Lastnight (34 page)

Eddie pushed open the door. ‘You’re sure there’s no alarm?’

‘Positive,’ said Nightingale.

Eddie stepped into the wood-panelled hallway, his shoes squeaking on the marble floor. He looked up at a massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling. ‘That’s worth a pretty penny,’ he said.

‘Don’t even think about it, Eddie,’ said Nightingale. He flicked the light switch by the door but nothing happened.

‘Power must be off,’ said Eddie. He walked across the hallway and pushed open an oak door. It opened into a large room with a vaulted ceiling and a huge white marble fireplace. Along one wall was a line of windows that looked over ornamental gardens with bushes that had been trained into the shapes of exotic animals. Eddie pointed at what looked like a giraffe. ‘Someone with too much time on their hands,’ he said.

‘Eddie, it’s time for you to push off,’ said Nightingale.

He looked out of the window. The sky was darkening as the sun dipped down below the horizon.

‘There’s a letter for you here, Jack,’ said Eddie, reaching for an envelope on the mantelpiece.

‘Put it back,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’s addressed to you,’ said Eddie.

‘Eddie, will you just do as you’re told,’ said Nightingale. ‘Put the bloody thing back where you found it.’ He watched Eddie walk back to the mantelpiece and replace the envelope. Nightingale took out his wallet and gave Eddie a handful of fifty-pound notes.

Eddie grinned as he took the money. ‘Always a pleasure doing business with you,’ he said.

‘Now listen to me, Eddie, and listen good,’ said Nightingale. ‘Get back in your car and drive away from here. Don’t ever come back. And you need to forget you ever knew me.’

Eddie’s forehead creased into a frown. ‘Are you serious?’

‘As cancer, Eddie.’

‘Are you in trouble?’

‘Nothing you can help me with.’

‘I know people, Jack.’

‘Yeah, I know people too, Eddie. But I have to handle this myself. And you need to put a lot of distance between us. Get rid of your phone. Get a new phone and new SIM card. Don’t ever call me again. Don’t ever tell anyone that you know me. If anyone ever asks you about me, you know nothing.’

‘Who’s going to be asking about you?’

‘Are you listening to me? It doesn’t matter who asks. You don’t know me.’ He dropped what was left of his cigarette on the floor and stamped it out. ‘I’m bad news, Eddie. The worst possible news. Now get the hell out of here and don’t look back.’

Eddie opened his mouth to protest but Nightingale pointed a warning finger at his face. ‘Just piss off,’ he said.

‘There’s no need to be a prick about it,’ said Eddie. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room. Nightingale took his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. He was holding the smoke deep in his lungs when he heard Eddie drive off in his Jaguar.

57

N
ightingale walked back into the main hall and blew smoke as he stared at the panelled wall. He stepped forward, reached out with his left hand and gripped a section of carving. He pulled it and the panel swung open smoothly. There was a light switch just inside the doorway and Nightingale clicked it on. Nothing happened. He switched on his torch, seized a brass banister with his left hand and slowly went down the wooden stairs. The basement ran the length of one of the wings of the house. The walls were lined with book-filled shelves and down the middle of the space were two lines of display cases. At the bottom of the stairs were two large red leather Chesterfield sofas either side of a coffee table piled high with books, and a huge desk that was covered in newspapers. There was an antique globe that was almost four feet high and a massive oak table with more than a dozen candles on it. Molten wax had dripped from the candles down the legs of the table and pooled on the floor.

Despite the cigarette in his hand, Nightingale wrinkled his nose at the bitter, acrid smell that pervaded the basement. His stomach lurched and for a moment he tasted bile at the back of his mouth and came close to throwing up. He swallowed and grimaced. He walked past a display case filled with skulls, then by a cabinet filled with knives, some of which were spotted with what appeared to be dried blood. The next display case was full of crystal balls, and the one after that was full of what seemed to be shrunken heads, leathery fist-sized lumps with straggly hair and pig-like noses.

He found a trunk full of black candles and took out a dozen, spacing them around the basement and lighting them. The flickering flames cast strange shadows on all the surfaces, moving like living things.

There were half a dozen LCD screens on the wall in two banks of three. In front of the screens was a black wooden desk with a straight-backed chair. There was a large stainless-steel console dotted with labelled buttons on the desk. Nightingale sat down and lit a cigarette and studied the console. There was no sign of the power being on and no matter what he did the screens stayed blank so it looked as if the cameras weren’t recording.

He stood up and walked back along the bookshelves. Most of the books were leather-bound and clearly very old. It took him the best part of an hour to find the three volumes that he was looking for and he took them over to the coffee table by the stairs before flopping down on one of the sofas. He took out his mobile phone and tapped out the US number that Jenny had given him. It was just after nine so he figured it was early afternoon in the United States.

The woman who answered had a no-nonsense clipped tone that suggested he was wasting her valuable time by just calling her. ‘Joshua Wainwright’s office. This is Elizabeth speaking.’

‘Hello, Elizabeth. Is Joshua there?’

‘Who’s calling?’ she asked.

‘My name’s Jack Nightingale.’

‘Does he know you, Mr Nightingale?’ she asked, though her tone suggested that she knew the answer already.

‘Not in this life, no,’ said Nightingale, immediately regretting the flippancy. ‘No. But it is important.’

‘Can you tell me what it is in connection with?’

‘It’s personal,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Wainwright doesn’t have personal conversations with people he doesn’t know,’ said the woman, briskly. ‘Thank you for calling.’ She ended the call.

Nightingale grinned, lit a cigarette and swung his feet up on to the coffee table before redialling.

‘Joshua Wainwright’s office. This is Elizabeth speaking.’

Nightingale blew smoke up at the ceiling. ‘Elizabeth, this is Jack Nightingale again. I think we might have got off on the wrong foot just then. I have something that Joshua wants. Could you just please give him a message and I’m sure he’ll get back to me.’

‘Mr Wainwright is a very busy man,’ she said.

‘I understand that, Elizabeth. But what I have, he wants, big-time. So please just take a message. Tell him I have a copy of
The Formicarius
, first edition, printed in 1475. Written by Johannes Nider, but of course he’ll know that. And it has the special cover, he’ll know what I mean by that. Also tell him that I have three books by Aleister Crowley.
Magick Book 4
,
Liber Al Vel Legis
, and his personal diary. So that’s four books in all.’

‘Are you a dealer, Mr Nightingale?’

‘No, but I have those four titles for him.’ Nightingale gave her his mobile number and cut the connection. He stared up at a damp patch in the ceiling above his head as he blew smoke up at one of the fluorescent lights. He was just about to finish his cigarette when his mobile rang. He stubbed out the cigarette and took the call.

‘Jack Nightingale?’

‘Joshua, thanks for calling me back.’

‘Boy, you’d better not be pulling my chain or I’ll be madder than a bobcat caught in a piss fire.’ Wainwright had the laconic drawl of an elderly Texas rancher but Nightingale knew that the man on the other end of the line was barely into his thirties.

‘I’ve no idea what that means, Joshua, but this is no hoax. I’ve got the four books for you, on the table next to me.’

‘Name your price,’ said Wainwright. ‘I’m serious, just tell me what you want.’

‘Where are you?’ asked Nightingale.

‘The good old US of A,’ said Wainwright. ‘Where are you?’

‘England,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need a sit-down with you and you’re the one with the private plane so when can you get here?’

‘I’m on my way,’ said Wainwright. ‘I usually fly into Stansted. The private aviation terminal.’

‘I know,’ said Nightingale. ‘What time?’

‘I’ll call you en route to confirm, but probably first thing in the morning. And you take care of those books, you hear?’

‘I’ll guard them with my life, Joshua, you can count on that.’

58

N
ightingale snapped awake when his mobile phone buzzed to let him know he’d received a text message. It was from Wainwright, telling him that the plane would be touching down at 9.15. Nightingale yawned. He’d stayed late at Gosling Manor and hadn’t got back to his flat until the early hours. He rolled out of bed, shaved and showered and pulled on a white shirt, a blue tie and a dark blue suit before heading down to his MGB.

He arrived at the private aviation terminal at Stansted just after nine and he was parking the car when Joshua Wainwright’s sleek Gulfstream jet swept down on to the runway like a bird of prey. Nightingale stood by the side of his MGB and smoked a cigarette as the jet turned off the runway and taxied over to the terminal.

As the door opened and the stairs folded out of the plane, Nightingale ground what was left of his cigarette into the Tarmac before pulling open the boot and taking out a Tesco carrier bag containing the four books from the basement of Gosling Manor. He walked over to the plane just as a pretty blonde stewardess in a tight black skirt and crisp white shirt came down the stairs. She flashed him a professional smile. ‘Mr Nightingale?’

‘That’s me,’ said Nightingale.

‘Would you show me some identification, please?’

Nightingale pulled out his wallet and handed her his driving licence. She studied it, compared the picture to his face, then smiled and gave it back to him. ‘Follow me, please, Mr Nightingale.’

She headed back up the stairs and Nightingale went after her, getting a good look at a pair of legs that were possibly the best he’d ever seen.

Joshua Wainwright was wearing tight blue jeans, a red cowboy shirt, a pair of gleaming cowboy boots with silver tips on the toes, and a New York Yankees baseball cap. He was sprawled in a white leather armchair with his feet up on a matching footstool. He stood up to shake hands with Nightingale. He was tall, just over six feet, and looked like a young Denzel Washington. ‘You’re not what I expected, Jack,’ he said in his lazy Texan drawl. ‘Most of the booksellers I meet are grey-haired and smell of dust.’

‘I’m not a bookseller, I’m a private eye,’ said Nightingale. He held up the carrier bag. ‘But I know you want these.’

Wainwright looked surprised. ‘You’ve got them with you?’

‘Of course,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘I assumed you were going to talk up the price before you handed over the merchandise,’ said Wainwright, taking the bag from him and sitting back down. ‘To be honest I figured you were working a con. The books you mentioned, they’re not in general circulation.’ He pulled one of the books from the bag and his mouth opened in surprise. It was
The Formicarius
.

‘This isn’t about money,’ said Nightingale, sitting down opposite the American.

Wainwright held up the book he was holding. ‘Do you have any idea how much this is worth?’

‘Two million euros,’ said Nightingale.

Wainwright nodded, impressed.

‘Can I smoke?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Go ahead,’ said Wainwright. ‘I’m a cigar man myself.’

‘Yeah. I know.’ Nightingale lit a cigarette as Wainwright slowly turned the pages of the book.

‘This is amazing.’ Wainwright looked up and his eyes were burning with a fierce intensity. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘It belonged to my father. He was a collector.’

‘And you father was …?’

‘He’s dead now. And I’m his sole heir. And I need money.’

‘Well, you’ve got it,’ said Wainwright. ‘I’ll buy this from you, no questions asked. Money in the bank or cash in your hand.’

He put down the book and picked up a smaller one. His eyes widened. ‘Now this one I really didn’t believe you had,’ he whispered. He held it up. ‘You know what it is, right?’

Nightingale blew smoke and nodded. ‘Aleister Crowley’s personal diary.’

‘So you know the significance of this book?’

‘I know Aleister Crowley was one of the most powerful Satanists who ever lived,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I also know while that diary might well be priceless, I can never sell it to you.’

Wainwright grinned and nodded. ‘You know about the curse?’

‘It’s not a problem. You can have it, as a gift.’

‘You’re a very generous man, Jack.’

‘With the diary, I don’t think I have a choice. From what I’ve heard, on the two occasions it was sold, both the buyer and the seller died shortly afterwards.’

Wainwright flicked through the handwritten diary. ‘This really is priceless,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe I have it in my hands.’ He sat back and clasped it to his chest. ‘I don’t know what to say to you, Jack. I am stunned. Literally stunned. You have come from nowhere and given me my heart’s desire.’

‘That’s good to hear, Joshua.’

‘And I’m assuming that you want something in return.’

Nightingale smiled thinly. ‘I need help, Joshua. I’m in a real mess and I’m looking for a way out.’

‘You wanna tell me about it?’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

59

A
s Nightingale spoke, Wainwright lit a large cigar and by the time Nightingale had finished he’d smoked it down to the last couple of inches. He flicked ash into a large crystal ashtray on the table by the side of his chair. ‘That’s one hell of a story,’ said the American.

‘It’s the truth,’ said Nightingale.

‘I’m sure it is.’ He stubbed out what was left of his cigar and steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘I had a feeling that we’d met before,’ he said. ‘A tickle at the back of my neck.’