Lastnight (29 page)

‘Corona.’

She frowned. ‘Corona?’

‘It’s a beer. Mexican.’

She laughed. ‘This place serves shots,’ she said. ‘They’ll take you out and shoot you if you order anything else. The clue’s in the name. Garlic and shots.’

‘I’d prefer a Corona. Or any beer. I saw beer in the bar back there.’

‘Beer is for wimps,’ she said. She stood up. ‘Here you drink shots.’ She said went over to the bar. She really was tiny, even in her high-heeled boots. He doubted if she was more than five feet tall though the Mohawk added a couple of inches. She returned two minutes later with four shot glasses on a small tray.

‘Really, I’m not a huge fan of shots,’ said Nightingale.

‘Well, I am,’ she said. She picked up one glass and handed another to Nightingale. There was a red liquid in the glass that looked disturbingly like fresh blood with a bulb of garlic floating in it. ‘You’re kidding me,’ he said. ‘What is this?’

‘It’s called a Bloodshot,’ she said. ‘Vodka, tomato juice, garlic, chilli, spices. All good stuff. Now stop being such a girl.’ She clinked her glass against his ‘Down in one,’ she said, and drank it. Nightingale smiled tightly and did the same. He shuddered. It was like drinking pure garlic with a fiery kick.

‘Good, yeah?’ she said, grinning.

‘I guess it’s an acquired taste,’ said Nightingale, putting down his glass. He gasped as the burning liquid reached his stomach. It felt as if a fire was burning in his chest. ‘How old are you?’

‘Why do you ask?’ she said, leaning across so that her mouth was just inches from his ear. He smelled her heady perfume again. And garlic.

‘Because you look like a kid. And kids shouldn’t be knocking back shots.’

She put down another glass in front of him. ‘Knock that back and I’ll tell you.’

‘Caitlin, really—’

‘Don’t be a girl, Jack.’ She raised her glass and waited for him to do the same. He groaned, picked up his glass and downed it in one. She did the same. Nightingale gasped. If anything the second shot had an even mightier kick.

Caitlin grinned at his discomfort. ‘I’m twenty-two, Jack,’ she said. She put her hand up and ran her fingernails down his cheek, then sat back laughing as he flinched. ‘We need another drink,’ she said. ‘To celebrate the fact I’m legal.’

‘Can I at least see a drinks menu?’

She grinned and flounced over to the bar, returning with a menu that was a list of a hundred and one different shots. There was no beer. ‘See anything you like?’ she asked. Nightingale shook his head. ‘More Bloodshots, then,’ she said, and went back to the bar. She came with two more glasses and made him drink his down in one.

‘Caitlin, much as I can see the attraction of this place, I’m not great in confined spaces and I really need a cigarette. Can we go upstairs?’

‘You’re a smoker?’

‘Oh yes, I’m a smoker.’

She grinned. ‘Finally, we have something in common,’ she said. ‘Come on.’ They went back up the staircase and out on to a cramped terrace at the back of the building. There were space heaters but the night wasn’t too cold and they hadn’t been switched on. They sat down on a bench. The waitress with the half-shaved head walked over and stood looking down at them, her face a blank mask. ‘Two Bloodshots,’ said Caitlin. The only sign that the waitress had heard her was that she turned around and went back into the bar.

Nightingale took out his cigarettes and offered the pack to her. Caitlin took one and Nightingale lit it for her and then lit one for himself. ‘Okay, you said you had something to tell me about the five Goths who died.’

‘That was some heavy shit, right?’ said Caitlin.

‘Very heavy.’ Nightingale put a hand up to his head. He felt a little dizzy and tried to remember how many shots he had. Three? Only three?

‘Are you okay?’

‘A bit tired,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a rough few days and I’m not getting much sleep.’

‘I hardly sleep at all,’ she said. ‘I’m a night owl.’ She laughed. ‘That’s funny. I’m a night owl. And you’re a nightingale.’

‘You said you had some information for me.’

She nodded enthusiastically. ‘There was a photographer, at the Crypt. I saw him talking to Stella Walsh, the first girl who was killed.’

‘When was this?’

‘A couple of months ago.’

Nightingale frowned. ‘You knew Stella?’

‘No. But I recognised her when I saw her picture. The photographer was going around saying that he was doing a portfolio of Goths.’

‘Did he have a camera?’

Caitlin frowned. ‘No. I didn’t see one.’

‘So how did you know he was a photographer?’

She rolled his eyes. ‘Because he spoke to me and gave me his card.’

‘Have you got it?’

‘Sure.’ She picked up her bag, black leather with chrome studs, and rooted through it. She pulled out a purse in the shape of a bat and unzipped it. She looked into it and wrinkled her nose. ‘Must be back at my place.’

‘Was there something off about this guy?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because you obviously remembered him, and you remembered him talking to Stella Walsh. Or do you remember everybody?’

Their drinks arrived. Nightingale took out his wallet but Caitlin waved it away. ‘I paid already,’ she said. The waitress put the shots on the table and walked away without saying a word.

‘They’re not very friendly here,’ said Nightingale.

‘That’s why people come. For the shots, the music, and the attitude.’ She picked up one of the glasses. ‘Down in one.’

Nightingale sighed and downed the drink. He was sweating so he took off his raincoat.

‘I saw him with Luke Aitken, too.’

Nightingale rubbed his face with his hand and his palm came away wet. ‘Who?’

‘Luke Aitken.’

Nightingale was sure he’d heard the name before. ‘Luke Aitken?’ he repeated.

‘Another of the Goths who was killed. About a week after he was talking to Stella I saw him talking to Luke.’

‘You knew Luke?’

‘Sure, he was a regular at the Crypt. The photographer was very interested in Luke.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe he was gay.’

Nightingale was finding it difficult to concentrate. ‘Luke?’

She looked up and sighed. ‘I know Luke was gay. Obviously Luke was gay. Luke was like the gayest person you could meet. I mean the photographer, I thought he might be gay.’

‘And he spoke to …’ Nightingale frowned. He was having trouble concentrating. ‘Stella. He spoke to Stella as well?’

Caitlin nodded. ‘And one of the other Goths. Gabe something or other. I saw his picture on the TV.’

‘You knew Gabe?’

‘To say hello to, sure. He was a regular at the Crypt.’

Nightingale leaned towards her. He knew he had something important to say to her but the thought kept slipping away. The more he concentrated, the less he seemed able to focus.

‘Jack, are you okay?’ asked Caitlin. She put her tiny hand on his. ‘Maybe we should get out of here.’

44

C
aitlin peered up at the building. ‘This is it,’ she said. She groped in her bag and pulled out a set of keys. ‘Soon be home.’

Nightingale ran a hand through his hair and looked up and down the deserted street. ‘Where are we?’ he said. He didn’t remember getting into a cab but he didn’t remember walking there either.

‘My place,’ said Caitlin. She slotted the key into the lock. ‘I don’t normally do this,’ she said.

‘What? Lock your door?’

She laughed but there was an uncertain edge to the sound, as if she was faking it. Nightingale rubbed his face with his hand. He felt so tired. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Something was wrong. He wasn’t a regular drinker of shots but he was no stranger to the effects of alcohol and there was no way that he could have become drunk so quickly.

‘Take strange men back to my place, that’s what I meant.’

‘I’m not that strange. Honestly.’

She reached up and stroked his cheek. ‘You’re quite cute.’

‘I do my best,’ said Nightingale. He shook his head. She must have put something in his drink, he realised. The thought that she had drugged him was surprisingly funny, and he found himself giggling.

‘Let’s get you inside,’ she said.

‘Sounds like a plan.’ He knew that the sensible thing to do was to push her away and run down the street, but his legs felt rooted to the pavement.

She unlocked the door and pushed it open. He followed her inside as she switched on the light. ‘Watch the stairs,’ she said. ‘There are holes in the carpets, be careful you don’t trip.’ He followed her upstairs, bumping against the wall every second step. Her flat was on the second floor and by the time he reached it she was already opening the door. ‘Home sweet home,’ she said.

She held the door open and he walked in. It was quite a large room with a window overlooking the rear of the building. There was a double bed and a small sofa, and a circular dining table with four chairs. The door closed behind him. There was a doorway to the left that opened into a small kitchen, and another door that must have been to the bathroom. Nightingale shook his head, trying to concentrate. There were no personal belongings in the room, he realised. No posters. No photographs. No cuddly toys. No books. The bed didn’t look as if it had ever been slept in.

There was a mirror on the wall opposite the front door. Nightingale’s vision had gone blurry so he blinked to clear his eyes and then he saw Caitlin in the mirror, standing behind him. She had her arm raised and he realised she was about to slam something against the back of his head. He twisted around but he was too slow to avoid the blow completely and whatever it was grazed the side of his head, stunning him. He slumped to his knees, his head spinning, then went down on all fours. As he looked up he saw the bathroom door open. A man in dark clothing appeared, holding a machete. Behind him was another man. He had what looked like a cleaver in his hand.

Nightingale shook his head again and took a deep breath. Caitlin said something to the men and one of them laughed. Nightingale fumbled his right hand under his coat and groped for the Glock. His fingers found the butt of the weapon and he pulled it out. He rocked back on his heels as he brought the gun up. He brought his left hand up to pull back the slide and heard the click-clack of a round being chambered.

The first man, tall with receding hair, snarled and stepped forward, the machete raised above his head. Nightingale fired once and the bullet caught the man just below the chin. He froze, then blood spouted from the neck wound and less than a second later blood frothed from between his lips.

Nightingale swung the gun around. The second man had pulled up, his cleaver at waist height. His eyes darted from Nightingale to Receding Hair. Receding Hair slumped to his knees as blood trickled down his shirt and on to the floor. His eyes had already gone dull and lifeless. The second man’s eyes flicked back to Nightingale and the Glock that was now centred on his chest. Nightingale had no choice other than to stay on his back with the gun pointing between his knees. ‘Your call,’ he said quietly.

The man growled, raised his cleaver and sprang forward. Nightingale tightened his trigger finger and shot the man in the chest, just above the heart. The man took another step then the strength went from his legs and he collapsed, his mouth working soundlessly. Nightingale rolled over, pushed himself up from the floor.

Caitlin bent down and picked up Receding Hair’s machete. She held it up and glared at Nightingale. He kept the Glock centred on her chest.

‘Put it down, Caitlin,’ he said. ‘It’s over.’

The second man’s legs twitched and then went still.

‘Put it down,’ Nightingale repeated. ‘I will shoot you.’

She shook her head fiercely. ‘You won’t.’ She swished the machete from side to side. There was a manic look in her eyes as if she was staring through him rather than looking at him.

‘Why are you doing this?’ said Nightingale, his finger tight on the trigger, ready to react the moment she moved towards him.

She tried to smile but it turned into a snarl. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said. ‘We serve Lucifer and providing we do his bidding without question we walk into Hell and sit on his left side.’

‘Put it down, Caitlin. We can walk out of here. I can get you help.’

‘I don’t need help,’ she sneered. ‘I have my place in Hades.’

‘And because of that you kill innocents in this world?’

‘I serve my Master and will do so until I die.’

‘You don’t have to die, Caitlin,’ he said.

She smiled. Her eyes seemed to be burning redly and her nostrils flared as her chest rose and fell. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said. She held out the machete and Nightingale’s finger tightened on the trigger.

‘Caitlin, drop the—’

Before he could finish she had switched her grip on the machete so the blade was upright. She grinned in triumph, then looked up at the ceiling and shouted at the top of her voice. ‘My Lord, I am coming!’ She placed the edge of the blade against her neck and in one smooth movement sliced her throat open from ear to ear. Blood washed down her shirt and she continued to stare at Nightingale for several seconds before the machete fell from her fingers and rattled on the floor.

Nightingale stared at her in horror, his eyes stinging from the cordite in the air. He was still pointing the gun at her chest, but his trigger finger had relaxed.

Caitlin was still smiling, even though several pints of blood had gushed from the gaping wound in her throat. He couldn’t work out why she was still standing.

She opened her mouth and there was a gurgling sound like water disappearing down a drain. ‘We’re coming for you, Jack Nightingale,’ she said, then she fell backwards and hit the floor so hard the television shuddered.

Nightingale’s heart was pounding as if it was threatening to jump out of his chest. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. The adrenaline coursing through his system was helping to sober him up. He stared at the gun in his hand. Then at the three bodies on the floor. Two shots. And Caitlin’s screams. If anyone had phoned the police he only had a few minutes. If he stayed, he was in big trouble. The police would find him with a gun and two men shot dead and while he might well find a jury would believe he had acted in self defence he’d still have to explain why he had the Glock in the first place.