‘Former boy scout, always prepared,’ said Nightingale. He took a wrench from the tool kit in the boot and gave it to Chance. ‘Loosen the nuts first,’ said Nightingale. ‘Then I’ll raise her up.’
‘No problem,’ said Chance.
As Nightingale pulled the wheel out of the boot, Chance put the torque wrench on one of the nuts and forced it counter-clockwise. He grunted but then grinned as it moved. ‘I don’t know my own strength,’ he said. He loosened the rest of the nuts then stood up, swinging the wrench. ‘There you go,’ he said.
He moved out of the way to give Nightingale room to work. Nightingale continued to turn the handle of the jack. As he concentrated on the task at hand he hardly noticed Chance step closer. Something slammed against the side of his head and Nightingale slumped to the road. He groaned and rolled over onto his back. Chance dropped the wrench and it clattered on the ground next to Nightingale. Nightingale blinked as he tried to focus, but the man standing above him was a blur. He tried to speak but his mouth refused to work.
Chance reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cut-throat razor. He flicked out the blade and it glinted in the Range Rover’s headlights. He drew back his hand but then hesitated. He put the razor on the roof of the MGB and put his hand in his pocket.
‘Proserpine sent you?’ croaked Nightingale.
Chance put his foot on the middle of Nightingale’s chest. ‘Hush,’ he said. He tossed a coin into the air, caught it and slapped it down onto the back of his left hand. He removed his right hand and his forehead creased into a frown. ‘No way,’ he said. He glared down at Nightingale. ‘You are one lucky son of a bitch,’ he said. His face hardened. ‘Best out of three? Why not?’ He tossed the coin up into the air again.
Nightingale groped for the wrench. He was still dazed from the blow but his fingers found the cold metal and he picked it up. Chance was looking at the spinning coin, his eyes wide, and he didn’t see Nightingale draw back his hand and smash the wrench against his knee. He screamed in pain as the kneecap cracked.
Nightingale rolled over and came up on all fours as Chance howled. Chance grabbed the razor and lashed out with it but Nightingale managed to block it with the wrench. He got to his feet as Chance raised the razor again but Nightingale caught him with a quick kick to the groin. Chance yelped like a dog and Nightingale smashed the wrench down on his wrist. He heard bones break and the razor fell from Chance’s nerveless fingers. Nightingale lifted the wrench and backhanded it across Chance’s face. Blood spurted from his nose and he fell backwards, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The blip of a police siren made Nightingale look round. He hadn’t heard the police car drive down the road behind him. He slowly raised his hands as the car doors opened and two heavily built uniformed officers climbed out.
‘Put down the weapon!’ one of them shouted.
‘It’s a torque wrench,’ said Nightingale.
‘I don’t care if it’s a bloody cotton bud, drop it now,’ said the officer, taking his baton from its holster and flicking it open.
Nightingale dropped the wrench, keeping his hands high in the air. He nodded at Chance, who was lying motionless in the road. ‘He started it,’ he said.
59
N ightingale sipped his cup of canteen coffee and grimaced. The police had left him in the interview room for the best part of three hours and had only opened the door once, to give him the coffee and a stale cheese sandwich. He’d taken the fact that they hadn’t put him in a cell as a good sign.
The door opened and he recognised a familiar face. Superintendent Chalmers. He was wearing full uniform and carrying a clipboard. ‘Get your feet off the table,’ said Chalmers, closing the door.
‘Why, are you going to charge me with putting my feet on the table? I didn’t realise that was an offence.’
Chalmers slapped Nightingale’s Hush Puppies with his clipboard. ‘Act your bloody age,’ he said.
Nightingale took his feet off the table. ‘They had no right to bring me in,’ he said. ‘I’m the victim in this.’
‘You told the officers at the scene that you were attacked.’
‘My tyre was flat. He stopped to help me change it. Then he hit me with a wrench and pulled out a razor.’
‘But he’s the one who ended up unconscious in the road.’
‘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.’