She looked up and sighed. ‘I know Luke was gay. Obviously Luke was gay. Luke was like the gayest person you could meet. I mean the photographer, I thought he might be gay.’

  ‘And he spoke to …’ Nightingale frowned. He was having trouble concentrating. ‘Stella. He spoke to Stella as well?’

  Caitlin nodded. ‘And one of the other Goths. Gabe something or other. I saw his picture on the TV.’

  ‘You knew Gabe?’

  ‘To say hello to, sure. He was a regular at the Crypt.’

  Nightingale leaned towards her. He knew he had something important to say to her but the thought kept slipping away. The more he concentrated, the less he seemed able to focus.

  ‘Jack, are you okay?’ asked Caitlin. She put her tiny hand on his. ‘Maybe we should get out of here.’

  44

  Caitlin peered up at the building. ‘This is it,’ she said. She groped in her bag and pulled out a set of keys. ‘Soon be home.’

  Nightingale ran a hand through his hair and looked up and down the deserted street. ‘Where are we?’ he said. He didn’t remember getting into a cab but he didn’t remember walking there either.

  ‘My place,’ said Caitlin. She slotted the key into the lock. ‘I don’t normally do this,’ she said.

  ‘What? Lock your door?’

  She laughed but there was an uncertain edge to the sound, as if she was faking it. Nightingale rubbed his face with his hand. He felt so tired. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Something was wrong. He wasn’t a regular drinker of shots but he was no stranger to the effects of alcohol and there was no way that he could have become drunk so quickly.

  ‘Take strange men back to my place, that’s what I meant.’

  ‘I’m not that strange. Honestly.’

  She reached up and stroked his cheek. ‘You’re quite cute.’

  ‘I do my best,’ said Nightingale. He shook his head. She must have put something in his drink, he realised. The thought that she had drugged him was surprisingly funny, and he found himself giggling.

  ‘Let’s get you inside,’ she said.

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’ He knew that the sensible thing to do was to push her away and run down the street, but his legs felt rooted to the pavement.

  She unlocked the door and pushed it open. He followed her inside as she switched on the light. ‘Watch the stairs,’ she said. ‘There are holes in the carpets, be careful you don’t trip.’ He followed her upstairs, bumping against the wall every second step. Her flat was on the second floor and by the time he reached it she was already opening the door. ‘Home sweet home,’ she said.

  She held the door open and he walked in. It was quite a large room with a window overlooking the rear of the building. There was a double bed and a small sofa, and a circular dining table with four chairs. The door closed behind him. There was a doorway to the left that opened into a small kitchen, and another door that must have been to the bathroom. Nightingale shook his head, trying to concentrate. There were no personal belongings in the room, he realised. No posters. No photographs. No cuddly toys. No books. The bed didn’t look as if it had ever been slept in.

  There was a mirror on the wall opposite the front door. Nightingale’s vision had gone blurry so he blinked to clear his eyes and then he saw Caitlin in the mirror, standing behind him. She had her arm raised and he realised she was about to slam something against the back of his head. He twisted around but he was too slow to avoid the blow completely and whatever it was grazed the side of his head, stunning him. He slumped to his knees, his head spinning, then went down on all fours. As he looked up he saw the bathroom door open. A man in dark clothing appeared, holding a machete. Behind him was another man. He had what looked like a cleaver in his hand.

  Nightingale shook his head again and took a deep breath. Caitlin said something to the men and one of them laughed. Nightingale fumbled his right hand under his coat and groped for the Glock. His fingers found the butt of the weapon and he pulled it out. He rocked back on his heels as he brought the gun up. He brought his left hand up to pull back the slide and heard the click-clack of a round being chambered.

  The first man, tall with receding hair, snarled and stepped forward, the machete raised above his head. Nightingale fired once and the bullet caught the man just below the chin. He froze, then blood spouted from the neck wound and less than a second later blood frothed from between his lips.

  Nightingale swung the gun around. The second man had pulled up, his cleaver at waist height. His eyes darted from Nightingale to Receding Hair. Receding Hair slumped to his knees as blood trickled down his shirt and on to the floor. His eyes had already gone dull and lifeless. The second man’s eyes flicked back to Nightingale and the Glock that was now centred on his chest. Nightingale had no choice other than to stay on his back with the gun pointing between his knees. ‘Your call,’ he said quietly.

  The man growled, raised his cleaver and sprang forward. Nightingale tightened his trigger finger and shot the man in the chest, just above the heart. The man took another step then the strength went from his legs and he collapsed, his mouth working soundlessly. Nightingale rolled over, pushed himself up from the floor.

  Caitlin bent down and picked up Receding Hair’s machete. She held it up and glared at Nightingale. He kept the Glock centred on her chest.

  ‘Put it down, Caitlin,’ he said. ‘It’s over.’

  The second man’s legs twitched and then went still.

  ‘Put it down,’ Nightingale repeated. ‘I will shoot you.’

  She shook her head fiercely. ‘You won’t.’ She swished the machete from side to side. There was a manic look in her eyes as if she was staring through him rather than looking at him.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ said Nightingale, his finger tight on the trigger, ready to react the moment she moved towards him.

  She tried to smile but it turned into a snarl. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said. ‘We serve Lucifer and providing we do his bidding without question we walk into Hell and sit on his left side.’

  ‘Put it down, Caitlin. We can walk out of here. I can get you help.’

  ‘I don’t need help,’ she sneered. ‘I have my place in Hades.’

  ‘And because of that you kill innocents in this world?’

  ‘I serve my Master and will do so until I die.’

  ‘You don’t have to die, Caitlin,’ he said.

  She smiled. Her eyes seemed to be burning redly and her nostrils flared as her chest rose and fell. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said. She held out the machete and Nightingale’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  ‘Caitlin, drop the—’

  Before he could finish she had switched her grip on the machete so the blade was upright. She grinned in triumph, then looked up at the ceiling and shouted at the top of her voice. ‘My Lord, I am coming!’ She placed the edge of the blade against her neck and in one smooth movement sliced her throat open from ear to ear. Blood washed down her shirt and she continued to stare at Nightingale for several seconds before the machete fell from her fingers and rattled on the floor.

  Nightingale stared at her in horror, his eyes stinging from the cordite in the air. He was still pointing the gun at her chest, but his trigger finger had relaxed.

  Caitlin was still smiling, even though several pints of blood had gushed from the gaping wound in her throat. He couldn’t work out why she was still standing.

  She opened her mouth and there was a gurgling sound like water disappearing down a drain. ‘We’re coming for you, Jack Nightingale,’ she said, then she fell backwards and hit the floor so hard the television shuddered.

  Nightingale’s heart was pounding as if it was threatening to jump out of his chest. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. The adrenaline coursing through his system was helping to sober him up. He stared at the gun in his hand. Then at the three bodies on the floor. Two shots. And Caitlin’s screams. If anyone had phoned the police he only had a few minutes. If he stayed, he was in big trouble. The police would find him with a gun and two men shot dead and while he might well find a jury would believe he had acted in self defence he’d still have to explain why he had the Glock in the first place.

  He took a deep breath, trying to focus his thoughts. If the police were on their way, he had to act fast. And even if they weren’t, he still needed to be out of the flat as quickly as possible. His mind raced. What had he touched? Nothing. Caitlin had let him into the flat. She had unlocked the doors and opened them for him. He’d touched nothing so there were no surfaces to wipe down.

  He tucked the Glock back into its holster then went over to the machete she’d dropped and picked it up. He carried it over to the kitchen area and pulled off a piece of paper kitchen roll. He used it to wipe the handle clean, then took it over to Receding Hair. He knelt down and placed the handle in Receding Hair’s right hand, pressing it hard. He stood up. So Receding Hair had cut Caitlin’s throat. Her blood was on the machete, the machete was in his hand.

  The positions of the bodies weren’t great. He was going to have to make it look as if Caitlin had shot the two men as they were heading towards her.

  He bent over and pulled Receding Hair’s legs so they pointed towards Caitlin. Then he did the same with the second man. There was something familiar about both men and suddenly he realised what it was. They had been helping to carry Marcus Fairchild’s coffin.

  He stood up and listened for a few seconds. No sirens. He walked over to Caitlin. Blood was pooling around her but there was none gushing from the throat. Her heart had stopped.

  He closed his eyes and forced himself to concentrate. He needed to paint a picture that the police would believe. He was less unsteady on his feet now and the fog that had enveloped his mind was gradually dissipating. He opened his eyes, pulled out his Glock and wiped the butt with the piece of kitchen towel, then put it in Caitlin’s right hand. The scenario would make sense. Two men with knives attacking a young girl. She has a gun and shoots them both but not before one of them had slashed her throat. There were a lot of holes in the story, not the least being how a young girl had a Glock in her possession, but it was better than the truth. The problem was SOCO would do a gunshot residue test on her hands and at the moment they were clean. He held her hand around the gun and forced her first finger on to the three triggers – the Glock’s patented safety mechanism that prevented the gun from being fired accidentally. He aimed at the wall behind the two bodies. The investigating officers might be prepared to believe two lucky shots but only if there was at least one that had gone wide. Two would be better, he realised. Two shots followed by a pause and then two more, just in case there were neighbours counting. It would look as if she had shot twice and missed, then shot twice again and killed them. Sometime between the first shots and the second, Crew Cut managed to cut her throat.

  Nightingale squeezed her finger against the triggers, keeping a tight grip on her dead hands. The first bullet hit the wall above the door, then he moved her hand to the right and fired again, this time at the wall above the television set. He let her arm fall to the floor then stood up. He took a quick look around then walked around her body, taking care not to get any blood on his Hush Puppies, then used the paper towel to open the door and let himself out. He stood in the hallway, which was in darkness, listening carefully. He didn’t hear anything so he tiptoed down the stairs, taking care not to touch the walls or the bannister. He used the paper towel to open the door to the street. He took a deep breath before stepping out, half expecting to find himself staring down the barrels of an armed response unit, but the street was deserted. He kept his head down as he walked away.

  45

  Nightingale took deep breaths as he walked. He was still a little fuzzy but his head was getting clearer by the minute. He looked around, struggling to get his bearings, then realised that he wasn’t far from Oxford Street. He walked past Tottenham Court Road Tube station and went down Oxford Circus station instead, figuring that if the police did start checking CCTV they’d only check the nearest station. He went down to the westbound platform. He felt exhausted but didn’t want to risk taking a taxi home in case the driver remembered him. He kept his head down as he waited on the platform, though there were so many passengers he doubted that he would be identified even if the CCTV footage was examined.

  The train arrived and it was busy but not packed and he managed to squeeze into a seat between a man with a large briefcase perched on his knees and a woman who kept muttering to herself. Nightingale folded his arms and kept his head down, wishing he had a hat. He got off at Bayswater and hurried back to his flat. As soon as he had let himself in, he switched on the kettle in the kitchen and went through to the bathroom and stripped off all his clothes. He put everything into the bath. As he took off his jeans he almost fell, staggering to the side and banging into the washbasin. He bent down and splashed cold water on his face. Caitlin had put something in his drink, he was sure of that, almost certainly GHB.

  He tried to check the back of his head in the mirror but no matter how he twisted he couldn’t get a decent look. He pressed his hand against the spot where he’d been hit but there didn’t appear to be any blood, which he took as a good sign. If he hadn’t spotted Caitlin in the mirror about to bash in his skull it would have been a lot worse.

  He went back through to the kitchen and made himself two mugs of strong coffee, pouring a lot of milk into one to cool it down so he could drink it straight away. He picked up two black garbage bags and went back to the bathroom. He was reluctant to throw away a perfectly good pair of Hush Puppies, but he knew he had no choice. Even a good cleaning wouldn’t remove the gunshot residue trapped in the sole or lace holes, and even the tiniest speck of blood would tie him to the killings. He put them in one of the bags and put his raincoat in another. Dry cleaning would get rid of any gunshot residue, but he could also leave the coat at the dry cleaner’s for several weeks, out of harm’s way.

  He carried the rest of the clothes through to the kitchen and put them in the washing machine on the longest and hottest cycle, then drank his second mug of coffee.

  He took a bottle of bleach from the cupboard under the sink and went back in the bathroom. He turned on the bath taps and poured in a good slug of bleach. When the tub was half full he sat in the water and washed himself carefully and methodically, then he used a plastic nailbrush to clean under his nails. When he’d finished he turned off the taps and pulled the plug, then stood up and rinsed himself under the shower. He shampooed his hair twice and then used conditioner and then rinsed himself a final time before stepping out of the bath and putting on a bathrobe.

  His head was starting to clear and he made himself another cup of black coffee and took it through to his sitting room. He switched on the television, dropped down on the sofa and swung his feet up on to the coffee table. He now had a throbbing headache. He remembered he had a bottle of paracetamol in his bathroom cabinet so he went to get it and washed down two tablets with his coffee.

  There was a football match on Sky TV but it was nothing more than wallpaper to Nightingale. He stared at the screen as he went through everything that had happened. No one had seen him going into the flat with Caitlin. No one had seen him leave. If the police had been called they would be inside the flat now. The scene-setting he’d done might fool them for a while, but the angle of the cut in Caitlin’s neck was a worry. And there was no good reason why a young Goth girl would be carrying a Glock. If Nightingale was really lucky then the cops would assume Receding Hair and Crew Cut were the Goth killers and they had taken Caitlin to the flat to kill her. But if he was that lucky, he ought to go out and buy a couple of lottery tickets.

  If the cops did start to look for someone else, the Glock would hopefully be a dead end. T-Bone had been positive the gun was untraceable. Nightingale was sure he’d left no trace of himself in the flat. And when he’d finished cleaning his clothes and disposing of his shoes, there’d be no trace evidence linking him to the killings.

  46

  Nightingale opened his eyes and groaned. It took him a few seconds before he realised where he was – lying on his sofa. He sat up and ran his hands through his hair. His head was aching, either from the drug that Caitlin had slipped him or from the bang on his head. He staggered over to his kitchen and drank from the cold tap, then pulled a bottle of malt whisky from a cupboard and poured himself a decent measure. He took the glass and the bottle back to the sofa. The television was on but he had muted the sound.

  On the wall was a photograph of him and Robbie Hoyle on the day they’d graduated from Hendon Police College, both looking proud in the spotless new uniforms. Nightingale forced a smile and raised his glass. ‘I’m going to miss you, Robbie,’ he said. He drank. He could still taste garlic at the back of his mouth.

  Next to the graduation photograph was a framed photograph of Nightingale with his father and uncle in front of the Old Trafford stadium. Nightingale’s father – his adoptive father – had been a lifelong Manchester United fan, and so was his brother, Nightingale’s uncle Tommy. He stared at the photograph, remembering the day that it had been taken. His father was long dead, killed in a car crash with Nightingale’s adoptive mother. It had been an accident, that was what the coroner had said, anyway. The man driving the petrol tanker that had crushed the Nightingales’ car swore that he hadn’t seen the red traffic lights and hadn’t seen their car. He hadn’t been drinking and he tested negative for drugs and his tachometer showed that he’d only been driving for four hours before the accident. William and Irene had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  He raised his glass to the photograph of his uncle Tommy. ‘At least you’re still around,’ he said. He drank some whisky and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. As soon as the words had left the mouth he felt a sudden chill and his stomach lurched as he remembered what Tony Barnett has said, shortly before T-Bone had shot him. ‘We’ve got a list, Nightingale. A list of your family, your friends, and everyone you care about. Everyone on that list is as good as dead.’