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 front 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.’
