‘Definitely not,’ he said.
He looked across at Jenny, who nodded in agreement. ‘Jack was very careful not to use her name.’
‘And did he suggest payment?’
‘He just offered me a private session,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was worried that he might be setting me up for a con.’
‘That certainly does happen,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘There are a lot of charlatans around. I would say that the true mediums rarely accept payment. They tend to believe that the gift they have shouldn’t be sullied with money. There might be a collection for expenses or to help towards the running of the association but it’s quite unusual for a spiritualist to ask for money up front.’ She waved a languid hand towards the shop. ‘Of course, in a way I’m in a similar position. I am a true believer in the power of Wicca but that doesn’t stop me running a business based on it.’
‘So what do you think, Mrs Steadman? Is he setting me up for a con?’
Mrs Steadman chuckled and reached for her tea. ‘I’m sure you’re a better judge of that than me,’ she said. ‘You were the policeman.’
‘I guess,’ said Nightingale. ‘But how will I know if he’s genuine or not?’
‘Only you will be able to tell, Mr Nightingale.’
‘But here’s what I don’t understand, Mrs Steadman. I went to the meeting to talk to Sophie. I was totally open and receptive, but nothing happened. Why didn’t Sophie contact me then?’
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘You have to think of it in terms of frequencies.’
‘Frequencies?’
‘Imagine a spirit is at one frequency and the living are at a different frequency, which is why most people can’t see spirits. Mediums can tune themselves into the frequency of the spirits. But just because they can see one spirit doesn’t mean they can see them all. It could be that the medium you saw simply couldn’t hear Sophie’s frequency but can hear the frequencies of other spirits.’ She shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry if I’m not being much help. It’s not really my field.’
‘So Sophie might have been there but just couldn’t come through?’
Mrs Steadman nodded. ‘It might just be a case of trying another medium,’ she said.
‘Okay, I will,’ said Nightingale. ‘What harm would it do?’
29
Nightingale dropped Jenny outside her mews house in Chelsea. ‘I feel bad taking the afternoon off,’ she said as she opened the door of the black cab and climbed out.
‘It’s four o’clock,’ he said. ‘And it’s not as if we’re rushed off our feet.’ He grinned. ‘It’s the cold weather: people prefer to commit adultery in the summer. See you tomorrow.’
Jenny closed the door and waved goodbye, then disappeared into her house.
‘Where to, mate?’ asked the driver.
‘Are you okay to go south of the river?’
‘I have to take you anywhere within six miles of the square mile,’ said the cabbie. ‘That’s the law.’
‘Clapham, then,’ said Nightingale. ‘Close to the station.’ He looked at his watch. He wanted to get to Perry Smith’s house before dark but it didn’t look as if he was going to make it.
The traffic was no heavier than normal for a winter Wednesday afternoon. Drivers were switching on their lights as they crossed the Thames and by the time they reached Clapham it was dark outside. Nightingale had the cabbie drop him about a hundred yards from Perry Smith’s house. Dan Evans had given him the address, along with a warning: Perry lived with at least three other gang members in a part of Clapham that the local police regarded as a no-go area, unless they were mob-handed and armed to the teeth. Nightingale paid the cabbie and turned up the collar of his raincoat. As the cab drove away Nightingale shivered and felt very much alone. It wasn’t a part of London that he was familiar with and he was about to confront a man who had already tried to kill him with a hail of bullets. He looked up at the dark sky and shivered again. He took out his cigarettes and lit one.
A black hatchback prowled past, rap music blaring out at such a volume that he felt the vibration in his stomach. There were four black teenagers inside and they all turned to look at Nightingale as they drove by. Nightingale blew smoke and started to walk down the pavement towards Smith’s house.
The houses were in a terrace, two storeys high and with railings around steps leading to a basement. Most of the houses had been split up into flats judging by the multiple bells next to the front doors. There was a big black man in a Puffa jacket standing outside the house, stamping his feet against the cold, his breath feathering around his mouth. He turned to look at Nightingale and stared with undisguised hostility as Nightingale walked towards him.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Nightingale.
The man grunted and continued to glare at Nightingale as he slid a hand inside his Puffa jacket.
‘I’m here to see Perry Smith,’ said Nightingale.
‘We don’t deal here,’ said the man.
‘I’m not here to buy gear. I’m here to talk.’
‘About what?’
‘I’m looking for tips on how to get my roses to grow,’ said Nightingale. ‘What bloody business is it of yours?’
The man took a step towards Nightingale, his upper lip curled back in a sneer.
Nightingale stood his ground. ‘What are you going to do, beat me to a pulp in the street?’
The man jabbed a finger at Nightingale. ‘We own this street. Ain’t no one gonna be calling three nines.’
Nightingale took a step back. ‘Okay, maybe we got off on the wrong foot,’ he said. ‘Tell Perry I’m the guy he tried to shoot in Queensway a while back. The name’s Nightingale.’
‘Like the bird?’
‘Yeah, like the bird. Jack Nightingale.’
The man nodded slowly, then turned and unlocked the front door. He disappeared inside for a few minutes and then returned. He jerked a thumb. ‘In,’ he said. Nightingale stepped inside and as soon as he did the heavy slammed him against the wall, kicking the door closed with his heel. The hallway ran the full length of the house with a kitchen at the far end, purple doors leading off to the right and a flight of stairs, which had also been painted purple, leading upstairs. A pretty black girl with waist-length dreadlocks was sitting halfway up the stairs, inhaling from a large glass bong. She exhaled a cloud of sweetish smoke and waggled her fingers at Nightingale.
‘Easy,’ said Nightingale. His hands had gone up against the wall instinctively and he kept them there as the heavy patted him down, looking for a weapon. He didn’t resist and didn’t say anything. Eventually the heavy was satisfied and he told Nightingale to turn around.
He took him down the hallway to the first room. The walls were painted a pale purple and there was a huge spherical white-paper lampshade hanging from the middle of the ceiling. There were three large sofas around a coffee table that was piled high with drugs paraphernalia including several bongs and a silver bowl filled with a white powder. Nightingale smiled and shook his head in disbelief. If Chalmers and Evans had turned up with a search warrant the drugs alone would have meant Smith going away for a long time. An episode of The Simpsons was playing on a large TV fixed to one of the walls but the room seemed to be empty.
The heavy shoved Nightingale against one of the sofas. ‘Hey!’ shouted Nightingale, but before he could say anything else a man stepped from behind the door, grabbed Nightingale by the collar of his coat and pushed him towards the wall again. Something hard pressed under Nightingale’s chin, forcing his head back.
‘What the hell you doing here?’ growled the man with the gun.
‘It’s a social call,’ said Nightingale, trying to sound as though having a gun jammed against his neck was no big thing. But it was a big thing. A very big thing. Especially when the man holding the gun was a gangster like Perry Smith. ‘I just wanted a word.’
‘Fucking comedian, huh?’ said Smith. He pulled Nightingale away from the wall but kept the gun pressed against his flesh. Nightingale could just see the handle of the weapon: a chrome semi-automatic. ‘The cops outside? Because if they are you’re a dead man.’