Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(36)

Gale’s shoulder’s slumped and he nodded.

Nightingale snapped his fingers, a purely theatrical gesture, and Gale’s hands separated as the spell was released. He wriggled his fingers a couple of times and then gave Nightingale an inquiring look, because nothing attracts the powerful quite like more power.

‘Shall we start at the beginning?’ said Nightingale. ‘Who trained you?’

Gale hesitated, eyes flicking between us.

‘I swore an oath,’ he said finally. ‘I was told there would be consequences if I revealed their name.’

‘Well, there’ll certainly be consequences if you don’t,’ said Nightingale.

‘There’s no evidence that breaking your oath has supernatural repercussions,’ I added.

Beyond the obvious risk that you might have pissed off someone more powerful than you, I thought, but kept that to myself. No point cluttering up the conversation with pointless trivia.

‘I learnt it from a friend of mine at Cambridge,’ said Patrick Gale.

‘His name?’ asked Nightingale.

‘John Chapman,’ he said.

It’s always tempting to show off your knowledge during a confrontation. But during an interview it’s always better to pretend ignorance – which was why Nightingale went on to ask about John Chapman, even though Gale’s answers merely confirmed the information we’d already got from the IIP.

Well, most of it anyway.

‘Where did he learn magic?’ asked Nightingale.

‘He said he learnt it from a book,’ said Gale. ‘By Sir Isaac Newton, of all people.’ He was sceptical.

‘I think he was taught by his uncle,’ he added. ‘He used to let slip and mention him from time to time.’

I made a note of the uncle and tried not to sigh out loud – yet another loose thread.

‘And Tony Harden?’ asked Nightingale.

‘John got him interested,’ said Gale. ‘I taught him most of what I know.’

‘Did you warn him of the dangers?’

Patrick Gale blinked.

‘What dangers?’

‘Practising magic can damage your health,’ I said.

Patrick Gale’s fa?ade cracked and he gave me a horrified look.

‘You’re joking,’ he said.

‘Nope,’ I said. ‘That’s what killed Tony Harden.’

Gale glared.

‘You told me he died of natural causes,’ he said.

‘He did,’ I said. ‘Caused naturally, by his overuse of magic.’

‘Surely it should have been characterised as death by misadventure?’ said Gale. ‘You withheld information from the coroner’s court.’

‘Would you rather we had pressed for “unlawful death”?’ asked Nightingale. ‘As his teacher you were surely negligent in not informing him of the risks.’

‘But I didn’t—’ Gale started, but wisely thought better of it.

‘Quite,’ said Nightingale. ‘We may return to that point later, but first there is the matter of the Dionysian ritual you officiated at last Saturday. You did officiate, didn’t you? I can’t imagine you left that honour to somebody else.’

Gale nodded to show that he had, in fact, taken the role of priest in the bacchanal and I had to stop myself from asking him to verbalise it for the recording. But of course there was no recording because, legally, this was not happening.

‘Have you been indulging in these revels long?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Since 2011,’ said Gale. ‘And they’re not just a rave.’

He flicked his eyes at me to emphasise how different it was from the drum and bass and MDMA fuelled excesses indulged in by the urban youth of today. Chance would be a fine thing, I thought.

‘We have a serious purpose,’ he said.

Nightingale ignored that thread because when the suspect – I mean interviewee – wants to talk about something it’s a good idea to frustrate them a little bit. That way you can get more later than they intended. Seawoll calls it the ‘fuck all the cows’ interview approach.

‘Would you say they have a magical effect?’ asked Nightingale.

Gale’s face lost some of its habitual caution.

‘Definitely,’ he said. ‘You could sense it lighting up the group as if it was jumping from person to person.’ He said he could feel it flowing back and forth like a wave bouncing off the edges of a swimming pool. ‘Only instead of fading away, it grows stronger with every wave. Tremendous rush.’

‘And the sex?’ I asked.

‘I’ve heard that’s extraordinary too,’ he said.

‘Heard?’

‘My wife,’ said Gale, ‘wouldn’t approve. And she doesn’t like to attend herself.’

‘She doesn’t like the goat?’ I asked.

‘She’s a vegetarian,’ he said.

‘Does the sacrifice actually make a difference?’ I said. ‘Have you tried the ceremony without it?’

‘Again,’ said Gale, ‘I have no doubt that it increases the mystical potency of the ritual.’ His initial fright was wearing off and he was getting his bottle back. ‘Have you not tried it yourselves?’

‘This ceremony . . .’ said Nightingale, before I could answer. ‘This ceremony that you claim has a serious purpose. Might we ask what that is?’