‘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 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.