‘Out and about,’ said T-Bone. ‘North of the river.’

  ‘The sooner the better,’ said Nightingale. ‘This is important.’

  ‘You’re in South Kensington, right?’

  ‘Not stalking me, are you?’

  ‘I made a few basic enquiries, Bird-man. You wouldn’t expect me to do anything less. Take a walk up to Hyde Park in about half an hour. There’s a coffee place by the lake in the middle.’

  ‘The Serpentine? Yeah, I know it. I’ll be there.’ T-Bone had already ended the call.

  42

  T-Bone was already sitting at a table overlooking the Serpentine when Nightingale arrived. He was sitting alone with two coffees in front of him, but at a neighbouring table were two large black men wearing matching Puffa jackets and Oakleys and two black teenagers in hoodies on BMXs watched from the path that wound around the water. T-Bone looked at Nightingale impassively as he sat down. ‘Thought you’d take your coffee same as you choose your friends – black and strong,’ said T-Bone. His face broke into a grin. ‘Then I thought you’d probably have milk in it, yeah?’

  ‘So long as it’s got caffeine in it, I’ll not be complaining,’ said Nightingale. He looked around. Most of the other tables were taken up by Asian and Arab tourists. ‘Sorry about this, but I needed to see you and quickly.’ He leaned closer to T-Bone and lowered his voice. ‘The cops know about Barnett and McDowell.’

  ‘How come? I only told you.’

  Nightingale could see his reflection in the lenses of T-Bone’s sunglasses. And even he could see how fake his smile looked. ‘They know I got the names off the Police National Computer.’

  ‘But that’s all they know, right?’

  ‘They don’t know the numbers came from you, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Because the only person who knows that is you, right?’

  Nightingale sat back and picked up his coffee.

  ‘You hear what I’m saying, Bird-man?’

  ‘T-Bone, this isn’t down to me. The cop who gave me the information was killed. He was a friend of mine, doing me a favour. He sent me the info on the cars from a pay-as-you-go mobile and the cops have it. So they know about the vehicles.’

  ‘And what did you tell this cop friend?’

  ‘Nothing. Just that I wanted the numbers run through the PNC.’

  ‘So there’s no big deal, then?’

  ‘The problem is that I lied and if they dig they’ll find out that I lied.’

  ‘Just say you forgot. People forget all the time.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Yeah, I can do that. But it’d be a lot easier if the white van was out of the picture.’

  ‘I’m working on that,’ said T-Bone.

  ‘If there’s anything you can do to speed it up, it’d be a help,’ said Nightingale. ‘The cop who was helping me, Robbie, he died in a hit and run. And they think it was a white van.’

  T-Bone’s jaw tensed. ‘What are you saying, Bird-man? This McDowell guy killed a cop?’

  ‘Maybe. But it means the cops are looking and looking hard. And if they pull him in and find a link to the killings at Perry’s house, then it all gets very murky.’

  ‘Damn right it does.’ T-Bone’s right hand had bunched into a tight fist but he flexed it in and out and placed it palm down on the table. ‘How the hell did this happen, Bird-man? I gave you those numbers in confidence.’

  ‘I didn’t broadcast the fact, T-Bone, give me some credit. But the only way to get the names and addresses of the owners was to go through the PNC and for that I needed a cop. It was just bad luck.’

  ‘A hit and run?’

  ‘At the moment they’re treating it as a hit and run. But if they find the van and it turns out that it was the van that he ran through the PNC, they’ll haul me in for sure. The problem I have is that I said I got the numbers off a nosey little old lady who lived opposite a murder victim. That story won’t hold up for long.’

  ‘Like I said, just say you forgot.’

  ‘Then they’ll think about charging me with obstruction or worse.’

  ‘But that’ll be your problem, not mine.’

  ‘It might become your problem if they pull McDowell in and he talks about what happened to Perry.’

  T-Bone shrugged. ‘Don’t see how. But you’re preaching to the converted, Bird-man, I don’t want the cops getting to McDowell before me.’

  ‘So you’ll pull out all the stops?’

  ‘We already know where he is. He’s at home with his family, we were waiting for him to be on his own before we took him.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you might want to rethink that. The cops won’t wait long. What about the van?’

  T-Bone shook his head. ‘No sign of it. But if it’s been involved in a hit and run, that’s no surprise.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘Here’s what I don’t get, Bird-man. I gave those numbers to you. You gave them to your pal Robbie. But within hours, the owner of one of those numbers kills him. How can that be?’

  ‘That’s a good question.’

  T-Bone took off his sunglasses and fixed Nightingale with brown eyes that were so dark that they were almost black. ‘Have a stab at answering it, Bird-man.’

  ‘I didn’t tell anyone else, T-Bone. I swear.’

  ‘I believe you. And I’m guessing that your friend didn’t broadcast it, either. So what are we saying? It’s a coincidence? Your friend was just in the wrong place at the wrong time? He steps out into the street and just happens to get run over by one of the guys he’s checking out?’

  ‘That’s unlikely.’

  ‘You’re telling me. But what’s the alternative?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I could take a guess and say that the Satanists have their own people inside the Met.’

  ‘Well, give the man a cigar. Seems to me that’s exactly what’s happened, Bird-man. Somehow they found out that your friend was asking about them. Maybe they had access to the PNC. When they found out what he was up to, they killed him. We grabbed the Barnett guy and while we were dealing with him, McDowell ran down your mate.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘That sounds about right.’

  ‘You’re the connection here, Bird-man. You do see that, right? You get Perry to take out Marcus Fairchild but you skip over the fact that he’s a child-killing Satanist. The Satanists kill Perry and most of his crew. You get a mate to check up on two of the Satanists and he ends up dead.’ He stared at Nightingale and his hands tensed into fists again.

  ‘I had no idea this would happen, T-Bone.’

  ‘That might well be true, but that’s not the point. The point is you used Perry, and he’s dead. And you used your pal, and now he’s dead.’ He gestured at the two men sitting at the neighbouring table. ‘Now wherever I go, I have to watch my back.’ He took a deep breath and unclenched his fists. ‘Is there anything else you need to tell me, Bird-man? Anything at all?’

  ‘You know as much as I do,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Nothing else is going to come out of the woodwork?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Nothing about Perry’s bathroom that I should know about?’ said T-Bone, his voice a low growl.

  Nightingale felt his breath catch in his throat. There could be only one reason T-Bone would ask – he already knew what had been written on the bathroom mirror. He took a sip of coffee as his mind raced. ‘There was a message, written on Perry’s mirror,’ said Nightingale. ‘It was about me. That’s why the cops took me there.’

  ‘What did this message say?’ asked T-Bone.

  Nightingale knew without a shadow of a doubt that T-Bone knew exactly what had been written on the mirror. ‘It said I would be next, that they would be coming for me.’

  T-Bone nodded slowly. ‘So this is all about you, isn’t it?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘You need to think about that, Bird-man,’ said T-Bone. ‘I’ve got the resources to take care of myself and my family. Have you?’

  Nightingale couldn’t answer. It was a simple enough question, but if the Order of Nine Angles were after him, was there anything he could do to stop them? T-Bone got to his feet. His huge bulk blocked out the sun and Nightingale felt a sudden chill run down his spine.

  ‘I’m assuming you want to talk to this McDowell after we take him?’ said T-Bone.

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Please.’

  ‘But once we’ve done that, we have to part company, you and I. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand, T-Bone.’

  ‘You’re bad news, Bird-man. Seriously bad news.’

  T-Bone walked away, followed by his two bodyguards. Ahead of him rode the two hooded teenagers on their BMX bikes.

  43

  Nightingale was late getting to Garlic and Shots. He’d taken the Tube and the trains were delayed by a suicide at Oxford Circus. The announcements didn’t say suicide, of course, they referred to it as an incident. It would only be a couple of days later that the details would make their way into the paper – a banker who had been defrauding his company and whose wife had revealed all to the police as part of a very nasty divorce. The man was about to lose everything – his wife, his children, his job, his money, his freedom. Nightingale didn’t know any of that as he sat in the train between stations with the rest of the frustrated passengers; all he knew was that time was ticking by.

  He was ten minutes late when he eventually got to Frith Street and it took him another five minutes to find the bar. It was small and nondescript, as if it was trying to avoid customers. He eventually found it and opened the door into an equally bland bar and restaurant area. A strong smell of garlic made him almost gag. It was more than a smell; it felt as if he was in a garlic fog that was seeping into his skin and clothing. He smiled at a waitress in a black T-shirt and jeans with half of her head shaved, the hair on the other half hanging down in thick braids. ‘Downstairs bar?’ he said.

  She pointed towards the rear of the bar. There was a hallway that opened on to an outside seating area and a rickety staircase that led down to the basement. Nightingale carefully made his way down. There was a horned skull of a steer fixed to the ceiling and he ducked as he passed under it. Loud, thumping music assaulted his ears and the smell of garlic seemed even stronger as he descended. The basement was painted black and most of what light there was came from candles shoved into empty Jack Daniels bottles on a handful of small tables. The only customers were two Japanese girls sitting in a corner taking pictures of themselves on their mobile phones. In the opposite corner, in a glass case, was a life-size replica of Frankenstein’s monster. At a small bar counter to his left a big man with a face that appeared to have been thumped a few times looked at him with bored disinterest. Hanging behind him were a shrunken head and a rubber bat and a photograph of a manic Jack Nicholson from The Shining. Nightingale flashed the man a smile but he was studiously ignored. Nightingale looked at his watch. It was twenty past seven.

  On the far side of the bar was an archway and he walked through it into a tiny brick-lined vault where a small girl in a short black dress, black boots with a dozen steel piercings in her eyebrows and ears was sitting at the one long wooden table. ‘Caitlin?’ he said.

  ‘Mr Nightingale?’ She had a multi-coloured Mohawk that made it look as if she had a parrot perched on her head.

  ‘Call me Jack,’ he said. He shook her hand and hers was dwarfed by his. He sat down opposite her. ‘I’m sorry about cancelling last time,’ he said.

  ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘Better late than never.’ The music was so loud that she had to lean towards him and raise her voice. She was wearing a sweet perfume that smelled vaguely familiar. ‘What do you want to drink?’ she asked.

  ‘Corona.’

  She frowned. ‘Corona?’

  ‘It’s a beer. Mexican.’

  She laughed. ‘This place serves shots,’ she said. ‘They’ll take you out and shoot you if you order anything else. The clue’s in the name. Garlic and shots.’

  ‘I’d prefer a Corona. Or any beer. I saw beer in the bar back there.’

  ‘Beer is for wimps,’ she said. She stood up. ‘Here you drink shots.’ She said went over to the bar. She really was tiny, even in her high-heeled boots. He doubted if she was more than five feet tall though the Mohawk added a couple of inches. She returned two minutes later with four shot glasses on a small tray.

  ‘Really, I’m not a huge fan of shots,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Well, I am,’ she said. She picked up one glass and handed another to Nightingale. There was a red liquid in the glass that looked disturbingly like fresh blood with a bulb of garlic floating in it. ‘You’re kidding me,’ he said. ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s called a Bloodshot,’ she said. ‘Vodka, tomato juice, garlic, chilli, spices. All good stuff. Now stop being such a girl.’ She clinked her glass against his ‘Down in one,’ she said, and drank it. Nightingale smiled tightly and did the same. He shuddered. It was like drinking pure garlic with a fiery kick.

  ‘Good, yeah?’ she said, grinning.

  ‘I guess it’s an acquired taste,’ said Nightingale, putting down his glass. He gasped as the burning liquid reached his stomach. It felt as if a fire was burning in his chest. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ she said, leaning across so that her mouth was just inches from his ear. He smelled her heady perfume again. And garlic.

  ‘Because you look like a kid. And kids shouldn’t be knocking back shots.’

  She put down another glass in front of him. ‘Knock that back and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Caitlin, really—’

  ‘Don’t be a girl, Jack.’ She raised her glass and waited for him to do the same. He groaned, picked up his glass and downed it in one. She did the same. Nightingale gasped. If anything the second shot had an even mightier kick.

  Caitlin grinned at his discomfort. ‘I’m twenty-two, Jack,’ she said. She put her hand up and ran her fingernails down his cheek, then sat back laughing as he flinched. ‘We need another drink,’ she said. ‘To celebrate the fact I’m legal.’

  ‘Can I at least see a drinks menu?’

  She grinned and flounced over to the bar, returning with a menu that was a list of a hundred and one different shots. There was no beer. ‘See anything you like?’ she asked. Nightingale shook his head. ‘More Bloodshots, then,’ she said, and went back to the bar. She came with two more glasses and made him drink his down in one.

  ‘Caitlin, much as I can see the attraction of this place, I’m not great in confined spaces and I really need a cigarette. Can we go upstairs?’

  ‘You’re a smoker?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m a smoker.’

  She grinned. ‘Finally, we have something in common,’ she said. ‘Come on.’ They went back up the staircase and out on to a cramped terrace at the back of the building. There were space heaters but the night wasn’t too cold and they hadn’t been switched on. They sat down on a bench. The waitress with the half-shaved head walked over and stood looking down at them, her face a blank mask. ‘Two Bloodshots,’ said Caitlin. The only sign that the waitress had heard her was that she turned around and went back into the bar.

  Nightingale took out his cigarettes and offered the pack to her. Caitlin took one and Nightingale lit it for her and then lit one for himself. ‘Okay, you said you had something to tell me about the five Goths who died.’

  ‘That was some heavy shit, right?’ said Caitlin.

  ‘Very heavy.’ Nightingale put a hand up to his head. He felt a little dizzy and tried to remember how many shots he had. Three? Only three?

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘A bit tired,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a rough few days and I’m not getting much sleep.’

  ‘I hardly sleep at all,’ she said. ‘I’m a night owl.’ She laughed. ‘That’s funny. I’m a night owl. And you’re a nightingale.’

  ‘You said you had some information for me.’

  She nodded enthusiastically. ‘There was a photographer, at the Crypt. I saw him talking to Stella Walsh, the first girl who was killed.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A couple of months ago.’

  Nightingale frowned. ‘You knew Stella?’

  ‘No. But I recognised her when I saw her picture. The photographer was going around saying that he was doing a portfolio of Goths.’

  ‘Did he have a camera?’

  Caitlin frowned. ‘No. I didn’t see one.’

  ‘So how did you know he was a photographer?’

  She rolled his eyes. ‘Because he spoke to me and gave me his card.’

  ‘Have you got it?’

  ‘Sure.’ She picked up her bag, black leather with chrome studs, and rooted through it. She pulled out a purse in the shape of a bat and unzipped it. She looked into it and wrinkled her nose. ‘Must be back at my place.’

  ‘Was there something off about this guy?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because you obviously remembered him, and you remembered him talking to Stella Walsh. Or do you remember everybody?’

  Their drinks arrived. Nightingale took out his wallet but Caitlin waved it away. ‘I paid already,’ she said. The waitress put the shots on the table and walked away without saying a word.

  ‘They’re not very friendly here,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘That’s why people come. For the shots, the music, and the attitude.’ She picked up one of the glasses. ‘Down in one.’

  Nightingale sighed and downed the drink. He was sweating so he took off his raincoat.

  ‘I saw him with Luke Aitken, too.’

  Nightingale rubbed his face with his hand and his palm came away wet. ‘Who?’

  ‘Luke Aitken.’

  Nightingale was sure he’d heard the name before. ‘Luke Aitken?’ he repeated.

  ‘Another of the Goths who was killed. About a week after he was talking to Stella I saw him talking to Luke.’

  ‘You knew Luke?’

  ‘Sure, he was a regular at the Crypt. The photographer was very interested in Luke.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe he was gay.’

  Nightingale was finding it difficult to concentrate. ‘Luke?’