Lastnight (33 page)

‘Are you saying that Lucifuge Rofocale is behind this?’

‘I wouldn’t put it past him. I’ll tell you this much, Nightingale. If Lucifuge Rofocale is on your case, you’re done for.’

Nightingale swallowed but his throat was so dry that he almost gagged. ‘To be honest, it doesn’t matter who’s behind it, does it?’ He held up his hand. ‘That’s rhetorical.’

‘I figured that out for myself,’ said Proserpine.

‘If it is Lucifuge Rofocale then I’m screwed. If it’s the Order of Nine Angles acting on their own then I’m still screwed because there’s nothing I can do to stop them.’

‘There’s a lot of them, and they’re pretty fanatical,’ agreed Proserpine. ‘You should be more careful about who you choose to piss off.’

‘Pretty much the only hope I had was that it was you and I could appeal to your better nature,’ said Nightingale.

Proserpine grinned and shook her head. ‘You’re a very funny man.’

‘I’m not trying to be,’ he said. His eyes were watering and he brushed the tears away with his right hand.

‘Don’t tell me you’re crying,’ she said quietly.

‘It’s the fumes,’ hissed Nightingale. ‘I can barely breathe in here.’ He folded his arms again. ‘I can only see one way out of this. One way that I can stop the killing.’

Proserpine raised a single eyebrow. ‘Pray tell.’

‘If I wasn’t here, there’d be no point to the killings. If I wasn’t around …’

‘You think you can hide from them?’ said Proserpine. ‘The Order has people all over the world. Rich and powerful people, too. Heavy hitters. They’re in most of the world’s governments, police forces and intelligence organisations. That’s what the Order does. You give your loyalty to the Order and in return you get your heart’s desire.’

‘And you sell your soul? Is that what happens? The members of the Order have all done deals?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Proserpine. ‘The Order has a power of its own, and a network of connections and favours on a par with the Masons.’

‘They’re devil worshippers.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘Oh yes.’

‘And they sacrifice children?’

‘They sacrifice a lot of things,’ she said. ‘They’re at the cutting edge of Satanism with direct lines to Lucifuge Rofocale among others.’

‘What about you? Do you deal with them?’

Proserpine chuckled. ‘That would be telling,’ she said. ‘But you can’t run from them. Or at least you can’t run for long.’

‘I wasn’t planning on running,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was planning on ending it. Killing myself.’

The dog growled softly and looked up at his mistress. She smiled at him. ‘We won’t be long,’ she said. ‘We’re almost done here.’

‘You heard what I said?’ said Nightingale.

‘I heard.’

‘That would work, right? All this is about terrorising me. If I was dead, there’d be no point.’

‘Your logic sounds irrefutable.’

‘So here’s my question,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I kill myself, do I go straight to Hell?’

‘Without passing Go and without collecting two hundred pounds?’

‘Well, do I?’

Proserpine’s eyes narrowed. ‘What is it you want, Nightingale? You want me to tell you if killing yourself is a good idea or not?’

‘I want to know what the rules are? Do suicides burn in Hell, like the church says?’

‘Like the Catholic Church says,’ she corrected him. ‘Let me say this: you don’t want to be using the Catholics as the sole arbiter of Heaven and Hell. They have their own axes to grind.’

‘So not all suicides go to Hell?’

‘There are worse things than taking your own life,’ said Proserpine. ‘Have you put this question to your friend Mrs Steadman?’

‘She wasn’t very helpful,’ admitted Nightingale.

‘And you’re surprised at that? Have you learnt nothing?’

‘What do you mean?’

She shook her head sadly. ‘You don’t understand, do you? Mrs Steadman and I are the same. We don’t play favourites, we’re not here to offer you a helping hand. We observe and we maintain order. Yes, I’m one of the Fallen and she isn’t, but other than that we are the same.’

‘You’re an angel?’

‘I’m a fallen angel.’ She lowered her eyes and fluttered her long eyelashes. ‘I’ve been a bad, bad girl.’ She began to laugh and the walls shook again. ‘If you’re looking to Mrs Steadman for help, you’re looking in the wrong place.’

‘But you can help me, is that what you mean?’

‘Are you ready to sell your soul? Because that’s the only thing of value you have.’

‘If I do that, you’ll put a stop to this?’

‘Are you ready to deal, Nightingale? Are you ready to offer me your soul?’

Nightingale stared at her for several seconds and then slowly shook his head. ‘I’ll find another way,’ he said.

‘Well, good luck with that,’ she said. ‘Are we done?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Yes, we’re done.’ He spoke the Latin words that ended the spell, there was an ear-splitting crack, space folded in on itself and she and the dog were gone. The strength suddenly drained from Nightingale’s legs and he fell to his knees. He felt something wet trickle over his lips and he touched them with his hand. The fingers came away glistening with blood and he realised his nose was bleeding. He tried to get up but felt as weak as a kitten and he had to put both hands on the concrete floor to steady himself. The swirling fog began to disperse and he found it easier to breathe. Gradually his strength returned and he staggered to his feet. He pulled open the door to the lock-up and walked unsteadily into the sunlight. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and then took out his cigarettes and lit one. As he blew smoke up at the sky the irony that he was replacing one foul atmosphere with another wasn’t lost on him, but the nicotine craving overruled any sense of embarrassment.

55

N
ightingale phoned Jenny as he walked back to Whiteleys shopping centre. She told him she was already at her parents’ house and they were heading out to walk the dogs. ‘Have you got a number for Eddie Morris?’ Nightingale asked.

‘The housebreaker?’

‘Alleged housebreaker,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’s never been convicted.’

‘Only because you keep helping him get off,’ said Jenny.

‘Horses for courses,’ said Nightingale. ‘Eddie breaks into places and I keep him out of prison. It’s the nicest bit of osmosis you’ll find.’

‘I think you mean symbiosis,’ said Jenny. ‘What do you need Eddie for?’

‘Best you don’t know,’ he said.

‘You want him to break into somewhere, that’s the only reason you ever call Eddie.’

Nightingale grinned. ‘Allegedly.’

‘So Eddie is the friend you’re going to be hanging out with? I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’

‘You worry too much.’

‘I’ll text you the number,’ she said.

‘Can you do something else for me? I need a number for a guy called Joshua Wainwright. He’s an American billionaire but keeps a low profile. I’m hoping you can Google or whatever it is you do and get me a number.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said.

‘He’s from Texas, I think. Black and youngish. Thirty, maybe. Flies around in his own personal Gulfstream jet.’

‘Nice work if you can get it,’ she said. Nightingale ended the call and two minutes later his phone buzzed to let him know the promised text had arrived. It was Eddie’s number, along with a promise that she would get back to him about Wainwright. He phoned Eddie and was relieved when he answered on the third ring. ‘I need a favour,’ said Nightingale.

‘I guessed that,’ said Eddie. ‘Let’s face it, that’s pretty much the only time I hear from you.’

‘So that’s a yes, is it?’

Eddie laughed. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Spot of breaking and entering, I suppose?’

‘Just entering, I doubt that any breaking will be involved.’

‘Where and when?’

‘The where is Surrey. I’ll meet you in a village called Hamdale. The house is about six miles from there so you can follow me in your car from there.’

‘You’re still driving that piece of crap, are you?’

‘My classic MGB, you mean? Yes.’

‘So you’ll be easy to spot, then. You’ll be the guy standing by the repair truck.’

‘Soon as you can, Eddie.’

‘Anything I should know about the place?’

‘It’s empty. Not overlooked. No burglar alarm. I just need you to get me inside.’

‘And what’s the name of this place?’

‘Gosling Manor,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll see you in Hamdale’s main street.’

As he ended the call his phone buzzed gain. It was a text from Jenny with Joshua Wainwright’s number. He sent her a text back.
YOU’RE A STAR
.

She replied almost instantly.
I KNOW
.

56

N
ightingale drove slowly down the narrow country road. He took a quick look in his driving mirror to check that Eddie Morris was still behind him in his Jaguar. The road behind him was clear but as he braked the Jaguar came into view and Eddie flashed his headlights. Morris had got to Hamdale first and had been waiting when Nightingale pulled up in his MGB. As the two men had driven out of the village the sky had darkened and there were flecks of rain on Nightingale’s windscreen. He flicked the wiper switch and the wipers groaned into life. He checked the driving mirror again and this time the Jaguar was close enough for him to make out the features of the man behind the wheel. Eddie was in his late twenties but looked almost a decade younger, with an acne-spotted forehead and spiky gelled blond hair. Eddie had a mobile phone pressed to his ear and was nodding animatedly.

Something flashed across Nightingale’s vision and he stamped on the brake pedal as he realised a tractor was pulling out in front of him. The MGB’s wheels shuddered and he swung the steering wheel to the left. The tractor accelerated away and the MGB’s front bumper missed its back wheels by inches before the car skidded to a halt inches from a five-bar fence and stalled. Nightingale cursed, his heart racing.

The Jaguar pulled up behind him and Eddie beeped the horn. Nightingale wound down his window and waved before restarting the MGB and heading off down the road.

The rain grew heavier as he drove by a field of cabbages. There was a high stone wall to his left and he slowed, knowing that he was approaching the main entrance. Ahead of him he saw a large circular metal mirror attached to a tree and he indicated a left turn. He pulled up in front of black metal gates and a sign that said G
OSLING
M
ANOR
, leaving room for Eddie to park next to him.

As the Jaguar drew up alongside the MGB, Nightingale reached over and pulled a pair of bolt-cutters from under the passenger seat. As he climbed out of the car, Eddie wound down his window. ‘Looks like you don’t need me,’ he said, nodding at the bolt-cutters.

‘This is the easy part,’ said Nightingale. There was a thick chain linking the two gates and a brass padlock. He used the cutters to cut the hasp of the padlock and unravelled the chain before pushing the gates open. On the other side of the gates a narrow paved road curved to the right through thick woodland.

He waved Eddie to drive on to the house and then got back into the MGB and put the chain and the bolt cutters under the passenger seat. He restarted the engine and followed Eddie. The paved road merged into a parking area large enough to park several dozen vehicles, and in the middle stood a massive stone fountain. There was no water in the fountain, the centrepiece of which was a weathered stone mermaid surrounded by dolphins and fish. By the time Nightingale had parked next to the fountain, Eddie was already out of his Jaguar, looking up at the roof with his hands on his hips. The rain had stopped but there were still heavy grey rain clouds overhead. The house was built of local stone with upper facades of weathered bricks two stories high, topped by a tiled roof almost the same colour as the bricks and with four towering chimney stacks. The walls were covered with a thick layer of ivy that had been growing for decades, with some of the vines as thick as a man’s wrist. The main entrance was shrouded in ivy around a massive oak door that gleamed in the sunlight.

Nightingale took a torch from the glove compartment and joined Eddie. Together they looked up at the house. ‘How much lead do you think is up there?’ Eddie asked.

‘Don’t even think about it, Eddie,’ said Nightingale.

‘Who owns it?” asked Eddie. ‘Must be worth what, three million? Four?’

Nightingale feigned disinterest. ‘Not sure,’ he said.

‘Like you said, no alarm,’ said Eddie. ‘Plenty of CCTV though.’ He nodded at a camera covering the front door, and another up by one of the chimneys that covered the main driveway. ‘In fact it looks like we’re on
Candid Camera
already.’

‘There are cameras inside as well but there’s no need to worry about them. There’s no external feed. Just a hard drive and I can wipe that.’

Eddie looked across at Nightingale. ‘You seem to know a lot about the place.’

‘Mate, I just need you to get me inside without causing any damage.’ He took out his cigarettes and lit one, before gesturing at the door. ‘Front or back?’

‘It’s not as if we’re overlooked, is it?’ said Eddie. He reached into his bomber jacket and took out a small leather case. He unzipped it to reveal a dozen metal picks of varying shapes and sizes. ‘And just to be sure – there’s no rotting corpse in there?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Nightingale. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

As Eddie jogged up the stone steps to the front door, Nightingale blew smoke up at the roof. Next to the main building was a single brick block with four garage doors, painted white to match the house’s window frame. There was a conservatory that looked as if it had been added as an afterthought, and a wing beyond the conservatory that was at right angles to the main building.

Eddie bent over the lock, his head cocked to one side as he worked on it. He hummed to himself, then Nightingale heard the lock click. There was a second lock, close to the door handle, and that one opened in less than a minute. Eddie stepped back, grinning. ‘Easy, peasy,’ he said, slotting the picks back into the case.

‘You’re a star, Eddie,’ said Nightingale.