‘We struggled.’ He pointed at the back of his head. A doctor had put in three stitches and given him Paracetamol for his headache. ‘I didn’t do this to myself, Chalmers.’
‘And you didn’t say anything to provoke him?’
‘I was on my knees working the jack,’ said Nightingale.
Chalmers nodded slowly. ‘You were lucky this time, Nightingale,’ he said.
‘That’s funny because I don’t feel lucky.’ He touched the stitches on the back of his head.
‘The man who attacked you. His name is Eric Marshall.’
‘He told me his name was Chance.’
‘Yeah, well, we went around to Marshall’s house and found a diary that he’s been keeping. It looks as if he’s responsible for a dozen or so unsolved murders over the past five years. One of them is a case I worked on a few years ago. There are details in the diary that only the killer would know.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Do I look like a stand-up comedian, Nightingale? Seems he had a thing going with a coin. Heads you die, tails you live — something like that. Did you see him toss a coin?’
‘I was stunned,’ lied Nightingale.
‘Yeah, well, apparently he let the coin decide whether his victims lived or died. Looks like he slashed your tyre, by the way. Which suggests he was targeting you.’
‘I never met him before tonight,’ said Nightingale.
‘You sure? Never crossed paths with him while you were in the Job? Or did some private case on him?’
‘I’m sure,’ said Nightingale. ‘So you’ve got him, then? Done and dusted?’
‘There’s blood on the razor. Two types. We’re doing DNA analysis now and we’ll cross-check with murder cases, but the diary alone will put him away.’
‘So I’m a hero?’
‘No, Nightingale, you’re an arsehole. But unfortunately I can’t arrest you for that.’ He jerked his thumb at the door. ‘Now get the hell out of my station before I change my mind.’
60
J enny was sitting at her desk reading through a stack of printed sheets when Nightingale walked into the office just before midday. ‘I got your message,’ she said. ‘Something wrong at Gosling Manor?’
‘Nah, I was looking for a book,’ he said. He held up a Sainsbury’s carrier bag. ‘Found it, too. The Yank wants it and he’s in town tomorrow’
‘Christmas Eve?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘Great, the money should come in handy.’
‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘There’s some sort of curse attached to it.’ He took off his raincoat and hung it on the back of the door.
‘What do you mean?’
‘If you sell it you die. That sort of curse.’
‘Well, don’t go swapping it for a handful of magic beans, that’s all. We don’t have much in the way of cash and Christmas is always the quiet time of the year.’
Nightingale looked down at the sheets she was studying. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘Mitchell’s diary,’ she said. ‘The one you took from his house. Took as in stole, of course.’
‘But it’s not mirror writing. I mean, it’s still nonsense but it’s the right way round.’
‘It’s not nonsense, it’s Latin,’ she said. ‘I started doing that thing with the mirror but then I had a brainwave. I scanned all the pages into the computer and then used Photoshop to flip it.’
‘Smart girl.’
‘If I was smart I’d have thought of doing it sooner,’ said Jenny.
‘Any mention of Frimost? Or Lucifuge Rofocale?’
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘It’ll take me some time to work my way through it. I’ve sorted out the mirror image but it’s still in Latin and my Latin is a bit rusty.’
‘Yeah, well, mine’s non-existent.’
‘What happened to your head?’ asked Jenny, noticing the stitches in his scalp for the first time. ‘That’s not from when you got hit in Wales, is it?’
‘I was attacked,’ said Nightingale.
‘When?’
‘Last night. After I’d walked you home.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It’s clearly not nothing, Jack. What happened?’
Nightingale smiled ‘Guy wanted to give me a shave.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t mess around, Jack. Spill the beans.’
‘I tell you what — if you make me a coffee I’ll tell you the whole story.’
Jenny raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you forget our deal?’
‘Was it signed in blood?’
‘It was a promise to make me coffee for the rest of the week,’ she said. ‘And I’m holding you to it.’
Nightingale made them both coffee and they went through to his office. ‘I was attacked by a serial killer,’ said Nightingale. ‘Tried to slit my throat but I came off best.’
‘What?’
‘He did one of my tyres then offered to help me change the wheel, and then he pulled a knife.’ He grinned. ‘Turns out he’s got form. Chalmers is on the case.’
‘Why would he attack you? You don’t know him?’
‘Complete stranger,’ said Nightingale.
‘What about the Welsh serial killer? Could it be him?’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘This guy wasn’t interested in making it look like suicide,’ he said. ‘He kept a diary, apparently. Detailing his murders. And Chalmers didn’t say anything about them being in Wales.’ Nightingale sipped his coffee. ‘I’ve got a feeling that Proserpine is behind it.’
‘Why?’ Nightingale looked away and Jenny sighed. ‘Not again. What are you not telling me this time?’
‘I sort of did a deal with her.’
‘What sort of deal?’
‘It sounds crazy,’ he said. ‘Until last night I wasn’t sure that I believed it myself.’
‘Everything that’s happened over the past few weeks is crazy; one more thing isn’t going to worry me. What did you do, Jack?’
Nightingale lit a cigarette before he answered. He needed the nicotine but he also needed time to think. ‘Proserpine gave me the information I needed, but there was a price. For every question she answered, she said she’d send someone to kill me.’
Jenny folded her arms. ‘She what?’
‘That was the deal. By the time I’d finished, she said she’d send three killers after me.’
‘She answered three questions?’
Nightingale looked pained. ‘Not really. Two. Well, three, but one of them wasn’t helpful.’ He took another sip of coffee. ‘You had to have been there. She’s cunning.’
‘She’s a demon from Hell, Jack, of course she’s cunning. What did she say?’
‘She told me about a devil called Sugart. He’s on a par with Frimost. If I play it right, I can set them against each other.’
‘How does that help?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘Don’t you think you should have told me this before?’
