84
Nightingale’s head was whirling as he walked slowly back to his Bayswater flat. Proserpine had tricked him, he was sure of that, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he couldn’t stop Marcus Fairchild and within the next twenty-four hours he’d be in London with Jenny. He had to do something to stop the man, but what? If he interfered, he would forfeit his soul. But if he did nothing, Fairchild would continue to abuse Jenny in ways that Nightingale could only imagine.
The rear doors of a white Transit van ahead of him opened and two men climbed out. They were already walking towards him when Nightingale realised who they were. They were the two men who had broken into his house. This time they weren’t wearing ski masks and both were holding knives.
Their faces were set hard as they walked purposefully towards Nightingale. They were in a quiet side street, and while Nightingale could hear traffic off in the distance, the road they were in was quiet and the pavements were empty.
The smaller of the two men was also holding a sack. Nightingale could see how this was supposed to go down. The bag over his head, into the van, and off. There was another man in the back of the van, looking at him. Waiting.
Nightingale waited until the men were two paces away from him before pulling out the gun. The two men stopped immediately and looked at each other and then back to Nightingale. ‘Surprise!’ said Nightingale.
The man with the sack put up his hands. ‘There’s no need to do anything stupid,’ he said. He had a Scottish accent.
‘Doesn’t feel that stupid to me,’ said Nightingale. ‘Now sod off back to your van before I put a bullet in your nuts.’
Both men turned to go but Nightingale waggled the gun at the big man. ‘Not you,’ he said. ‘You can stay for a chat.’
The smaller man hurried away and climbed into the back of the Transit van.
‘Who sent you?’ hissed Nightingale.
‘F*ck you,’ replied the man.
‘Turn around,’ said Nightingale.
The man didn’t move and continued to glare at Nightingale, breathing heavily like a bull at stud.
Nightingale lowered the gun so that it was pointing at the man’s groin. ‘I’ll shoot you in the nuts and walk away,’ he said. ‘No skin off my nose.’
The man slowly turned around. The rear doors of the van slammed shut and the van pulled away from the kerb with a squeal.
‘Looks like your friends have left you in the lurch,’ said Nightingale. ‘I guess they weren’t expecting me to bring a gun to a knife fight.’
Nightingale transferred the gun to his left hand and jabbed the barrel at the base of the man’s spine. He slid his right hand into the man’s trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet. He flicked it open and saw that there was a driving licence among the credit cards. Nightingale slid the wallet into the pocket of his raincoat. ‘Now I know who you are and where you live,’ said Nightingale. ‘If you or anyone else comes near me again, I’ll hold you responsible, you hear me?’
‘I hear you.’
Nightingale jabbed the gun into the man’s back again. ‘You wouldn’t be the first person I’d shot, either. Loud noises don’t scare me.’
‘I said I hear you,’ said the man.
‘And first thing tomorrow morning the cops get your details and your name goes in the frame for the murder of Danny McBride. So if I were you I’d run far and I’d run fast.’ He jabbed the man again. ‘Now walk away before I change my mind and put a bullet in your leg for the sheer hell of it.’
The man did as he was told, running down the road as if the hounds of Hell were on his heels. Nightingale slid the gun back into his pocket, glad that he hadn’t had to fire the weapon. At least now Perry Smith would take it back.