‘How about we have another race?’

  ‘Pretty please?’

  He heard Jenny sigh and then get up from her desk. He picked up one of the notebooks and slowly turned the pages. They were ideas for tattoos, some just sketches but many were much more detailed. Ricky Nail was clearly a talented artist. There were glorious animals – lions, tigers, fish – and mythical creatures such as gargoyles, mermaids and dragons. Some of the drawings were in colour, but most were black and white.

  There were pages of different typefaces where Nail would play around with the structure of letters, and he had drawn several hundred words in Arabic, Chinese and Hindi and other languages he didn’t recognise.

  Jenny came in with a mug of coffee and put it on his desk. ‘He was talented, wasn’t he?’ said Jenny. ‘There’s some really good stuff in there.’

  Nightingale grinned. ‘Are you thinking of getting a tattoo?’

  She nodded at the notebook. ‘If it was a good one, artistic, and had some meaning, then maybe. I almost got a seagull when I was at university.’

  ‘A seagull?’

  ‘I read a book called Jonathan Livingston Seagull, written by Richard Bach. I think everyone in my year read it. It’s about a seagull learning how to fly.’

  ‘Sounds riveting.’

  ‘You can be such a Philistine, Jack. It’s about striving for perfection, in whatever you do. A couple of my friends had seagull tattoos and I very nearly got one.’

  ‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s the fact that they’re permanent, you know? Okay, I know they can be lasered off, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘Where would you have it, if you’d got one?’

  ‘I don’t know. My ankle maybe. Or my hip. But it would have been a small one. I can’t understand women who go big on tattoos. Men okay, they can look good on a ripped body, but a woman just looks …’

  ‘Cheap?’

  ‘I was going to say damaged,’ she said.

  She picked up one of the ring binders and flicked through it. It contained photographs of finished tattoos. The name of the customer and the date was in the bottom right-hand corner of each of the pictures. One of them was a huge tattoo of two carp, nose to tail, which took up the whole of a man’s back. She showed it to Nightingale. ‘That’s impressive,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘That must have taken days to do,’ she said. ‘The colours are amazing.’ The carp were a reddish orange and they had bright blue eyes and were swimming through plants of various shades of green.

  ‘It certainly puts mine to shame,’ said Nightingale.

  Jenny’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘You’ve got a tattoo?’

  ‘I was young, and drunk,’ said Nightingale. ‘What can I say?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘You don’t need to know,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Okay, what is it?’

  ‘Jenny, a tattoo is very personal thing,’ said Nightingale.

  He leaned over to pick up his coffee mug but she beat him to it and held it just out of his reach. ‘Fair trade,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Nightingale protested. ‘I was a kid.’

  ‘Eighteen?’

  ‘Nineteen. And I’d been drinking. There were three of us and the deal was that other two decided on the tattoo that the other one got.’

  Jenny giggled. ‘That’s a recipe for disaster if ever I heard one,’ she said. She waved the mug in front of him. ‘Come on, I want details.’

  ‘You know this entire interview contravenes the Police And Criminal Evidence Act,’ said Nightingale. ‘You’re not allowed to interrogate someone like this.’

  ‘I’m not a cop,’ she said. ‘And neither are you. Now where is this tattoo and more importantly, what is it?’

  Nightingale sighed. ‘It’s the pink panther. Wearing a top hat and carrying a cane.’

  Jenny sniggered and put her hand over her mouth. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where is it?’

  ‘My backside.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Why would I lie about something like that?’

  Jenny put the mug down on the desk again. She motioned with her fingers. ‘Come on, give.’

  ‘Give?’

  ‘I want to see it.’

  ‘You think I’m going to drop my pants in the office?’

  ‘I think you know if you don’t I’m never going to shut up about it,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘So you might as well get it over with now.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I’m using my serious voice, can’t you tell?’

  Nightingale groaned, stood up and turned so that he had his back to her. He undid his trousers and pushed them down to his knees, then pulled down his boxer shorts on the right side. The tattoo was about three inches high, a grinning Pink Panther tipping his top hat as he leant on his cane. Jenny’s laughter echoed around the office. ‘That is priceless,’ she said. ‘Absolutely priceless.’

  32

  Nightingale walked slowly up the stairs. ‘Jenny?’ he called. ‘Are you there?’ There was no reply. ‘Come on, stop pissing around, the front door was open.’ There was a flash of light behind him and he flinched, then realised it was just a car driving by Jenny’s mews house. He stopped and listened, wondering if she was in the shower, but other than the sound of the receding car the night was quiet. ‘Jenny?’ Nightingale took another step, then another, his heart pounding.

  He took another step. And another. Then he was walking towards her bedroom door, his Hush Puppies squeaking softly on the bare wooden floorboards. The door to the bedroom – like the front door – was ajar. A pale yellow light seeped through the gap. Nightingale reached it and stretched out a trembling hand. He pushed the door open and his breath caught in his throat as he saw the body lying on the blood-stained sheets. Jenny’s body. She was lying on her back, her arms outstretched, her lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. She had been gutted from her neck down to her crotch, the skin folded back and her entrails pulled out and piled next to her. The sheets glistened wetly and blood was dripping down on to the floor with a soft plopping sound. Nightingale’s stomach lurched and he tasted bile at the back of his throat. He swallowed, fighting the urge to vomit. His whole body began to tremble as he stared at the butchered corpse.

  He turned to look at the mirror above her dressing table. Someone had written a message in bloody capital letters. WE ARE COMING FOR YOU, JACK NIGHTINGALE. Nightingale stared at the words in horror. His reflection stared back, his mouth open, his eyes wide and fearful, his skin sickly white.

  The bedside phone began to ring. Nightingale looked at it fearfully, knowing with a dreadful certainty that the call was for him.

  He took a step towards the phone, his shaking arm outstretched. The ringing seemed to be getting louder and louder and the handset was vibrating as if it had taken on a life of its own. He took another step forward, certain now that the call was for him.

  ‘Answer the phone, Jack.’ Nightingale jumped as if he had been stung. He turned and stared down at Jenny. Her blood-smeared face had turned towards him and he could see his own reflection in her lifeless eyes. Jenny’s mouth opened again and this time she screamed at the top of her voice. ‘ANSWER THE PHONE, JACK!’

  Nightingale woke up, gasping for breath. His face was bathed in sweat and he felt light-headed as if he’d been holding his breath for several minutes. His mobile was ringing on the bedside table and he groped for it. ‘Bird-man?’ It was T-Bone.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You okay? You’re panting like a dog in heat.’

  ‘I’m fine. Bad dream.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, we all get those. The names you gave me, I’ve got one of them with me now. You still want a word with him because if you do the clock is ticking?’

  Nightingale sat up and ran a hand through his unkempt hair. ‘Damn right I do.’

  ‘Then get your arse over here. And quickly.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’ll send you the address. Don’t use that piece of shit MGB, it’ll attract too much attention. Take a cab to the address I give you and keep an eye out for Kipper.’

  ‘Kipper?’

  ‘The lad who gave you the piece. He’ll bring you to us.’

  Before Nightingale could say anything else, the line went dead. He rolled out of bed and was pulling on his trousers when his phone beeped to let him know he’d received a text message. He finished dressing, grabbed the phone and headed downstairs.

  33

  Nightingale walked around to Queensway and flagged down a black cab. It was two o’clock in the morning but the pavements were busy and half the shops and restaurants were still open. The cab headed south, crossed over the Thames and dropped him in Streatham High Road in front of a bakery. Nightingale paid the driver, asked for a receipt, and then looked around as the cab drove away. Someone whistled from behind him and he saw a black youth in a hoodie sitting on a BMX bike fifty feet away. Nightingale was pretty sure it was Kipper, but the hood covered most of his face. The youth nodded at Nightingale then flipped his bike around in the opposite direction.

  Nightingale walked after him, his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. Kipper reared the bike up on its back wheel, turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees, then pedalled down a side road. ‘Show off,’ muttered Nightingale.

  A police van drove by and three uniforms stared at Nightingale impassively through dirt-streaked windows. Nightingale turned into the side street. Kipper was waiting for him, holding a lamppost to steady himself. As soon as Nightingale stepped around the corner, Kipper sped off.

  Nightingale cursed under his breath. He figured the song and dance was to make sure he wasn’t being followed and while he understood T-Bone’s nervousness, he still resented being treated with suspicion. Nightingale figured that he’d already done enough to prove himself by giving the names to T-Bone. He took out his pack of Marlboro and lit one as he walked down the street.

  When he reached the end of the street, Kipper pulled a tight circle then bobbed up and down, first on the rear wheel, then on the front, back and forth like a demented jack in the box.

  ‘Yeah, very clever,’ muttered Nightingale to himself. He blew smoke and took a quick look over his shoulder. A second youth had appeared behind him. Like Kipper he was wearing a hoodie and was riding a BMX. Under any other circumstances he’d have been wary of a mugging, but he knew they were there to take him to T-Bone. Kipper started pedalling again, but slowly enough for Nightingale to keep up with him. The second youth kept pace with them as they headed west.

  Kipper turned into an alley that looked like a dead-end. There was a single light high up on a wall but it barely illuminated the ground. Something black and furry scurried by Nightingale’s feet but he couldn’t tell if it was a small cat or a large rat.

  Kipper reached a wooden door and he banged on it with the flat of his hand, then waved for Nightingale to join him. The door opened outwards. It was a fire door and a West Indian in a black Puffa jacket kept his hand on the metal release mechanism as he stared deadpan at Nightingale. ‘In, but lose the cigarette,’ he said.

  Nightingale dropped the cigarette on the ground and stood on it, then went inside as Kipper pedalled off back the way they had come.

  The man in the Puffa jacket pulled the door closed. They were standing at the foot of a short flight of concrete stairs. The man squeezed by Nightingale and went up the stairs. Nightingale followed him. He pushed through another door into a corridor with walls made of concrete blocks. Overhead were fluorescent lights. At the end of the corridor was a set of double metal doors. The man pushed the doors open and held one so that Nightingale could enter the room. It was a commercial kitchen with stainless-steel ranges, a walk-in fridge and racks of pots, pans and plates.

  In the middle of the kitchen there was a man in his thirties, naked and tied to a chair. Blood was trickling from between his lips.

  On the metal counter next to him was a selection of stainless steel knives, cleavers and kitchen shears. And there was a Glock, similar to the one Nightingale had clipped to his belt.

  T-Bone was standing by the fridge, drinking from a bottle of milk. He was wearing a dark blue tracksuit and white Nikes and was naked from the waist up. His chest and forearms were glistening with sweat as he wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. There were two other men in the room, both black, one tall and thin with his head shaved, the other shorter with a weightlifter’s physique – massive forearms, a barrel-like chest, a tiny waist and bowed legs. They were both wearing tracksuit bottoms and were bare-chested. The tall man was holding a pair of bloody pliers.

  T-Bone gestured at the naked man. ‘This is Tony Barnett, the owner of the BMW SUV,’ said T-Bone.

  ‘Vorsprung durch Technik,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘He’s helping us with our enquiries,’ said T-Bone. The man tossed the pliers on to the metal table next to three teeth that had obviously been pulled from Barnett’s mouth.

  ‘Good to know,’ said Nightingale. ‘What’s he told you so far?’

  ‘Basically that I can go fuck myself and that he wants to fuck my mother.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Pain doesn’t seem to worry him much.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ shouted the man in the chair.

  ‘But it’s early yet. By the time we’ve taken off a few toes, he’ll probably feel a bit different. Then we’ll start on his fingers.’

  Nightingale walked around Barnett. There was a tattoo on his left shoulder. It wasn’t ink, it was as if the design had been burned into the flesh. There was a goat’s skull and where the mouth should have been was an insignia, like a seven-pointed star that had been squashed into an irregular shape. Nightingale recognised the insignia – it was the symbol of the Order of Nine Angles.

  ‘Where did you get that done?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The tattoo on your back.’

  ‘That’s no tattoo, fuckwit.’

  ‘Did you get it done in Camden?’ asked Nightingale, walking to stand in front of him.

  Barnett frowned. ‘Camden?’

  ‘Did you get it done in Camden. The Ink Pit.’

  Barnett laughed but then his laugh turned into a series of coughs that racked his entire body. ‘You think that was done by a human hand?’ he sneered. He spat on the floor. ‘You’ve no idea what’s going on, have you?’

  ‘So tell me,’ said Nightingale. ‘Who gave you the tattoo?’

  ‘A demon,’ said Barnett. ‘A demon from hell.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Which one?’ repeated T-Bone. He sneered at Nightingale. ‘You’re as crazy as he is.’

  Barnett stared at Nightingale, his eyes wide and manic. ‘Proserpine,’ he said. ‘That’s her name. And she’s one mean bitch, I can tell you that much.’

  ‘Proserpine gave you the tattoo?’

  ‘Who the hell is Proserpine?’ asked T-Bone.

  Nightingale held up his hand. ‘Give me a minute,’ he said. ‘This is important.’

  He bent down and put his mouth close to the man’s ear. ‘Why did you write what you did on the mirror?’ he asked.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Did you write it?’

  ‘I didn’t write anything on the mirror. What mirror anyway?’ He cleared his throat and spat bloody phlegm on to the floor.

  ‘Upstairs. In Perry Smith’s bathroom.’

  ‘I didn’t even go upstairs. I was in the kitchen.’ He coughed and spat again.

  ‘Who was upstairs?’

  Barnett shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It was bedlam in the house.’

  ‘No, it was well planned. They had guns and you had knives so you must have known what you were doing.’

  ‘We had guns,’ said Barnett. ‘Of course we had guns.’

  ‘But you didn’t use them?’ said T-Bone.

  ‘We used them, we just didn’t fire them,’ said Barnett. ‘We had them outgunned, so we got them to drop theirs—’

  ‘Then you gutted them in cold blood?’ said T-Bone. ‘What sort of scum are you?’ He stepped forward and slapped Barnett across the face, the blow echoing off the walls like a pistol shot.

  Barnett glared at him. ‘What sort of scum am I? The sort of scum that’s going to come for you. And the rest of your crew. And we’re going to keep coming for you until you’re all dead.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I assume that’s the royal “we” because you ain’t gonna be coming after anyone,’ said T-Bone.

  ‘You think I care?’ said Barnett. ‘Kill me and I take my place on Satan’s left side and I’ll be back, but when I come back I’ll be a thousand times stronger. So stop talking and do it, do it now!’

  T-Bone looked at Nightingale. ‘What the hell’s he talking about?’

  ‘They’re devil worshippers,’ said Nightingale. ‘Satanists.’ He stared at Barnett. ‘Where did you get the tattoo from?’ he asked.

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ said Barnett.

  ‘It’s the only tattoo on your body so it must be important.’

  Barnett shook his head but said nothing. Nightingale took out his phone, walked behind the chair and took a photograph of the tattoo.

  ‘Bird-man, what are you doing?’ asked T-Bone.

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Not to me it ain’t,’ said T-Bone. ‘Why do you care what he’s got tattooed on him? This is not the time to be discussing body art. Seriously.’

  ‘It’s special, this tattoo. It’s something to do with the organisation they belong to. The Order of Nine Angles. That symbol is their logo, but I’ve never seen it with a horned goat before.’ He walked around to stand in front of Barnett. ‘That’s right, isn’t it? You’re in the Order of Nine Angles?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ snarled Barnett. He kept his head down, staring at the floor. Blood was dribbling down his chin and his nostrils flared with each breath he took.

  ‘Let me work on him a while longer,’ said T-Bone.

  ‘I’m not sure how much good that will do,’ said Nightingale. There was a bottle of water on the bar. Nightingale picked it up, unscrewed the top and held it to Barnett’s mouth. The man drank greedily and gulped down half the bottle. Nightingale took it away, leaving Barnett gasping for breath. ‘He’s going to continue hurting you, you realise that?’ said Nightingale.