‘What is it you want, Marcus? The books? You can have the books. All of them. Just leave Jenny alone.’
‘This isn’t about the books, Jack. It’s not about Jenny either.’
‘What, then? What’s the point of all this?’
Fairchild laughed again. ‘Don’t you get it, Jack? You’re the point. It always has been you.’
Nightingale started to walk towards the kitchen, keeping his hands up. ‘We can sort this out, Marcus. It doesn’t have to end badly.’
As he passed the door that led to the garage, it opened. Nightingale began to turn but he stopped when something hard pressed against the small of his back. It was the barrel of a gun. The gun was being held by a short man with rat-like eyes and a receding chin. His hair was slicked back with oil that glistened in the overhead lights.
‘Just keep walking, nice and slowly,’ said Marcus. ‘It’ll soon be over.’
67
Nightingale held up his hands as he walked into the kitchen. The gunman was close behind him, keeping the barrel pressed into the small of Nightingale’s back. That was a mistake, Nightingale knew. If he turned quickly enough there was a good chance that he’d be able to push the weapon to the side before the man could pull the trigger. But it wasn’t the man with the gun that Nightingale was worried about; it was Marcus Fairchild and the knife that he was holding to Jenny’s neck.
‘What do you want?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Whatever you want, you can have it, Marcus. Just let Jenny go.’
‘What I want? This isn’t about what I want.’
Nightingale frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You really are stupid, aren’t you? Have you forgotten what you did? You cheated Proserpine out of your soul. Then you cheated Lucifuge Rofocale. You think you can play around with the Fallen without there being repercussions?’
‘I didn’t cheat anybody. I did deals. I gave Proserpine what she wanted and Lucifuge Rofocale did what he had to do to keep the peace.’
Fairchild sneered at Nightingale and pressed the knife harder against Jenny’s throat. ‘They don’t see it that way, Nightingale, and now it’s time for you to pay the piper.’
‘Okay, but this has nothing to do with Jenny. Let her go, Marcus. Let her go and you can do whatever you want to me. You’ve won. Okay? Just let her go.’
‘This isn’t about me. This isn’t about what I want.’
‘Just let Jenny go. Please. I’m begging you.’
Fairchild shook his head. ‘That’s not going to happen,’ he said. ‘That’s not how this is going to play out. That’s not what they want.’
‘What do they want, Marcus? Tell me.’
‘They want you to suffer, Nightingale. They want you to suffer in this world and the next. And that suffering starts here.’
‘What have they told you to do?’
Fairchild sneered at him. ‘They want you to kill her.’
‘What?’ A chill ran down Nightingale’s spine.
‘They want her dead and you to take the blame. They want you behind bars. Locked away. For the rest of your life.’
‘Marcus, this is crazy talk. You know that.’
‘You had sex with her. Your sperm is inside her. They’ll find you with the knife in your hands and her blood all over you. You were a cop, Nightingale. You know how they can put two and two together.’ He chuckled. ‘That’s pretty much all they can do. But it’s enough. Your sperm. Your prints on the knife. Your options are pretty limited.’
‘I haven’t touched the knife.’
‘Not yet,’ said Fairchild.
Nightingale realised that Fairchild was wearing black leather gloves. ‘Don’t do this, Marcus. Please.’
Fairchild laughed out loud. ‘Is that the best you can do? You were a police negotiator, right? And that’s your best shot? To say “please”? That’s it?’
‘She’s your god-daughter,’ said Nightingale. ‘She’s loved you her whole life.’
‘You think I care? She’s nothing to me. A quick shag when I wanted one, that’s all.’
Nightingale stared at Fairchild in horror.
‘Hadn’t you worked that out already? I’ve been fucking her since she was ten years old.’
‘No . . .’ Jenny gasped, and for the first time she began to struggle. Fairchild yanked her hair savagely and she grunted in pain.
‘Lost a lot of attraction once she was legal, but I’d revisit her every few months, just for old time’s sake. She doesn’t remember a thing, of course. But she enjoys it, Nightingale. She could screw for England, this one.’
Nightingale took a step towards him but Fairchild pushed the knife harder against Jenny’s throat. ‘Don’t even think about it. You take one more step and she’s dead.’
‘Uncle Marcus,’ moaned Jenny.
‘Shut up, whore!’ he hissed. ‘This is nothing to do with you.’ He glared at Nightingale. ‘You still haven’t worked it out, have you? Last night, she was doing what I told her to do. What I programmed her to do. Everything the two of you did, last night and this morning, was down to me, Nightingale. She screwed you because I told her to screw you.’ He laughed. ‘How does that make you feel, Nightingale? Angry? Angry enough to kill?’
‘You bastard.’
‘Yes, I am a bastard. An evil bastard. Now do you know how this ends? Have you worked it out yet?’
‘Don’t do this,’ said Nightingale.
‘Do what? This?’ Fairchild drew the knife across Jenny’s throat and her blood sprayed across the floor.
Nightingale opened his mouth to scream but then the butt of the gun slammed against his temple and he fell to his knees. He saw blood pumping from the gaping wound in Jenny’s neck. She was still alive, just, and he could see the fear and panic in her eyes and then everything went black and he slumped to the floor.
68
‘Jack, you have to get up.’ Nightingale groaned. ‘Jack, come on. Wake up.’ Nightingale’s eyes fluttered open. He was lying on his front, his face turned towards the oven. ‘Jack!’
‘Jenny?’ he moaned.
‘Wake up, Jack.’
He pushed himself up onto his knees, struggling to clear his head. ‘Jenny?’
‘Jenny’s dead, Jack. You know that.’
Nightingale felt something hard in his right hand and he looked down. He was holding the carving knife. The blade was glistening with blood and it was all over his hand. He turned and looked over his shoulder. Jenny was lying on the floor by the table, blood pooling around her head like a scarlet halo.
‘She’s dead, Jack. Now get up and finish this. You know what you have to do.’
Nightingale threw the knife away and got to his feet. The room began to swim around him and he fought to stay conscious. There was blood all over the front of his coat and splattered up his right sleeve.
‘Jack. You have to go. Hurry.’
He turned towards the voice. Sophie was standing in front of the refrigerator, her Barbie doll dangling from her right hand. Her hair was loose around her face and she looked as if she was about to cry.
‘Sophie?’
‘You can do it, Jack. You can do what needs to be done.’ She pointed down the hallway. ‘Go, Jack. Go now.’
Nightingale staggered down the hallway. He tripped and slammed against the wall before pushing himself upright, and as he took his hand away he saw he’d left a bloody handprint. A car screeched to a halt outside and he ran to the door and out into the street. Fairchild was pulling open the rear door of a large grey Jaguar. He looked over at Nightingale and grinned, then climbed into the back.
Roaring like an animal in pain, Nightingale hurried towards the MGB. As Fairchild slammed the door shut, Nightingale leaned into his car, opened the glove compartment and pulled out his gun.
The Jaguar drove off as Nightingale stepped away from the MGB, flicked off the safety and brought up the gun with both hands. He squeezed the trigger. The first shot slammed into the front wing, the second blew apart the fron
t tyre. The Jaguar accelerated but veered to the right. It straightened up but then the driver lost control and it hit a concrete tub filled with ivy and span around, the engine revving uncontrollably. A cloud of steam billowed out from under the bonnet.
Lights were going on in houses all along the mews.
The rear passenger door opened and Fairchild staggered out of the car. His eyes were wide and staring and he bent low, trying to use the door as cover, but Nightingale knew that the thin steel would be no better than cardboard at stopping the next bullet. He squeezed off another shot but Fairchild had already started to turn and the bullet missed him by inches.
That was the third bullet. Four rounds left.
Fairchild was running as fast as he could but his feet were slipping on the cobbles and his arms flailed out for balance. Nightingale took two quick steps to the side, steadied the gun and fired. The bullet hit Fairchild in the left shoulder and he pitched forward and fell to his knees. Nightingale’s ears were ringing from the explosions and the cordite was stinging his eyes.
Fairchild crawled down the street on his knees and right hand, his left arm dangling uselessly.
Nightingale walked past the Jaguar. The driver was pitched forward against the airbag, blood streaming from his nose. The heavy in the front passenger seat was also trapped against his airbag but he was conscious and groped for his gun when he saw Nightingale. Nightingale caught a glimpse of metal in the man’s hand and he shot him through the window. The glass exploded and the heavy’s face folded into a bloody mess.
Fairchild managed to get to his feet and began to lurch along the street, blood streaming from the wound in his shoulder. Nightingale walked after him. He fired one-handed and the bullet slammed into Fairchild’s back. The lawyer took two more steps and then fell face down onto the cobbles.
As Nightingale walked up, Fairchild rolled onto his back. He coughed and bloody froth spewed from between his lips. ‘I’ll see you in Hell, Nightingale,’ he said. He coughed again and thick blackish blood trickled out of his mouth and down his neck.
‘You can bank on it,’ said Nightingale. He pointed the gun at Fairchild’s chest, just above the heart, and pulled the trigger.
Fairchild’s entire body convulsed and his bloody lips curled back in a snarl but then he went still and the life faded from his eyes.
Nightingale turned and walked back to Jenny’s house. More lights were coming on, and he saw a young woman standing in the window of the house opposite, staring at him in horror. He pushed open the door and then hesitated. He knew there was nothing he could do to help Jenny. She was dead. He stopped, unable to cross the threshold into the house. Realisation hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. Sophie was right. He did know what he had to do. And he had to do it now.
He turned on his heels and walked back to the MGB. He threw his gun onto the back seat and started the engine. As he drove away he saw the young woman pointing a phone at him, taking a photograph or a video, he couldn’t tell which. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more.
69
Nightingale screeched to a stop next to the fountain in the driveway of Gosling Manor. He switched off the engine and ran up the stairs to the front door, fumbling in his coat pocket for the key. He unlocked the door and let himself in, then relocked the door and slid across two heavy brass bolts. He rushed across the hallway, pulled open the secret panel that led to the basement, closed the panel behind him and hurried down the stairs. Taking off his coat he tossed it onto one of the leather sofas, then he looked down at his bloodstained shirt and cursed. He was supposed to be spotless when he entered the pentagram, any impurity would weaken the magic circle. He looked at his watch and tried to work out how much time he had. He doubted that the police would be too far behind him. The woman in the window opposite Jenny’s house would have got the registration number of the MGB and as soon as the police went looking for his car they’d see that he had been red-flagged, and then Chalmers would be called and he would tell them about Gosling Manor.
He went over to the large oak desk and pulled open a drawer. Inside was a plastic bag containing several sheets of parchment that he’d bought from Mrs Steadman. The parchment was special, prepared from the skin of a virgin goat, and on it Nightingale had to draw the special symbol that belonged to Lucifuge Rofocale.
He sat down at the desk. Lying on the blotter was a quill that he’d made from a swan’s feather the last time that he’d summoned Lucifuge Rofocale. There was dried blood on the nib. Nightingale’s blood. He wiped it on his shirt sleeve. Also on the blotter was the razor blade that he’d used to nick himself. He picked it up and made a second incision on his left index finger, half an inch away from the last cut. Blood trickled down his finger and he dabbed at it with the nib of the quill, then began to draw the symbol from memory. He worked quickly but carefully. If the symbol wasn’t perfect, it would be useless.
When he’d finished he blew on it to dry it, then carefully rolled it up and slid it into the pocket of his trousers. There were seven black candles in a Wicca Woman carrier bag, along with plastic bags of herbs and spices. He picked up the bag and took it upstairs.
70
‘Can’t we go any bloody faster?’ asked Superintendent Chalmers. He pointed at the disappearing lights of the armed response vehicle ahead of them. ‘If they can do seventy, why can’t we?’
The driver pressed his foot down but the country roads were narrow and winding and even at sixty miles an hour he had trouble maintaining control of the vehicle. Chalmers took several deep breaths. His heart was racing, not because of the high-speed drive through the Surrey countryside but because he was finally going to see Jack Nightingale where he belonged: behind bars.
This time there was no way that Nightingale could escape justice. Three eyewitnesses had seen him shoot a man dead in cold blood as he lay in the street, and then drive off in his MGB. There had been another man shot at close range in the front of a car, and Nightingale’s assistant had been found in the kitchen of her home with her throat ripped open.
Chalmers was holding his iPhone and he stared at the screen. It showed a map of the area and a dot marked the position of the car he was in. When he’d visited Gosling Manor he’d marked the GPS position on his phone and now he was able to use it to follow his progress in the dark.
‘We’re coming up to the gate,’ he said. ‘About half a mile on the left.’
71
Nightingale finished drying himself and tossed the towel into the bath. He’d used a nailbrush to clean his hands, feet and under his nails, and he’d used mouthwash and brushed his teeth thoroughly. His bloodstained clothes were draped over the toilet. Jenny’s blood. Nightingale shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. ‘I’m sorry, kid,’ he muttered to himself. ‘But I’ll make it right. I promise.’
He padded naked into the bedroom. The pentagram was already prepared, with large black candles at the five points, and the herbs he needed were in a brass crucible in the centre, along with the parchment.
He took a deep breath and stepped into the magic circle. He picked up his cigarette lighter and began to light the candles, moving anti-clockwise around the circle.
72
The armed response vehicle came to a halt between the MGB and the stone fountain and the four cops piled out. Three already had their MP5s at the ready and they rushed up to the front door. The first to reach the door was a sergeant. He tried the handle but the door was locked and bolted. The driver hurried around to the boot, opened it and pulled out the orange metal battering ram that they called ‘the enforcer’.
Chalmers arrived just as the driver was running up the steps to the door. He got out of the car and walked over to the MGB, still holding his iPhone. He pulled open the driver’s door and peered inside. ‘Sergeant, over here!’ he shouted. He put away his phone and pulled on a pair of purple latex gloves. He picked the gun off the back seat and took it out just as the sergeant ran up. He sniffed the weapon and wrinkled his nose at
the acrid tang of cordite. Chalmers held out the revolver so that the sergeant could see it. ‘If this is his only gun then he’s in there unarmed,’ said Chalmers.
‘Understood, sir,’ said the sergeant.
Chalmers looked up at the upper floor as the driver began to batter the enforcer against the lock. There was a light in one of the upstairs bedrooms. It was flickering.
Chalmers pointed up at the window. ‘See that, sergeant? Candlelight. That’s where he is.’
The sergeant stepped back, looked at where Chalmers was pointing, and nodded.
‘Go right up there, soon as you’re inside,’ said Chalmers.
‘Sir, procedure is to clear the lower floor first.’
‘Screw procedure. He’s upstairs. I know it.’
The sergeant nodded and jogged over to the door. It was made from solid oak but on the fifth strike the wood began to splinter around the lock.
73
Nightingale took a deep breath and began to read from the paper. ‘Osurmy delmausan atalsloym charusihoa,’ he said. Then he took another deep breath and continued to read the rest of the words, taking care not to make any mistakes. When he finished he held the parchment over the north-facing candle. As it burned he spoke again, his voice louder this time. ‘Come, Lucifuge Rofocale,’ he said. ‘I summon you.’
The burning parchment singed his fingers but he ignored the pain. It had to burn completely while he held it. If he dropped it the spell would be broken. Grey smoke began to fill the room, far more than could have been produced by the parchment alone. It began to whirl around in a tight vortex and as Nightingale stared at it he felt himself begin to fall so he quickly closed his eyes and steadied himself. ‘Come, Lucifuge Rofocale!’ he shouted. ‘I command you to appear!’
When he opened his eyes again what was left of the parchment had crumbled to ash between his fingers and thumb and he rubbed his hands together, blackening them. The room was full of smoke and he could barely make out the walls and ceiling. The vortex was spinning faster and faster and the centre of it had turned black. Nightingale held up his hands. ‘Appear before me, I command you!’ he screamed.
Jack Nightingale 03 - Nightmare Page 33