‘I’m told that calling up a devil is fairly easy.’
‘It’s Occult 101,’ Wainwright said. ‘Use any search engine and type in “calling up the devil”. You’ll get thousand of hits.’
‘And selling your soul is easy, too?’
Wainwright winced. ‘You’ve got to know what you’re doing, Jack. You’ve got to make sure you’re protected and you have to know how to handle them. They’re not lapdogs, they’re the masters of hell. You make one wrong move and they’ll rip your soul out.’
‘You’ve heard of Proserpine?’
‘Of course. One of the greats. Definitely not amateur material. You wouldn’t want to go calling her up unless you really knew what you were doing.’
‘And what about selling her the soul of an unborn child? Is that doable?’
Wainwright’s eyes were suddenly as hard as flint. ‘What’s going on, Jack?’ he said. ‘What is it you really want to know? You’re dancing around it whatever it is.’
Nightingale smiled tightly. ‘Even saying it sounds crazy,’ he said.
Wainwright’s cigar froze inches from his lips and he narrowed his eyes. ‘Gosling did it, didn’t he?’
Nightingale said nothing. Wainwright’s eyes bored into his and Nightingale had to look away.
‘Ainsley Gosling sold your soul to Proserpine before you were born?’
‘That’s what he told me, yeah,’ said Nightingale. ‘He left me a DVD saying just that.’
‘You’ve got the mark? The pentagram?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Wainwright leaned forward. ‘If there’s no pentagram, there’s no contract,’ he said. ‘That’s an absolute fact.’
‘I’ve looked everywhere,’ said Nightingale.
‘Then you’re okay,’ said Wainwright. ‘What happened to your father?
‘He killed himself.’
‘How?’
‘Shotgun.’
‘But he was inside a protective circle, right? A pentagram.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘How did you know?’
‘Because that’s the way I’d do it. Something quick and sure.’
‘And the pentagram?’
‘So they can’t get at you before you die. So that you can choose your own time.’
‘But you still go to hell, right?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether you’ve been naughty or nice. Bit like whether or not you get a gift from Santa.’ He laughed at his own joke.
‘What I mean is, if you’re going to hell and you die within the protective pentagram, do you still go to hell?’
‘Yes, but you’d be going in under your own terms.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Nightingale.
‘I wouldn’t expect you to,’ said Wainwright.
‘You see, I can’t work out why my father, my genetic father, went to all the trouble of protecting himself with the pentagram and then he goes and kills himself.’
‘Because he wanted it to be his decision,’ said Wainwright. ‘He wanted to choose the time and place of his passing. That’s not unusual.’
‘And if my soul was sold, what are my options?’
‘Zero. But, like I said, if there’s no mark on you, your soul’s your own.’
Nightingale ran a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck. He could feel the tendons there, as taut as steel wires. ‘I need to talk to this Proserpine.’
‘No, you don’t, Jack. She’s a devil. She’d eat you for breakfast.’
A middle-aged man in a crisp white shirt with black-and-yellow epaulettes opened the cockpit door. ‘We’re about to fire up the engines, Mr Wainwright,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have to get our wheels off the ground within the next ten minutes or we’ll lose our slot.’
‘Ready when you are, Ed,’ said Wainwright. He smiled at Nightingale. ‘Looks like our time’s up, Jack,’ he said.
The pilot went back into the cockpit and closed the door behind him. Wainwright stood up and held out his hand. ‘Good luck,’ he said.
They shook. ‘Have a safe trip,’ said Nightingale.
‘You too, man,’ said Wainwright. ‘But remember, if there’s no mark there’s no deal and you have nothing to worry about.’
As Nightingale walked away from the plane towards the waiting Mercedes, he heard the stairs retract, the door thump shut and the engines start to whine. The chauffeur already had the door open for him. ‘Shall I put that in the boot, sir?’ asked the chauffeur, indicating the metal suitcase.
‘I think I’ll keep it with me,’ said Nightingale. He climbed into the back and put it on the seat next to him.
63
The bank manager rubbed his chin as he stared at the suitcase full of money. ‘Mr Nightingale, this is very, very unorthodox,’ he said.
‘Tell me about it,’ said Nightingale.
‘There are money-laundering regulations, customer-identification protocols, procedures.’
‘I understand that, Mr Collinson, but that’s how the money came to me and that’s how I’m giving it to you.’
‘But no one carries around two million euros in cash,’ said the bank manager, dropping into his high-backed executive chair. ‘My head office is going to be asking all sorts of questions. You’re not even a customer of the bank.’
‘But my father was, and I’m his sole heir. And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that I’m responsible for the mortgage on Gosling Manor.’
Collinson pursed his fleshy lips, like a toddler about to burst into tears. ‘Very irregular,’ he said. ‘We’re not even geared up for having this much cash on the premises.’
‘It’s perfectly legitimate,’ said Nightingale. ‘I sold some of the books in my father’s collection.’
‘For cash?’
‘For cash,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was as surprised as you are.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and took out two sheets of paper. He gave them to the bank manager. ‘There’s the receipt that the buyer gave me. And the invoice from the bookstore in Hamburg that sold the book to my father.’
Collinson scrutinised both pieces of paper. ‘A substantial profit.’
‘Especially when you consider how much the euro has risen in value,’ said Nightingale.
‘You do understand that if you lodge these funds with our branch, we’ll be duty-bound to inform the Inland Revenue?’ said Collinson.
‘I didn’t, but I do now.’
‘There will probably be a capital-gains tax liability, and you’ll have to fill out a form explaining where the money came from.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Nightingale.
