Nightingale kept nodding as Jenny talked, in between nibbling at his chocolate chip muffin and sipping his coffee. Jenny had brought the muffin and the coffee so he knew that she wanted something, and the least he could do was to sit and listen. He put on the face he used when a client came to tell them what was troubling them, the face that said he cared and wanted to help and would do whatever needed to be done to bring peace and harmony back into their lives.
‘You are listening, aren’t you?’ she said, leaning towards him.
‘Of course.’
‘Because your eyes keep glazing over.’
‘That’s because I’m enjoying this muffin,’ he said.
‘So what have I told you so far?’
Nightingale sighed. ‘Seriously?’
Jenny nodded. ‘Seriously.’
Nightingale sipped his coffee. ‘Your very good friend Laura Nicholson who you played lacrosse with at school lives in a multi million pound house in Sandbanks which she thinks is haunted because she keeps seeing wet footprints outside her house.’
Jenny tossed her blonde hair and looked disappointed that he had actually been listening.
‘I didn’t say haunted. She just said that the footprints keep appearing on the dock, heading towards her house.’
‘So, she’s complaining about wet footprints on her dock. And she lives by the sea.’
‘Laura doesn’t scare easily.’
‘Why would anyone be scared of wet footprints, Jenny? Listen to yourself.’
Nightingale could see she was about to snap at him, but instead she took a deep breath and Nightingale was fairly sure she was counting to ten. ‘She thinks it’s her ex-husband and that he wants to hurt her.’
‘What, it was an acrimonious divorce?’
Jenny sighed. ‘Ex husband as in dead husband. Are you not listening to me?’
‘I am, but I don’t recall you telling me that her husband was dead.’
‘Boating accident last year. They never found his body but his yacht caught fire while he was on board.’
‘And why would his ghost come back to haunt her?’
‘Well, that’s why she wants to hire us. To find out.’
‘We’re not Ghostbusters, Jenny. That’s who you call when you’ve got a ghost.’
‘She’s a friend, Jack.’ She put up her hand as soon as he opened his mouth. ‘She’s a friend but she’s happy to pay us. It’s not Pro Bono and before you say anything, yes I know you hate U2.’
‘Our normal rate?’
‘Yes, our normal rate. And we can stay in her house during the investigation. And it’s a lovely house, Jack. You know property down there now costs upwards of ten thousand pounds a square metre. When we get there you’ll see why. It’s idyllic.’
‘And suppose it is a ghost and not just a trespasser with wet feet?’
‘Then we exorcise it.’
‘That’s not what we do, and you know it. Exorcism is best left to the professionals.’
‘Then we bring in experts. Look, how hard a job is it? We stay in a luxury house in a beautiful part of the world for a few days and we see whether or not she has something to worry about.’ She flashed him a tight smile. ‘Anyway, I’ve already said we’ll be there this evening.’
‘You what? How do you know I’m not busy.’
‘Because I looked in your diary. You’ve got two divorce cases, neither of which are pressing.’
‘Remind me again where Sandbanks is?’
‘Near Poole, down in Dorset. It’s a small peninsula crossing the mouth of Poole harbour. Fourth highest land value in the world.’
‘How would you know that?’
‘I think anyone who knows anything about house prices knows that,’ said Jenny.
‘As I’ll never be able to afford to buy my own place, the price is pretty much irrelevant,’ said Nightingale.
‘Well you’ll never get on the housing ladder if you keep turning down work.’
‘I didn’t say I was turning it down.’
‘So you’ll do it?’
Nightingale held up his hands in surrender. ‘Yes, I’ll do it. But how do we get there?’
‘It’s a two and a half hour drive, pretty much, less if the traffic’s good. We can head down this afternoon before the rush hour.’
‘I’ll need a change of clothes.’
‘I’ll drive you to your flat and you can pick up what you need.’
‘What about you?’
‘My bag’s in the car.’
‘You knew I’d say yes.’
‘I knew you’d do the right thing.’
He held up what was left of his muffin. ‘Because of this?’
Jenny smiled. ‘That, too.’
* * *
It took Jenny’s Audi just a little over two hours to reach Sandbanks. It was clear that no matter how hard Nightingale worked, he’d never be able to afford a house there. Even if he won the lottery he might not have enough cash. ‘So who lives in Sandbanks?’ he asked as they drove past a house that seemed to be made entirely of glass.
‘A fair few footballers and TV personalities, but mainly retired people. It’s a bit of a long commute for anyone working in the City.’
‘What about your friend?’
‘Laura? Her family has money, they’re big landowners in Hampshire, but her husband Miles was something in the City.’
Nightingale laughed. ‘That always sounds so suspicious, don’t you think? Something in the City. It’s like saying I’m something in criminal investigations.’
‘It’s not suspicious, it’s just hard to pin down what he did. He wasn’t a banker, he didn’t run an investment fund or a hedge fund, though he always said he could if he wanted to but that he couldn’t be bothered. He was sort of an analyst, but not just an accountant who looked through reports and accounts.’ She laughed. ‘Like I said, it’s difficult to say. He advised companies on their strategies, pointing out how their businesses were likely to change over the years and how they could best benefit from those changes. I guess you could say he was a consultant. And people paid him a lot for his advice. And I mean, a lot. I’ll give you an example. Remember how seats used to recline on the budget airlines and it was always starting fights. It was his idea to have the seats fitted so that they couldn’t recline. They were cheaper, it meant you could squeeze in an extra row of seats, and passengers stopped fighting. That one piece of advice saved the budget airlines millions.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Top bloke,’ he said. ‘I always hated it when some moron shoved the back of his seat in my face.’
‘Well, that was Miles.’
‘And tell me again how he died?’
‘No one knows for sure. His boat caught fire because there was a fault in the electrics, that much they know. But they don’t know if Miles died in the fire or if he drowned. He wasn’t a big fan of life vests, though Laura was always nagging him to wear one.’
‘So they never found the body?’
‘What’s left of the boat is on the sea bed still. Laura said the police sent divers down but there was no sign of his body.’
‘I thought all bodies floated to the surface eventually.’
‘That’s what they say. But, you know, sharks and stuff.’ Jenny shuddered. ‘I try not to think about it.’ She gestured with her chin at the house ahead of them. ‘That’s it.’
She pulled up in the driveway of a two-storey brick house with a gabled roof. There was a BMW Series 5 in front of the garage door and Jenny parked next to it. As they got out of the car the front door opened and a dark-haired woman wearing a green and blue dress appeared. ‘That’s Laura,’ said Jenny.
Laura hurried over, her high heels clicking on the flagstones. ‘Jenny, darling, you made it!’
‘It’s not the Outer Hebrides,’ laughed Jenny and the two women air-kissed.
‘And this must be Jack,’ said Laura. ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to do this,’ she said. Jack was just about to hold out his hand but she beat him to it and got in two quick air-kisses, left and right. She was Jenny’s age with considerably more make up and jewellery, but the make-up didn’t disguise the dark patches under her eyes. Laura clearly wasn’t getting much sleep.
‘Come on in, it’s Pimm’s O’clock,’ Laura laughed. She ushered them into the house and through to a large sitting room with a huge picture window looking out to the English Channel. There were two long, low sofas either side of a glass coffee table on which there was a jug of Pimm’s, packed with fruit.
Jenny and Nightingale dropped down onto one of the sofas while Laura poured the drinks. She handed them their glasses and toasted them. ‘Again, thank you so much for coming,’ she said. ‘I’m at my wit’s end. Andrew says I’m being stupid, but that’s Andrew.’
‘Andrew?’ said Jenny. ‘Andrew Chapman? Estate agent Andrew?’
‘Didn’t I tell you? We’re sort of together.’
Jenny laughed. ‘Sort of?’
‘Well, he stays over sometimes and I sometimes stay at his.’
‘Oh my God, you kept that to yourself.’
She shrugged. ‘I was worried it might be a bit soon. After what happened.’
‘It’s been six months,’ said Jenny. ‘I know you loved Miles to bits but you have to move on.’
‘That’s what Andrew says. It’s just that much more complicated when there wasn’t a funeral. And Miles still hasn’t been declared dead.’
‘Is there some doubt?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Could Miles still be alive?’
‘Oh God no,’ said Laura. ‘He didn’t fake his own death, if that’s what you mean. Everything was perfectly fine between us. Better than fine. He’d booked a holiday for us in the Bahamas and he bought me this watch two days before it happened.’ She held out her left hand, showing them a gold Rolex dotted with diamonds. ‘The police suggested the same thing, mind, but they checked his bank accounts and credit cards and he wasn’t hiding money away.’ She leaned towards Nightingale. ‘I loved Miles and he loved me, Jack. If he wasn’t killed in the accident, he would have come back to me.’
‘Unless he had amnesia,’ said Nightingale.
‘Jack…’ protested Jenny.
‘I’m just saying, it happens. People suffer trauma and they lose their memory.’
‘Someone would recognise him,’ said Jenny. ‘Plus he’d have his wallet and his driving licence would at least tell him where he lived.’
‘The police checked all hospitals in the south of England, just in case,’ said Laura. ‘But amnesia wouldn’t explain the footprints.’
‘Tell me about them,’ said Nightingale.
‘There isn’t much to tell,’ said Laura. ‘They just started appearing. The first time I saw them was two weeks ago.’
‘And they appear when?’
‘It’s better I show you,’ said Laura. She stood up and led them through the sliding window onto a large deck where there was a huge gas barbecue and sturdy wooden benches either side of a teak table. Leading off the deck was a set of wooden steps that led to a pathway that led down the garden to a small dock. ‘That was where Miles used to moor his boat,’ said Laura. She took them along the wooden pathway to the dock. ‘The first time I noticed them, they were just here, on the dock. As if someone had climbed out of the water.’
‘Is that possible?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Maybe someone was swimming and climbed on to your dock for a rest.’
‘The footprints just stopped. There were about ten. As if someone had walked along the dock and then vanished.’
‘Day or night?’
‘Night. It was about nine o’clock when I saw them. It was a lovely night and I brought out a glass of wine. I was thinking about Miles and picturing him tinkering on the boat. Then I saw the footprints. I was a bit worried because I thought, you know, maybe an intruder. There have been some burglaries in the area. I went back inside and locked the doors and windows but nothing happened. Just my overactive imagination.’ She shrugged and sipped her Pimm’s. ‘I didn’t think anything of it but a few nights later I saw the footprints again. This time further up the path. And the next night. And the next. Each time getting closer to the house.’’
‘Just wet footprints, nothing else?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Just footprints.’
‘And they were definitely human footprints?’
Laura frowned at him. ‘Jack, I wouldn’t be making this fuss if it was a dog, would I? Of course they were human. And from the size of them, they belong to a man.’
‘Did you actually see the footprints being made?’
She shook her head. ‘No. They were just there.’ She took another sip of her drink. ‘I’m not crazy, Jack.’
‘I didn’t mean to suggest for one minute that you were,’ said Nightingale.
‘Is it because you don’t believe in ghosts?’
‘No, the contrary. I do believe in spirits, good and evil.’
‘Evil? You think it wants to harm me?’
She looked so scared that Jenny hurried over and hugged her. ‘Don’t go putting thoughts in her head, Jack,’ she admonished.
‘I didn’t mean to,’ he said. ‘It’s not as if it’s done any harm yet.’
‘But you do believe me?’
‘Of course,’ said Nightingale.
‘Thank goodness. Andrew thinks I’m imagining it.’
‘He hasn’t seen the footprints?’ asked Nightingale.
Laura shook her head. ‘They don’t appear when he’s here. It’s only on the nights he doesn’t stay over that I see them.’
‘Maybe he should stay over all the time,’ said Jenny.
‘I think we might be getting to that stage,’ said Laura. ‘He already has a space in my wardrobe and a toothbrush in the bathroom. And we’re talking about getting married.’
Jenny’s jaw dropped. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I think so. Though the fact that Miles still isn’t declared dead might hold things up. But Andrew has asked. Several times, actually.’
‘So when do the footprints appear? Any particular time?’
‘After the sun has gone down,’ she said. ‘I thought of setting up a CCTV camera or something, catch it on film.’
‘That might be an idea,’ said Nightingale. ‘So no one else has seen them?’
Laura shook her head. ‘I took some pictures on my phone,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you when I’m back in the house.’
‘And you say the prints get further up the path each time?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, it’s like it’s getting stronger and stronger. Whatever it is.’
‘Show me how far it’s got,’ said Nightingale.
Laura started walking towards the house. She went the full length of the pathway and then pointed at the steps leading up to the deck. ‘The last time I saw them, they had reached the second step from the top,’ she said.
Nightingale looked back at the deck. ‘How far would you say that is?’ he asked Jenny. ‘Fifty yards? Sixty?’
‘A bit more,’ said Jenny. ‘You probably aren’t good at stopping distances, considering the heap of rust you drive.’
‘My MGB is a classic,’ said Nightingale.
‘And my Audi is a miracle of German engineering and I reckon the pathway is seventy five yards.’
‘If you’re so fond of things German, shouldn’t that be in metres?’
‘If you’d prefer, sixty-eight and a half metres.’
Nightingale squinted at her. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I’ve always been good at maths.’
‘She’s not joking, either,’ said Laura. ‘I always used to try to sit next to her in maths tests.’
‘Is there no end to your talents?’ asked Nightingale.
Jenny laughed and went up the stairs to the deck. Laura followed her. Nightingale looked back at the dock. Seventy-five yards and it had taken two weeks to get there. His maths skills weren’t as good as Jenny’s, but he could still do the calculation – it was adding about five yards to its journey each night. And at that rate it would reach the window in another two nights. What then? Would it – whatever it was – continue inside the house? And if so, what did it want?
He climbed the steps onto the deck, and looked out over the water. Was it Laura’s husband, back from the dead? Or something else? He’d never heard of a ghost leaving footprints before. He looked back at the house. Jenny and Laura were on the sofa and from the way they were giggling he assumed they were talking about something other than the wet footprints.
He went into the room and Laura immediately refilled his glass. ‘You said you’d taken photographs of the footprints?’ he said.
She nodded and picked up her phone. She tapped on the screen and handed it to him. ‘This was three nights ago,’ she said. The photograph showed three footprints, one left foot and two of the right foot, glistening wet on the wood. It had been taken with a flash and the prints glittered. To be honest, they looked more like splotches of water than actual footprints, but he had to admit they were at least foot-shaped. ‘There’s a few photographs,’ she said. ‘Scroll through them.’
There were four but they were all pretty much the same. Wet splotches on the pathway. One showed a long view with maybe a dozen splotches, and they were definitely spaced out as if somebody – or something – was walking along the pathway. He gave her back the phone. ‘You say they only appear when you’re here on your own?’ he said.
‘Well nothing happened the nights that Andrew was here.’
Nightingale looked at his watch. It would be dark in a couple of hours. ‘How about we go and have a drink and leave Laura here alone,’ he said to Jenny. ‘She can phone us when the prints appear.’
Jenny looked over at Laura. ‘Is that okay with you?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I don’t think anything’s going to happen until it reaches the house.’
‘What do you think will happen then?’ asked Nightingale.
‘I don’t know,’ said Laura. ‘But it wants something, obviously. It’s as if it’s working harder and harder to get there. There has to be some point to what it’s doing.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Nightingale. ‘But let’s take it one step at a time, if you’ll forgive the pun. Let’s see if the footsteps appear tonight and then we’ll take it from there. Where can we get a drink?’
‘Sandacres is good. They do food but I can cook for you when you get back.’
‘Laura is an amazing chef,’ said Jenny.
‘Okay, we’ll go and have a beer and you can call us once the footprints appear. We passed the Sandacres on the way here, right?’
‘I know where it is, Jack,’ said Jenny. ‘And I’m pretty sure they have Corona.’
‘This gets better and better.’ He nodded at the Pimm’s. ‘You’d better go easy, you being the designated driver and all.’
Jenny grinned. ‘One of the advantages of living on Sandbanks is you almost never see a policeman here. A lot of the houses use private security firms, so your chance of being breathalysed are pretty much zero.’ She held up her glass. ‘Not that I’ll be over the limit, of course.’
‘How does coq au vin sound?’ asked Laura. ‘I’ve got a new Jamie Oliver recipe I’m dying to try.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ said Jenny.
Laura took them through to a large kitchen and Jenny and Nightingale sat down at a large pine table as Laura went to work preparing their meal. They polished off the Pimm’s and Laura took a bottle of Pinot Grigio out of the fridge. ‘One for the road?’ she asked.
Jenny pulled a face. ‘If I have a glass of wine on top of the Pimm’s I really shouldn’t be driving, police checks or no police checks.’
‘It’s a nice walk,’ said Laura.
‘You’ve talked me into it,’ said Jenny.
Nightingale and Jenny left the house at six-thirty. It was a ten minute walk to the pub and they sat at the bar, Nightingale with his Corona and Jenny drinking a glass of Pinot Grigio. It was just after eight and they were on their second round of drinks when Jenny’s phone rang. It was Laura. ‘There are footprints on the deck,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see them appear but they’re there now.’
‘We won’t be long,’ she said.
She ended the call. ‘Footprints?’ said Nightingale.
‘Yup,’ said Jenny. She drained her glass and stood up. Her phone buzzed again to let her know she had received a message. It was a picture and she showed it to Nightingale. Half a dozen wet footprints were clearly visible on the deck.
They walked quickly back to the house. There was a black BMW parked in front of the garage, and when they rang the bell the door was opened by a thin man with a receding hairline with what hair he had slicked back. He smiled at Jenny. ‘You must be Jenny,’ he said. ‘I’m Andrew.’ He offered his hand and she shook it. Then he flashed his smile at Nightingale. ‘And you’re Jack, the ghosthunter.’
Nightingale took an instant dislike to the man, but he managed to force a smile as he shook the man’s hand. ‘And you’re Andrew, the estate agent.’
‘That’s me,’ said Andrew. ‘Come on in, Laura’s in the kitchen.’ He ushered them into the hall and closed the door. They could smell the results of Laura’s cooking, and Nightingale had to admit that it smelled good.
‘Wine?’ asked Andrew.
‘He does a bit, but it’s just his nature,’ said Jenny.
Nightingale got the joke immediately but Andrew seemed to struggle, then he forced a laugh. ‘Oh, right, yes, good one,’ he said. ‘We’ve opened a bottle of Shiraz if that’s okay.’
‘Shiraz is fine,’ said Jenny. ‘Where’s Laura?’
‘Out on the deck,’ said Andrew, handing them glasses of wine. ‘Keeping her eye on the mysterious footprints.’
‘I thought they didn’t appear when you were here,’ said Nightingale.
‘They don’t. She phoned me once they were there.’
‘You live close by?’
‘Not too far. I’ve got a small place on the way to Bournemouth. Come on, you can see for yourself what she’s getting all worked up about.’
‘You don’t sound concerned,’ said Nightingale as he and Jenny followed Andrew through the sitting room and out onto the deck. Laura was sitting on a wicker sofa staring at the wooden decking. She looked up and flashed them a worried smile. She was holding a glass of red wine between both hands.
‘I’m not really,’ said Andrew. ‘I think it’s some sort of natural phenomena. Something to do with condensation, maybe. The change of temperature as night falls.’
Jenny went to sit down with Laura as Nightingale walked over to the barbecue area. There were wet splotches on the steps leading up to the deck and half a dozen more crossing the deck, heading for the window.
‘See what I mean?’ said Andrew, lowering his voice so that Laura and Jenny couldn’t hear him. ‘I don’t think they are footprints.’
‘And you think condensation is responsible?’ asked Nightingale. He pointed down the path that led to the dock. ‘I don’t see how it could produce something like that.’
‘What’s the alternative?’ asked Andrew.
Nightingale shrugged and didn’t answer.
‘Laura thinks it’s somehow Miles back from the dead,’ said Andrew eventually.
‘I don’t think he’s back from the dead,’ said Nightingale. ‘But maybe his spirit is still around. Maybe the spirit is trying to contact her.’
‘With footprints? Where’s the sense in that?’
‘It looks to me as if each time the spirit, or whatever it is, is getting closer to the house. As if it’s getting stronger.’
‘So what can we do? Can we do an exorcism or something?’
Nightingale shrugged again. ‘There’s nothing to exorcise,’ he said. ‘It’s not a possession. If it is a spirit, we need to try to talk to it. See what it wants.’
Laura stood up and came over to them. ‘So what do you think, Jack?’ she asked.
‘They do look like footprints,’ he said. ‘And it looks to me as if they will reach the window tomorrow.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Let me give it some thought.’
‘Hungry?’
Nightingale grinned. ‘I could eat.’
Laura served up the coq au vin with garlic mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus in the dining room at a table large enough to seat twelve. Laura, Jenny and Andrew drank wine but Laura had bought in bottles of Corona for Nightingale.
He had to admit that Jenny was right, Laura was an excellent cook. Nightingale had seconds and was still able to find room for dessert, a salted caramel chocolate tart. Although Nightingale didn’t particularly like Andrew, he was good company over dinner, keeping them in near-fits of laughter with tales of his clients and customers and the near impossible task he had of keeping everyone happy. Laura and Jenny talked about their schooldays, but it was clear that everyone was avoiding the subject they most wanted to discuss – the ghostly wet footprints. It was as if there was an unspoken agreement not to talk about the subject at the dinner table. It was only after they were back in the sitting room drinking coffee that Laura asked Nightingale what he thought they should do.
‘That depends on who, or what, it is,’ said Nightingale. ‘If it’s a lost spirit, then we need to find out what it wants.’
‘Why would it want anything?’ asked Andrew.
‘It seems to be making a concerted effort to reach the house,’ said Nightingale. ‘Those footsteps aren’t random. They are heading to the house, and each day they are getting closer.’
‘Do you think it wants to hurt me?’ asked Laura.
‘I don’t see that it can. It seems to be taking all its strength just to make it up the path. I hardly think it’s going to be able to do anyone any harm.’
‘You seem convinced that it’s a spirit, as you call it,’ said Andrew. ‘I still think it’s condensation. If that was grass out there instead of wooden planks, you wouldn’t even notice it. And why would the spirit or whatever it is, why would it start in the water?’
‘You know why, Andrew,’ said Laura quietly.
Andrew threw her a look of disgust. ‘You think it’s him, don’t you? Miles?’
‘Well who else would it be?’ asked Laura. ‘He died in the water.’
‘I know that,’ snapped Andrew. ‘We all know that. You have to let him go, Laura. He’s dead. And the dead don’t come back.’
‘That’s not strictly speaking true,’ said Nightingale. ‘Sometimes, if they have unfinished business, they do come back.’
‘That’s absolute bollocks!’ said Andrew.
‘Andrew!’ said Laura.
‘I’m sorry, Laura, but I’m not going to start believing in ghosts because of a few wet patches on the deck.’ He threw up his hands. ‘This is doing my head in.’
‘Andrew, please,’ said Laura. ‘Don’t get upset.’
Andrew took a deep breath, then forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry everybody,’ he said. ‘I’m just finding this very frustrating.’
‘Well I’m sure Jack has some ideas,’ said Jenny.
‘I need a cigarette,’ said Nightingale, standing up.
‘I’ll join you,’ said Andrew. They went out onto the deck. Nightingale offered a Marlboro to Andrew but he shook his head and took out a pack of small cigars. ‘Laura hates them,’ said Andrew. He lit one and blew smoke up at the sky. ‘Sorry about before,’ he said.
Nightingale lit a Marlboro. ‘The supernatural can be stressful at the best of times.’
‘So you really believe all this? Ghosts and things that go bump in the night?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘Not everything can be explained,’ he said, non-committally.
Andrew took another drag on his cigar. ‘I can’t help thinking that she’s using it as an excuse,’ he said after he’d blown smoke.
‘An excuse for what?’
‘I’ve asked Laura to marry me. Or at least get engaged until we can get Miles declared dead. That was when the bloody footprints started to appear.’
Nightingale frowned. ‘You’re sure about that?’
‘The day after. I took her out for dinner, popped the question, she said yes, and the next day….’ He shrugged. ‘Then she started to backpedal on the engagement. It’s as if she doesn’t want to let him go.’
‘How long were they married for?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Just over ten years. I don’t think she was that happy with him, truth be told. I always thought she was too good for him.’
‘So you knew Miles?’
Andrew nodded. ‘I sold them this house. I became a family friend, though to be honest I always liked her more than him.’
‘So when Miles died, you made your move?’
Andrew looked at him sharply. ‘It’s been six months. That’s a long time. Laura needs to move on.’
‘I get that, but you can see that the footprints would upset her. Especially if they are a sign from Miles.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Andrew. ‘If you ask me, she’s doing it herself.’
‘What?’ Nightingale’s jaw dropped in astonishment.
‘Maybe not consciously,’ said Andrew. ‘But subconsciously?’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
‘You think she’s faking the footprints to get out of marrying you? How does that make any sense? She could just turn you down, surely.’
‘Like I said, maybe it’s a subconscious thing. It would explain why the footprints only appear when there’s no one else here. That sounds a lot more likely than a ghost, doesn’t it?
Nightingale didn’t answer.
‘Well, doesn’t it?’ pressed Andrew.
‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘But we can always ask someone who might know.’
‘Who would that be?’ asked Andrew.
Nightingale looked around for an ashtray. There was one on the wicker table and he stabbed out his cigarette. Andrew was still staring at him. Nightingale forced a smile. ‘Miles,’ he said. He turned and walked back into the house before Andrew could reply.
* * *
‘And you think this will work?’ asked Laura, looking down at the circle of cards that Nightingale had prepared. They were sitting at the dining table. Nightingale had written the letters A to Z on pieces of cards, plus the numbers one to ten and the words YES, NO, and GOODBYE. The three words were at the top of the circle facing Nightingale. In the middle of the circle was an upturned wine glass.
‘It’s a bloody kids game,’ said Andrew dismissively.
‘Do you have any candles?’ Nightingale asked Laura. ‘Blue would be best but white or yellow would do.’
‘Of course,’ said Laura, and she headed for the kitchen.
Jenny was sitting at the table holding a glass of wine and watching Nightingale with an amused smile on her face. ‘I don’t know why you don’t go the whole hog and use an Ouija board,’ she said.
‘Because Laura doesn’t have one and I can’t be bothered driving all the way to Gosling Manor and back,’ said Nightingale.
‘Gosling Manor?’ asked Andrew.
‘Jack is a man of property,’ said Jenny. ‘His father left him a country pile. Nice place but a bit spooky.’
‘If you ever want to sell, let me know,’ said Andrew. ‘There are always foreign buyers with more money than sense who want a place in the country.’ He took out his wallet and gave Nightingale a business card.
‘Andrew!’ exclaimed Laura, returning with half a dozen blue candles. ‘I’m sorry, Jack, he’s always working. Where do you want these?’
‘Two on the table, the rest around the room,’ said Nightingale. ‘Spirits are more restful around candles.’
‘Spirits,’ said Andrew scornfully.
‘Okay, everyone needs to be positive about this,’ said Nightingale. ‘Negativity can kill the process stone dead. Everyone has to be optimistic and be thinking good thoughts.’ He waved at a chair. ‘Sit down, Andrew. Please.’
Laura placed two candles in glass holders on the table and lit them, then placed another four candles around the room.
‘Lights off, please,’ said Nightingale.
Laura switched off the lights and took her place at the table.
‘Right,’ said Nightingale. ‘I know Jenny has done this before, but have you?’ he asked Andrew and Laura.
They shook their heads. ‘What exactly are we doing?’ asked Andrew.
‘It’s a séance,’ said Nightingale.
‘It comes from the French word for seat,’ said Jenny.
‘Basically we allow a spirit to communicate by moving the glass to the letters, thus spelling out a message,’ said Nightingale. ‘But before we do that, we need to carry out two things – grounding and protection. Grounding is effectively earthing your own personal energy to the energy field of the earth. You all have to imagine a ball of pure white energy inside your head, then you have to visualise it moving down through your body to your feet. As it passes through you, the ball of light has to collect all your negative energy. Don’t rush it, take your time. Once the ball of energy has reached your feet, you imagine roots sprouting from your feet into the floor and you let the energy flow through it.’
Laura was nodding enthusiastically, but Andrew had a look of disbelief on his face.
‘Once the negative energy is out, you pull in positive energy, drawing it up through your feet and into your body and then up into your head. Okay?’
Laura nodded, then looked over at Andrew. She narrowed her eyes and he nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said, but Nightingale could hear the reluctance in his voice.
‘Once we’ve all grounded ourselves, we need to form a psychic shield to protect ourselves,’ said Nightingale.
‘From what?’ asked Andrew.
‘Once we open ourselves up to communicating with the spirit world, it’s possible that we might be approached by a negative spirit.’
‘What the hell’s that?’ asked Andrew.
‘Not all spirits are well-meaning,’ said Nightingale. ‘But providing we set up a protective shield, they won’t be able to approach us.’
Andrew looked at Laura. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
Laura nodded. ‘I want to know if it’s Miles, and if it is Miles I want to know what he wants.’
‘I think it’s a complete waste of time, if you ask me,’ said Andrew.
‘Mate, you need to think positively,’ said Nightingale.
‘Please, Andrew,’ said Laura.
‘Okay, okay,’ said Andrew.
‘Right, once we’ve all grounded ourselves, we need to set up a psychic protective shield. The best way to do that is to imagine a bubble in the middle of the table and then expand that bubble until it is large enough to contain us all. No matter what happens you have to keep the image of the bubble in your mind.’
He looked around the table and they were all nodding, though Andrew clearly wasn’t impressed.
‘The ending is important,’ said Nightingale. ‘Once the session is over I will thank the spirit for its help and wish it well. Then I will ask that the glass is returned to the centre of the table. When it’s back in the middle we perform another grounding and only then do we take our fingers off.’
‘And if we don’t?’ asked Andrew.
Nightingale frowned’ ‘What do you mean?’
‘If we don’t do as you say, what happens?’
‘The spirit might be trapped here. Or it might fix itself on one of us.’
‘Fix?’
‘Attach itself. And follow that person home. Or remain here in the house. But providing we follow the rules, that won’t happen.’
‘It sounds like a load of bollocks to me,’ said Andrew.
‘Positivity, remember,’ said Nightingale.
Andrew put up his hands. ‘Okay, okay.’
‘Right, let’s start,’ said Nightingale. ‘Everyone put their right hand on the glass.’
They did as he said. Nightingale said a short prayer, then told them to begin grounding. They sat in silence, concentrating. It was a full two minutes before Nightingale spoke again. ‘Now form the protective shield. Nod when you have visualised the bubble surrounding us all.’
One by one they nodded. Jenny first, then Laura, and finally Andrew.
Nightingale looked up at the ceiling. ‘We are here to communicate with Miles Nicholson. Are you here, Miles?’
The flames of the candles on the table flickered.
‘Miles? Are you there? You are among friends, Miles. This is a peaceful place, a tranquil place, a place where you can be safe.’
Nightingale felt the glass tremble but it didn’t move. He took a deep breath. Truth be told he wanted a cigarette but smoking and séances didn’t mix.
‘Miles Nicholson, if you are here please make yourself known.’
The glass began to move. It slowly went around in a tight circle.
‘Somebody’s pushing,’ said Andrew and Nightingale flashed him a warning look.
‘Miles, is that you?’ asked Nightingale.
The glass moved slowly towards NO. It stopped next to the card.
‘No?’ said Andrew. ‘What the Hell’s going on?’
‘Any spirit can work through the glass,’ said Nightingale. ‘We don’t have any say who comes through.’
He looked up at the ceiling again. ‘What is your name, spirit?’ he asked.
The glass began to move again. E-M-M-A.
‘Emma?’ said Laura. ‘Who is Emma?’
Nightingale ignored her. ‘Emma, we are here to talk with Miles Nicholson. Please go in peace and love, Emma.’
The glass moved again, and this time it stopped next to the card on which was written GOODBYE.
‘Goodbye, Emma,’ said Nightingale.
The glass slowly moved back to the middle of the table and began to form a small circle.
‘And no one is pushing, seriously?’ asked Andrew.
‘I’m not,’ said Laura.
‘Me neither,’ said Jenny.
The glass stopped.
‘Everyone concentrate, please,’ said Nightingale. ‘Keep focusing on the protective bubble and think about Miles.’
Nothing happened for a couple of minutes, then the glass began to move again.
‘Miles, is that you?’ asked Nightingale.
The glass scraped across the table and stopped next to the card that said YES.
Laura gasped. ‘Miles?’
‘Let me do the talking,’ said Nightingale. He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Miles, what year were you born?’
The glass moved slowly, stopping at four numbers. One, Nine, Seven and finally Six. Nightingale looked at Laura and she nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said.
Nightingale flashed her an encouraging smile. ‘Miles, is that you who has been leaving the footprints on the deck?’
The glass moved slowly towards the YES card and then stopped.
Nightingale swallowed. His mouth had gone dry. ‘Why?’ he said.
The glass started to move again. ‘I – W-A-S’
‘I was…’ said Jenny.
The glass continued to move. ‘K-I-L-L-E-D’
‘Killed,’ said Jenny. ‘I was killed.’
‘On the boat, was that when you were killed?’ asked Nightingale.
The glass moved again, quickly this time, and went straight to the YES card.
‘When you died, was it an accident?’ asked Nightingale.
The glass scraped towards the NO card.
‘No!’ gasped Laura.
‘Is that what you want to tell us?’ asked Nightingale. ‘You want to tell us that somebody killed you?’
The glass moved quickly to YES. And then it moved to the letter A. Then N. Then D.
‘And?’ said Jenny. ‘And what?’
The glass began to move but then suddenly it span off the table and crashed to the floor, breaking into a dozen shards. Laura screamed and Jenny’s chair crashed to the floor as she stood up.
‘The bubble!’ shouted Nightingale. ‘Focus on the protective bubble!’ It was too late. Andrew rushed over to Laura and put his arm around her and as he did he knocked over one of the candles. It rolled across the table and fell to the floor.
Jenny picked it up and looked over at Nightingale. Nightingale shrugged. The damage was done and he doubted there was anything he could do to undo it. The glass had smashed and the protective bubble had been breached.
Laura was sobbing and Andrew was trying to comfort her. Nightingale went outside and lit a cigarette. Jenny joined him, with her wine. Nightingale blew smoke up at the night sky. ‘And what?’ he said. ‘That’s what you thought? And what?’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘And-rew,’ said Nightingale. ‘Miles was trying to give us the name of his killer.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Who do you think threw the glass off the table? It had to be Andrew.’
‘I thought the spirit had gotten angry?’
‘There was no reason for it to get angry,’ said Nightingale. ‘But every reason for Andrew to want it to stop.’
Andrew and Laura appeared on the deck. ‘What happened?’ asked Laura.
‘Some sort of extreme reaction,’ said Nightingale. ‘When you’re ready we need to start again.’
‘Why?’ asked Andrew.
‘We need to say goodbye to the spirit,’ said Nightingale. ‘There has to be closure.’
‘No,’ said Andrew. ‘I’m not having Laura getting upset again.’
‘I’m okay,’ said Laura.
‘You’re not okay,’ said Andrew. ‘I saw how shocked you were in there.’
‘Andrew, remember what I said about the spirit being trapped here.’
Andrew shook his head. ‘If it is Miles who is responsible for the footprints, then the spirit is already here,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have to insist, I’m sorry. No more séances.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Nightingale. He dropped down onto one of the wicker chairs. Jenny joined him.
‘Shall I stay the night?’ Andrew asked Laura.
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ said Laura. ‘I don’t think I’ll be great company tonight.’
Andrew put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you sure?’
‘We’ll have dinner tomorrow. I’ll be fine then.’
Andrew kissed her on the cheek. ‘Dinner sounds good. I’ll phone you before I sleep.’
He said goodbye to Jenny and Nightingale and let himself out. Shortly afterwards they heard him drive away.
‘So you met Andrew when he sold you the house?’ asked Nightingale.
Laura nodded. ‘Miles was keener on a smaller house about half a mile away but Andrew was very persuasive.’
‘And he became a family friend?’
‘He was always dropping by. He plays squash and so did Miles so they had a game pretty much every week. And Andrew enjoyed sailing.’
‘Does he have a boat?’
‘No, but he used to go out with Miles.’
‘What about the night of the accident? Was Andrew around that night?’
Laura frowned. ‘What are you getting at?’
Nightingale put up his hands. ‘Nothing. Just trying to get a feel of what happened.’
‘Jack was a policeman so asking questions is second nature,’ said Jenny. ‘Sometimes he forgets that not everyone is a criminal.’
‘I didn’t mean to imply anything,’ said Nightingale. ‘He seems a really nice guy.’ That was a lie but he didn’t want to tell Laura that he had taken an instant dislike to her boyfriend.
‘He is,’ said Laura. ‘He loves me to bits. That’s why he’s so upset about this whole footprints thing. He’s suggested that I sell this place and that I move in with him.’
‘And are you going to?’ asked Jenny.
Laura ran a hand through her hair. ‘I feel I ought to,’ she said. ‘I have to move on at some point, don’t I? And everything here reminds me of Miles.’
‘You’re sure you’re not rushing into this?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Jack!’ protested Jenny.
‘I’m just saying, let’s get to the bottom of the wet footprints first.’
‘And how do you plan to do that?’ Jenny asked.
Nightingale shrugged. ‘I thought we could start with the cops. See what they think.’
‘About the footprints?’ asked Laura.
Nightingale shook his head. ‘About what happened to Miles.’
* * *
Nightingale and Jenny were at Poole Police Station at ten o’clock in the morning. Nightingale asked to speak to the detective who had investigated the death of Miles Nicholson and a bored sergeant at reception told him the officer he wanted was Detective Inspector Steve Tigwell but that he was tied up in an interview. Nightingale gave the sergeant his business card and settled down to wait on an orange plastic chair. Jenny sat next to him. ‘Do you miss being a cop?’ she asked.
‘I used to,’ said Nightingale. ‘But with all the cutbacks and public scrutiny, it’s not a job I’d want to do now.’
‘Public scrutiny?’
‘The media second-guesses everything the cops do, and social media makes it worse. And the top cops these days are all political. They have to be, to keep their jobs. The top brass used to be loyal to the cops on the beat, but those days are long gone. Too much politics and not enough thief-taking.’ He shrugged. ‘So no, I don’t miss it.’
It was just after eleven when a side door opened and a middle-aged man in a grey suit waved them over. He took them down a corridor to an interview room with a dual tape deck on a table. ‘We’ll be quieter here,’ said Tigwell, sitting down and waving them to chairs on the opposite side of the table. He smiled at Jenny. ‘You are?’
‘I’m Jack’s pretty young sidekick,’ she said brightly. ‘Jenny McLean.’ She held out her hand and the detective grinned and shook it.
‘Pleasure,’ he said. He looked at Nightingale. ‘You’re here about the Miles Nicholson case?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘We just wanted some background.’
The detective was holding Nightingale’s business card. ‘So who would your client be? The insurance company?’
‘I’m a friend of the widow,’ said Nightingale. ‘Well, a friend of a friend.’ He nodded at Jenny. ‘My pretty young sidekick is an old school friend of Laura’s.’
‘I’ve seen Mrs Nicholson twice and she didn’t express any reservations about the way I dealt with the case,’ said the detective.
‘She’s not unhappy,’ said Nightingale. He hesitated, not wanting to tell the detective about the mysterious wet footprints. In his experience, police officers tended not to believe in the supernatural. ‘Basically she has a new boyfriend and would like to get a death certificate so that she can remarry.’
‘Without a body that’s not easy,’ said the detective. ‘Usually it takes seven years. That time frame can be shortened in situations where death is probable but not definitive, in plane crashes for instance. We now have the Presumption Of Death Act of 2013 which basically says that an inquest can be held without a body and death certificate can be issued. That would in theory allow her to remarry, though so far as the husband’s estate goes, that would still require seven years, I think.’ He forced a smile. ‘I’m by no means an expert,’ he said. ‘She really needs to get herself a good lawyer.’
‘Do you think Miles Nicholson is dead?’ asked Jenny.
The detective nodded. ‘I’m sure of it. Mr Nicholson took his boat out, the boat caught fire and sank, the presumption is that he fell overboard and died. He often went out without a life vest.’
‘And the body was never found?’
‘We sent divers down and the body wasn’t on board. The waters there are very busy. If the current was right the body could have drifted into a shipping lane and there wouldn’t be much left if a tanker or a ferry went over it.’
‘He couldn’t have faked his own death?’
The detective pursed his lips as he considered the question. ‘It’s possible he might have faked it, if that’s what you’re getting at. But he had no financial problems, his marital situation was rock steady, and there was no suspicious financial activity before or after the incident. So yes, I’m sure he’s dead. But without a body…’ He shrugged.
‘The boat caught fire?’
The detective nodded. ‘It happens. There was a gas cylinder on board for cooking and there was a diesel engine.’
‘Was the boat examined?’
‘It depends on what you mean by examined. It’s still on the sea bed and is likely to remain there. The insurance company paid out and they have no interest in salvaging it. But we sent down divers and they confirmed that there had been a fire and the hull had broken in half. There was evidence of an explosion.’
‘And they looked for a body, obviously?’
‘They examined the wreckage as best they could.’
‘How deep is it?’
‘A hundred feet or so. I’m told.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got a witness statement that I have to take and I’m running late. Is there anything else you need?’
‘Just one thing,’ said Nightingale. ‘Is there anything to stop me going down and taking a look myself?’
‘Are you a diver?’
‘I can dive,’ said Nightingale. ‘And Jenny here has all the PADI qualifications. That’s what it says on her CV, anyway.’
‘When did you read my CV?’ asked Jenny.
Nightingale ignored the question and continued to look at the detective. ‘Would it be okay?’
‘Sure, if you wanted,’ said the detective. ‘It would be totally up to you.’
‘How about finding it?’
‘I can give you the GPS coordinates,’ said the detective. ‘But you’d need someone familiar with the waters to get you there. And like I said, it’s deep.’ He stood up and offered his hand. Nightingale shook it. ‘What do you expect to find?’ asked the detective.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve just got a feeling that I need to see the boat for myself.’
* * *
‘When was the last time you went diving?’ asked Jenny. She was testing the regulator on her air tank. They were both wearing black wetsuits and had weight belts around their waists.
Nightingale was struggling to attach his regulator to his air tank. ‘A couple of years ago,’ he said.
‘Where were you?’
‘Spain.’
‘How deep?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘Twenty feet or so. Just sightseeing.’
‘This is going to be different,’ said Jenny. ‘A hundred feet or more and visibility will be bad. Are you sure you want to do this?’
‘I’m not letting you go down on your own,’ said Nightingale.
‘I’m wondering if we should be bothering, that’s all.’ She placed her equipment on the deck and went over to help him. They had hired the dive boat for the afternoon, paying the dive boat captain, Charlie, in cash. He had tapped the GPS coordinates into the boat’s navigation system and it had taken less than half an hour to reach the location. Charlie was wearing a reefer jacket and a wool cap and smoked a roll-up as he waited for his passengers to enter the water.
‘We might see something the police divers missed,’ said Nightingale.
‘They’re professionals.’
‘Oh ye of little faith.’
Jenny finished attaching his regulator and then helped fasten the tank to his back. He sat down and pulled on his flippers while she went over and put on her own equipment. She picked up two powerful underwater torches and gave one to him, attaching it to his belt with a plastic line. ‘Stay close, whatever you do,’ she said. ‘If you lose me stay where you are and wait for me to find you.’
He threw her a mock salute. ‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘I’m serious, Jack. This isn’t a reef dive looking for pretty fish. It’s a deep dive in the English Channel and if you make a mistake it can easily turn fatal.’
‘I hear you,’ said Nightingale, realising that she was serious.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘And if you at any time feel light-headed or dizzy, let me know.’
‘I will,’ he said. He thought about throwing her another salute but he could see that she wasn’t in the mood for jokes.
Jenny waved over at the captain. ‘We’re going in, Charlie!’ she shouted. He flashed her an ‘okay’ sign.
Nightingale and Jenny put on their masks, inserted their mouthpieces and walked carefully to the rear of the boat. They entered backwards and bobbed to the surface. They released air from their buoyancy compensators and gradually sank under the water, facing each other.
Nightingale could see the concern on Jenny’s eyes and he tried to smile to show her that he was okay, but the mouthpiece made it impossible so he nodded.
They went slowly down, bubbles streaming from their regulators and heading up to the surface.
The visibility was better than Nightingale had expected, but it was a far cry from the last time he’d gone scuba diving. Then the water had been crystal clear and he had been able to see colourful fish and crustaceans. The water of the English Channel was murkier and once they got to about fifty feet below the surface there was almost no daylight filtering through the water. They switched on their torches and tunnels of light cut through the darkness.
Jenny tapped Nightingale on the shoulder and made a patting motion with her hand. He realised that he was breathing too quickly and she wanted him to slow down. He nodded and concentrated on breathing slowly and evenly.
They continued to descend and eventually Nightingale saw the darkness of the sea bed. They shone their torches around, illuminating the sand, then Jenny pointed to the west and headed in that direction. Nightingale stayed with her. Jenny seemed to move effortlessly through the water but Nightingale had trouble staying level. One moment his fins were scraping on the sand, the next he was heading upwards and he had to fight to keep level with Jenny.
After thirty seconds Jenny changed direction. Nightingale bumped into her and she turned to look at him. He gave her an ‘okay’ signal.
Jenny made three changes of direction before they found the boat. It had split into two sections and they could see the fire damage in the light of their torches. They swam over to the rear of the boat. Jenny had a waterproof camera attached to her belt and she took several photographs. Nightingale moved towards the front section. The broken edges were blackened and it looked as if there had been an explosion. He kicked his fins and moved into the main cabin. He felt something grab his ankle and he turned to see Jenny. She wagged her finger at him, telling him to stop what he was doing. Then she pointed to herself. She wanted to go in first. He flashed her an ‘okay’ sign. She was the more experienced diver, she should lead the way. He backed out clumsily, banging his head against the roof. Jenny helped pull him out and then she went in, taking photographs. There were lockers along the sides of the boat that doubled as seats. Jenny lifted up the one on the port side. It was filled with ropes and tools. She took a photograph and closed it, then reached over to open the one on the starboard side. Nightingale felt himself floating down so he kicked his fins but did it too hard and he bumped against Jenny. The starboard locker wouldn’t open and Nightingale realised that it was padlocked. He opened the port locker and took out a claw hammer and used it to prise off the padlock. Jenny pulled the locker open. She jumped when she saw what was inside. A body. Nightingale had never met Miles Nicholson but he had seen photographs of the man in Laura’s house. However there was no way of telling if it was Miles, the skin was puffed up and bloated into a parody of a human being. He was holding a knife in one hand. Nightingale played the beam of his torch over the bloated body and then over the inside of the locker lid. Nightingale’s eyes widened when he saw what Miles had carved into the wood with the knife. ‘A-N-D-R-E.’
Jenny turned to look at him and he could see the horror in her eyes. She pointed at the carved letters and she nodded and photographed them. When she had finished they backed out of the wreckage of the boat and headed for the surface.
* * *
As soon as Charlie had brought them back to shore. Nightingale phoned Detective Inspector Tigwell and told him what they had discovered. He arranged to meet them at Andrew Chapman’s house. The detective was parked outside in a blue Toyota when Jenny drove up in her Audi.
The detective was smoking a cigarette as he climbed out of his car so Nightingale lit a Marlboro. ‘You’re sure about this?’ asked Tigwell.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Nightingale.
Jenny showed the detective the photographs she had taken on her underwater camera.
‘How the hell did our guys miss that?’ said Tigwell.
‘To be fair, they wouldn’t be looking for a body in a cupboard,’ said Jenny. ‘They would have seen the evidence of a fire and assumed that it was an accident.
She showed him the marks that Miles had carved into the wood.
‘A-N-D-R-E,’ said Tigwell. ‘I suppose we could be looking for a Frenchman.’ He smiled to show that he was joking. ‘What about the knife?’
‘We left it where it was,’ said Jenny.
The detective shuddered. ‘So Miles was stabbed and stuffed in the cupboard. Then Chapman arranged the fire and what, swam for it?’
‘He’s a good swimmer and he’d have been wearing a life vest,’ said Nightingale. ‘He must have stabbed Miles and put him in the locker, not realising that he was still alive. Miles lives just long enough to carve part of Andrew’s name.’ He shuddered as he imagined what Miles’s last moments must have been like.
‘Proving it might be difficult,’ said the detective.
‘Was he ever asked if he had an alibi for that night?’ asked Nightingale.
The detective shook his head. ‘We never suspected foul play so it wasn’t an issue.’ He looked over at Chapman’s black BMW, which was parked outside the garage. ‘Looks like he’s at home.’ He dropped what was left of his cigarette onto the pavement and stubbed it out. Nightingale did the same, then he and Jenny followed the detective to the front door. Tigwell pressed the doorbell, but there was no answer. He pressed it again, longer this time, but there was still no response.
‘He could be playing hard to get,’ said Nightingale. He headed down the side of the house.
‘I think I should go first,’ said the detective. ‘You two are civilians, remember?’
Nightingale and Jenny stood back and the detective walked by them. There was a hot tub at the back of the house. Leading from the tub to the rear door of the house were a line of wet footprints. Nightingale felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he stared at the footprints.
‘Jack,’ whispered Jenny, but Nightingale silenced her with a shake of his head.
Tigwell had also noticed the wet footprints, but unlike Nightingale and Jenny he didn’t realise the significance. ‘Looks like he’s been enjoying his hot tub,’ said the detective. He knocked on the back door, and when there was no response he tried the handle. The door opened. Tigwell popped his head inside. ‘Mr. Chapman?’ he called. ‘This is the police.’
When there was no reply he opened the door wide and stepped into the kitchen. Wet footprints glistened across the tiled floor to the hall. The tiles there were marble and the footprints went to the stairs. ‘Mr. Chapman!’ called the detective. He headed upstairs and Nightingale and Jenny followed him.
Nightingale had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
‘Mr. Chapman!’ called Tigwell again, but Nightingale knew he was wasting his time.
The wet footprints led to a door and the detective pushed it open. Jenny looked over his shoulder and gasped. Andrew Chapman was lying face down in the water-filled bath, fully-clothed. Tigwell rushed over and dragged him out of the bath and onto the tiled floor then knelt down beside him. He felt for a pulse and shook his head. ‘By the look of it he’s been dead for a while,’ he said. He stood up and frowned down at the body. ‘This doesn’t make any sense,’ he said. ‘If he was in the hot tub, why is he dressed now?’
‘Maybe he dressed and then decided he wanted a bath,’ said Nightingale.
The detective looked at him quizzically. ‘That doesn’t make any sense either. And how did he get in the bath?’
‘Slipped and fell, maybe?’ said Nightingale. He pointed at Andrew’s face. ‘Seems there’s bruising there,’ he said.
‘I’ll get Forensics to take a look,’ said the detective, taking out his phone.
‘Do you need us?” asked Nightingale.
Tigwell shook his head. ‘No, but I’ll need a statement from you both at some point.’
‘We’ll be with Laura Nicholson,’ said Jenny. Tigwell was already talking into his phone so Nightingale and Jenny went outside. ‘You know what happened, don’t you?’ Jenny asked as they climbed into the Audi.
Nightingale nodded. ‘Miles got his revenge. He came back from the dead to kill his murderer.’
‘But why was he at Laura’s house?’
‘Because that was where he belonged. I’m guessing that Miles wanted to tell Laura what had happened, but it was an effort. He was trying to reach her. Then we used the glass, which made communication that much easier. Miles was trying to tell us that Andrew had killed him but Andrew broke the glass. He thought that was the end of it, he didn’t realise that by smashing the glass and not letting the spirit go, he was allowing Miles to move more freely.’ He reached into his coat pocket and took out his pack of Marlboro but put the pack back when Jenny flashed him a disapproving look. ‘Miles was able to go to Andrew’s house and…’ He left the sentence unfinished and just shrugged.
‘And what do we tell Laura?’
‘The truth.’
Jenny’s eyes widened. ‘That her husband came back from the dead to murder the man who she was about to marry?’
‘That’s the truth.’
‘Well I’m not going to tell her that, obviously.’
‘So what will you tell her?’
Jenny sighed. ‘I’ll think of something.’ She looked over at the house. ‘Is it over, now?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Miles got what he wanted. He’ll be at peace now. Or at least he will be once he’s had a proper burial.’