‘Are you going to be joining our little group?’ she asked.
‘Jack’s just here for a one-off,’ said Miller. He looked down the hatch. ‘Ronnie, are you okay?’
‘Coming!’ called a Scottish voice from downstairs. ‘Just using the bathroom.’
‘That’s Ronnie,’ said Miller. He lowered his voice. ‘Bladder like a marble.’
Nightingale adjusted the robe, which reached down to his ankles. It was made of a thick coarse material that scratched against his wrists, and around his neck there were small knotted cords that tied together to close it at the front.
Downstairs the toilet flushed and the final member of the group slowly climbed the ladder, grunting with each step. He was a big man with a mane of ginger hair. His mask barely covered his eyes and nose and there was a sprinkling of large freckles over all his exposed skin. He grinned at Nightingale and stuck out his hand. There were nicotine stains on his fingers and the nails were bitten to the quick. ‘You’re the new boy,’ he growled. His hand enveloped Nightingale’s but there was hardly any strength in the grip.
‘Just visiting,’ said Nightingale, resisting the urge to wipe his hand on the robe. He’d heard the toilet flush but hadn’t heard Ronnie wash his hands.
Miller went over to the trunk that Nightingale had opened. He bent down, unfastened the leather straps and took out a large black candle. He carried it over to the purple cloth and placed it in front of the altar. He said something in what sounded like Latin, and then pulled a lighter from inside his robe and lit the five candles at the points of the pentagram. He said something else in Latin, moved his left hand over the burning candles, then went over to the light switch and turned off the light. Light was still flooding up through the open hatch and he pulled up the ladder and closed it. With the only light coming from the five small candles and everyone dressed in black, all Nightingale could see was the smudge of faces and the white pentagram on the cloth.
‘Right, everyone, let’s prepare ourselves,’ Miller said, clasping his hands together as if about to say a prayer. He looked across at Nightingale. ‘Just follow my lead, Jack. Do as we do.’
Nightingale nodded and clasped his hands together.
Miller closed his eyes and lowered his head. He began to hum, the sound appearing to come from deep down in his chest. The rest of the group followed his example, all making the same sound. Nightingale closed his eyes and joined in, though he had to change the pitch of his hum several times until it matched the group’s. When he did get the pitch right he felt his stomach begin to vibrate with the sound and before long his whole body seemed to be tingling. The humming continued for several minutes and then as one they stopped. Nightingale opened his eyes but when he saw that everyone else still had theirs shut he closed them again.
Miller began to recite a Latin incantation. That went on for several minutes and then he began to hum again. This time the note seemed to be lower and Nightingale had trouble matching it.
‘Right,’ said Miller eventually. Nightingale opened his eyes and Miller smiled at him. ‘We don’t have anything belonging to the deceased, so I’m going to ask Jack to say a few words about her.’ He gestured at Nightingale and nodded encouragingly.
‘Her name is Sophie,’ said Nightingale. ‘Sophie Underwood. She was nine years old when she died. Her father had been abusing her, and her mother knew what was going on but did nothing to stop what was happening. I was with her when she died. She was on a balcony outside her apartment and she fell.’ Nightingale took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘I think Sophie has been trying to contact me. I’m hoping that you can help her tell me what it is she wants from me.’
‘We’ll do our best,’ said Miller. He slowly pulled the hood of his robe over his head and his face disappeared into the gloom. One by one the others did the same. With the hoods over their heads it was almost impossible to tell who was who.
Miller picked up the big black candle, lit it, and placed it carefully in the middle of the purple cloth. ‘Gather round, please,’ he said, and the group spaced themselves around the pentagram. Miller went over to the Marks amp; Spencer carrier bag and took out a piece of parchment and a pen. He carried them to the altar, where he wrote on the parchment, murmuring in Latin as he did so. When he held it in the air, Nightingale saw that he’d drawn an upside-down pentagram. Miller used his lighter to set fire to it over the brass bowl, holding it for as long as he could before dropping the ashes.
He walked slowly back to the carrier bag and took out a bottle of red wine. It had a screw top and as he reached the pentagram he unscrewed it and carefully poured wine into the chalice. He put the top back on the bottle and put the bottle on the floor by the wall, then he picked up the chalice and held it above his head. ‘Servo nos,’ he said. ‘Protect us.’ He sipped the wine and then passed the chalice to his left, to Joanne.
She held it high and said, ‘Servo nos. Protect us,’ then drank. She passed it to her left and everyone took it in turns to drink from the chalice. Finally Ronnie handed it to Nightingale. He held the chalice above his forehead, said the words in Latin and English, took a sip and then gave it to Miller.
Miller spoke in Latin again and then put the chalice next to the brass bowl on the altar. He used both hands to pick up the black candle and he placed it on the altar between the bowl and the chalice.
He turned back to the group and held out his hand. Joanne took it. He led her onto the purple cloth and into the centre of the pentagram and then helped her lie down, her head towards the altar. He nodded at Martin and Ronnie and they moved into the pentagram and knelt down on either side of the woman.
‘Jack, please join Martin. Make sure that you remain inside the pentagram at all times.’
Nightingale knelt down next to Martin.
Miller moved to stand by Joanne’s head and he crouched down carefully. Joanne had closed her eyes and was breathing softly. Miller began to gently massage her temples. ‘Joanne, your eyes are getting heavy and you are going into a deep, deep sleep,’ he said quietly. Joanne breathed deeply and then went still. ‘You see in your mind Sophie Underwood and her mind is like an open book to you and we ask that you read it to us.’
Miller nodded at Martin and Ronnie and they extended the first and second fingers of both hands and moved them under Joanne’s body, one under her shoulder, one under her hip.
‘Jack, use two fingers under each leg,’ whispered Miller. ‘See how they’re doing it? First and second finger only.’
Nightingale moved around so that he could put two fingers under each knee.
Miller put his hands under Joanne’s neck and then he nodded again. They all lifted her into the air. She was surprisingly light, Nightingale realised, and with no effort they lifted her three feet off the floor.
‘Sophie Underwood,’ said Miller.
‘Sophie Underwood,’ repeated Martin.
Ronnie said her name and all three men looked at Nightingale. He swallowed. His mouth had gone so dry that it hurt. ‘Sophie Underwood,’ he croaked.
The men slowly lowered Joanne back onto the purple cloth. Miller stood over her, looking down at her face. ‘Sophie Underwood, can you hear me?’ he said.
Joanne took a deep breath.
‘Sophie. Are you there?’
‘Where am I?’ said Joanne. Nightingale froze as he realised that it wasn’t the woman’s voice. It was the voice of a young girl.
‘Sophie?’ he said. Miller flashed him a warning look.
‘What are you doing, Jack? Where are you?’
‘You are Sophie Underwood?’ asked Miller.
‘Who are you?’ said Joanne. Nightingale was now sure that it was Sophie’s voice.
‘We’re here to help you talk to Jack,’ said Miller.