Lastnight (36 page)

‘And how do the deaths of Perry Smith and T-Bone fit into this?’

‘Perry Smith killed Marcus Fairchild, and Marcus Fairchild was in the Order.’

‘And why did Perry Smith do that?’ asked Chalmers.

Nightingale took another deep breath. He could tell the truth or he could lie. But he was tired of lying. And lying wouldn’t help him anyway. ‘Because I told him that Marcus Fairchild was a child-killer and a paedophile.’

Chalmers went quiet for several seconds before speaking. ‘Nightingale, you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on—’

‘Are you serious, Chalmers?’ interrupted Nightingale. ‘You’re giving me the caution? I know what my rights are.’

‘You realise what you’re saying? You were involved in a conspiracy to commit murder.’

‘I told Perry what Fairchild was. And I wanted Perry to kill Fairchild. I didn’t know the Order would find out and that they would start to kill everyone involved. That’s why I’m telling you, Chalmers. You need to track down the members of the Order. And you can start by looking for the owner of the white van, Billy McDowell. I’m pretty sure he’s the one who killed Robbie and probably T-Bone too if T-Bone didn’t get him first. You need to take a close look at Marcus Fairchild as well. Those guys with the dead Goth in Soho, I’m fairly sure they were pallbearers at Fairchild’s funeral. I don’t know their names but they were in the Order, the fact they had the goat’s head brand proves that.’

‘You’re telling me you were there? In the flat?’

Nightingale took a deep breath. There was no point in hiding anything from Chalmers. ‘Yes, damn it, I was there. They were trying to kill me.’

‘And you shot them, right?’

‘That doesn’t matter, Chalmers. What matters is that you catch these bastards and stop them killing.’

‘I’ll decide what matters, Nightingale. We didn’t think that slip of a girl could have taken out two grown men. So the Glock, that was yours?’

‘You’re not listening to me, are you? They were trying to kill me. The girl drugged me and took me back to the flat where they were waiting for me with a machete and a cleaver. Chances are they’re the ones who butchered your Goths. That’s how they were able to get close to them, they had their own Goth as bait.’

‘You need to come in and make a full statement, Nightingale.’

‘There’s something I need to do first,’ said Nightingale. ‘But you need to get moving. Phone records, search their places, you need to find out who they were working with.’

‘Where are you?’

‘It doesn’t matter where I am. Are you listening to me? They’re your Goth killers. You’ve cracked the case and all the glory is yours. But you need to protect Jenny McLean until you have them all in custody. You promised, remember?’

‘I remember. Now you listen—’

Nightingale ended the call and switched his phone off. He turned the ignition key and the MGB coughed but didn’t start. He tried again and the engine turned over once and then stalled. ‘Third time lucky,’ Nightingale muttered to himself. ‘Pretty please.’ He turned the key and this time the engine kicked into life.

He knew he couldn’t go back to his flat. Chalmers almost certainly had it staked out already and if he didn’t there’d be men on the way as soon as their call had ended. Nightingale had to stay out of Bayswater. In fact he’d be better off staying out of the Met’s jurisdiction completely until he had done what he had to do. He wasn’t happy about spending the night at Gosling Manor but he didn’t seem to have any choice.

63

N
ightingale stopped at a pub about ten miles from Gosling Manor. He’d only eaten a couple of sandwiches during the day so he ordered a steak pie and chips to go with his bottle of Corona. He sat at a corner table and took out his book, notepad and pen. As he waited for his food he went through the chapter again, noting down the words and phrases that he didn’t understand. Then he wrote down a list of everything that he would need. It was a long list, and several of the words that he couldn’t translate were on it.

The landlady brought over his food and a selection of condiments. He tucked in and continued to make notes as he ate. When he’d finished he ordered a second Corona, switched on his phone and called Jenny.

‘I’ve been calling you but your phone was off,’ she said.

‘I know. Sorry.’

‘Your friend Superintendent Chalmers has been on to me and he’s sending a car around to sit outside the house. Something about the Goth investigation taking a nasty turn. What’s going on, Jack?’

Nightingale felt a surge of relief wash over him. At least Chalmers had kept his word. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ he lied. ‘But I think the killers know I’ve been working on the case so just to be on the safe side he’s decided on a bit of police protection.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’m a big boy, Jenny, I can take care of myself.’

‘How serious is this, Jack? I know how stretched the police are. They don’t normally have the resources for twenty-four-hour-a-day guards.’

‘It won’t be long,’ said Nightingale. ‘Chalmers has a good lead on who they are, once they’re caught it’ll be over. You just enjoy the rest of your weekend. Now, are you sitting comfortably?’

‘Am I what?’

‘I need some help. How’s your French?’

‘Better than my Japanese but not quite as good as my German. Didn’t you ever read my CV?’

‘Can I run some French words and phrases by you?’

‘Sure.’

Nightingale picked up his pen and ran through the queries he had in his notebook. Jenny answered quickly and authoritatively and he realised she was pretty much fluent in the language.

‘What’s this about?’ she asked when they’d finished.

‘It’s a spell,’ he said. ‘An incantation.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yeah, some defrocked French priest wrote a book and I’m trying to get a handle on what it’s about.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a long story. I’ll explain later. And thanks for your help. You’re a lifesaver.’ Nightingale smiled to himself. At least that much was true. ‘Jenny?’

‘Yes?’

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, wondering exactly what he could and couldn’t say to her. ‘I don’t appreciate you enough.’

‘I’ve been saying that for years,’ she said.

‘I mean I don’t tell you how much I appreciate you. I’d be lost without you.’

‘Why, thank you, Jack. That’s good to hear. Are you sure you don’t want to come down? Mum and Dad have a lovely group of people here and we’re shooting tomorrow.’

‘Shooting?’

‘Pheasant.’

‘I hate loud noises, you know that.’

She laughed. ‘I’m serious. I don’t like you being on your own, not at the moment anyway.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ he said.

‘Well, I’ll see you on Monday.’

‘You can count on it.’ He looked down at his notepad. ‘Jenny …?’

‘Yes?’

‘Take care.’ He ended the call. There was so much more that he wanted to say to her, but he knew he had to finish it there. He’d never talk to her again but at least his last words to her showed how much he cared.

64

N
ightingale spent Saturday night sleeping fitfully on one of the sofas in the basement surrounded by flickering candles. He woke at dawn and showered in one of the upstairs bedrooms before getting to work. The list of what he needed ran to some two dozen items and he found most of what he needed in the cupboards and display cabinets in the basement. There were bottles of herbs and potions, animal parts stored in earthenware jars and glass bottles, and candles of every size and colour. He worked methodically from one end of the basement to the other, stopping only to snack on the remaining sandwiches he’d bought at the service station the previous day, washed down with a can of warm Coke.

When he’d finished he was still missing a number of items so he drove to Woking shopping centre, close to Junction 11 on the M25. He got there just after midday and spent an hour shopping, visiting Debenhams, Boots, a Robert Dyas hardware store, and several clothing stores.

The moment he walked out of the centre with his purchases, he stopped to light a cigarette. As he put the lighter away he heard a soft growling sound to his left and he flinched.

‘Easy, boy,’ said Proserpine. She was sitting cross-legged with her back to the wall. Her dog sat next to her, panting, with its long tongue lolling from the side of its mouth. In front of her was a piece of cardboard on which was written in felt tip – ‘
NEED MONEY FOR FOOD
’. Below the word ‘
FOOD
’ was a carelessly drawn smiley face.

‘Hey, Proserpine,’ he said.

She grinned up at him. ‘You know smoking’s bad for you?’

‘The jury’s still out on that,’ he said. He took a long pull on his cigarette.

‘You don’t worry about cancer?’

Nightingale blew smoke up at the clouds. ‘Sure. More than I worry about global warming but less than I worry about losing my hair.’

‘Your hair?’

‘I’d hate to go bald.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘I know, vanity. What can I say?’

‘Cancer’s not funny,’ she said.

‘It can be.’

‘Seriously?’

Nightingale smiled. ‘A guy goes to see his doctor. The doctor says I’ve got some good news and some bad news. The guy asks for the bad news. The doctor tells him he’s got lung cancer and just three months to live. The guy asks for the good news. The doctor tells him that he’s sleeping with the hot receptionist outside.’ Nightingale shrugged. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

‘What’s in the bags?’

‘A few things I’m going to need later.’

‘I know what you’re planning to do, Nightingale.’

‘Well, aren’t you the smarty pants?’

The dog growled menacingly and Proserpine stroked its head. ‘It’s okay, baby, it’s just his way,’ she whispered and the dog twisted around and licked her cheek.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Sure, but not maths. I was never good at maths.’

‘It’s not maths,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s about the way you keep popping up. If I want to see you I have to go through a whole song and dance. A clean room, a pentangle, incantations, herbs, candles.’

‘You set the scene, yes.’

‘I summon you. And when I summon you you’re stuck between the star and the circle until I’m finished.’

‘What’s your point, Nightingale?’

‘My point is that when I want to see you, I have to do a whole dog and pony show. But you, you just appear.’

‘There are times when I want to talk to you. Like now.’

‘That’s what I don’t get. You’re a demon from Hell. You sit at the side of Satan. Why do you keep bothering me?’

‘I need to talk to you. And I’d rather do that face to face. Texting is so impersonal, don’t you think?’

‘You have a mobile?’

She smiled. ‘I was being sarcastic.’

‘You could do that astral plane thing, where you speak to me in my dreams.’

‘But then you’d never be sure if it was really me, would you?’ She nodded at his cigarette. ‘Got a spare one of those?’

Nightingale took out his pack of Marlboro, flicked it open and held it out to her. As she reached for it he pulled it back, a reflex action. When he was standing in a pentagram he had to avoid touching her because that would break the protective circle. She smiled at his discomfort and he held out the pack again. There was no protective circle so touching her would make no difference. She slid out a cigarette and put it between her lips. Nightingale took out his lighter but before he could offer it to her she shook her head and the end of the cigarette burst into flame. She took a long drag on it and then blew smoke towards him. ‘It’s quite a clever idea, what you’re planning.’

He smiled. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘And you think it’ll work?’

‘I’m going to give it a go.’

She blew smoke up at the sky. ‘You could just do a deal with me.’

‘My soul?’

She looked at him with her cold, black eyes. ‘What else? The car you drive is a pile of shit and that’s pretty much the only physical asset you have. Of course your soul.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then everything will be all right.’

‘Except you’ll have my soul.’ His flicked away what was left of his cigarette and it spun through the air in a shower of sparks.

Proserpine smiled. ‘It’s either that or everyone close to you dies.’ She ran her hand down the dog’s flank and it quivered with pleasure. ‘It’s your call.’

‘Are you behind this?’

‘Behind what?’ she asked, her face a picture of innocence.

‘Everything that’s being happening to me.’

‘You already asked me that, Nightingale. Remember?’ She blew smoke at him and for a brief moment it formed a snake that reared back as if about to strike him, then just as quickly it dispersed in the wind. She laughed. ‘Scaredy cat,’ she said contemptuously.

Nightingale shrugged. ‘Maybe you were lying.’

‘Why would I lie?’

Nightingale didn’t reply.

‘I’m serious, Nightingale. Why would I bother lying to you?’

‘Because you want my soul. You want me to do a deal.’

She tickled the dog behind the ear with her left hand and it panted happily. ‘I’m not the one you need to worry about.’

‘Who then?’

‘You make enemies easily, Nightingale. You seem to attract them. Like flies to shit.’

‘Lucifuge Rofocale?’

She smiled up at him. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ she said.

‘What I’m planning, will it work?’

Proserpine laughed softly. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ She stubbed out the cigarette on the cardboard sign and flicked it into the gutter.

‘That’s why I’m asking. Can I fix this or am I wasting my time?’

‘Are you asking me if there is such a thing as free will?’

‘I guess so.’

‘Then of course there is. Every day you get to make choices. You chose to stop and talk with me. You could just have easily walked by and said nothing, right?’

Nightingale fished out his cigarettes again. ‘Again?’ she said. ‘You’ve only just put one out.’

‘I like to smoke,’ said Nightingale. But he put the packet away.