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.’
He padded naked into the bedroom. The pentagram was already prepared, with large black candles at the five points, and the herbs he needed were in a brass crucible in the centre, along with the parchment.
He took a deep breath and stepped into the magic circle. He picked up his cigarette lighter and began to light the candles, moving anti-clockwise around the circle.
72
The armed response vehicle came to a halt between the MGB and the stone fountain and the four cops piled out. Three already had their MP5s at the ready and they rushed up to the front door. The first to reach the door was a sergeant. He tried the handle but the door was locked and bolted. The driver hurried around to the boot, opened it and pulled out the orange metal battering ram that they called ‘the enforcer’.
Chalmers arrived just as the driver was running up the steps to the door. He got out of the car and walked over to the MGB, still holding his iPhone. He pulled open the driver’s door and peered inside. ‘Sergeant, over here!’ he shouted. He put away his phone and pulled on a pair of purple latex gloves. He picked the gun off the back seat and took it out just as the sergeant ran up. He sniffed the weapon and wrinkled his nose at the acrid tang of cordite. Chalmers held out the revolver so that the sergeant could see it. ‘If this is his only gun then he’s in there unarmed,’ said Chalmers.
‘Understood, sir,’ said the sergeant.
Chalmers looked up at the upper floor as the driver began to batter the enforcer against the lock. There was a light in one of the upstairs bedrooms. It was flickering.
Chalmers pointed up at the window. ‘See that, sergeant? Candlelight. That’s where he is.’
The sergeant stepped back, looked at where Chalmers was pointing, and nodded.
‘Go right up there, soon as you’re inside,’ said Chalmers.
‘Sir, procedure is to clear the lower floor first.’
‘Screw procedure. He’s upstairs. I know it.’
The sergeant nodded and jogged over to the door. It was made from solid oak but on the fifth strike the wood began to splinter around the lock.
73
Nightingale took a deep breath and began to read from the paper. ‘Osurmy delmausan atalsloym charusihoa,’ he said. Then he took another deep breath and continued to read the rest of the words, taking care not to make any mistakes. When he finished he held the parchment over the north-facing candle. As it burned he spoke again, his voice louder this time. ‘Come, Lucifuge Rofocale,’ he said. ‘I summon you.’
The burning parchment singed his fingers but he ignored the pain. It had to burn completely while he held it. If he dropped it the spell would be broken. Grey smoke began to fill the room, far more than could have been produced by the parchment alone. It began to whirl around in a tight vortex and as Nightingale stared at it he felt himself begin to fall so he quickly closed his eyes and steadied himself. ‘Come, Lucifuge Rofocale!’ he shouted. ‘I command you to appear!’
When he opened his eyes again what was left of the parchment had crumbled to ash between his fingers and thumb and he rubbed his hands together, blackening them. The room was full of smoke and he could barely make out the walls and ceiling. The vortex was spinning faster and faster and the centre of it had turned black. Nightingale held up his hands. ‘Appear before me, I command you!’ he screamed.
There was a loud crack as if a tree had split down the middle and a flash of light that was so bright he could feel it burn his flesh. For a few seconds he was blinded and there were tears in his eyes when he blinked. As he put the palms of his hands over his eyes he heard a roar so deep that his stomach vibrated. Nightingale took his hands away from his eyes. There was a large figure standing in the smoke, something reptilian with grey scales and yellow eyes and a forked tongue that flicked out from between razor-sharp teeth. ‘You are Lucifuge Rofocale and I command that you speak the truth!’ shouted Nightingale.
Grey, leathery wings spread out from its back and waved to and fro, disturbing the smoke, then it threw back its head and roared. Nightingale took a step backwards and almost tripped. The floor began to shake violently and then there was another loud crack and the figure rippled and morphed into a dwarf wearing a red jacket with gold buttons and gleaming black boots. The dwarf waddled towards the pentagram on bow legs, his silver spurs jangling with each step. In his right hand he was carrying a riding crop and he ran his left hand through unkempt curly black hair as he glared up at Nightingale.
‘How dare you!’ screamed the dwarf. ‘I’m not some underling to be summoned on a whim!’ He lashed out with his riding crop but Nightingale didn’t flinch. The crop swished back and forth but it didn’t cross over the pentagram. So long as he stayed inside it, Nightingale knew that he couldn’t be harmed. ‘You’ve no idea what I can do to you, Nightingale! The pain I can put you through!’
‘I have a deal for you,’ said Nightingale.
The dwarf snorted contemptuously. ‘You’ve nothing I want or need.’