‘Yeah, I’m okay. What’s up?’
‘I was just checking to see if you were going to be in the office this morning,’ said Jenny. ‘There’re papers here that need signing.’
‘Can’t you do it?’
‘Your accountant sent them. Inland Revenue. I’m not putting my signature on anything that could get me put behind bars.’
‘I’m up to date with my taxes.’
‘Not with VAT you’re not,’ said Jenny. ‘And I found these forms in your desk. You got them well before Christmas and your accountant called me to say he really needed them before the year end.’
‘You know the last few weeks have been crazy, kid.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t think that the Revenue accept that as a valid excuse.’
‘I’m on my way in,’ said Nightingale. His stomach lurched again and he lay back and concentrated on not throwing up.
‘Don’t forget you’ve got that surveillance thing at lunchtime,’ said Jenny.
Nightingale screwed up his face. He had forgotten. He tried to remember where he’d left his camera.
‘You’ve got your camera and stuff, haven’t you? Mr Stevens wants photographs.’
‘Yeah. Sure. Somewhere.’ He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
‘Are you sure you’re okay? You sound a bit strange.’
‘I’m not feeling so good,’ said Nightingale. ‘Tell you what, I’ll go straight to the surveillance job. I’ll do the forms this afternoon.’ He ended the call, took another deep breath to steady himself, then went through to the kitchen to switch on the kettle. He grinned as he saw his black holdall containing his camera equipment on the table by the fridge.
He shaved and showered then put on a suit that he’d just had back from the dry cleaners, selecting a blue tie with boomerangs on it that his aunt and uncle had given him for his birthday three years ago. They’d been on holiday in Australia and had obviously been browsing in the duty-free shop in Sydney Airport on their way back; the tie had still had the price sticker on it when they gave it to him. ‘Many happy returns,’ his aunt had said when he opened the package, and then his uncle repeated it, just in case he missed the boomerang reference. He stared at his reflection as he fastened the tie, remembering the last time he’d seen his aunt. She had been lying on the kitchen floor of her house in Altrincham, to the south of Manchester, her head smashed open, blood and brains congealing on the lino. He shuddered as he remembered walking up the stairs and finding his uncle hanging from the trapdoor that led to the attic. Murder-suicide, according to the Manchester Coroner, but Nightingale knew there was more to it than that. He stared at the tie, shuddered again and took it off. He tossed it in a drawer and put on a tie with alternating dark and pale blue stripes, then went back to the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. He didn’t feel like eating but figured that a bowl of porridge would settle his stomach, so he microwaved a bowl of instant Quaker Oats and ate it while he watched a bleached blonde on Sky News explain why house prices were going to drop by ten per cent over the next year, her report complete with computer graphics and interviews with householders facing bankruptcy because they were being forced to sell their homes for less than they’d paid for them.
When he’d finished he put his bowl and coffee mug in the sink, picked up the holdall and his raincoat and headed out of his apartment. His MGB was in a lock-up a short walk from his flat, but there was no point in taking the car: the woman he was supposed to be photographing worked in Chelsea and usually took the Tube to the hotel in Battersea where she met her lover. Mr Stevens had known about his wife’s affair for more than a month and he wanted pictures of his wife and lover entering and leaving the hotel as ammunition in a very nasty custody battle that he knew was heading his way. There were no children involved — Mrs Stevens had never wanted kids — but the couple owned three pedigree Red Setters that between them had won more than a dozen Crufts titles and whose offspring sold for thousands of pounds. Nightingale wasn’t sure why his wife’s infidelity gave Mr Stevens more of a chance of keeping the dogs, but he was paying well so Nightingale simply applied the philosophy that the client was always right, even when he clearly wasn’t.
As he pulled the front door closed behind him, a black Range Rover went by and he caught a glimpse of sullen black faces staring at him from the half-opened windows. Keeping his eye on the vehicle Nightingale watched it drive along the road then go down a side street. He turned to the right so that he didn’t have to walk by the window of Mrs Chan’s restaurant, and lit a cigarette as he walked to Queensway Tube station. The sky overhead was gunmetal grey and the weather forecast had warned of snow showers.
He was about a hundred feet from the Tube station when he saw the Range Rover again, this time driving towards him. He looked down at the registration plate and made a conscious effort to remember it. As he stared at the plate the car stopped and the rear doors opened; two men got out, one from either side. They slammed the doors shut and the car drove off. As it went by him Nightingale saw his reflection in the darkened windows.
Two motorcycles turned into Queensway close to Whiteleys Shopping Centre. They were trail bikes with riders dressed in black leather and white helmets, their faces hidden behind tinted visors. They pulled up at the side of the road and gunned their engines. Nightingale stopped and felt a shiver run up his spine. Something was wrong; he could feel it on a subconscious level, his animal instincts sending his adrenal glands into overdrive. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he looked over his shoulder.
Standing in a shop doorway was a young girl dressed from head to foot in black. Tight black jeans, a long black coat over a black leather waistcoat and around her neck was a heavy silver chain with an upside-down silver cross hanging from it. She smiled, showing perfect teeth. Her eyes were as black as coal, her lashes were coated with thick mascara and her lips glistened with black lipstick. Standing next to her was a black and white dog, a collie, its tail swishing from side to side. The dog’s eyes were as black as those of its mistress. Her jet-black hair was cut jaggedly, with a fringe hanging over her forehead. The hairstyle had changed since the last time Nightingale had seen her. Proserpine. Her smile widened.
‘They’re coming for you, Nightingale,’ she said.
Nightingale looked over at the two men who’d climbed out of the Range Rover and realised that they were both wearing ski masks and had their right hands concealed beneath dark Puffa jackets. He stepped back from the road. He heard raised voices behind him and turned to see an Indian shopkeeper shouting at two teenagers, accusing them of stealing. He heard a horn pound and flinched as a black cab drove by. The two men were walking purposefully towards him, their right hands still under their jackets, their hoods up over their masks. They moved apart, one stepping onto the pavement.
Behind him the two teenagers were shouting racist abuse at the shopkeeper. Two pensioners in long coats and pulling shopping trolleys stopped to listen to the argument but Nightingale’s attention was focused on the two men in ski masks. They were both on the pavement now, moving towards him, carving through the pedestrians like sharks cutting through a shoal of fish. No one seemed to notice that under their hoods they were wearing ski masks.
Nightingale took a quick look, left and right. One of the men pulled out a gun. A MAC-10. Nightingale’s heart pounded. He moved until his back was against a shop window. The second man pulled out his weapon. Another MAC-10. He pulled the trigger and the gun kicked in his hands. The window behind Nightingale shattered. Pedestrians screamed and ran for cover as glass crashed down onto the pavement.
One of the black teenagers fell to the ground, yelling in pain. The shopkeeper stood with his mouth wide open, too shocked to move.
The first gunman seemed to be having trouble getting his gun to work. He was cursing and banging the magazine. The gunman who’d fired looked over at him. ‘What’s your fucking problem?’ he shouted.
‘It’s jammed. It’s fucking jammed.’
Nightingale started to run. The second gunman turned and fired but Nightingale was a moving target now and the shots went high, slamming into the brickwork above his head. Nightingale crouched low and ran down the road, zig-zagging. The first gunman finally let rip with his gun and bullets whizzed around, smashing the windows of a Chinese restaurant. Pedestrians were screaming and running away from the gunmen, towards Hyde Park. A car veered to the right and collided with a taxi and a white van slammed into the back of them both.
The first gunman fired again and bullets screeched off the road, this time missing Nightingale’s feet by inches. A Muslim woman completely covered in a black hijab threw herself to the ground, wailing. A young father clutched his baby son to his chest and ran into a coffee shop, barging past a middle-aged couple laden down with carrier bags who were staring wide-eyed at the mayhem.
