Midnight: The Second Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (36 page)

94

K
err shuffled backwards down the corridor in a low crouch, gently pouring petrol over the bare floorboards. The wood would burn quickly, he knew, but not as quickly as carpet. Someone had stripped out all the floor coverings, along with the furniture and pictures that had once lined the walls. It was a nice house, thought Kerr, as he shuffled and poured, and it would make a lovely fire.

The petrol fumes were making him a little light-headed. He loved the smell of petrol almost as much as he loved the smell of burning matches, but petrol fumes came with a price: a searing headache that sometimes hung around for days.

He reached the bedroom where he’d seen the candlelight through the window. Kerr could hear voices inside and that confused him because he’d thought that Nightingale was alone in the house. He couldn’t hear what was being said but it didn’t matter anyway. He continued backing down the corridor towards the stairs.

Kerr had calculated it perfectly and as he reached the top of the stairs he poured the last of the petrol onto the floorboards. He took a step back, put down the can and took out his box of Swan Vestas. He shook the box, then slid it open and selected a match. He sniffed the match and felt the muscles in his groin contract. He took a deep breath and gasped as the petrol fumes filled his lungs. He took another step back, struck the match and flicked it down the corridor. It span through the air, and as it hit the floor the petrol ignited with a whooshing sound like a train rushing down a tunnel.

Kerr wanted to stay and watch the flames but he forced himself to pick up the can and walk down the stairs.

95

N
ightingale tensed and relaxed his fingers as he stared at the dwarf. Lucifuge Rofocale grinned up at him, showing yellowed, pointed teeth.

‘Sophie’s dead,’ whispered Nightingale.

Lucifuge Rofocale laughed. ‘And dead’s dead, is that it?’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘You really don’t understand anything, do you?’

‘Apparently not.’ He fiddled with the piece of paper he was holding. ‘What does she have to do with any of this?’

‘Everything,’ said Lucifuge Rofocale. ‘Haven’t you realised that yet? Everything changed on the day she died, didn’t it? Your life was heading in one direction, but after she jumped from that balcony everything changed, didn’t it?’

‘So?’

‘So it was a pivotal moment. And she was a pivotal person. If she hadn’t died, you would never have left the police, never become a private detective. So many things would have been different.’

‘But we would still be standing here, wouldn’t we?’

‘Maybe. And maybe not.’

He waved his hand lazily and time folded in on itself, then Sophie Underwood was standing next to him, dressed exactly as she had been when she jumped off the balcony, her Barbie doll dangling from her right hand. She had her head down and her long blonde hair covered her face.

The dwarf leered up at her. ‘Pretty little thing, isn’t she?’ He reached out to stroke her dress with a hand that was festooned with jewelled rings.

‘Jack,’ she moaned. ‘Help me. I don’t like it here.’

‘That’s not her,’ whispered Nightingale. ‘It can’t be.’

‘Why do you say that?’ said the dwarf, running his hand along her hair.

‘Because she fell thirteen stories,’ said Nightingale.

‘Is that how you’d rather see her?’ said Lucifuge Rofocale. He waved his hand again.

Time folded and Sophie’s dress was drenched in blood. ‘Jack . . .’ moaned Sophie. ‘Jack, it hurts.’ She turned to look up at Lucifuge Rofocale. Nightingale saw that the left side of her face was crushed and her eyeball was half out of its socket. Her jaw had been shattered and her teeth broken.

‘Don’t do this,’ said Nightingale quietly.

Lucifuge Rofocale smiled. ‘Do what?’

‘Use her to hurt me. Anyway, that’s not really her.’

Sophie turned to look at him. ‘It is me, Jack,’ she said.

Nightingale forced himself not to look at her. He glared at Lucifuge Rofocale. ‘Make her go away.’

‘Jack, please, you have to help me,’ sobbed Sophie. She reached out her left hand and took a step towards him.

‘We’re done,’ Nightingale said to the dwarf. ‘You can go.’

‘We’re done when I say we’re done, Nightingale,’ said Lucifuge Rofocale, his voice a throbbing roar that hurt Nightingale’s ears. He waved his hand and Sophie went limp, her arms at her sides, her hair hanging down over her face.

It went suddenly quiet and Nightingale could hear his own breathing. He was panting like a horse that had been ridden hard and he fought to steady himself.

‘There’s one more thing,’ said Lucifuge Rofocale. ‘About your sister.’

‘We agreed what you’d do,’ said Nightingale. He felt as if all the strength had drained from his upper body and his legs were shaking. ‘Neither can claim her soul so it remains unclaimed.’

‘Yes, you are right,’ said Lucifuge Rofocale. ‘Her soul will not be claimed by either party. But nobody gets something for nothing. Your sister is getting back her soul, so there is a price that will have to be paid.’

‘By whom?’

Lucifuge Rofocale’s lips curled back into a snarl. ‘By your sister, of course.’

96

K
err jogged towards the clump of trees from where he’d first watched Gosling Manor. He put down his empty can and took out his box of matches. He lit one and smelled the smoke as he looked at the house. There was no sign of smoke yet, no flames flickering at the windows. The corridor would burn first, he knew. The wooden floorboards would catch, and then the doors, and then it would spread up through the ceiling and into the attic and sideways into the bedrooms. It would be at least ten minutes before the fire really took hold. The match went out and Kerr lit another. He felt himself grow hard between his legs and he reached down with his left hand to touch himself as he stared at the house.

97

T
here was a bright flash and the dwarf vanished. Sophie stayed where she was, her head down, her body wracked with silent sobs. Then Lucifuge Rofocale’s laughter echoed off the walls, there was a second blinding flash and Sophie disappeared.

Nightingale’s chest ached and he realised that he’d been holding his breath. He opened his mouth and tilted back his head, sucking in the foul-smelling air. His ears were buzzing and crackling and his legs felt as if they were about to give way under him. He looked around the room and then stepped gingerly out of the pentagram.

He took his pack of Marlboro out of his pocket and lit one, then opened the bedroom door. Flames billowed into the room and across the ceiling and a blast of heat hit him in the face, making him gasp. His cigarette fell from his fingers and he slammed the door shut.

Nightingale stood where he was, his mind racing. How the hell had a fire started? And so quickly? He went over to the window and tried to open it, but it was locked. He’d never bothered opening any of the windows in the house and had no idea how to unlock them. He looked for something to break the glass with. He picked up the metal crucible that he’d used for the burning herbs and smashed it against one of the panes of glass, but it didn’t break. Nightingale cursed and tried again. The glass steadfastly refused to shatter. He threw the crucible to the side and it clattered onto the bare floorboards. Gosling must have installed unbreakable laminated glass as part of his security arrangements.

Nightingale took out his mobile phone. He dialled nine nine nine and asked for the fire brigade. As he gave them directions he saw that smoke was pouring through the gap under the door. Nightingale had left his raincoat in the bathroom and he rushed to get it. He could use it to block the gap. But as he picked it up he knew that he would only be delaying the inevitable. Even if he plugged the gap he was still trapped in the room, and he’d be overcome by the smoke or the heat long before the firemen arrived.

He put his phone on the washbasin, pushed the bath plug into place and turned on the cold tap. He held his raincoat under the torrent of water until it was soaked and then climbed into the bath and lay down, submerging himself in the water.

He wiggled his arms and legs, thrashing around to make sure that his clothes were totally soaked, and shook his head from side to side, then climbed out of the bath, grabbed his phone and coat and ran to the door.

He stood by the door, taking deep breaths, then draped his soaking-wet raincoat over his head. He took a final deep breath, ducked down low and pulled the door open. The fire roared and flames burst over his head. He kept low as he ran out into the corridor, his mouth closed and his eyes narrowed to slits.

The fire roared and he could feel the heat on his wet skin. He turned to the right and ran, pulling the raincoat down low. He couldn’t see where he was going but he could make out the floorboards and kept to the middle of the hall, counting off the steps in his head. Three bedrooms. Each bedroom about fifteen feet wide. Each pace three feet. Five paces one room. Fifteen paces and he should be at the stairs.

His hands were burning as the flames dried out the water and the heat got to his skin. He kept them bunched into fists and curled them so that they were covered by the coat. His chest was aching but he forced himself not to breathe because the air would be blisteringly hot and would damage his lungs.

He turned to the right and reached the stairs, charging down them. He had to take a breath as he ran down but the air wasn’t hot any more, though it was thick with smoke and made him gag. He hurtled to the bottom and headed for the door, coughing and spluttering.

He pulled open the front door and fell out into the cold night air, gasping for breath. He threw his raincoat down onto the steps, where it lay smouldering, and staggered over to the mermaid fountain, thrusting his hands into the water.

Nightingale looked up at the house but there was no sign of fire or smoke, no indication of the blazing inferno within. He took his hands out of the water and shook them. The flesh was red but that was all. His phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket. It was Jenny.

‘Jack, how did it go?’

Nightingale began to laugh. He sat down on the edge of the fountain. In the distance he heard a siren.

‘Jack, what’s wrong?’

‘I’ll call you back, kid. I’m in the middle of something right now.’

98

K
err groaned as he saw Nightingale stagger out of the house. He picked up the empty petrol can and jogged across the lawn to the gates. He slipped out into the road and walked along to the field where he’d left his car, muttering to himself. He stopped when he saw the young woman dressed in black who was standing by his car, a border collie on a chain sitting at her side. She was wearing too much mascara and black lipstick and had a black choker with an upturned silver cross over her throat. Her black jeans looked as if they had been sprayed on and there were silver chains hanging from her black leather motorcycle jacket. The dog growled at him and the girl made a shushing sound.

Kerr lowered his eyes, not wanting to meet her gaze. ‘I failed you, Mistress Proserpine,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘Yes, Graham, I know.’

He dropped the petrol can, went down on his knees and put his head on the ground. ‘I beg your forgiveness, mistress.’ He heard sirens, off in the distance.

‘Get up, Graham. There’s no need for that.’

Kerr got to his feet. Tears were running down his face.

Proserpine looked at him sadly. ‘You know what you have to do now, Graham?’

The sirens were getting closer. The sirens of a fire engine and two police cars. Kerr knew the difference.

‘Yes, mistress. I know.’

He walked to the back of his car, an old Renault. He opened the boot, took out a fresh can of petrol and methodically poured it over himself, from head to toe. He drew a deep breath, relishing the intoxicating aroma, and then turned to face Proserpine. He fished his box of Swan Vestas from his pocket.

Proserpine nodded her approval and her dog growled softly.

Kerr rattled the box, then pushed it open with his thumb and took out a single match. He looked at Proserpine and shivered with anticipation as he rubbed the match along the striker. He heard the whoosh of the petrol igniting and then smiled as he felt the searing pain of his flesh as it began to burn.

99

N
ightingale let himself into his flat and went straight into the kitchen. He kept a bottle of Russian vodka in the freezer and he took it out and poured a big slug into a glass, adding a splash of Coke. He drank it in one go and then poured himself another. He went through to the sitting room and phoned Jenny.

‘Where are you?’ she asked.

‘The flat. Can you come round? I need to talk.’

‘Before you wouldn’t tell me what was going on and now you want to talk?’

‘Just come round.’

‘What’s wrong, Jack?’

‘Just come, yeah? I don’t want to tell you on the phone. Too much has happened.’

He ended the call and took another long pull on his drink. He sat down on his sofa and flicked through the TV channels but couldn’t find anything that he wanted to watch.

The fire brigade had arrived in time to save the house, though there was extensive damage to the upper floor and the firemen’s water had flooded the ground floor. Nightingale hadn’t been able to check on the state of the basement but he figured that the damage there would be extensive.

He finished his drink and went back into the kitchen to make himself a fresh one. This time he took the bottle of vodka into the sitting room and put it on the coffee table. As he sat down the entryphone buzzed. He frowned and looked at his wristwatch. It was too soon to be Jenny. He pushed himself up off the sofa and went over to the intercom. ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Nightingale? It’s Janet Bethel. Greater Manchester Police.’

‘Yes?’

‘We met at your aunt and uncle’s funeral.’

‘I remember. What’s up?’

‘I’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind. We have some new information on the case.’

‘Case? Which case?’

‘Your aunt and uncle.’

‘I didn’t realise there was a case,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’d be easier if I could sit down and talk to you,’ she said.

‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘I was just about to go to bed.’

‘It’s important, Mr Nightingale.’

Nightingale pressed the buzzer to let her in. He had the front door open for her by the time she reached his floor. She was wearing the same fawn belted raincoat that she’d been wearing in church and carrying the same black shoulder bag. Nightingale showed her into the sitting room. She put her bag on a chair and took off her coat, revealing a dark blazer with a grey skirt. She looked more like a holiday rep than a detective.

‘What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?’ he asked.

‘I heard about the fire so I figured you would be up. Do they know what happened?’

‘Arson,’ said Nightingale.

‘While you were in the house?’

‘Yeah. It was a close thing.’ He frowned. ‘You said you wanted to talk about my aunt and uncle? What’s so important?’

‘I couldn’t trouble you for a glass of water, could I? I’m parched,’ she said. She draped her coat over the back of the chair. ‘I got the train and it took forever.’

‘Sure,’ said Nightingale.

‘Or coffee,’ she said. ‘I could really do with a coffee.’

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Lots of milk and no sugar.’ She smiled. ‘Sweet enough already.’

Nightingale went through to the kitchen and made her a mug of coffee. When he took it through to her, she had put a sheet of paper on the table and was holding a pen. ‘I couldn’t be a nuisance and ask you to sign this, could I? They’re being a real pain over expenses at the moment.’

‘It’s not a confession, is it?’ he said, picking up the sheet. It was on Greater Manchester Police headed paper and confirmed that he was being interviewed by Detective Sergeant Janet Bethel.

‘Why would it be a confession, Mr Nightingale?’

‘I was being flippant,’ said Nightingale. ‘Which, under the circumstances, probably wasn’t the wisest move.’ He scrawled his signature at the bottom of the letter and gave it back to her.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said, putting the letter into her bag. ‘But we have to get a signed receipt every time we conduct an interview outside our area. No receipt, no expenses.’

Nightingale sat down on the sofa and sipped his vodka and Coke. ‘So why are you here?’ he asked.

‘Frankly, Mr Nightingale, I’m not convinced that your uncle took his own life. And if that’s the case, it casts doubt on the assumption that he killed your aunt.’

‘I thought the forensic evidence was conclusive.’

‘It was, but, as I’m sure you know, evidence can be planted or removed.’

‘That’s certainly true,’ said Nightingale. He took another drink.

‘And I understand that you were in north Wales recently. Abersoch.’

Nightingale nodded but didn’t say anything.

‘You know what’s going on there, I assume.’

‘The serial killer? I heard.’ He frowned. ‘What are you saying? The same guy killed my aunt and uncle?’

‘It doesn’t fit the profile completely, I know. The killings in Wales have all been of women and they have all been made to look like suicides. Your aunt was murdered, and your uncle’s death appeared to be a suicide.’

‘Plus it’s quite a way from Wales to Manchester. Most serial killers tend to stay in an area that they’re comfortable with.’ Nightingale yawned. He was feeling tired. He took a long drink and stretched out his legs.

‘I’m sorry for getting here so late, Mr Nightingale. I can see that you’re tired.’

Nightingale put a hand up to his head. He was finding it difficult to concentrate. ‘No, it’s okay,’ he said. ‘What were you saying? About my aunt and uncle?’

‘There is a possibility that they were both killed by a third person,’ said Bethel.

‘And do you know who that might be?’

‘I was going to ask you the same thing, Mr Nightingale. You were in Connie Miller’s house just after her death. And you were there a few days later, weren’t you?’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Nightingale. His legs were going numb and he couldn’t feel his feet. He drained his glass.

‘My opposite number in north Wales told me,’ said Bethel. She stood up and went over to her bag.

Nightingale’s head started to spin. ‘They didn’t know,’ he mumbled.

‘Didn’t know what?’

‘They didn’t know that I went back to Connie’s house. They knew I went around to her parents’ home but they didn’t know that I was in her house.’

The glass tumbled from his fingers and bounced on the carpet. He looked up. The detective was standing in front of him, a roll of tape in her hands.

‘You were there,’ said Nightingale. ‘You were watching the house.’ He tried to stand up but his legs had gone numb.

She bent down and used the tape to bind his wrists together. He tried to resist but there was no strength in his arms.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

‘Keep quiet. It’ll all be over soon,’ said the detective. She went over to her handbag again and returned with a plastic bag. She pulled it down over Nightingale’s head.

Nightingale tried to shout but it felt as if there was a heavy weight on his chest.

Bethel started to wind tape around his neck, sealing the bag shut. Nightingale heard a buzzing. It was his door intercom. He tried moving away but Bethel slid onto his lap, her thighs pinning his legs as she continued winding the tape. The intercom buzzed again.

The plastic bag began to mist over and it started pulsing in and out in time with his breathing. Nightingale knew that he had to breathe slowly so he fought the panic that was making his heart race.

Bethel smiled as she watched his discomfort. She placed her hands on his shoulders and put her face close to his. ‘Not long now,’ she said.

She was wearing gloves, Nightingale realised. Black leather gloves. ‘Why?’ he asked, but then had to gulp for air. His breathing was fast and shallow and his lungs were burning.

He felt himself start to pass out. Bethel was grinning at him in triumph, staring at him with a wild look in her eyes. Nightingale’s eyes were just closing when he saw movement behind Bethel. There was a cracking sound and Bethel tumbled off his lap and fell to the floor. Hands pulled at the plastic bag and ripped it apart. Nightingale gulped in fresh air.

‘Jack, are you okay?’ It was Jenny.

‘She put something in my drink.’ He groaned as the room began to swim.

Jenny hurried to the kitchen and returned with a pair of scissors. She used them to cut the tape around his wrists. Bethel lay on the floor face down, not moving.

‘You were lucky I had a key,’ Jenny said. ‘I’ll call for an ambulance. You should try to throw up.’

She picked up Nightingale’s mobile phone, called nine nine nine and spoke to the operator, but Nightingale couldn’t hear what she was saying and his eyelids fluttered as he slipped into unconsciousness.