‘So how does this gaining power thing work?’ Nightingale interrupted.
‘As a fallen Grigori, the more animated life you can influence and the greater the evil deeds they commit, the more power you get so you get greater influence in Nowhen and on earth. Just recently as I said there has been a massive shift in power and influence around Bombata not only in Nowhen but also on earth. It can be seen in the unrest in countries in all the countries of Africa, the Middle East and Far East. So Bombata needs stopping to rebalance everything here on earth and in Nowhen.’
Nightingale laughed in disbelief. ‘After what you have just told me; how you and your kind can influence people and shapeshift. How do you expect a mere mortal like me to take the power away from Bombata?’
‘We need you to track down the earthly person supplying Bombata with so much power.’
‘We?’ Nightingale questioned. ‘I thought it was just you.’
‘Ah! Well there has been a meeting of interested parties of a much higher position than me who felt the need to redress the balance and it was decided you were an asset we could use. I am merely a spokesperson and the one with the favour that you owe.’
‘So this really is a big thing then?’
‘Yes Jack. We have managed to track down a massive vibrational power source to this country but its exact location and who is creating it is protected by black magic. We need your investigative prowess and instinct to track it down and deal with it.’
‘Deal with it? What do you mean?’ said Nightingale.
Before Proserpine could reply Nightingale was startled awake by the shrill ringing of his alarm clock. He hit the button and the racket stopped. He could feel that he was drenched in sweat and his heart pounding in his chest. Nightingale shook his head trying to get rid of the residual images and thoughts of his very vivid dream. He staggered to the bathroom where he shaved and showered and where he still could not believe how real that dream of Proserpine was. He dressed casually in his chinos, pale green shirt and oatmeal thick jumper.
He had a couple of slices of toast and a mug of coffee and half an hour later he walked through the doors of his office to be greeted by Jenny Maclean. ‘You look absolutely shattered,’ she said, ‘Are you alright?’
‘Just a restless night, didn’t get much sleep,’ Nightingale lied.
I’ll get you a strong coffee, hopefully it will perk you up. You’ve a busy day.’
Nightingale sat in his comfortable leather office chair and realised that the images and thoughts of the dream were still playing around in his head. He decided to do his best to forget the dream and ignore what Proserpine had said. With that he took a deep breath and blew it out slowly with his eyes closed trying to clear his mind and release the tension. Just as he finished Jenny came in with a steaming mug of coffee. He took a sip of coffee feeling slightly more revived. This moment of euphoria was broken by the phone ringing. He picked it up and heard an educated female voice with a South African twang. She announced that she was Susie Mtwetwe and that she was concerned that her husband Adam was having an affair. He had been late coming home on a number of occasions and had become more distant. Nightingale got his vehicle details, his office address and his normal schedule. Nightingale informed Susie of his hourly rates and said it would probably be a couple of weeks before he could start work on the case.
‘What’s that then?’ Jenny enquired.
‘Another wife suspecting her husband of cheating on her,’ Nightingale said as he handed her the scribbled notes from the phone call. ‘Can you do the usual on the details and get as much background as you can from the internet, Facebook and Twitter?’
‘Yes, Master,’ Jenny replied sarcastically. ‘Now here are your cases for today.’ She handed over three beige coloured folders containing the case notes. ‘There is the missing cat case of Felicity Carmichael. Then there is that surveillance camera retrieval from the Premier Inn in the cheating husband case for Lucy Taylor and the fraud whiplash injury claim by Violet Cunningham.’
‘Thank you, Jenny.’ Nightingale replied, ‘What would I do with out you?’
‘Starve! I have worked out the most economic route for you and entered the details into the sat-nav.’
* * *
Nightingale slid into his MG, buckled up, turned the key and nothing, no lights on the dash, no whirring of the starter motor or clicking of it. Nothing.
‘Sod it!’ he said. Then he heard a husky malevolent female voice say, ‘YOUR SOUL WILL BE MINE, JACK NIGHTINGALE.’
Nightingale looked round startled, there was no one in sight. He stormed back into the office, throwing the door back on its hinges so hard that it crashed against the wall. Jenny jumped in surprise at the unexpected loud noise and looked in bewilderment at Nightingale coming in through the door. ‘What’s up?’ she said.
‘Bloody car won’t start! Can I borrow yours?’
‘I’ve told you before to get something more modern and reliable. Yes, you can borrow it but any damage or fines, you are paying.’
‘Thanks Jen, you’re an angel.’ Nightingale said as he caught the keys she had thrown at him.
* * *
Nightingale drove into the Premier Inn car park in Jenny’s Audi and parked up. He strode up to the reception desk and asked to see Jahred Patel, the manager. He arrived a couple of minutes later. There was no words exchanged they just set off in the direction of room 9. Once out of earshot of the front desk Nightingale said, ‘I presume they turned up as usual.’
‘Oh yes, Mr Nightingale they did indeed.’
Jahred opened the door to room 9 with his set of master keys. They both went in and Nightingale went up to the picture over the top of the headboard of the bed and removed the hidden camera. He thanked Jahred and handed him £25.
Back in Jenny’s Audi, he connected the camera to his laptop. The video began to play and there was Lucy Taylor on her back, naked as the day she was born. On top of her was Mark Fisher, her work colleague hammering away like a buck rabbit. At the climatic moment Lucy Taylor threw back her head and winked at the camera and Nightingale heard her say, ‘YOUR SOUL WILL BE MINE, JACK NIGHTINGALE.’
Nightingale pressed the back button and replayed it, same again. He had not imagined it. A feeling of dread and confusion crept over him. He closed the laptop, started the Audi and selected the preset destination for Violet Cunningham, the whiplash injury fraud case.
* * *
Nightingale pulled up in the courtyard of a riverside apartment block that had been adapted from an old warehouse. There were various top-of-the-range models of Mercedes and BMW, including 4x4’s. Nightingale rang the intercom button for Violet Cunningham. Nightingale announced himself and was buzzed in. He went to apartment 4 where the door was answered by a tall, slim, blonde woman whose hair and make-up was over the top. She was wearing a short skirt that left nothing to the imagination and a yellow blouse that was so sheer and flimsy that it exposed the fact that she was braless.
The room was very large and open plan, with very modern furniture and a minimalist décor.
‘So what’s happening with my claim for whiplash?’ Violet asked in an aloof manner and in an accent that spoke of someone trying too hard to sound a class or two above their station.
‘Well, that’s what I am here to sort out with you,’ Nightingale replied. ‘If we can sit down then I can discuss this with you. I need to go over a few things with you on the laptop. So perhaps we can sit on the sofa and I can put the laptop on the coffee table. How is your neck by the way?
‘Oh, it’s so stiff and I can’t turn my head to either side without a lot of pain’
They both sat on the luxurious black leather sofa. Nightingale turned to Violet. ‘The insurance company asked me to investigate your claim. I have looked at all the accident reports, statements and medical reports. There has been some concern that such an injury could not be caused by such a slow speed impact.’
‘Well I can assure you I am in absolute agony.’
r />
‘OK, Well I find that hard to believe as I would like you take a look at this. It was taken late evening on the day of your accident.’ Nightingale selected a video on the laptop. It showed Violet gyrating on the dance floor of a well known West End nightclub, her head flicking from side to side in time to the music and then throwing her head back in an ecstatic movement coinciding with a flourish in the music.
‘You bastard!’ Violet yelled at Nightingale in a cockney accent
Nightingale snapped the lid closed on the laptop. ‘From that evidence I suggest you withdraw your claim or you will be having a visit from the police who will prosecute you for attempted fraud,’ he said.
Violet ‘s face contorted and in a husky witch like voice said ‘YOUR SOUL WILL BE MINE, JACK NIGHTINGALE.’
Nightingale stared at Violet in disbelief. This was getting really creepy. Nightingale broke out in a cold sweat and said stutteringly ‘I will see myself out then.’
Nightingale got to the relative familiarity and safety of the Audi and he realised that he was shaking. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. It was difficult to discount what he had just heard or explain it. He could not understand why he would hear that same phrase from the ether or from people. He shook his head to try and rid himself of the feelings and took another couple of deep breaths letting them out slowly as he tried to control his emotions. A few moments later he felt he had gained control of himself. Now for Mrs Felicity Carmichael and her missing cat.
* * *
Nightingale heard the dulcet female tones coming from a house as the sat-nav announced that he had arrived at his destination. It was a private estate of detached houses with large frontages of manicured lawns that featured a kaleidoscope of coloured roses. Nightingale turned the Audi up the driveway with the ‘Roselynn Mansion’ signpost. Nightingale parked and got out of the Audi and stretched his arms and legs. He turned to the front door and there stood in the doorway was a slightly rotund woman in her sixties. She was elegantly dressed and had beautifully coiffured grey wavy hair.
‘Mr Jack Nightingale?’ she enquired politely in a very soft, assertive, cultured voice.
‘Yes,’ Nightingale replied as he stepped forward and proffered his hand right. He shook hers and said, ‘Pleased to meet you Mrs Carmichael’
Nightingale was invited in and sat on a comfortable worn sofa. He immediately felt warm and cosy with the antique pine coloured floorboards, doors and the log fire in the hearth.
Mrs Carmichael came back into the lounge with a large tray bearing a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits and a couple of teacups.
‘Have you got a picture of your cat?’ Nightingale asked as Mrs Carmichael presented him with his cup of tea and biscuits.
Mrs Carmichael produced three pictures of a long-haired blue Persian. ‘This is Pebbles, she is a champion pedigree Persian. I paid over £1000 for her as a kitten. She has been missing for four days now, she is on the pill so she will not come into season. She always comes when she is called.’
‘Ok! Thank you Mrs Carmichael, you have answered a lot of questions I was going to ask. Have you spoken to any of your neighbours?’
‘No, I have trouble getting about now’
‘I will get started on the case now,’ Nightingale said as he got up from the sofa. ‘No time like the present. You stay there Mrs Carmichael, I’ll see myself out.’
Nightingale decided to go right first. He knocked on three doors to the right and got the same answer. They all knew the cat and had seen it about but not in the last four days. The next house he went to said they had last seen the cat in the next door neighbours garden four days ago and that they didn’t like animals.
Nightingale felt that at last he might be onto something. Nightingale saw that the house was called ‘Chaka’s Rest’ as he walked up the drive. There was a top of the range white BMW parked in front of the double garage doors. Nightingale rang the doorbell and it was answered by a petite elegantly dressed black woman. Nightingale announced who he was and before he could finish he was interrupted by a sweet South African lilt. ‘That was quick. I really appreciate your promptness.’
Nightingale looked puzzled and continued. ‘I am looking for Mrs Carmichael’s cat,’ as he showed her the picture.
‘Oh ! I thought you had come about my husband’s infidelity. I called you this morning, my name is Susie Mtwetwe.’ she said as she proffered her hand. Nightingale responded and followed her inside and immediately noticed the African wooden masks adorning the walls. There was a sharp contrast between Mrs Carmichael’s house and this one, it felt cold and oppressive. As he got further into the house he could feel the atmosphere. It was difficult to find the words to describe it. It was just pure evil. A cold chill ran down his spine and he felt he was being watched by hundreds of people. He had never felt anything like it. Mtwetwe and Nightingale moved into the kitchen. Nightingale tried to ignore his feelings as he sat at a stool in front of the breakfast bar. Susie Mtwetwe was very pleasant and polite which was at odds with the feelings he felt about the house. Mrs Mtwetwe made a pot of Rooibos tea. With the tea made, she sat on one of the other stools at the breakfast bar and then said, ‘That cat you are looking for is dead, my husband killed it. He doesn’t like animals pissing and shitting in the garden.’
‘Have you got the body?’ asked Nightingale.
‘No! My husband burnt it. Now are you going to help me or not? My husband has a very successful import-export business. I appreciate that he will have various late meetings with clients but just recently he has been coming back very late.’ She handed Nightingale a business card for Mukulu Importers, depicting a photo of Mr Mtwetwe, who strangely for a South African had a Rasta dreadlock hairstyle. The eyes were black and intense and gave Nightingale an eerie feeling. Nightingale assured Mrs Mtwetwe that he would set up surveillance soon and he thanked her for her honesty about the cat. As Nightingale got up and began to move towards the front door, Mrs Mtwetwe said in a rather serious hushed tone, ‘A word of warning Mr Nightingale, please be careful. My husband is a powerful Sangoma, a South African witch doctor, and let’s just say he is more associated with the darker side of things. If he senses that you are tracking him, you will suffer severely.’
Nightingale was relieved to get out of the house, where the sense of oppressiveness lifted immediately. After Susie Mtwetwe’s warning he now knew why he had felt odd in there. He reported back to Mrs Carmichael and gave her the sad news about her cat Pebbles.
* * *
Nightingale set the sat-nav for the office and drove out of the private estate. As he approached a crossroads he saw a long-haired blue Persian cat sat in the middle of the crossroads. It was Pebbles. Suddenly everything went into slow motion as Pebbles stared at him with intense yellow eyes that bored right into his soul. He suddenly felt very vulnerable and heard ‘ YOUR SOUL WILL BE MINE, JACK NIGHTINGALE.’ He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and his focus on the cat was broken by a loud continuous blast of a horn as an articulated lorry hurtled passed the front of the Audi missing by a couple of inches. It had frightened him so much he was struggling to breathe. Pebbles was nowhere to be seen.
Nightingale could feel the sweat running down his spine. He was in no fit state to drive, He spotted a sign pointing to a picnic spot 400 yards to the left. He turned left and drove to the picnic spot and parked up. He walked over to a bench that overlooked a lake surrounded by willow trees and sat in a dazed state not really able to appreciate the beauty of the scene surrounding him. His heart was still racing in his chest and he was panting for breath. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing by taking in a long slow breath and letting it out slowly. He did it a second time and was just beginning to feel calm and relaxed when he became aware of a presence beside him on the bench. Then he heard a low growl. There was the girl from his dreams again and the collie dog. It was Proserpine. He relapsed into the pounding heart and short breaths.
‘Jack I warned you, I will have your soul
if you don’t do what I asked,’ hissed Proserpine.
‘So it’s been you that has been influencing people and getting in my head?’
‘Yes Jack, and after our conversation last night I expected you to drop everything and get on with the investigation immediately. It is very important. Although time is not important to us, here on Earth however as I said before things will change for the worse if you don’t act now. Things are critical.’
‘Whoa, hold on there. I didn’t even think what happened last night while I was asleep was real. Ok I think I’ve got it now but I don’t see how I can help. I’ve got nothing to go on.’
‘You are going to have to rely on your natural instinct and sensitivity.’ Nightingale turned to look at the lake deep in thought. After a few moments he shook his head in disbelief at Proserpine’s expectations and he turned back to tell her it was impossible but she had gone.
* * *
Nightingale returned to the office and handed the keys of the Audi to Jenny. ‘ Not a scratch on it and thanks again.’
‘I called a garage to come and look at your MG and they couldn’t find anything wrong with it. It started first turn of the key. I reckon it must be the way you turn the key,’ she chuckled.
‘Hmm’ was all Nightingale could muster as a response, he was not in the mood after his traumatic day. He handed over the completed files. ‘If you could bill everybody appropriately. I’m off home I have had enough for one day. I need a hot shower, something to eat and to just relax.’
Nightingale turned and strode out of the office, behind him Jenny watched him go and she knew not to engage him in banter or conversation when he was in one of his deep, morose, thoughtful moods, but she hadn’t seen him that bad before.
Back home, Nightingale sat sprawled on the sofa in his bathrobe. He felt somewhat refreshed after something to eat and a hot shower and now sipping a Corona he was quite relaxed. He was half watching a wildlife documentary. It was about game rangers in various Southern African countries over the last year finding many elephants, rhino, lion cheetah and leopard all dead. The strange thing about it though was that they had all been exsanguinated after they had been snared. The documentary focussed mainly on Kruger National Park where this strange phenomenon had caused serious concern as after checking with various other neighbouring countries it was found they were experiencing similar problems in their game reserves. At the end of the documentary there was an interview with a Sangoma, a Zulu shaman-witchdoctor, who explained that the blood of such animals was powerful ‘muti’, in that the life blood of these powerful animals contained a spiritual essence that could make a person very powerful. Nightingales’ thoughts started racing, he made a connection between what he had just heard and to what Proserpine had said the previous night. He realised this must be where the spiritual power that Proserpine spoke of must be coming from. But who and where was it happening in the UK. The he remembered that Susie Mtwetwe had told her that her husband, Adam, was a Sangoma and practised black arts. Nightingale remembered that he was also an importer/exporter which would make it easy for him to get the blood into the country. There was nothing Nightingale could do at this time of night to follow up on his thoughts.