 
### BLOOD BATH

By Stephen Leather

***

Published by:

Stephen Leather at Smashwords

Copyright (c) 2014 by Stephen Leather

****

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

****

Blood Bath

Jack Nightingale appears in the full-length novels Nightfall, Midnight, Nightmare, Nightshade, Lastnight and San Francisco Night. I bought the cover for Blood Bath long before I got around to writing a short story to go with it. Several of my friends and fans were also inspired by the cover to write their own short stories, so I have put them together in this collection. The Nightingale timeline is complex but I think all of the short stories take place between the end of Nightmare and the end of Lastnight. Enjoy!

Blood Bath By Stephen Leather

Blood Bath by Alex Shaw

Blood Bath by Andrew Peters

Blood Bath by Conrad Jones

Blood Bath by Lynne Waterman

Blood Bath by Matt Hilton

Blood Bath by Robert Waterman

### Blood Bath

By Stephen Leather

Jack Nightingale placed his camera on Jenny McLean's desk and grinned. 'Twenty-odd shots of Mr Clifford with his secretary, in her car, checking into the Holiday Inn Express and leaving ninety minutes later,' he said. 'Some nice video of them exchanging saliva.'

Jenny picked up the camera and began checking the shots as Nightingale took off his raincoat and hung it by the door. She was wearing a pale blue dress and had tied her hair back in a ponytail. 'How are you with haunted hotels?' she asked.

'I try to steer clear of them,' he said. 'Why?'

'There's a Mr and Mrs Stokes on their way in,' she said. 'They own a hotel in Brighton.'

'And it's haunted?'

'Apparently.' She connected the camera to her computer and began downloading the pictures and video that were about to make Mr Clifford's divorce much more expensive and have him out of the family home by the end of the week.

The door to the office opened and a middle-aged couple walked in. The man had a receding hairline that suggested baldness was only a year or two away and bifocal spectacles indicated that he had problems seeing things no matter how far away they were. He was wearing a Barbour jacket and had a red scarf wrapped around his neck. His wife was a small woman, barely over five feet tall, and was wearing a jacket and scarf that matched her husband's. She had a thin, drawn face and Nightingale noticed that her nails were bitten to the quick. 'Speak of the devil,' whispered Nightingale, but regretted it immediately when the woman flinched. She'd obviously heard him. He flashed them a beaming smile. 'Mr and Mrs Stokes?''

The couple nodded. Nightingale pointed over at a sofa by the window overlooking the street below. 'Why don't you make yourself comfortable?' he asked. Jenny stood up and took their coats and scarves and offered them coffee.

As Jenny made the coffees, Nightingale sat down behind her desk and asked them what their problem was. Mr Stokes did the talking. He sat with his legs and arms crossed and had a habit of grinding his teeth when he wasn't speaking. He explained that they had bought a hotel in Brighton six months earlier. 'We were getting by for a month or so,' said Mr Stokes. 'At least we were covering our costs, pretty much. But then a website called Haunted Brighton wrote about the hotel, saying that there had been a number of deaths there and that the hotel is haunted by a malevolent spirit.'

'A ghost?' said Jenny, her mug of coffee poised on its way to her lips.

'A ghost we could probably live with,' said Mr Stokes. 'The website said it was a vampire.'

Nightingale laughed out loud. 'A vampire?'

'It didn't actually say vampire,' said Mrs Stokes, flashing her husband a withering look. 'It described a demon that craves blood, that encourages suicides so that it can feed.'

'Complete bollocks, of course,' said her husband.

'But people believe what they read,' said Mrs Stokes. 'And the problem is that if you Google The Weeping Willow Hotel, Brighton, that bloody website comes up on the first page. So every potential booking is cancelled before it even gets started. I mean, who in their right mind would stay in a hotel that had had half a dozen suicides.' She glared at her husband. 'And who in their right mind would buy a hotel like that?'

'That's the name? The Weeping Willow?'

Mrs Stokes nodded.

'It's a nice name,' said Jenny.

'It's a lovely hotel,' said Mr Stokes. 'Everything about it is great. The rooms are lovely, we're close to the beach. It should be a goldmine.'

'Instead of which it's a money pit,' said Mrs Stokes. 'We have to pay the housekeeping staff and the night manager and the chef and the waitress.' She shrugged. 'It's a nightmare.'

'You said suicides,' said Nightingale. 'The website talks about suicides? I thought the website talked about a vampire?'

Mr and Mr Stokes looked at him in astonishment. 'There's no such thing as vampires,' said Mrs Stokes. 'You do know that, don't you?'

'Well...' said Nightingale hesitantly.

Mr Stokes shook his head in annoyance. 'The website said there was some sort of vampire killing guests. It was the first we'd heard about deaths in the hotel but once we looked into it we discovered that there had been several suicides. At least six over the past ten years. But there was nothing unusual or suspicious about them. Just suicides.' He shrugged. 'Sometimes people get to the end of their tether and they just want to end it all.' He looked over at his wife and she glared back at him.

'Theses suicides, were they all guests?' asked Nightingale.

'Five of them were guests but the wife of the last owner also killed herself in one of the bathrooms,' said Mrs Stokes. She began rubbing her hands together as if she was washing them.

Nightingale's jaw dropped. 'I'm sorry, the wife of the guy you bought the hotel from, killed herself there? And you still bought it?'

'We didn't know that at the time,' said Mrs Stokes. 'But yes, that's what happened.'

'The seller didn't mention it?' asked Jenny.

Mrs Stokes shook her head. 'Though to be honest, we never spoke to him, everything was done through the estate agent. Mr Dunbar had already gone back to Scotland.'

'Mr Dunbar was the pervious owner?'

'The estate agent said that he had health problems,' said Mr Stokes. 'Now of course we realise it was just a way of keeping him away from us.'

Nightingale nodded. "I'm not a legal expert, but shouldn't your surveyor have picked up on something like this? Due diligence or whatever they call it. You made an investment on the back of a surveyor's report, presumably?'

'The building is fine,' said Mr Stokes. 'It's a hundred years old and will stand for at least another hundred. The roof is fine, there's no damp, the electrics and the plumbing were overhauled five years ago.'

'Don't sellers have to tell you about any negative aspects?' said Jenny. 'Things like noisy neighbours and dry rot.'

'Apparently suicides aren't covered,' said Mrs Stokes. 'That's what our solicitor tells us.'

'But you looked at the books, surely?' said Jenny, her pen poised over her notepad. 'Didn't they let you know that something was wrong?'

The couple exchanged a look and Mr Stokes flinched even before his wife spoke. 'I told you we should have done that, didn't I?' she said.

Mr Stokes threw up his hands. 'We were buying the building. The building is fine. I just assumed that the hotel would have guests. That's what hotels do, right?' He looked pleadingly at Nightingale as if he was begging him to agree with him.

'I guess so,' said Nightingale.

'Well guessing isn't good enough,' said Mrs Stokes. 'We haven't had a single booking since the website piece. And it turns out that the hotel had been doing badly long before we bought it.'

'So the seller knew there was a problem?' said Jenny. 'Doesn't that mean he conned you?'

Mrs Stokes shook her head. 'He never actually lied to us,' she said. 'And we didn't ask the right questions.' She flashed her husband a withering look leaving them in no doubt that by 'we' she meant him.

'When we looked around there were people in the restaurant so we assumed they were guests,' said Mr Stokes. 'And he said that we couldn't see several of the rooms because they were occupied.' He held up his hands again. 'With hindsight, I screwed up.'

'And the hotel has always been losing money?' asked Nightingale.

'I think things got worse about six months ago,' said Mr Stokes.

'About the time that Mr Dunbar put it up for sale,' said Mrs Stokes, glaring at her husband.

Before Mr Stokes could respond, Nightingale raised a hand, hoping to cut short any argument. 'So what exactly is it you want me to do?' he asked.

'First of all, get the website to take down its comments,' said Mr Stokes. 'We've tried emailing the website but no one will reply.'

'Have you tried setting a lawyer on them?' asked Jenny. 'If the website is libelling your hotel, you could sue them.'

'We spoke to our solicitor,' said Mrs Stokes. 'He says that we have to prove it's not true. But how do we prove there isn't a vampire in the hotel? It's ridiculous. But it's there on this bloody website for everyone to see.'

'Have you talked to the police?'

'About what?' asked Mr Stokes.

'To confirm that there have actually been deaths at the hotel. And that they were simple suicides.'

'They say that suicide isn't a crime so they are not bound to tell us if there have been suicides at the hotel,' said Mr Stokes. 'Here's what we need, Mr Nightingale. We need you to find out if it's true that there have been a spate of suicides at The Weeping Willow. If so, we need to know what we should do to put a stop to it. And we need you to get this website to take down the rubbish that's there. Can you do that?'

Nightingale smiled and nodded confidently. 'I don't see why not,' he said.

* * *

Detective Sergeant James Gracie was a dour Scotsman in his fifties with a greying beard and a bored expression that suggested there were a dozen things he'd rather be doing than standing in a bar with Nightingale. They were in a small pub a short walk from the John Street police station in Brighton. It was lunchtime, the only time that Gracie said that he had time to spare. The price of the meeting was fair enough – a double whisky and a ham sandwich, which Nightingale had ordered along with a bottle of Corona and a sausage roll for himself. 'I really appreciate this,' said Nightingale as they carried their food and drinks over to a corner table by a fruit machine.

Gracie shrugged. 'Colin Duggan vouched for you, grumpy old bastard that he is. Not sure how much I can tell you, though.' He sat down and looked at his watch. 'I've got to be back in the factory by one. Health and safety briefing followed by a diversity awareness survey. It's all go in the modern world of policing.'

'How long have you been in the job?' asked Nightingale.

'Coming up for thirty years,' said Gracie. 'Retirement beckons.'

'Got any plans?'

'I'm not going to be a private eye, that's for sure,' said the detective. He sipped his whisky. 'I'm planning to sail around the world.'

'Seriously?'

'Biggest regret of my life is that I didn't join the merchant navy. Always been a keen sailor and that's the plan, take my boat around the world.'

'Good luck with that,' said Nightingale. 'I get seasick walking over Tower Bridge.' He raised his bottle of Corona in salute and took a long drink before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 'There have been six deaths in The Weeping Willow Hotel, right?'

Gracie nodded as he picked up his sandwich.

'All suicides?'

'Yeah.' The detective took a big bite and chewed contentedly.

'That's a bit unusual, isn't it?'

Gracie swallowed and took another sip of whisky. 'Six in ten years? Not really. I mean, it's quite a few considering it's a small hotel, but I wouldn't say it's that unusual,' He sipped his beer. 'A lot of people choose to end it in hotels, you know that?'

Nightingale shook his head. 'I didn't.'

'Well it's true. Not the cries for help. They do it where there are people so that they can be talked out of it. But the ones who are really committed will often go to a hotel to do it. Smarter ones, anyway. The stupid ones will throw themselves under a train or step in front of a bus. But your average middle class suicide, he or she knows what's involved. You were in the job, you know what death smells like.' Nightingale nodded. Yeah, he knew. It wasn't a smell you ever forgot. The sphincters opened on death and bodily fluids and faeces made their own way out, then the insects would arrive and the body's own bacteria would start the decomposition process. Nightingale shuddered. 'There's a mess, with every suicide,' said Gracie. 'So if you know that and if you've got money, it makes sense to do the dirty deed in a hotel where someone else gets to clear up the mess. You book into a suite, have a bottle of champagne to wash the tablets down, maybe put on a porn movie.'

Nightingale grinned. 'Sounds like you've thought about it.'

Gracie pulled a face. 'Jack, if I had a terminal disease, I wouldn't let it eat me alive. My old man died of bowel cancer and it wasn't pleasant. If it happened to me, yeah, I'd choose the hotel route. There isn't a big hotel that doesn't get at least one suicide a year,' he said. 'The big posh London ones probably get one a month. No one talks about it, obviously. But it happens.'

'So you're saying The Weeping Willow isn't unusual?'

Gracie grimaced. 'I wouldn't say that. It's a smallish hotel and not that well known. But maybe word gets around.'

'What, that The Weeping Willow is a great place to end it all?'

'Hey, I'm just thinking out loud,' said the detective. 'It's less than one a year.' He took another bite of his sandwich.

'And what sort of suicides were they?'

The detective frowned. He swallowed. 'What do you mean?'

'Hanging, tablets, wrists?'

'Wrists. All wrists. In the bath.'

'Doesn't that seem a bit coincidental?'

'The fact they all cut their wrists?' He shrugged. 'Not really. A lot of people end it that way. Especially now it's harder to get the tablets.'

Nightingale took a long pull on his bottle of Corona. 'And what about the wife who killed herself? One of the owners?'

Gracie nodded. 'Yeah, I was actually on that night. Mrs Dunbar. Slit her wrists in a hot bath, bled out within minutes.'

'And nothing suspicious at all?'

'There were only five people in the hotel at the time. One guest, the night manager, the chef and a waitress. And her husband, of course. He was the one who found the body.'

'And nothing to suggest that there was anything untoward?'

'Untoward?'

'You know what I mean,' said Nightingale. 'Arguments with the husband, a guest on the sexual offenders register, a pissed-off member of staff?'

The detective shook his head. 'It was suicide, Jack. The razor was still in her hand.'

'What sort of razor?'

Gracie sighed. 'You're bloody persistent aren't you?' He finished his whisky and handed the empty glass to Nightingale. 'The least you can do is get me a refill.'

Nightingale went to the bar and returned with a fresh Corona and a double Scotch for the detective just as he was finishing his sandwich. 'I'm too long in the tooth to mistake a murder for a suicide, Jack,' said Gracie, brushing crumbs from his beard.

'I wasn't teaching you to suck eggs, James. Cross my heart. I was just asking. Razor blade? Straight razor? Kitchen knife?'

'Straight razor. Her husband liked a wet shave and wasn't a fan of disposable razors.'

'And there was no question of cause of death? The reason I ask is that he sold the place not long afterwards, right?'

'He'd spoken to the estate agent before she topped herself. They both did. We spoke to the estate agent, before you ask. He said there was no friction between them, other than the normal husband-wife stuff that we all go through. You married?'

Nightingale shook his head. 'And you don't think he decided to keep all the money for himself?'

'I saw Mr Dunbar within two hours of his wife dying and believe me, he was distraught. And he was having a drink with the chef when it happened. And the door was locked from the inside. They had to kick it in.'

'They being....?'

'The husband and the chef.'

'Locked or bolted?'

Gracie shook his head and took another sip of his whisky. 'You're bloody persistent, aren't you? Bolted.'

'Bolts can be slipped. Piece of dental floss and Robert's your mother's brother.'

Gracie frowned. 'Were you like this in the job?'

Nightingale laughed. 'No, not usually.'

'Mrs Dunbar killed herself.' He put up his hand. 'And before you ask, no, she didn't leave a note. But her doctor had prescribed anti-depressants.'

'Because?'

'Because she was depressed. Are you soft?'

Nightingale sighed. 'I meant what was she depressed about. Obviously.'

'The hotel was losing money. That's why they wanted to sell it.'

Nightingale sat back in his chair and pushed the slice of lemon down the neck of the Corona bottle. 'The other suicides. Were they cutters?'

The detective nodded.

'And you don't think that was a coincidence?'

'How could it be anything but? The alternative is what? A serial killer who makes it look as if his victims all killed themselves.'

'You've got to admit, it is possible.'

'In a Jeffrey Deaver novel maybe. But not in the real world.'

'And no connection between the victims?'

Gracie shook his head. 'Other than Mrs Dunbar they were all guests.'

'Sex?'

'No thanks, Jack. The ham sandwich and whisky is good enough for me.' He laughed at his own joke. 'All women,' he said. 'And before you ask, no that's not significant. Women tend to cut and take tablets, men tend to crash their cars or jump in front of trains.'

'Any of them leave a note?'

Gracie shook his head again. 'No, but you must know that most suicides don't leave notes.'

Nightingale wrinkled his nose and drank from his bottle. 'You don't happen to know which rooms they died in?'

'Mrs Dunbar was in Room 6, I know that. But I wasn't involved in the other cases. I can find out for you.'

'Nah, it's okay, I'm heading over there after this. I'll ask the new owner.'

Gracie raised his glass. 'Any problems, give me a call,' he said.

* * *

The Weeping Willow Hotel was about a hundred yards from Brighton Pier in a side road that ran at ninety degrees to the beach. It had been formed by knocking together two terraced houses and adding a main entrance. There was a sign in the window that said 'VACANCIES'. Nightingale pushed open the door and a bell tinkled. There was a small reception desk to the left and to the right a large staircase that ran around a chandelier with a couple of dozen electric candles in it.

Nightingale heard a door open and then Mr Stokes appeared behind the reception desk. 'Ah, Mr Nightingale,' he said.

'Are you okay to show me around?' asked Nightingale.

'It's not as if I have anything else to do,' said Mr Stokes. 'We don't have any guests.' He pointed at a rack of keys behind the desk. There were twelve room numbers and each had a brass key on an oblong key ring hanging underneath it.

'Mrs Dunbar killed herself in Room 6, right?'

'How do you know that?' asked Mr Stokes.

'I spoke to one of the cops who dealt with the case.'

'I didn't know it was Room 6.'

'How about we start with that room?' asked Nightingale.

Mr Stokes nodded and took the key. 'It's the Oriental Room,' he said. 'All the rooms have themes.'

'Was that your idea?'

Mr Stokes shook his head. 'I think it was done when the building was originally converted. Thirty years ago. It's been redecorated, obviously, but the themes haven't changed. There's a French room, a Spanish room, each has its own theme.'

Nightingale followed Mr Stokes up the stairs and down a landing. There was a small brass number 6 on the door. Mr Stokes unlocked it and ushered Nightingale inside. There was a double bed and above it a large picture of a dragon in a gilt frame. There was a Japanese-style cabinet housing a television and the carpet had a scattering of what looked like Chinese characters. There was a door to the left leading to a bathroom with a roll-top bath with feet made of dragon's heads and a large brass mixer tap where the water flowed out of a dragon's mouth.

'Unusual,' said Nightingale.

'The bath was imported,' said Mr Stokes. 'That's what Mr Dunbar told us.'

'He imported it?'

Mr Stokes shook his head. 'One of previous owners did that, I think. He did up all the rooms, spent a fortune on it, according to Mr Dunbar.'

Nightingale went over to the main window and looked out across the beach to the sea. Off to the right was the pier. Seagulls wheeled overhead, screaming at each other. 'And the previous owner was?'

'A chap called McDermid. Bit of a traveller. Used to work for an oil company all over the Far East. Came back here and converted the two buildings into a hotel.'

'How long ago?'

Mr Stokes frowned. 'Twenty years ago, I think. Maybe more.'

'And this Mr McDermid sold it to Mr Dunbar?'

'No, there were several owners in between.' He looked pained and shook his head. 'I know, the fact that it kept changing hands should have let me know that something was wrong, but I just fell in love with the place. '

The floor and walls were tiled with marble and there were several black candles with gold dragons on them.

'Do you know which rooms the other guests died in?' asked Nightingale.

'I never asked,' said Mr Stokes. 'I'd rather not know, to be honest. We only found out about the suicides when one of the neighbours dropped in for a drink. She asked us if we knew what had happened to Mrs Dunbar and when we said we didn't she gave us the whole story. My wife did ring up the police to confirm that there had been a number of suicides but they said they couldn't give us any information. But our neighbour's been here for years and she told us there had been six deaths in all.'

'Yeah, that's what I'm told. Six deaths, all women, and they all cut their wrists in the bath.'

'The cops will tell you but not me, even though I own the place? Why's that?'

'It's a data protection thing, I think.'

'It's bloody ridiculous,' said Mr Stokes.

Nightingale took out his mobile phone. 'No argument here.' He called Gracie. 'Hi, Jim, the owner isn't sure which rooms the suicides were in,' he said. 'Can you do me a favour and point us in the right direction.'

'Give me a minute,' said Gracie. 'I'll check the files and send you a text.'

Nightingale put the phone away. 'He'll get back to me,' he said. 'This is a nice room, isn't it?'

'They all are,' said Mr Stokes. 'Mr McDermid spent a lot of money on them.'

'Any idea where he is?'

Mr Stokes shook his head. 'There are some filing cabinets in the attic. Papers and stuff that he left. We haven't had time to go through them yet. Why are you asking about McDermid?'

'He spent a lot of money developing The Weeping Willow, I'd be interested to know why he sold it, that's all.'

'I'm happy enough to let you go through the files,' said Mr Stokes. 'Or I could do it. It's not as if I'm busy with anything else.'

'Still no guests?'

'And no bookings. And now we're getting shitty reviews on Tripadvisor website.' He shrugged. 'I'll be honest Mr Nightingale. If you don't sort this out the wife and I will lose everything.'

'Don't worry,' said Nightingale. 'My assistant is on the case as we speak. Once we've tracked down who's behind that website, I'll go and speak to him.'

Mr Stokes forced a smile. 'I hope so,' he said. 'Because believe me, I'm at my wit's end.'

* * *

Jenny looked up from her computer screen when Nightingale walked into his office with a bag containing two Starbucks muffins. 'Chocolate or banana?' he said.

'I'm easy.'

'So I heard, but what sort of muffin do you want?'

'Chocolate,' she said.

'Good choice.' He took out the banana muffin and handed her the bag before sitting on the edge of the desk. 'So what's the story?'

Jenny tapped on her keyboard and the Haunted Brighton website filled her screen. There was a scene of the famous pier with a spooky cartoon ghost over it.

'That's it?' said Nightingale. 'Looks like a spoof.'

'It's light-hearted, sure. Talks about all the haunted houses that have been reported, ghosts, ghoulies, things that go bump in the night.' She clicked her mouse and a photograph of The Weeping Willow Hotel appeared, taken at night with a full moon behind it. 'It says there's a Japanese demon haunting the hotel and that it has killed six people over the past few years.'

'A Japanese demon? How do you fight them? Wasabi and holy saki.' He popped a chunk of muffin into his mouth.

'The website doesn't go into details. It just says that there's a Japanese demon killing people.' She grinned. 'I know, it sounds stupid.'

'It doesn't mention suicides?'

She shook her head. 'There's very little detail about the deaths, but it definitely doesn't say suicide. Just that the hotel is haunted by a bloodthirsty Japanese demon.'

'Ridiculous, right?'

'Of course. But it's been picked up by several other websites and review sites. I can see why they're having trouble getting guests.'

'And who runs the site?'

'I've come up with a name and an address. Timothy Waites. He seems to have literally hundreds of websites. All generating advertising through Google and sponsored links. I've been running all the URLs through WHOIS. Most of the sites are done through proxies but I found an early one that gave me a name and address. Waites lives in Croydon. No phone number or email address.' Nightingale opened his mouth but she silenced him with a wave of her hand. 'Yes, I'll run you down, so long as you pay me the mileage and buy me lunch. When are you going to junk that MGB?'

'It's a classic,' said Nightingale, taking the last piece of banana muffin and popping it into his mouth.

'It's a rust bucket,' said Jenny. 'The soft top leaks when it rains and it's always breaking down.' She looked at her watch. 'We've got nothing in the diary, we could take a run down now and be back before the school runs clog up the roads.'

Nightingale pulled out his pack of Marlboro and got to his feet.

'And no smoking in the car,' she said.

'I'll leave the window open.'

Jenny pointed a warning finger at his face. 'If I'm driving you the Audi counts as my workplace which means it's against the law to smoke.'

Nightingale grinned and put the cigarettes away. 'Yes, miss.' His grin widened. 'I love it when you get all stern with me.'

'Yeah, well all joking apart, smoking kills. So does second-hand smoking.'

'Here's a statistic for you. About one third of people get cancer. One in three. And one in four people die from it. But seventy five per cent of smokers don't get cancer. So it looks to me as if cigarettes make little or no difference to whether you get cancer or not. In fact, the statistics tell me that smoking gives me a seventy-five per cent chance of not getting cancer, which I reckon are pretty good odds.'

Jenny sighed and picked up her bag. 'Maths was never your best subject, was it?'

'Too many numbers,' said Nightingale, following her out of the office. 'I was always happier with a good book.'

'Really? I always imagined you behind the bike sheds, smoking.'

* * *

Thomas Waites lived in a small terraced house on the outskirts of Croydon, not far from East Croydon railway station. As Jenny and Nightingale climbed out of the Audi they heard a train rattle by. There was a Crystal Palace football scarf draped across one of the upstairs windows. There was a small plastic doorbell to the right of the front door and Nightingale pressed it. An unrecognisable tune started playing somewhere at the back of the house. He was about to press it a second time when he heard the rattle of a lock and the door opened. A big, bearded man appeared, screwing up his eyes as he peered out. 'What do you want?' he growled. As soon as he opened his mouth, Nightingale was assailed by the smell of booze and curry.

'Mr Waites?'

The man screwed up his eyes even more as if he was having trouble focussing. 'Yes?' He was wearing a Chelsea football shirt and black Adidas tracksuit bottoms, but Nightingale was fairly sure it had been decades since Mr Waites had partaken of any sporting activity.

'I wanted a word about your websites,' said Nightingale.

The man rubbed the bridge of his nose, belched, and then looked down at Jenny. 'You Mormons?' he asked.

'No, we're not Mormons,' said Jenny.

'I hate Mormons,' said the man.

'I'm not exactly partial to them myself,' said Jenny.

'You're Tim Waites?' asked Nightingale. His phone beeped to tell him that he'd received a text message, but he ignored it.

'Always have been,' said the man. 'What do you want? I don't need double-glazing.'

'We looked you up on WHOIS,' explained Jenny.

'WHOIS?" repeated the man.

'It tells you who owns a particular domain. And you own a lot, don't you?'

The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand. 'I've no idea what you're talking about,' he said, and sniffed.

'Domains. You've got loads of them,' said Nightingale.

'Domains?' repeated the man. He rubbed the back of his neck as he frowned up at Nightingale. 'What the hell is a domain?'

'A website,' said Jenny. 'We want to talk to you about The Haunted Brighton website.'

Realisation dawned and the man nodded. 'Why didn't you say so? You want Timmy.'

'Timmy?'

'My son. He's upstairs. In his bedroom.' He narrowed his eyes as he looked at Jenny. 'It's not porn is it? This website? I keep telling him not to get involved with porn. Porn's trouble.'

'No, it's not porn,' said Jenny. 'Can we go up and speak to him?'

The man held the door open wide and gestured at the stairs. 'Suit yourself,' he said. 'I doubt you'll get much out of him. It's been years since I got more than a grunt from him.'

The smell of stale curry and beer was almost overpowering as Jenny and Nightingale walked past Mr Waites and into the hallway.

'Top of the stairs, turn left,' said Mr Waites as he closed the front door.

'Ladies first,' said Nightingale.

'Age before beauty,' said Jenny, motioning for him to go up first.

Nightingale headed up the stairs. Halfway up there was a framed picture of Jesus. The figure's coal-black eyes seemed to follow him as he went by.

The door to Timmy's bedroom was closed. Nightingale knocked and when there was no reply he knocked again. When there was still no answer, he reached for the door knob and gently eased the door open. Timmy was sitting in a high-backed chair facing three flat screens that were filled with websites, more than two dozen overlapping pages. 'Timmy?' said Nightingale. 'Can we have a word with you?'

There was no answer, just the click-click-click of Timmy's fingers playing over his keyboard. The walls of the room were plastered with posters, most of which showed pneumatic blondes in various states of undress. There were used fast food containers all around the room, and dozens of empty soft drink cans, most of them with high caffeine content.

'Timmy?' Nightingale walked around the chair and realised that the boy was wearing a pair of bright red over-the-ear headphones, bobbing his head in time to music that only he could hear. He jumped when Nightingale put a hand on his shoulder.

'Who are you?' he shouted. 'What are you doing in my room?'

Nightingale pointed at Timmy's headphones. Timmy took them off. 'Who are you and what are you doing in my room?' he repeated at normal volume.

'Jack Nightingale. I'm a private detective.'

'And I'm Jenny, his pretty young assistant.'

Timmy put his headphones on the desk and squinted at Jenny. 'You drive him around and do martial arts and stuff?' he asked.

'Pretty much,' said Jenny. She nodded at his computers. 'That's some amazing kit you've got there.'

Timmy shrugged but his cheeks reddened. 'It does the job,' he said.

Nightingale pushed a couple of sweat-stained t-shirts and an old pizza box off a chair and sat down. It was clear that Timmy was happier talking to Jenny so he figured he might as well take a back seat and just listen.

'You've got a nice little business here, haven't you,' said Jenny, nodding appreciatively. 'I bet the advertising money builds up nicely.'

'I got more than ten grand last month,' said Timmy, his eyes still on the middle screen. 'That's dollars, mind. Not pounds.'

'There's not many kids your age earning that sort of money,' said Jenny. 'What are you? Nineteen?'

'Sixteen,' said Timmy. 'Seventeen next month.'

'You're a regular entrepreneur,' said Jenny. 'It's a smart business. You set up loads of websites, force traffic to them and make money from click-throughs. But tell me, where do you get your content from?'

Timmy waved at the screens. 'It's all out there somewhere. I just cut and past most of the time. If it's something special I have freelance writers I can use to put stuff together.'

'What about copyright?' asked Jenny.

'There's no copyright on the internet,' said Timmy dismissively. 'Once it's out there, anyone can use it.'

'I'm not sure that's true,' said Jenny. 'Can you do me a favour and pull up the Haunted Brighton website?'

'Sure,' said Timmy, and his fingers played over the keyboard. A website flashed up on the right-hand screen. The main page was a picture of the pier with a cartoon ghost superimposed on it.

'And have a look at the article on The Weeping Willow Hotel.'

'Weeping Willow?' repeated Timmy as his fingers tapped on the keys. A picture of the hotel flashed up and Timmy read the accompanying article.

'You remember doing that page?' asked Jenny.

Timmy shook his head. 'I do hundreds of pages a day,' he said.

'Can you remember where you got that article from?' asked Jenny. 'The background, where you talk about the vampire.'

Timmy frowned. 'Vampire?' He scanned the text. 'It doesn't say vampire. It says demon.'

'Okay, demon then. Can you remember where the information came from?'

'Not off hand, but I can soon find out,' said Timmy. His hands played across the keyboard and various pages flashed across his left-hand screen, probably a dozen or so until he pointed at one and chuckled. 'Yeah, that was well-hidden, that was,' he said. 'Found it on a password-protected website. Some organisation called the Order Of Nine Angels.'

Nightingale's head jerked up. 'What did you say?'

'The Order Of Nine Angels,' said Timmy, still reading what was on the screen. 'Bunch of nutters but they have some good stuff tucked away.'

Nightingale went to stand behind the teenager. 'And you hacked their site and just what, downloaded the stuff on it?'

'Downloaded it and then gave it to a freelance to polish it, turn it more tabloid.'

'Timmy, you need to watch yourself,' said Nightingale. 'What you're doing, it's dangerous.'

'They won't know it's me, I do it all through overseas proxies.'

'Yes, but you're down as the owner of the Hauntings website. It won't take much to put two and two together.'

'What if they do? What are they going to do? I'm just a kid.'

'They won't sue you, Timmy,' said Nightingale. He took out his pack of cigarettes but put them away when Jenny flashed him a withering look. 'Look, it's not Nine Angels. It's Nine Angles. And they're not just a bunch of nutters. A bunch of very dangerous nutters. You need to watch yourself with them.'

Timmy sat back and ran his hands through his greasy hair. 'That doesn't make any sense,' he said. 'They're devil-worshippers, right? So Nine Angels. Fallen Angels, I guess.'

Nightingale shook his head. 'Nine Angles. They have a symbol that has nine points on it. Nine angles. It's a common mistake. But the name is neither here nor there. They're a dangerous group, Timmy. You need to be careful.'

'All I did was lift some stuff from their website. It's not as if I said where it came from.'

'Can you show me?'

'Sure. Last time I checked they hadn't even changed their password.' He tapped away on his keyboard, his face moving closer to the centre screen. It went black and then a small white nine-pointed star appeared, slowly rotating within a circle.

'That's the nine angle thing,' said Nightingale.

'Looks weird, like a pentagram but squished,' said Timmy. 'What's it mean?'

'I don't know,' said Nightingale. 'Most of what they do is a closely guarded secret. That's why I'm surprised that they have a website.'

'This isn't for public consumption,' said Timmy, his fingers moving again. 'This is just a portal. No one gets beyond this page without a password. And if you get the password wrong three times the portal moves to a different URL. But if you get the password right you have access to all sorts of information, most of it really spooky stuff.'

'How did you hack it?' asked Jenny.

Timmy grinned and tapped the side of his nose. 'That's top secret,' he said. 'I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.'

'You see, Timmy, that's not funny. Satanists generally are bad news but the Order Of Nine Angles are seriously dangerous. They do human sacrifice and all sorts of nasty stuff.'

'Take a chill pill,' said Timmy. 'They can't trace me. So far as they know I'm coming at them from an industrial estate in Kiev.' He sat back and tapped the 'ENTER' key. 'Here we go.'

The logo stopped rotating, then slowly grew in size until it filled the screen. Then it began to flash quickly. Timmy frowned. 'That's funny, it didn't do this last time.'

'What's happening?' asked Jenny, walking over to stand behind him.

As she put a hand on the back of his chair, all three of the screens went suddenly blank.

'Shit,' said Timmy.

Nightingale hurried over. 'What?' he said.

The screens all went white, and then they were filled with rows and rows of numbers that flashed across the screen so quickly that they became a blur.

Timmy's fingers began to pound on the keyboard as he muttered 'bastards, bastards, bastards,' under his breath.

''Timmy?' said Jenny, touching him on the shoulder.

Timmy ignored her and continued to bash at the keys. The left hand screen started flashing, white, black, white, black, as rows of numbers continued to scroll across the two other screens.

'Shit!' shouted Timmy. He leapt out of his chair, ran around behind the screens and began pulling plugs out a trailing socket. One by one the screens went blank. Timmy sat on the floor with his back against the wall, his head in his hands.

'What just happened?' asked Nightingale.

Timmy looked up at him. 'Some bastard just got to my server and I think they managed to get into my hard disc.'

'I thought you used proxies.'

'I did. Several. What they did shouldn't be possible but they did.' He banged his head against the wall. 'I'm going to have to delete all my drives, the works. Everything.'

'To be fair, I did warn you,' said Nightingale. 'Do you think they'll know where you are?'

Timmy shook his head. 'That's impossible,' he said. 'They might get my IP address but that won't do them any good. I change that every hour.'

'You be careful, Timmy,' said Nightingale.

'I'll be okay,' said the teenager.

'The last time you went to the Nine Angles site, did you make copies of what was there?'

'Some, sure.'

'Can you do me a favour and let me have a look at what you saw?'

Timmy shook his head fiercely. 'Didn't you hear what I just said? They got into my server.'

'Sure, but you can access your hard drive without going online,' said Jenny. 'Just dump what you have on a thumb drive and we'll get out of your hair.'

Timmy opened his mouth as if was about to refuse, but Jenny pre-empted him with a smile. 'Pretty please,' she said.

'Okay, okay,' said Timmy. He switched on one of his computers, inserted a grey thumb drive and tapped away on his keyboard. He rocked back and forth impatiently as the files downloaded, then switched off the computer, pulled out the thumb drive and handed it to Jenny.

'You're a star, Timmy,' she said. 'Now I hate to ask, but can you do me one other favour?'

'My equipment has just been totally screwed and you want a favour?'

'Yeah. Sorry about that,' said Jenny. 'But look, we'd be really grateful. And I could give you some interesting stories for your websites. I look after Jack's site and I'd be happy to send case details on to you.'

Timmy sighed. 'What do you want?'

'That information about the deaths at The Weeping Willow, can you take them off the site?' asked Jenny.

'Ah come on, it's good stuff,' said Timmy.

'Can you maybe just take the name of the hotel down? Leave the details there but just don't mention the name. It's really hurting our clients. They can't get anyone to stay there because as soon as they Google the hotel your site comes up.'

Timmy grinned. 'That's because of all the SEO work I put in.'

'And you do a great job,' said Jenny. 'But please, Timmy, can you just drop the name?'

'I tell you what,' said Timmy. 'I will, if you give me a kiss.'

'A what?'

'A kiss,' said Timmy. He tapped his cheek. 'Just here.'

Nightingale grinned but stopped when Jenny flashed him an angry look.

'Are you serious?' asked Jenny.

'It's up to you,' said Timmy, leaning back in his chair.

Jenny looked at Nightingale and Nightingale grinned again. 'It'd be for the greater good,' he said.

Jenny wagged a finger at Timmy. 'Only on the cheek, right?'

'Sure,' said Timmy. He turned his head and presented his left cheek to her. Jenny sighed and leaned forward to plant a kiss, but just as she got close Timmy turned and kissed her on the lips.

Jenny jumped back with a yelp as Timmy laughed. 'Got you!' he said.

Jenny looked over at Nightingale for support but he just grinned. 'I sort of saw that coming,' he said.

Jenny wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. 'You'd better keep your promise,' she said to Timmy.

'My word is my bond,' said Timmy, and his fingers tapped away at the keyboard.

Nightingale and Jenny let themselves out of the house. Nightingale checked his phone as they walked back to the Audi. The text message was from Gracie. 'That's interesting,' he said.

'What is?'

'All the suicides were in the same room,' he said. 'Room Six.'

'That's not good, is it?'

'No,' agreed Nightingale. 'It's not. How do you feel about a run down to Brighton?'

Jenny shrugged. 'If you pay my petrol and buy me dinner, I could be persuaded.'

'KFC?'

Jenny shook her head. 'I'll be insisting on a knife and fork, at the very least.'

* * *

Mrs Stokes was at the reception desk when Nightingale and Jenny walked into The Weeping Willow Hotel. 'Good news,' said Nightingale. 'The man behind the website has agreed to take down the story.'

Mrs Stokes beamed. 'Really?'

Nightingale nodded. 'We explained the situation to him and he said he would.'

'The pages might stay up on various caches for a while,' warned Jenny. 'But it'll all disappear eventually.'

'I can't thank you enough,' said Mrs Stokes. 'Seriously, that's the best news I've had all year. My husband will be delighted, and of course you must send us your bill. I have to say, it'll be one bill that'd I'll take pleasure in paying.'

'Is Mr Stokes around?'

Mrs Stokes shook her head. 'He's down at the cash and carry. He'll be an hour or so. Why, is there something wrong?'

'Nothing wrong,' said Nightingale. 'It's just that he mentioned there were some records in the attic.'

'From the previous owner,' she said. 'They're in filing cabinets. We're keeping them in case there's a problem with the taxman.'

'Could we go up and have a look?' asked Nightingale.

Mrs Stokes frowned. 'Is there a problem?'

Nightingale flashed her a reassuring smile. 'No, not at all. We're just interested in checking the receipts for the refurbishment.'

'Why?'

'There might be something significant in the bath that was installed in Room 6,' said Nightingale, but he could see from the look on the woman's face that his explanations were making her even more nervous. 'Really, it's nothing, I just want to find out where it came from.'

'To be honest, Mrs Stokes, I wouldn't mind ordering one myself,' said Jenny. 'It's lovely, and I've never seen one like it before.'

The lie seemed to make Mrs Stokes happier so Nightingale went along with it and nodded enthusiastically. 'It shouldn't take too long,' he said.

'It's a mess up there,' she warned.

'Not a problem,' Nightingale reassured her.

'Just go to the top floor and there's a pole against the wall you use to pull the ladder down,' said Mrs Stokes.

Nightingale and Jenny walked up to the top floor. The pole was where Mrs Stokes had said and Nightingale used it to grab a small ring in a wooden door set into the ceiling. He twisted and pulled and the trapdoor opened and a set of aluminium steps folded out. Nightingale went up first. There was a light switch in the wall to his left and he clicked it on before stepping off the ladder onto the bare wooden boards of the attic.

'What's it look like?' asked Jenny.

'A couple of vampires and a zombie or two,' said Nightingale. 'But I think I can take them.'

Jenny climbed the steps and joined him. The attic was filled with cardboard boxes, old mattresses and battered furniture. At the far end was a line of rusting green filing cabinets. The wooden boards squeaked and groaned as they walked around the stacks of boxes and unwanted furniture. 'At least they're dated,' said Jenny, pointing at small cardboard signs affixed to each drawer. 'We can assume the refurbishment was done in the first year, right?'

'Good call,' said Nightingale. The earliest year he could see was 1994 and he pulled it open. Inside were twelve pale blue files, each labelled with the month of the year. He took out January for himself and handed February to Jenny. 'Race you,' he said.

It was Jenny who found the receipts for the Japanese room, twenty minutes after they started their search. There were half a dozen receipts from companies in Japan including one, in Japanese, from an antiques shop in Tokyo. 'This is it,' she said, taking the receipt over to the single light bulb hanging from the roof.

Nightingale peered over her shoulder. 'You can read Japanese?' he asked.

'Some,' she said. 'This is for an antique roll-top bath. Believed to be from the eighteenth-century.' She frowned. 'That's strange.'

'What's strange?'

'The price. Two hundred thousand yen.'

'That's a lot?'

'No, that's not a lot. Just over a hundred pounds. That's cheap for an antique, don't you think?'

Nightingale took the receipt from her. 'Not if somebody was trying to get rid of it,' he said. 'And what better way of getting rid of it than selling it to someone on the other side of the world?'

* * *

Nightingale carried a cup of coffee over to Jenny's desk and put it down in front of her. She was frowning and squinting at her computer screen. 'What's wrong?' he asked.

She sat back and folded her arms. 'That thumb-drive that Timmy gave us. It's blank.'

'Do you think he's messing us around?'

She shook her head. 'I don't think so. He kept his word and took down any mention of the hotel. And we saw him put the files on the thumb-drive.' She frowned. 'It's as if something got onto the thumb-drive and deleted the files.'

'The Order of Nine Angles?'

'I can't think of anyone else, can you?' She picked up her mug of coffee and took a sip.

'So how are we going to get information on Japanese vampires?' Nightingale asked.

'Why do we need information? Just tell them to redecorate.'

'What, you think the vampire's connected to the bath?'

'Isn't it obvious? The bath's from Japan and so's the vampire.'

'But getting rid of the bath doesn't necessarily mean the haunting's going to end, does it?' said Nightingale. 'I'd just like a better understanding of what we're dealing with. I was hoping the thumb-drive would help, but clearly not.'

'There isn't much on the internet, either,' said Jenny. 'Why don't we go down to Aoki Sushi and talk to Mr Aoki?'

Aoki Sushi, close to Queensway Tube station, was one of Nightingale's favourite restaurants. The owner, Mr Aoki, was a small, bald man with a slight stoop from years leaning over his sushi counter. Mr Aoki took great pleasure in introducing Jenny and Nightingale to new tastes and sensations, from raw sea urchin to the infamous fugu puffer fish, which can be deadly if not prepared absolutely correctly. Jenny had introduced Nightingale to the restaurant and at first he'd been reluctant to eat raw fish, but Mr Aoki had won him over and now he visited at least once a month, usually with Jenny, 'Because he's Japanese?'

'Of course because he's Japanese. He knows a lot about Japanese folklore and history.'

'I didn't know that.'

'We were probably speaking in Japanese,' said Jenny.

'How many languages do you speak?'

'My Japanese is pretty basic,' said Jenny. She looked at her watch. 'Why don't we close up early and get there before his evening rush?'

When they arrived at the restaurant, there was a group of Japanese businessmen in a booth toasting each other loudly with beakers of saki. They were all in their thirties with their jackets off, shirt sleeves rolled up and ties askew and looked as if they were there for the night.

There was a line of eight empty stools in front of the sushi bar where Mr Aoki spent most of his time. Nightingale and Jenny sat down at one end. Mr Aoki was slicing tuna and he grinned when he looked up and spotted Jenny. He was in his fifties, squat and totally bald with a head that was pretty much spherical. They immediately began chatting away in Japanese, and it was clear that her proficiency in the language was way above basic. The restaurant stocked Corona and Nightingale ordered a bottle for himself and saki for Jenny. Jenny and Mr Aoki continued to chat in Japanese as he busied himself slicing raw salmon and tuna. He placed a dish of the succulent sashimi in front of them and waved for them to try. 'Flown in from Japan this morning,' he said proudly.

'Flying fish, how great is that?' said Nightingale, picking up a pair of chopsticks.

Mr Aoki frowned, not understanding the joke. 'It's not flying fish,' he said. 'Salmon and tuna. Top grade. Best in the world.'

Nightingale picked up a piece of tuna and popped it into his mouth. Mr Aoki was right, it was superb and virtually melted in his mouth. 'Delicious,' he said, and Mr Aoki beamed. He picked up a slab of grey fish and began expertly cutting it into oblongs as Jenny spoke to him in Japanese. The waitress returned with their drinks and they both toasted the sushi chef.

Mr Aiko put sushi hand rolls down in front of them. 'Jenny-chan tells me you are interested in the Gaki,' he said.

'I'm fine with any fish you put in front of me,' said Nightingale. 'I love your sashimi and sushi, you know that.'

Mr Aoki said something to Jenny in Japanese and they both laughed.

'The Gaki is the Japanese vampire,' explained Jenny.

'Not so much a vampire, more a corporeal ghost,' said Mr Aoki. 'A Gaki is a spirit that lived badly and failed to repent before death. It wanders around for eternity, cursed with a blood lust that is never satisfied.'

'And they attack people?" asked Nightingale.

Mr Aoki nodded. 'Some feed on blood, others on flesh. They are shape-shifters and can take many forms. Some eat samurai topknots, for instance. Other feed on sweat. Or incense. But blood is usually what they are after.'

A waitress came over with a written order and she handed it to Mr Aoki. He grunted and reached for a purple and white octopus tentacle.

'And if it is a Gaki, how do we go about killing it?' asked Nightingale.

'It's not easy,' said Mr Aoki, his knife poised in mid air.

'It never is,' said Nightingale.

Mr Aoki frowned. 'I don't understand.

'I was just..." Nightingale shrugged. 'In my experience, there's always a price to be paid when you take on the spirit world.'

Mr Aoki nodded. 'Let me do this and we'll go outside. I need a cigarette.' He made short work of the octopus, pushed two plates towards the waiting waitress and then nodded at a side door. 'We can smoke in the alley.'

He took Nightingale through the door, down a corridor and through a fire exit. Nightingale gave him a Marlboro and then lit a cigarette for himself. They blew smoke and the chef smiled over at Nightingale. 'You always smoke Marlboro?'

'Since I was a kid. It's a cowboy thing.'

'You wanted to be a cowboy?'

'I wanted to ride a horse. And fire a gun.' He chuckled. 'Actually, I got to do the latter.'

'The latter?'

'Fire a gun. I used to be an armed police officer. Fired all sorts of guns. Never rode a horse, though.' He took another long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke up into the night air. 'So, how do you kill a Gaki?'

Mr Aoki flicked ash away. 'It's best to simply keep it away,' he said. 'Shinto priests or Buddhist monks can perform the necessary prayers and rituals. You can leave scrolls with the image of Buddha by all the doors and windows. And outside your home, you can leave offerings of food so that it feeds outside.' He shrugged. 'If you believe in that.'

'Do you?'

Mr Aoki shook his head. 'If I had stayed in Japan then maybe. But I have lived in London for more than twenty years. So no, I don't believe in ghosts.' He blew smoke up at the ceiling.

'What else can you tell me, though?'

'Okay, well they say that when a Gaki attacks it does it in a sort of mindless frenzy. Like a bloodlust. That makes it vulnerable.'

'To what?'

'To a sword or a knife, made of silver. But you have to strike when it's in physical form. It won't defend itself because it'll be in a mindless frenzy. But the fact that it's a frenzy makes it very dangerous indeed.'

'And when does it take on physical form?'

'When it is ready to feed.'

Nightingale nodded thoughtfully. 'Okay.'

'Then, when you have killed it, you have to burn it to ashes and scatter them to the four winds.'

'That's easy enough,' said Nightingale.

The chef flicked his cigarette away. 'I have to go back to work,' he said. 'Kouun wo inorimasu. Good luck.'

* * *

Jenny frowned at Nightingale. 'Tell me again why I'm the one who has to be in the bath?' she said. She was wearing a white hotel bathrobe and had clipped up her blonde hair.

'Because the Gaki only attacks women.'

'You could do it in drag.'

'Seriously?'

'Jack, this could be dangerous.'

'I'll be outside the door, listening. At the first sign of trouble, I'll be in.'

'And you're sure this isn't just a way of you seeing me with my kit off?'

Nightingale laughed. 'It'll be fine.'

'Six women have died in that bath, I don't want to be number seven.'

'The other six didn't know what was going on,' said Nightingale. 'Forewarned is forearmed.'

Jenny took a silver knife from her pocket. They'd bought it from a stall in Portobello market. The blade was about six inches long and the hand another four. According to the hallmark, it was more than forty years old. 'Forearmed with a fish knife?'

'The type of knife doesn't matter,' said Nightingale. 'What matters is that it's silver.' He picked up a silver carving knife off the sink cabinet. 'As soon as the Gaki appears you let me know and I'll take it from behind.'

'I'm not closing the door,' she said.

'You don't have to,' said Nightingale.

'Jack, are you sure there isn't another way of doing this?'

'This is the only permanent way of ending it,' said Nightingale. 'And the Gaki only attacks women.'

'You could dress up.'

Nightingale laughed. 'In the bath?' He took out his lighter and lit half a dozen small tealight candles in circular crystal holders, then turned on the taps. Water gushed into the large roll top bath. Steam billowed from the hot tap. 'Bath salts? Bubble bath.'

'I'll do it,' said Jenny. 'You wait outside. And at the first sign of anything, I want you in here. I don't want to face it on my own.'

'I'll be right outside, I promise.'

'I'm serious, Jack.'

'So am I. It'll be fine. I promise.' Nightingale took a final look around the bathroom. The mirror above the sink had already clouded over and he drew a smiley face with his finger. 'For luck,' he said.

'I don't want to rely on luck,' she said. She slipped the knife under the bath, then frowned. 'I'm not going to be able to reach it,' she said.

'Take it in the bath with you.'

'You'll be telling me to run with scissors next.'

Nightingale picked up a white flannel from the sink and gave it to her. 'Wrap it in this.' He headed out and pulled the door closed behind him before remembering what she'd said and opened it and left it ajar. He had placed a wooden chair in the hallway and he sat down. He could hear the bath still filling and then a soft splash as Jenny slipped into the water.

* * *

Jenny wiggled her toes and sighed. The bath was the perfect size for her, and the bath salts were doing their job, relaxing her muscles and filling the air with the scent of flowers. If it wasn't for the fact that she was being used as bait for a blood-sucking Japanese vampire creature she'd have been relishing the experience. She reached down into the water with her right hand to reassure herself that the knife was still there. She looked over at the smiley face that Nightingale had drawn on the mirror. It made her smile and she took a deep breath and sighed again. There were worse places to be than a lovely warm bath. She closed her eyes and luxuriated in the warm water. There was a quiet plop as water dripped from the hot top. She reached up with her right foot and ran her big toe around the top, but withdrew it when she realised it was hot to the touch. She shrugged her shoulders. There was another plop from the big tap. And another. The plopping sound was almost hypnotic. She sighed again, but realised she was close to sleeping and opened her eyes. The room was filled with steam now, and as she looked over at the mirror she realised that the smiley face had gone. She reached for the knife and her fingers tightened on the handle.

* * *

Nightingale looked at his watch. Jenny had been in the bath for more than half an hour and he hadn't heard anything for at least five minutes. He stood up and carefully put his ear against the door. He frowned as he realised the bathroom was in total silence. He pushed open the door a few inches and peered through the gap. He could see the shower and the medicine cabinet but that was all. He pushed the door a bit more, bracing himself for a torrent of abuse from Jenny if she thought he was spying on her. He took a step forward and moved his head to the side. He could just about see the mirror above the sink and as he moved his head a bit further he saw Jenny, lying in the bath with her eyes closed. He smiled as he realised that she had fallen asleep. But the smile froze when he saw the knife in her right hand. She was holding the blade against her left wrist and his eyes widened in horror as he saw her draw it across her skin. Blood flowed around the blade and Nightingale screamed. He threw open the door and stepped into the room and only then did he realise that Jenny wasn't alone. There was a figure crouched at the end of the bath, looming over her, part human, part, animal, part fog. Most of it was black but there were streaks of red and gold, there was what looked like a hand with talons and a bulge that might have been a folded wing.

Jenny's left arm flopped over the side of the bath and blood dripped down her palm and began to plop onto the floor. The creature had legs that were covered in glistening scales and feet with hooked claws that clicked against the tiles as it shuffled around the bath towards the pooling blood. Nightingale groped in his pocket for the knife. The creature was so focussed on the dripping blood that it didn't appear to have noticed that Nightingale was in the room.

Nightingale gripped the knife tightly and thrust it into the closest thing the creature had to a neck. It was like stabbing rubber. The blade slid off the creature's skin. Nightingale cursed and lunged again, harder this time. The blade went in and yellow fluid gushed over his hand.

Something lashed out. A wing, or an arm. Whatever it was, it caught Nightingale under the chin and sent him spinning against the wall. The knife fell from his hand and clattered onto the floor. The creature moved towards him. A mouth opened and Nightingale's stomach heaved at the stench of sulphur. Something whirled towards Nightingale's head and he ducked. Tiles shattered behind him and fragments dropped down all around him. He fell to his knees and groped around for the knife but he couldn't find it.

Something smashed against the back of his neck, almost stunning him. He shook his head and then scrambled towards the bath. His eyes were watering from the stench emanating from the creature's mouth, making it difficult to see. The creature hit him again. A talon tore into his jacket, ripping the fabric apart. He felt a searing pain along his back and realised that the creature had drawn blood.

His head banged against the bath and he grunted in pain. He reached up and groped for Jenny's arm. His fingers touched her flesh and he ran them down to her hand and grabbed her knife. Talons raked his back again and he screamed. He fell to the floor, the knife in his right hand. He heard a hellish roar and as he rolled onto his back he saw the creature rearing up, more solid now. He saw a gaping maw and yellow cat-like eyes and then he was enveloped with a foul stench as it breathed over him. He could barely see through his tear-filled eyes but he saw movement as the creature lunged at him and he brought the knife up and plunged it into the left eye. The creature roared and the tiles vibrated beneath Nightingale. He gripped his right hand with his left and thrust the knife further into the eye socket. Something wet and warm gushed over his hands as the creature began to shake and shudder. It reared up and Nightingale pushed up to keep the pressure on the knife and then the creature shuddered a final time and fell onto him like a dead weight. Nightingale let go of the knife and lay where he was, gasping for breath, his throat and nose burning from the noxious last breaths of the creature he'd killed. He tried to push the body off him but it was just too heavy. Something acrid dripped across Nightingale's face and his stomach heaved. He pushed up with all his strength and used his heels to push himself from under the dead weight. He managed to get his upper body out, then freed his left leg and used his foot to push the creature away.

He staggered to his feet and leaned over the bath. Jenny's eyes were closed and blood was trickling from her wrist and dripping onto the floor. He pulled out the plug so that the water would run away and then lifted her left hand and examined the cuts. There were two, about an inch apart, and they didn't appear to be too deep. He kept her hand above her head as he looked around for something to bind her wound. He could just about reach the medicine cabinet and he pulled it open. There was a pack of plaster and a crepe bandage on one of the shelves. He knew that the crepe bandage was better suited for sprains but figured it was better than nothing so he unwrapped it and wound it around the injured wrist before he lifted her out of the bath. 'Jenny, can you hear me?' he asked, but her eyes stayed closed.

He pulled the door open with his foot and carried Jenny down the stairs. Mr and Mrs Stokes were waiting in the hall.

'What happened?' asked Mrs Stokes.

'I need to get her to the hospital,' said Nightingale.

'I'll call an ambulance,' said Mr Stokes, pulling his mobile phone from his pocket.

'No, we'll drive her,' said Nightingale. 'Have you got a car?'

Mr Stokes grabbed for his coat. 'Outside,' he said. He picked up a set of car keys from a brass dish.

'Is she going to be okay?' asked Mrs Stokes.

Nightingale ignored the question. 'I need a robe or something she can wear.'

Mrs Stokes nodded. 'Of course. Yes.' She hurried upstairs. 'Whatever you do, don't go into the bathroom,' Nightingale called after her. 'I'll deal with it when I get back.'

'Deal with what?' asked Mr Stokes,

'Best you don't know,' said Nightingale.

Mrs Stokes came rushing back down the stairs holding a white towelling bathrobe. She and Nightingale helped ease Jenny into the robe. Mrs Stokes started when she saw the blood-stained bandage around her wrist. 'What happened?'

'I'll explain later,' he said. 'And remember what I said, stay out of the bathroom.' He nodded at Mr Stokes. 'We need to go.' Mr Stokes headed for the door and Nightingale followed him.

* * *

Jenny's eyes fluttered open and she frowned when she saw Nightingale standing by the side of the bed. 'Did I fall asleep?' she asked.

'Sort of,' said Nightingale.

Jenny looked around and her eyes widened. 'Where am I?'

'Brighton General Hospital,' said Nightingale.

'What happened?'

'What do you remember?' he asked.

She lifted up her hands and frowned when she saw the bandage around her left wrist. 'Jack?' she said, her voice trembling.

'It's okay, a couple of superficial cuts,' said Nightingale.

'So why am I in a hospital bed?' she asked, staring at the bandage.

'The thing put you under?'

Jenny stared at him in horror. 'What thing?'

'You don't remember anything that happened in the bathroom?'

'What bathroom? Jack, what's going on?'

'You were in the bathroom, waiting for the Gaki. I think it somehow drugged or hypnotised you. You remember the Gaki, right?'

'I remember talking about it, sure. So what happened?'

'It appeared. It made you cut yourself. I killed it. All's well that ends well. Or at least it will once I've burnt what's left of it and scattered it to the four winds.'

The door to the room opened and a doctor appeared, a dour woman in her fifties carrying a clipboard. She took a pen from the pocket of her white coat and looked at Jenny over the top of her bifocal spectacles. 'Well I'm glad to see that you've finally woken up, Miss McLean. You had us worried there for a while.' She frowned as she looked at the clipboard. 'We thought that you had swallowed something you shouldn't but your blood all seems good.'

'Swallowed something?' repeated Jenny as

'Sleeping tablets. Paracetamol. Weedkiller. There's no end to the things that people take when they want to hurt themselves.'

'I didn't try to hurt myself,' said Jenny.

The doctor walked over to the side of the bed and picked up Jenny's left arm. They both looked at her bandaged wrist. 'Of course you didn't,' said the doctor.

Jenny snatched her hand away. 'Anyway, I'm fine now,' she said. 'I'll be on my way home.'

'Before you go, I'd like you to talk to talk to one of our therapists,' said the doctor, scribbling a note on her clipboard.

'About what?'

The doctor looked over the top of her glasses again, like a teacher about to address a particularly stupid student. 'My dear, self-harming is nothing to be ashamed of. What matters is that we give you the tools to deal with it.'

'I haven't been self-harming,' protested Jenny. She looked over at Nightingale. 'Tell her, Jack.'

'Tell her what?' asked Nightingale.

Jenny opened her mouth to reply but then realised that even if she did tell the doctor the truth she'd more than likely think that she was crazy. She sighed and folded her arms. 'Fine,' she said. 'I'll talk to your therapist.'

'That's a good girl,' said the doctor, smiling encouragingly.

'She's had a difficult few months,' said Nightingale. 'We've all been very worried about her.' Jenny flashed him a withering look and he grinned as he headed out of the room. 'Give me a call when you're ready and I'll pick you up.'

'He seems like a very nice man,' said the doctor.

'Appearances can be deceptive,' said Jenny.

* * *

Nightingale sat at the bar and pushed the slice of lemon down into the neck of his bottle of Corona. He sipped his lager and his eyes fell on the television set on the wall to his right. It was showing Sky News and an earnest red-headed reporter in a raincoat was talking into a hand-held microphone. Nightingale recognised the house behind her and he waved at the barman. 'Do me a favour, mate, can you put the sound up?'

The barman nodded, reached for the remote control, and turned up the volume.

'Police are treating the deaths as a murder-suicide,' said the woman. 'According to a source close to the investigation, Mr Waites stabbed his son to death in the bedroom and then went downstairs and slit his own throat. An inquest will be held but at the moment the police are not looking for anyone else in connection with the deaths.'

'Put the football on!' shouted a man at a table by the door.

The barman looked across at Nightingale and Nightingale shrugged. The barman pressed the remote again and changed the channel, then walked over to the sink and began polishing glasses. Nightingale smiled thinly and raised his bottle in salute at the television set. He was pretty sure that the death of the father and son had nothing to do with suicide and everything to with murder. The Order of Nine Angles was fanatical about keeping its secrets. He'd tried to warn Timmy Waites and his father but he'd known at the time that his warnings were falling on deaf ears. 'That's what you get when you mess around with things you don't understand,' he said. 'RIP guys.'

If you enjoyed this short story, please do leave a review. Reviews do matter to authors and we are always grateful to receive them. Jack Nightingale appears in the full-length novels Nightfall, Midnight, Nightmare, Nightshade and Lastnight. He has his own website at www.jacknightingale.com If you want to stay informed about the latest Jack Nightingale stories, drop by www.stephenleather.com and sign up for my mailing list.

Here are six more stories called Blood Bath, written by fans. I hope you enjoy them.

### Blood Bath

by Alex Shaw

'Do come in Mr Nightingale.'

'Thank you.' Nightingale managed a thin smile and crossed the threshold. The room was as he had imagined the study in a mansion house to be. There was an open fire place, dark wood panelling on two walls and floor to ceiling bookcases on another. A large bay window at the far end gave out to views of the grounds and the English Channel beyond. James Gaskin stood at the window, his features part obscured by the contre-jour effect of the sunlight streaming in around him.

'Is that my non-disclosure document I see in your hand?' Gaskin asked with a voice which betrayed a public school education.

'Signed as per your request.'

'Excellent.' Gaskin held out his hand. Nightingale crossed the room and gave him the envelope. 'I find that I never tire of the view from this room Mr Nightingale.'

Nightingale saw a fishing boat crossing from the left and several yachts bobbing nearer the shore. 'It must get windy up here?'

'Very. Let us sit.' Gaskin sank into a high backed leather chair next to the fireplace and proceeded to check the agreement. Nightingale in turn studied Gaskin. He had a thick mane of silver hair and his skin was so pale that it appeared translucent. He could have been anywhere from forty-five to sixty in age.

'This is a nice place you have here.' Nightingale wasn't one for small talk and felt awkward making it.

'My family has owned the house since it was built, I inherited it from my father and he from his father before him, and so on. I trust that your 'call out' fee was satisfactory?'

Nightingale wasn't an emergency plumber but nodded. Unsolicited he had received a cheque for £500 and a request to meet James Gaskin at his house in Rottingdean. All he had to do for this was to sign a non-disclosure agreement and turn up, so he had. Gaskin's house had turned out to be a sprawling mansion. A butler, who looked more like a sergeant-major, had opened the gates and then waited for him at the front door whilst Nightingale had parked his MG. 'What is it I can help you with, Mr Gaskin?'

'I need you to act on my behalf in the acquisition of an oil painting Mr Nightingale.'

'Wouldn't an art dealer be better equipped to assist you with that?'

'You run your own business Mr Nightingale, yes?'

'Yes.'

'If a client wished to pay you three thousand pounds to drive a transit van full of apples to Edinburgh you could accept, even though you knew nothing of apples?'

Nightingale frowned. 'They'd be very expensive apples at that price.'

'But you get my point? I can pay you for a service and you can undertake it for me.'

'So tell me about the painting?'

'It is a little known work by Felix Philippoteaux called 'Blood Bath'. It is to be auctioned off in London next week. I will pay you a fee of five thousand pounds if you attend the auction and secure it for me.'

'Why the secrecy?'

'I am a collector of art and artefacts related to the Crimean War, Mr Nightingale. I have one of the most extensive collections in existence. Because of this I have become a target. There are certain individuals who would stop at nothing to secure this painting for their own collections if they knew of my interest in it. I am not merely discussing the possibility of a bidding-war, they have no qualms in breaking the law of the land.'

'You make these rival collectors sound dangerous.'

'I do, and they are which is why I want you to act on my behalf. Mr Nightingale although we have never met before nor had any previous business dealings I have "checked you out" as they say, and am aware of your abilities. So the choice is yours. You are free to leave now, keep the £500 and never speak of what we have discussed here or you may accept my instruction.'

Nightingale's interest had been piqued but more importantly he needed the money. 'I'd like to accept your instruction Mr Gaskin.'

'I thought you would, I am a good judge of character. Very well as you have agreed to work for me I can tell you that the actual fee I shall pay you will be £10,000. I am not buying your time rather rewarding you for your trust.'

'Thank you.'

'You are most welcome. Now there are a couple of formalities. I need you to sign a contract with me regarding my instructions and then I will need your bank details and postal address.'

'And why is that?'

'Christie's does not accept bids or payment from third parties, including agents. Therefore you need to be registered as the bidder Mr Nightingale, not I. Do not worry it is all quite legal.'

It sounded like a tax dodge of some sort, but again Nightingale was in no financial position to refuse.

* * *

Nightingale pointed his MG away from the sea and aimed at the South Downs. If he was lucky he'd be back in his flat in under two hours and eating a curry half an hour later. He floored the accelerator and the roadster surged forwards. The climb out of Rottingdean started off steady but then became severe. Half way up the first steep hill there was a loud clunk, the sound of metal on metal grinding and the car lost speed. Nightingale swore to himself, coasted to the kerb and pulled on the handbrake before the MG could roll backwards. Up ahead he nodded at a speed camera. 'Next time eh?'

* * *

'What's wrong with it?' Nightingale asked the mechanic an hour later.

The man pulled his head out from the bonnet cover. 'Know much about cars Mr Nightingale?'

'No.'

'In that case it wouldn't make any sense to you if I explained it. Basically a bit from there,' the mechanic pointed with an oily forefinger, 'has snapped off and that piece there has started to rub against that bit.'

'Can you fix it?'

The mechanic straightened up. 'Course I can, but the question is how long have you got? I could do a bodge job and get you going again in an hour, which I would not recommend, or I can fix it properly. I've got the parts and that'll take at least three.'

'How much?' Nightingale had learnt from bitter experience the cost and risks of running a classic car.

The mechanic whistled as he estimated the cost. 'Doing it properly? About £300, parts and labour all in.'

'And you know what you are doing?'

The mechanic folded his arms. 'See the name above the shop? M. Craig? That's me Mike Craig. Now if you take a look around the back you'll see an MGC, not much dissimilar to your MGB but rarer, more powerful and in much better nick. I've been fixing MGs for thirty five years. Any more questions?'

'No. Sorry. I'm just pissed off that I'm stuck here.'

'You must enjoy all Rottingdean has to offer.' Craig said with undisguised sarcasm. 'Why don't you walk back into town, grab a pub lunch and then go for a stroll along the cliffs? By the time I get her fixed she'll purr like a kitten. I'll call you when she's ready.'

* * *

A half hour and two Marlboro later Nightingale found himself sitting in The White Horse eating a chicken Jalfrezi and nursing a bottle of Corona. The sea just beyond the walkway outside was choppy and on the horizon he could see wisps of rain. The bar was empty apart from an elderly couple eating at a table on the other side of the room and a plump barmaid. There was a sudden and loud quacking. Nightingale looked around and then rolled his eyes as he realized that it was his new iPhone. He'd let his assistant Jenny McLean set it up for him.

'So what was it?' Jenny asked, 'What's the job?'

'He wants me to buy a painting for him.'

'An oil painting?'

'An oil painting.'

'What type of oil painting?'

'An oil painting depicting 'The Battle of Balaclava'.'

'Painted by whom?'

'Felix Hippopotamus or something.'

'Philippoteaux?'

'You've heard of him?'

'You still haven't read my CV have you?'

'Not recently.'

'What's the name of the painting?'

Nightingale looked around the bar. The old folks were still eating and the barmaid was gazing at a television in the far corner. 'Blood Bath.'

'I've never heard of it.'

'A-ha, your posh school fails you?'

'I haven't heard of it but I know who will have, and he works at my "posh school" which is incidentally a five minute drive from Rottingdean.'

'Car's broken and besides why do I need to know about the painting? All the client wants me to do is bid on it for him at auction.'

'And that doesn't strike you as being a little odd?'

'A little.' Nightingale described the conversation with Gaskin.

'How much has he agreed to pay you?' Nightingale told her. 'And that doesn't strike you as being a little odd?'

'A lot odd.'

'And you don't want to find out why he must have this painting so much? What significance it may have?'

'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.'

'You're the boss, but I'm interested in knowing more, aren't you?'

Nightingale mopped up the last of his Jalfrezi with a piece of naan bread. 'I'm fine.'

He heard fingers tap a keyboard in the background 'Let me just...there. As I suspected.'

'What have I told you about checking your messages from 'Uniform Dating' during working hours?'

'Ssh. I thought I didn't recognise the name of the painting as according to Wikipedia...'

'And we always believe everything we read on the internet.'

'According to Wikipedia there is no painting by Felix Philippoteaux with the title 'Blood Bath.'

'Well, all I can say is that it's being listed at Christie's this Thursday.'

'What's wrong with your car?'

'Something snapped.' He sipped his Corona.

'Take a bus.'

'A bus?'

'Or a taxi.'

'Where to?'

'I'll call ahead and tell him to expect you.'

'Who?'

'Mr McAdam. He's the school librarian.'

'Hang on, you want me to take a bus to Roedean to speak to a librarian about a painting?'

'Or a taxi.'

Nightingale shook his head slowly and sighed. 'Alright, I've nothing better to do. Do you know a taxi number?'

'Use your phone.'

'What?'

'Safari.'

'I thought that was a TV show?'

'Twit.'

* * *

'Ah, dear Jenny McLean. She was one of my favourites you know. Always had her head in a book. How is she?' Ian McAdam asked in a soft Cumbrian brogue.

'Great.' Nightingale replied as he took a seat opposite the ancient looking librarian.

McAdam nodded thoughtfully. 'So you would like to know more about a canvas supposedly painted by Felix Philippoteaux?'

'Supposedly?'

McAdam leaned forward across his desk conspiratorially. 'It's a rather intriguing tale, which is why I recall it. Philippoteaux claimed that he never created such a work, and indeed it is not attributed to him anywhere. However he was seen "painting" his painting.' McAdam smiled at his own choice of words. 'But none of this is of any consequence as the work purporting to be 'Blood Bath' vanished a few years after the end of the Crimean war.'

'So it would be quite valuable?'

McAdam looked thoughtful. 'I'd say yes, nothing like a lost Monet but none too shabby.' His eyes widened and a smile creased his ancient face. 'Jenny said you were a private detective, it's been found hasn't it?'

Nightingale squirmed, its auction listing was public record so he wouldn't actually be breaking his confidentiality agreement. 'Yes.'

McAdam's eyes widened. 'Well I never. How exciting. Bear with me.' He pushed himself up from his seat and trotted to the other end of the library.

Nightingale looked around. He liked books. Actually he liked the concept of books as he rarely read.

'Here!' McAdam returned holding aloft a leather bound book. 'I knew I had this. It is one of the only existing accounts of the existence of Blood Bath.' He opened the book and then placed it on the desk in front of Nightingale before easing himself back into his chair. 'According to this the painting was acquired by one of the surviving members of The Light Calvary Brigade, a Corporal J. Gaskin of the 11th Hussars.'

Nightingale frowned. 'James Gaskin?'

'Yes. And there is, I believe, a photograph, too.'

'Of the painting?'

'No, of Gaskin.' McAdam leaned forward and flicked to the next page. He tapped a bony figure on a soft focussed black and white image of a man in military dress.

Nightingale shivered. The man in the photograph was a doppelgänger for his client.

McAdam smiled. 'You look like you've seen a ghost.'

'I just thought that I recognised this photograph.'

'It's possible. He was a survivor of the ill-fated Charge of the Light Brigade.' McAdam gazed at Nightingale for a moment before he spoke. 'The family was originally from this area. James Gaskin was the last living member.'

'You know a lot about this subject.'

'For a librarian? I was originally an art historian. I loved art, couldn't paint for toffee, so decided to learn as much about my favourite painters as possible. Felix Philippoteaux was not one of them but he did create some exceptional cyclorama.'

'Bicycles?'

'No. A cyclorama is large panoramic painting mounted on the inside of a cylindrical platform. If you stand in the middle of the cylinder you get a 360° view of the painting. It makes you feel as though you are in the painting. Quite simple but quite clever. Philippoteaux's cyclorama depicted battles.'

'Like an early form of virtual reality?' Nightingale hated using buzz-words.

'Virtually.' McAdam smiled to himself. 'Philippoteaux was quite a traveller. He also painted The Battle of Gettysburg as a cyclorama. What is quite strange is that the Gettysburg painting was also lost until 1965.'

'How big would one of these cyclorama be?'

'Very big. The Gettysburg one is 27 ft. in height and almost 360 ft. in length.'

Nightingale was about to ask another question when a loud, insistent quacking stopped him. 'Sorry.'

'Go ahead.'

Nightingale held the phone to his ear. 'Hello?'

'Your chariot is fixed Mr Nightingale. Collect it and pay me as soon as you can.'

* * *

'You should really be doing this the 'investigation part'.' Jenny McLean said as she dropped the print-outs on Nightingale's desk.

'Ah but you do it so much faster.' Nightingale sipped his coffee and looked up at his blonde assistant.

'That's because I'm not a lazy luddite.'

'I'll ignore that remark. So what have you found out about this painting?'

Jenny frowned. 'Nothing more than you already know. I also did a search on Mr Gaskin.' She sat on the edge of his desk and rearranged the papers. 'There.'

Nightingale picked up the printed sheet of A4 and scanned it for several seconds. 'I give up. What am I looking at?'

'The birth certificate of James Gaskin dated 1805, no death certificate anywhere that I could find on record.'

'OK.'

'Mr Gaskin's house, the address you went to, was built in 1856 for a Mr James Gaskin and as far as I can see the title has never changed.'

'So what we are looking at are the records of the World's oldest man?'

'Of course not Jack. That would be just plain silly. It's a coincidence that's all. It's a mystery, and you know I like a good mystery. A mysterious painting and a mysterious client.'

'You don't get out much do you?'  
'On what you pay me? No. Now when I did a search for "Blood Bath and the origins of" I got a lot of hits for Elizabeth Báthory.'

'Báthory? Very apt. Who is she a French plumber?'

Jenny shook her head. 'No, Jack.' She pushed a different sheet towards him. 'Short version, Countess Elizabeth Báthory de Ecsed was part of the Hungarian Royal Family. She was accused of murdering between three and six hundred women in order to bathe in their blood. Eventually she was imprisoned in a castle, where she died.'

'Lovely.'

'Apparently she was one of Bram Stoker's influences when he wrote Dracula. She vowed that one day she would be reincarnated. There are actually a lot of followers who believe that she did have supernatural abilities and await her return.'

Nightingale looked at the picture below the text. 'She was no oil painting.'

'But that was. It's a photograph of the only contemporary portrait of Erzsébet Báthory. It went missing in the 1990s.'

'You as always are a fountain of knowledge.' Nightingale drained his coffee and then steeped his fingers. 'So going on what your librarian friend said, Blood Bath is a missing painting and may or may not be the work of Felix Hippopotamus and as such is very rare. Our client is a collector so therefore must have it. Simple.'

'Yes.' Jenny sighed and looked pointedly at her watch. 'It's past six so if it's fine with you I'm calling it a day.'

'Fine by me.'

'Don't forget to lock up.'

'Have I ever?'

Jenny shrugged, slipped off the desk and left his office. Nightingale studied Jenny's papers. A crazy thought had formed in his head, something was telling him that the man he had met the day before was the same James Gaskin who appeared in the photograph taken in 1854. But how could this possibly be true? Nightingale drummed his fingers on his desk. The only explanation he could imagine was that Gaskin had done a deal with a devil for immortality. He had met devils, he had cheated devils and his own soul had even been sold to one. But was it possible to bargain for immortality? Anything was possible. No, he was jumping to conclusions again. Gaskin was an eccentric collector, no more and no less. Nightingale yawned, sitting at a desk made him tired. He needed more coffee. No, he needed a real drink. He stood, stretched and walked over to the coffee maker with the intention of switching it off. His hand had just reached the jug handle when the lights went out. He remained still, calm. It was probably a power cut, or a circuit breaker or – he wasn't an expert. A chair scraped the floor behind him. Nightingale turned as something hard hit him in the stomach. He doubled up but as he did so managed to swing the half full coffee pot. There was an angry grunt, a curse and the sound of the glass breaking. A pair of strong hands gripped his arms and forced them behind his back. A flashlight shone in his eyes, making all around him even darker.

'Stay away from the auction Nightingale.'

'Who are you?' Nightingale panted.

'Who we are doesn't matter!' A leather-clad fist collided with his jaw, Nightingale slumped sideways but the hands clamping his arms prevented him from falling. His hair was grabbed and his head pulled up. 'We know where you live. We know where the lovely Jenny lives. I'm sure she'd welcome the pair of us.'

The man holding Nightingale now spoke. 'She'd love it.'

'But we'll leave the both of you alone if you stay away from the auction.' He jerked Nightingale's head. 'Got it?'

'Yep.'

'Good.' The flashlight switched off and without warning the fist struck again. The hands let go and Nightingale fell to the floor.

* * *

In the back room of the Wicca Woman shop Nightingale prodded his jaw and winced. Mrs Steadman looked inquisitively over the top of her blue-and-white-striped mug of tea. 'You have been in the wars, haven't you, Mr Nightingale?'

'It's nothing.' He took a sip of tea. 'I need your advice, Mrs Steadman.'

'Of course, I am always happy to help. What can I advise you on?'

'Is it possible for someone to become immortal?'

Mrs Steadman's emerald-green eyes narrowed and her mouth turned up slightly. 'Why do you ask?'

'I think I may have met one.' Nightingale explained his meeting with Gaskin and because he trusted Mrs Steadman broke his confidentiality agreement by talking about the painting.

'It is certainly possible to sell the soul of another to the devil, as you well know.' She placed her mug back on her wooden table before adding, 'You may have encountered an immortal. But immortality is such a great gift that it would only be bestowed on an individual who had something very precious to offer.'

'You mean a lot of souls?'

'Perhaps, or perhaps not. Our realm is made up of not only humans but of others too. This person may not have had to make a deal with a devil. They may have become immortal in another way.'

Nightingale took a mouthful of tea, another thought struck him. 'Do vampires exist?'

'Yes.'

Nightingale frowned. 'Really?'

'Yes, really. But they are very rare, and very discreet.'

'Have you ever met one?'

'No, and nor would I ever want to. They are evil creatures who view humans as cattle to be milked.'

'How would I go about killing one?'

'A vampire?' Mrs Steadman's face became serious. 'Why would you ask such a question? Have you met one?'

'No, but if ever I do I'd like to be able to defend myself.'

Mrs Steadman nodded. 'I see. Well all the methods you read about, or see in films are correct. Which is probably why vampires are so rare, and so careful in revealing themselves to you mortals.'

Nightingale smiled. 'You said "you" mortals?'

'I meant us, Mr Nightingale.' Mrs Steadman raised her right index finger and a wide smile appeared on her face. 'I've been a bit slow haven't I, in linking this? 'Blood Bath'. Hmmm. This is about Elizabeth Báthory, isn't it?'

'I'm just curious.'

'She was a vampire, a real one. Her blood lust was the strongest ever documented. But she is dead.'

'Is there any link between her and this painting?' asked Nightingale.

'I don't know the answer to that. Do you believe your Mr Gaskin to be a vampire?'

'To be honest that thought hadn't crossed my mind until now.'

'Did you meet him in daylight?'

'I met him inside, during the day.'

'Was there any direct sunlight?'

'He was standing by a window and the sun was coming into the room around him.'

Mrs Steadman smiled. 'Then he cannot be a vampire. Mr Nightingale I do hope that you are not going to put yourself in any more danger over this painting?'

Nightingale shrugged. 'I'm just going to buy it for my client, how dangerous can that be?'

'I'm sure you already know the answer to that.' Mrs Steadman replied.

* * *

Nightingale found Jenny at her desk talking on the telephone when he arrived at the office. He hung his raincoat on a rack by the door, waited until she had finished her call and then deposited a brown paper bag in front of her. 'Elevenses, a Banana chocolate-chip muffin, and as the coffee maker is broken a latte. Don't say that this job doesn't come with its perks.'

Jenny looked up from her desk quizzically. 'What happened Jack?'

'I broke the coffee jug when I used it to hit an intruder.'

'And your face?'

'The intruder hit me. His accomplice held my arms behind my back.' Nightingale sipped his own double espresso.

She looked worried. 'Have you reported this to the police?'

'I'm fine, just a bit bruised. The one that hit me told me not to attend the auction.'

Jenny folded her arms. 'They don't know you very well do they?'

Nightingale smirked. 'Nope.'

'Any idea who they were?'

'No, kid. They cut the lights, I didn't see their faces and they didn't say who had sent them.' Nightingale dropped into a client chair.

Jenny unwrapped the muffin. 'So where have you been?'

'Who was on the phone?'

'You're avoiding my question.'

'Client?'

'Potential client. A Mr Peters, he thinks his neighbour's been stealing his guitars.'

'I bet he's got the blues, man.'

Jenny didn't smile. 'So?'

'So what?'

'Where have you been?'

'Drinking tea with Mrs Steadman.'

Jenny raised her eyebrows. 'And?'

'She didn't know anything about the painting, but she did tell me that Elizabeth Báthory was a real vampire.'

'Hmmm.'

'Just Hmmm?'

'I know you like the old dear, but really? It's all myths and legends, mumbo jumbo.'

'You're right. So what have I got on for the rest of the day?'

'Here, take this.' Jenny hefted a heavy book onto her desk.

'An Argos catalogue?'

'We need a new coffee maker, and quickly or you'll be climbing the walls.'

* * *

Nightingale sat in the pub and finished his second bottle of Corona. He was playing hooky from the office on the pretext of getting a new coffee-maker. He'd braved the nearest branch of Argos and after pushing past several severely overweight young mums had collected his order, a De'Longhi coffee machine, from the service point. His next stop was a bookshop where he bought a volume about war paintings which had an entire chapter devoted to Felix Philippoteaux. He had to admit that Philippoteaux's work was impressive, if he were an art collector Philippoteaux paintings would be high up on his to buy list. Nightingale got up from his seat and ordered another Corona at the bar. After paying he returned to his table and was about to take a swig of beer when he saw that there was something written on his book. It was written in red. He felt a sudden chill. He raised the book to his nose and sniffed to confirm his suspicion. The massage 'Stay Away Nightingale' was written in blood. Nightingale frowned - the blood was bone dry. He searched the bar with his eyes, no one new had arrived. He necked his beer in two gulps and left the pub. Outside the street was quiet, the lunchtime sandwich brigade had returned to their offices and the mums had not yet collected their kids from school. Apart from a few errant tourists he had the street to himself. As Nightingale walked away from the pub the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He stopped and looked in the nearest shop window. In the reflection he saw two men several steps behind him. They had stopped dead on the pavement and were making no attempt to conceal their presence. Nightingale turned sharply to face them, but they had vanished. There was a loud quacking sound. Nightingale reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone. 'Yes what's up?'

'Where did you go to get the coffee-maker Columbia or Kenya?'

Nightingale smirked. 'The pub.'

'You're the boss Jack.'

'So what's up?'

'Another potential new client, wants to know your availability.'

'Can you check my schedule?'

'I didn't need to, I wrote your schedule.'

'OK. I'll see you back at the ranch.' Nightingale ended the call and started to walk again back to the office. In the corner of his eye he noticed two figures on the other side of the road watching him. He stopped dead and stared at them. He couldn't make out their faces but from their physical size they were unmistakable. And then his phone quacked again. The voice was heavily accepted and gruff. 'Keep away Nightingale this is your last warning.'

'Who is this?' Nightingale asked but the line was already dead.

* * *

The next day Nightingale was fiddling with the new coffee maker when Jenny arrived at the office. He looked up with a smile on his face but it vanished when he saw how pale she was. 'What's the matter?'

Jenny dropped her bag and held out her phone. 'Look at this.'

Nightingale frowned and took the iPhone. There was a photograph displayed on the screen. He realised it was Jenny, asleep in bed. She was on her side and her satin sheets were just above her breasts.

'No jokes Jack, please.' She looked him in the eyes. 'I found this on my phone this morning. It wasn't there when I went to bed.' She took back the phone.

'I don't understand.'

'Someone took a photo of me in my sleep!'

'They broke in? Has anything been taken?'

'Oh I'm ok, thank you very much.'

'Jenny, I didn't mean...' A tear suddenly rolled down her cheek, Nightingale stepped forward and put his arms around her.

'Who could have done this? Why?' She started to shake and buried her head in his chest.

'Have you reported it?'

'Reported what? All the doors and windows were still locked and the burglar alarm was on, it's the one Uncle Marcus recommend I have installed. There is no way anyone could have got in without me hearing them.'

They stood silently for a moment until Nightingale reluctantly moved away. 'Jenny, I think you should go and stay with your parents for a few days, just until the auction is over?'

'Why?' She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. 'Do you think this is somehow related?'

Nightingale looked down. He'd made a mistake and he felt awful. 'The men who attacked me knew your name, and said they knew where you live.'

Jenny reddened. 'And you didn't think to tell me about this?'

'I had no idea if they were serious or not. I'm sorry.'

Jenny folded her arms. Her eyes were now dry. 'I could have been murdered, or worse!'

'Worse than murdered?'

'I'm leaving now.' She picked up her bag and looked angrily over her shoulder at him before she stepped back out onto the street.

'Shit.' Nightingale balled his fists for several seconds before he decided not to punch anything. He was useless. The one person in his life who actually meant anything to him and he'd let her down. He retrieved his cigarettes from his pocket, tapped one out of the packet and lit it. He inhaled greedily and held the smoke deep in his lungs before exhaling slowly. She'd come back, of course she would. She had to.

The salesroom was crowded, Nightingale had managed to get one of the last remaining seats. He had a Christie's paddle in his hand and was ready to bid. He'd worn his best suit but still felt out of place amongst the toffs and art dealers. Nightingale got the distinct feeling that he was being watched. There were several large men in the room and any of them could have been the ones who had attacked him. Surprisingly 'Blood Bath' was not a headline lot, that honour had gone to a Russian icon which too had apparently appeared out of the blue. Nightingale knew nothing about art, but he knew what he liked. His favourite impressionist was Mike Yarwood. He smiled to himself, it was an old joke and no one ever laughed, except Jenny. The auctioneer drew Nightingale back to the present as he announced 'Blood Bath'. Because of the sheer size of the painting it could not be displayed in the salesroom, instead an LCD screen showed an image of the work. Nightingale started to feel nervous and realized that his palm was wet around his paddle. His instructions were to secure the painting at any cost, Nightingale just hoped that the personal cost to him would not get any higher.

The bidding started at the price of a luxury car and within a few bids had increased to the price of a small house. There seemed to be two eager telephone bidders and one more in the salesroom. Nightingale looked at the man bidding who was a row in front and half a dozen seats over. He had a swarthy complexion, a large droopy moustache and jet-black hair slicked back away from his forehead. If Nightingale had ordered a Mexican from 'Central Casting' he doubted one would have looked much better. The Mexican raised his hand to bid again and the room fell silent as the sales staff representing the telephone bidders each in turn shook their heads.

'Going once...going twice...'

Nightingale thrust his hand into the air. He knew that he could just waddle the paddle but wasn't taking any chances.

'To you sir, new bidder in the dark blue suit! At two hundred and ninety thousand pounds.'

The Mexican turned his head and stared. There was a sneer beneath the moustache. In his peripheral vision Nightingale could sense two large men move ever so slightly.

'Do I have three hundred thousand pounds?' The auctioneer asked.

The Mexican raised his hand. Moments later the auctioneer asked Nightingale if he would increase the bid. Nightingale raised his paddle. The bidding continued until the Mexican shook his head over a hundred thousand pounds later. Nightingale held up his paddle for the number to be taken and his auction was over. His heart was pounding in his chest, he felt shaky and was desperate for a smoke. As soon as he could Nightingale left the salesroom. As he stood the edges of his vision started to grey out, he shook his head and blundered towards the exit. He pushed first through the door of the salesroom and into the reception area before opening the main door and bursting out into the bracing air of Old Brompton Road. Immediately turning right Nightingale started to move away from the auction house. He took deep breaths to steady himself as gradually his vision improved. At a junction on the left he saw a pub – 'The Zetland Arms' and went inside.

'What can I get cha?' The barman was ten years his junior and Australian.

'A Corona and a double vodka.'

'Ice?'

Nightingale frowned as he leant against the bar. 'In the beer?'

'Nah mate, in the vodka.'

'No.'

The barman placed his drinks on the bar. 'There, cheers.'

'Bottoms up.'

The barman smiled widely. 'It ain't that sort of a bar, ducky!'

Nightingale downed the vodka in one go, shuddered and then sipped his Corona. What had happened to him at Christie's had been odd and he couldn't understand it. He'd been under extreme pressure back in the day with the force and since then on several other occasions but he'd never felt like fainting. He needed a smoke. He removed his packet of Marlboros from his coat pocket, took one out and absentmindedly tapped it against the side of the packet. He put the packet away, retrieved his phone and thought about calling Jenny again. She had been ignoring his calls. It had been three days and he was starting to worry. Worry perhaps that she wasn't going to come back. The door opened behind him and in the mirror above the bar Nightingale saw three men enter the pub. The two large men hung back whilst the Mexican joined Nightingale at the bar.

'You are a very persistent man, Jack Nightingale.' The accent wasn't Mexican.

'Thank you.'

'In other circumstances it would be an asset, but this time it will be your downfall.' The accent was Russian, Nightingale realised.

Without turning his head Nightingale locked eyes with the man in the mirror. 'If you are trying to chat me up at least buy me a drink.'

'You have balls, or maybe just no brains?'

'Actually I've been told I think with my dick.'

'What can I get cha?' The barman asked the Mexican with the Russian accent.

The Mexican ignored the barman, grabbed Nightingale's arm and twisted him sideways until they were face to face. His grip was tight but his hand was cold. 'You do not know what you have done. God help us all!'

'Boss.' One of the heavies said as a warning.

The Mexican let go, glared at Nightingale for a moment and then left the pub followed by his two men.

Nightingale met the barman's expectant gaze and shrugged. 'What do you know, a Mexican with a Russian accent?'

* * *

For the next couple of days Nightingale kept himself busy with his other cases. He met with Mr Peters, a Cowboy hat wearing Welshman who set out his suspicions regarding his 'bastard neighbour' and his guitars. He followed an alleged cheating husband for another client and found that the man had been legitimately having private French lessons with a gorgeous younger teacher. The wife was happy but less so when she saw a photograph of Mademoiselle. Jenny then arrived back at the office after an absence of five days and to Nightingale's huge relief accepted his profuse apology.

'You're such an idiot sometimes,' Jenny said as she sipped from her mug of coffee and then pulled a face, 'and you don't know how to use the coffee-maker!'

Nightingale grinned. 'Guilty.'

'You should be. So how did it go?'

'Yes the neighbour had his guitar. A Blue Lezzer or something.'

'Not Mr Peters, the auction.'

'I texted you.'

'I know, I got your text it was gibberish.'

'I won the auction and the painting is being transported to Rottingdean today.'

'I know. So when are we leaving?'

'To go to Rottingdean?'

'You don't want to miss the fun do you? What if something happens on the way to Gaskin's place? The company bank account can't afford to lose his fee.'

'Take your car?'

'Too right, I'm not risking your old banger again.'

'It's a classic.'

'It's kaput.'

* * *

The journey down from London was uneventful, Jenny kept the Audi A4 within the speed limit and where possible stayed several cars behind the van transporting the painting. Two hours later both vehicles crunched up Gaskin's drive to be met by his butler, who spoke only to tell the men delivering 'Blood Bath' where to take it.

'Mr Nightingale, I simply cannot express enough my gratitude to you.' Gaskin beamed as he met them in the study.

'All in a day's work. This is my assistant Jenny McLean.'

'It is a pleasure to meet you, my dear.' Gaskin bowed his head a fraction.

'And you Mr Gaskin,' said Jenny.

Gaskin held out a large padded envelope. 'Here is your full fee as agreed. I take it cash is acceptable?'

'Thank you.'

Gaskin nodded and was about to speak when the study door opened. The butler stepped in and nodded. Gaskin smiled. 'If you'll excuse me, I shan't be long.'

Puzzled the pair watched Gaskin leave the room. Nightingale shrugged, and counted the cash whilst Jenny walked over to the window. She looked out at the tungsten coloured sea in the distance. 'There's going to be a storm. I know the signs, I spend years gazing out of my Roedean window at the sea.'

Nightingale joined her. 'We've delivered the painting and got paid. Time to go.'

'There's an ever so slight tint to this glass. Have you noticed?'

'No, should I have?'

Jenny leaned forward so that her nose almost touched the pane. 'It has some type of filter layer in it, probably polarised to prevent UV rays.'

'Now you are a glass expert? I know that wasn't on your CV.'

'I saw it on Grand Designs Abroad. A mad English couple built a glass-sided house on a mountain top and needed something to counteract the high UV levels. It's very expensive, but useful for a window continuously in direct sunlight.'

'An anti UV layer would stop sunlight?'

'No just the UV rays, it's those that damage the skin.'

Nightingale heard a creak and turned to see Gaskin standing in the doorway. 'Mr Nightingale, I think you and Miss McLean should follow me. I've got something to show you.'

'No it really is time for us to leave if we are going to beat the traffic.'

Gaskin's face hardened. 'I insist.'

Nightingale and Jenny followed Gaskin out of the study, back into the hall and then along a short corridor and through an open door. 'Here we are.'

Jenny gasped. 'Is that what I think it is?'

Gaskin nodded. 'That is Blood Bath presented how it should be viewed as a cyclorama.'

Nightingale took in the view. They were standing in what could only be described as a banqueting hall. Directly in front of them was a dais supporting a huge cylinder on the inside of which the painting had been mounted.

'Please step inside and enjoy the piece.'

Jenny pulled a reluctant Nightingale forward until they were both in the centre of the dais. The cyclorama effect was spectacular. As Nightingale's eyes moved from left to right figures of men and horses seemed to dance. 'This is quite a painting.'

'Quite.' Agreed Gaskin.

'The detail is astounding, it must have taken Philippoteaux an age to complete.' Jenny added.

'It did.' Gaskin smiled at Jenny.

'How did you lose the painting?' She asked.

'I awoke to find intruders in my house. They assaulted me and managed to make off with Blood Bath.'

'It's a very heavy painting Mr Gaskin.'

'There was a team of robbers Mr Nightingale.'

Nightingale wasn't sure what to think. 'So why was someone so eager to prevent you from reacquiring the painting?'

'Blood Bath is and always was the property of my family. It is tied to me as I am to it. I cannot explain nor understand but without it I am incomplete.'

The butler entered the banqueting hall carrying a silver tray.

'Let us drink to the conclusion of a successful business transaction.' Gaskin smiled warmly as the butler held the tray in front of Jenny and then Nightingale. They both hesitantly took a crystal champagne flute. Gaskin then raised his glass. They drank in unison. 'I do have several other exquisite works.' Gaskin said proudly. 'If you'll excuse me for one moment.' He followed the butler briskly to the other end of the hall where they exited through another door.

Nightingale took his assistant's hand. 'Jenny, we need to go and we need to go now.'

'I don't understand?'

'Think about it, why else would he have that special glass? And how has he managed to live for so long?'

'You believe he is the same James Gaskin as on the birth certificate I found?' Jenny asked incredulously.

'Yes.'

'Jack, that was just a whim, me being silly and exploring the 'what if'.' Jenny started to laugh, partly from nerves. 'Well however old he is he's paid you a very good fee.'

'Kid, this isn't a joke.'

'Jack, I still don't know what you're flapping about?'

Gaskin reappeared with the butler who was carrying a large canvas covered with a black cloth. Gaskin pulled away the cloth to reveal a portrait. 'Is she not a magnificent?'

Nightingale felt himself nod before his brain had a chance to register the subject of the new painting. He knew instantly who it was, and so did Jenny. It was Erzsébet Báthory.

'Is that...'

'Yes. This is the original 1585 portrait of Erzsébet Báthory.'

'It's...it's...' Jenny dropped her glass and started to fall after it to the floor.

'Jen...' Nightingale tried to move but found that he too was falling, he tried to speak, tried to remain conscious but then the world around him became black.

Gaskin's face lost its warmth. 'Prepare them.'

The butler nodded and bent down over Jenny. He took a thin knife from his pocket and made an incision on her wrist before holding her arm above a fresh champagne flute. He let Jenny's blood trickle for several seconds into the bottom of the vessel before he placed the flute carefully to one side and tied a piece of cloth around Jenny's wrist. The butler then repeated the same process with Nightingale.

* * *

Nightingale had no idea how long he had been out for but when he opened his eyes he couldn't remember where he was and there was a strange taste in his mouth. What seemed like thousands of candles had been lit and placed on the floor. He tried to move and then discovered that he was bound tightly to a wooden chair. He looked right and saw that Jenny had received the same treatment. Her eyes opened and she saw him. His eyes darted around the room until they fell upon the cyclorama. In the centre the dais the portrait of Erzsébet Báthory had been placed on an easel and Gaskin stood next to it naked.

Gaskin sensed they were conscious. 'You are both awake, that is good. It is almost time.' Gaskin turned and looked directly at Nightingale. His eyes glowed red in the darkened room. 'I had expected you to come alone it is unfortunate for Miss McLean that she was with you. For me however it is a bonus. My mistress will be pleased.' He took a step towards them, the candle light danced upon the surface of his skin yet beneath Nightingale could plainly see his inner organs, blood and tendons. As he moved nearer he became almost transparent before solidifying again. Gaskin's skin was tight, translucent and his musculature was anatomically perfect, trumping the muscle-men on the covers of the romance novels he'd caught Jenny trying to hide.

'You drugged us!' Jenny hissed.

'I did.'

'Who are you?'

'You know who I am Miss McLean. You discovered my birth certificate on the internet.'

'How?' Jenny's face showed that she still could not believe it.

'I was cursed.' Gaskin seemed to relax as though a great weight had been removed from his shoulders. 'I was a Corporal with The Light Calvary Brigade, the 11th Hussars to be precise. One of the camp followers singled me out, he spoke perfect English but was a Crimean Tatar. He said he could see that I needed his help and claimed to be able to provide me with protection against death at the hands of the Russians. You have no idea what it is like to be in battle, I was no coward but I was half out of my mind with fear. I accepted his protection, what harm could it do? I have no inkling what he did beside touch my forehead and recite a few words in Tatar, but what I can say is that when we charged I felt invincible. My fellow men dropped around me but I carried on, unstoppable. Later I met with Felix Philippoteaux. He agreed that I could purchase Blood Bath from him as after all it depicted the charge and my miraculous escape. That was October 1854 and I am still standing.'

Nightingale tried to move but the bonds that held him were expertly tied. 'I got you your painting back for you, we've done you no wrong. Come on James, let us go.'

Gaskin cocked his head slightly. 'No, Jack. Not before you meet someone.'

'Who?'

'You'll find out soon enough, it is almost midnight.'

'What is it you're after? Our blood?'

'Not I Jack. What do you take me for?'

'A vampire.'

Gaskin smiled widely to expose his teeth. They were normal. 'There is more than one way to become immortal.'

'Let us go, please.' Jenny begged.

'Miss McLean, I wish I could but as they say that is not my decision. Now it is time to start.'

Gaskin turned away and again positioned himself on the dais. Somewhere in the house the sound of numerous clocks set to within a millisecond of each other began to strike midnight. Gaskin collected the blood filled champagne flute from the floor and held it aloft. He started to speak, initially in a whisper and then louder and louder until on the stroke of midnight he was yelling. Lowering his arms he poured the blood onto the top edge of the frame holding the portrait of Erzsébet Báthory. The ground beneath the hall started to shake as the blood trickled down the frame and onto the oil painting. Gaskin's tone of voice now changed and he started to chant in a language that neither Nightingale nor Jenny could not make out. The cyclorama shook and ripples formed on the surface of Blood Bath. There was an ungodly scream, the Báthory portrait rose free of its easel and then more voices joined in, yelling and howling. Nightingale heard horses, cannon fire and then Blood Bath was ripped free of the cyclorama tube. It spun in the air, rolling itself into an inverted funnel. The space around the portrait of Báthory seemed to fold back on itself leaving the painting hovering in void of utter blackness. Blood Bath shot forward and was sucked into the portrait via an invisible vacuum. There was one more scream and all the candles went out.

'Jack.' Jenny screamed.

'Hang in there kid.' Replied Nightingale with more conviction than he realised he had.

One by one the candles reignited as though an invisible hand were holding a match. Gaskin knelt, his head bowed. On the floor in front of him was a body, long haired and deathly white but striped with blood. A woman. Erzsébet Báthory.

'My mistress.' Gaskin said.

Báthory slowly rose to her feet and spoke. Her voice was raspy and oddly accented. 'What year is it?'

'2014, mistress.'

'What are you?'

'Your servant, mistress, I pledge my immortal soul to you.'

Báthory's head snapped to the right and she sniffed. 'I am in need of blood.'

Jenny whimpered. Nightingale pulled frantically at his bonds.

'I have prepared an offering, mistress.'

Báthory walked slowly towards Nightingale. She stopped a foot away from his face and peered at him as though she was looking through frosted glass. Nightingale felt his chest tighten as they locked eyes. She was the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

'Jack Nightingale.'

'Y...you know me?'

'Where I have been your name is spoken with contempt. I shall enjoy sending you to hell.'

'Leave him alone you bitch!' Jenny shouted.

Despite himself Nightingale smirked.

Báthory moved to Jenny. 'And I shall enjoy feeding from you, Jenny McLean.'

Nightingale pulled at his bonds and then shouted. 'Proserpine! Take my soul but save Jenny!'

Báthory hissed. 'You fool. No one can save you, not even a devil.'

There was an explosion and a blinding white light. Two large men dressed in black entered the room. They grabbed Báthory, taking an arm each and pinned her to the floor. A moment later the Mexican entered the room. He walked slowly and held a crucifix in front of him.

Gaskin ran at him. 'You!'

The Mexican thrust the crucifix at Gaskin who shot backwards as though he had been struck by a giant. The Mexican strode towards Báthory and stood over her. He started to chant and then lay the crucifix on her chest. Báthory screamed and bucked but the two men held her fast. The Mexican then removed a wooden stake from his jacket and thrust it into her chest. There was an ear-splitting scream, all the candles went out and once more both Nightingale and Jenny lost consciousness.

* * *

Early doors and the pub was empty save for an elderly couple and the heavy barmaid. Nightingale sipped from his Corona, Jenny nursed a white wine spritzer but both of them stared at the Mexican who was drinking cognac. They had awoken mid-morning on a double bed together fully clothed in Gaskin's mansion and now an hour later after a quick wash were in the saloon bar of The White Horse.

'My name is Alim Akhatov. I am responsible for this mess that you have been drawn into and for that I must apologise.'

'Where are you from?' Nightingale asked.

'I am a Crimean Tartar.'

Nightingale nodded, hence the Russian accent and droopy moustache. 'How are you responsible?'

'It was I who made James Gaskin what he is, and it was I who on realising my mistake cursed him, confining him to his house.'

'So who are you?'

'Mr Nightingale, there are many things in this world that mortal man cannot comprehend. I am one such thing.'

'Explain James Gaskin.'

'I chose him to join me. I made a mistake. I did not know that Gaskin was a Satanist and a member of a sect whose sole purpose was to bring about the reincarnation of Erzsébet Báthory. He had a fascination in the occult and her story in particular. On the same day that I bestowed immortality upon him he summoned a devil and promised him the souls of his comrades. History does not recognise this but it is Gaskin who was responsible for the orders being misunderstood. He is responsible for the ill-fated charge of the light-brigade and he gave their souls to Satan.'

Jenny said nothing and Nightingale took a swig of his Corona and then asked. 'How are the paintings related to this?'

'After her death Erzsébet Báthory's body was taken for burial but not before her blood was drained. Her blood was later fused into the oils of her portrait. I do not know the true extend of Felix Philippoteaux's involvement but Gaskin needed both of these paintings, and the blood of two witnesses to bring about her reincarnation.' Akhatov finished his cognac. 'You find all this hard to believe?'

'No.' Nightingale said.

'Who broke into my flat?' Jenny asked angrily.

'My men. I am sorry, it was my idea. It was meant to scare you.'

'It worked.' Jenny replied.

'But Mr Nightingale is not so easily fooled so we changed tactics and decided to let you deliver the painting.'

'So what now?'

'Nothing now, Mr Nightingale. Gaskin remains confined to his mansion as before, unable to venture into daylight and Erzsébet Báthory has been banished forever. You may never see me again, but if you do it will be as a friend.' Akhatov stood and nodded at Jenny and then Nightingale. 'Goodbye, and please give my kindest regards to Mrs Steadman.'

Alex Shaw spent the second half of the 1990s in Kyiv, Ukraine, teaching Drama and running his own business consultancy before being head-hunted for a division of Siemens. The next few years saw him doing business for the company across the former USSR, the Middle East, and Africa. He is the author of the 'Aidan Snow SAS thrillers' HETMAN and COLD BLACK and the new DELTA FORCE VAMPIRE series of books. His short stories have also been published in the ACTION PULSE POUNDING TALES and DEATH TOLL thriller anthologies. DANGEROUS, DEADLY, ELITE - the third Aidan Snow Thriller will be available in September 2014. Alex, his wife and their two sons divide their time between homes in Kyiv, Ukraine and Worthing, England. You can follow Alex on twitter: @alexshawhetman or facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/alex.shaw.982292> or contact him via his website: www.alexwshaw.com.

### Blood Bath

By Andrew Peters

As long as she lived she never forgot the screaming. Totally unexpected, as the world went insane from one moment to the next.

She'd been downstairs in the lounge, enjoying one of the two or three cigarettes she allowed herself daily. Richard had never approved, though he wasn't one to nag, so she generally smoked when he wasn't around. Like now, while he was upstairs wallowing in that old bath he liked so much. They were a funny couple in that respect. Quite the opposite from their friends. She couldn't shower quickly enough, but Richard loved to lie in the bath with a book and a glass of wine. She often accused him of falling asleep in there, but he'd never admit it. Ten o'clock it was when it started, the News had just come on the TV when she heard the first scream.

Most women never hear their husband scream. It's not something men are prone to, even if they see a mouse or discover the dead body in a crime show, so Sarah was disorientated at first. It was a horrible noise, fear and agony combined and it kept on coming down the stairs. She'd never heard a human being make that much noise. She dropped the cigarette and sprinted for the door. She ran up two flights of stairs to the top-floor bathroom, shouting his name as she went, but there was no answer except the awful wordless screaming. She pushed at the door, but he'd locked it. Force of habit maybe, after such a short time together. She rattled the doorknob. 'Richard...are you all right? Open the door.'

A stupid question, nobody could be 'all right' and make that noise. She had to get in there.

She turned the knob again and hit the door with her shoulder. The small bolt was designed to preserve modesty rather than security, the impact of a frantically determined nine stone woman popped the screws out, and she fell through the door. The screaming stopped instantly. She took one look and then started her own hysterical screaming. Her husband lay motionless in a bath full of his own blood.

* * *

Jack Nightingale liked to say that his diet consisted of the five major food groups in perfect balance: takeaways, coffee, banana muffins, Corona beer and cigarettes. Ten-thirty on a Monday morning was too early for a takeaway, maybe even a little too early for the first Corona, though that wasn't an unbreakable rule, but everything else was present and correct. He'd passed through Starbucks on his way into the office, so the first coffee of the day sat steaming on his desk next to a half-eaten muffin. A cigarette lay smoking in the office ashtray, chances were very remote that it was anything like the first of the day. Nightingale was by no means a selfish man, so a similar cardboard cup sat on Jenny's desk, though she wasn't one for cigarettes, as she reminded him yet again. 'Jack, you do know I could get you arrested for smoking in here. It's a place of business.'

'Well, I don't know about that, love. I doubt that even my old mate Chalmers is that keen to nail me for something that he'd send a squad car round to fit me up on a smoking charge. Anyway, what would you do for a job while I was inside?'

'Find a better one in about ten minutes. And I wouldn't bother visiting you either. And don't bloody call me love.'

'Don't make me laugh. Where would you ever find another caring and considerate employer like me. And you'd lose all your pension rights.'

'What pension rights? And what kind of considerate employer is it who rots my lungs every day?'

'I shouldn't worry about it, the London traffic will do a much better job on your lungs than the odd fag.'

Jenny laughed. It was an old argument and one she still showed no signs of winning, though she wasn't the kind of girl to give up. Nightingale took another swig of coffee, a bite of muffin and a last drag on his cigarette before crushing it out.

'Anyway, to business. How are things in the secretarial department of Nightingale Investigations?'

'I've got to type up the invoice from the Booth case and send it off, pay Howard for that trace he ran on the boyfriend's car and that's about it. It's not as if I have an elaborate filing system to maintain around here.'

'So, nothing to keep me from my Sudoku, then?' Nightingale picked up The Sun and started looking in his top drawer for a pencil.

'You do know that the Sudoku is meant to be a coffee-time distraction, rather than a morning's work?' said Jenny.

'Is it my fault I'm not good with figures? Anyway the diary's virginal white again.'

'Not quite...you've got an appointment at eleven thirty.'

'I didn't know about that. When did that happen?'

'Well, perhaps if you kept normal office hours, you might be here when clients ring. It's a young couple. Mr and Mrs Grainger.'

'Couple, eh? Well at least it's not likely to be divorce work if they're coming together. Anything's better than that. They say what it's about?'

'No, but apparently they were recommended to you by Robbie Hoyle. They said it was something rather unusual, but wouldn't go into details.'

Nightingale pursed his lips, which might have indicated increased interest. Robbie Hoyle was one of the few people from The Job that he still kept in touch with, and probably the nearest he had to a genuine friend. It was a friendship he valued all the more, since there had been a time when it looked as though it would be lost for ever. Nightingale consulted his watch. 'Time for another fag before they get here then. Open the window would you, Jenny. I wouldn't want to give them the wrong impression.'

'Or even the right one.'

'Least of all that.' The open window had rendered the office almost bearable by the time the Graingers arrived. Jenny showed them in and they sat in the client chairs on the other side of Nightingale's desk. The man seemed to move and sit very gingerly indeed, which was unusual for someone in his early thirties.

Nightingale stayed in his chair, not being a man for etiquette or too fond of handshakes, took a good look and gave them the benefit of his trained observational skills. Both early thirties in fact, the man tall and quite good looking, with that Hugh Grant hairstyle that Nightingale always found slightly annoying. Nice suit, looked expensive. The woman was also fairly tall, maybe around five-eight, a definite looker, with long brown hair. Skirt, blouse, jacket in co-ordinating neutral shades, none of which Nightingale could have put a name too. On the border between grey, brown and green, but the overall effect was elegant and tasteful. Jenny offered coffee, but they weren't keen...probably been warned against the office brew by Robbie Hoyle. She sat at her desk and took out a notepad.

'I'm Sarah Grainger, Mr Nightingale. This is my husband Richard. Inspector Boyle suggested we speak to you.' The Australian accent came as a surprise, and Nightingale suspected that Jenny had deliberately not mentioned it. Put him at a disadvantage. Revenge for her tortured lungs.

'So, you went to the police first?'

'No, not really. Robbie Hoyle is an old friend of my father's and we spoke to him privately. He said that it wasn't really a police matter, but that you....well... you had some experience with unusual cases.'

'A little. Exactly how unusual are we talking about?'

'Someone tried to kill my husband. But they couldn't have done, it's not possible.'

Nightingale gave a smile which was meant to be encouraging.

'As we detectives say, Mrs Grainger, perhaps you'd better start at the beginning.' She seemed to be the talkative one, as the husband just sat quietly and grimaced. It occurred to Nightingale that he hadn't actually said a word since coming in. Still, some people weren't the chatty type. The woman took a packet of cigarettes out of what might have been an expensive handbag for all Nightingale knew, and offered him one. 'Sorry, Mrs Grainger. You can't smoke in here. Place of business and all that.' Nightingale put on his best innocent look and studiously avoided catching Jenny's eye.

'Never mind,' said Mrs Grainger, putting away the cigarettes. 'Well as you can probably guess, Richard and I are from Australia, though we both had British parents. We've been married about three years and worked in insurance over there. About six months ago, we were contacted by a British solicitor who was acting as executor for the will of a Mr Cedric Grainger. Apparently he was Richard's great uncle, though he'd never met him or heard of him.'

Nightingale wriggled a little in his cheap office chair, trying to make himself comfortable. This looked like a long story. He hated long stories. 'The old man had died some months before, and the solicitor had been trying to trace his next-of-kin. Apparently Richard was all that was left of that side of the family, so he copped the lot.'

'The lot?'

'Yes, the old boy hadn't been short of a few bob. A pretty decent sum of money, and the house too. In fact it was enough money for us to give up on the jobs and get ourselves over to the old country. We rather fancied being landed gentry.'

'Tell me about the house.'

'It's a big old pile, in a village out in Sussex. Bletchingford. Plenty of grounds and its own little lake, Well I call it a lake, but the gardener bloke says duck pond, though it's only recently we've seen a duck on it. Suppose there must have been more of them in the past, because the place is called Duck Lodge.'

Odd name for a house, thought Nightingale...but then he'd once known a place called Gosling Manor. There was no accounting for taste.

'Anyhow, we moved in last month and it's taken us a while to get it straight. Some of the old furniture was only fit for the trash, and the plumbing and wiring needed work, but it's pretty much organised now. The only bit we haven't got round to is the library. Full of old books from floor to ceiling. We're neither of us serious readers, so we'll probably end up just getting them cleared away.' Nightingale was beginning to regret his smart-arsed comment about smoking. This looked like a very long story. 'We love the house, and everyone in the village has been so friendly...but then last Friday...Richard, maybe you'd better tell it...'

Her husband started in his chair, as if he'd been dragged back from a daydream. He took a deep breath and made an effort to focus on Nightingale.

'Yes, that'd be best,' he said. Well, it was around nineish on Friday night, I'd spent most of the day clearing out a shed in the garden, so I was pretty dirty and weary. Fancied a long bath. There's a nice old bathtub in the top bathroom...modern plumbing, but it's huge, so I took myself off up there with a glass of wine and a thriller for a good long soak. I don't know how to tell you this, Mr Nightingale... you're going to think I was stoned or something....'

'I've heard quite a few strange stories, just tell me as best you remember.'

'Well, the water was good and hot, the wine was nice enough, but the book wasn't that interesting, so I chucked it down and just relaxed. Maybe I fell asleep...I really don't know. It seemed that way. Next thing I knew, I thought I heard the sound of a bird fluttering its wings, so I opened my eyes. And there she was. Standing next to the bath. The most beautiful enchanting woman I'd ever seen.'

The memory seemed to leave him speechless for a moment. Nightingale shot a glance at Sarah. He wasn't married himself, but Grainger's last sentence hadn't seemed the sort of thing that a husband would be best advised to say in front of his wife. Sure enough, her lips were pressed together tightly. Grainger was speaking again.

'She was tall, pale-skinned with the most gorgeous long red hair and flashing green eyes. She just looked at me, and I felt those eyes boring into me. She spoke, I remember it so well, 'I've come for you, Richard.' That's what she said.'

'She knew your name?'

'Yes. Odd now you mention it, but it didn't seem odd at the time. And then I seemed to drift away again, out of the bath, onto cool grass. The sun was shining, She got on top of me. And...well...she took me inside her.'

Nightingale was starting to feel uncomfortable now, and another glance at Sarah showed he wasn't the only one.

'It was wonderful the best thing I'd ever felt...but so...well...draining. And then all of a sudden, she reached down with her hands, and she dug her nails in to me and started scratching me so viciously...I'd never felt pain like it. I screamed...God how I screamed...and I passed out.' Nightingale looked at Sarah again. He was no judge of expressions, but he'd have put money on her not enjoying Richard's story. 'A dream? A strange dream for sure, but nothing to get worried about, surely?'

The woman spoke again. 'No, Mr Nightingale, there's a lot more to it than that. I was downstairs when I heard my husband screaming at the top of his lungs. I raced up there and broke the lock off the door to get in. When I did, he was passed out in the bath...and the bath was full of blood. And.... well... show him Rich.....'

The man stood up, took off his jacket and tie and opened his shirt. Nightingale's eyes widened and he gasped. The whole of Grainger's chest was a mass of vicious, deep, livid scratches. They were just beginning to scab over, but he looked as if he'd been set on by some wild cat. 'I've got matching ones on my back, and...er....down there too, Mr Nightingale. I don't wonder that Sarah lost it when she saw me in the bath...I'd lost enough blood to make the bathwater look pretty gory. Nothing life-threatening, not deep enough to stitch, but Christ they hurt...and will do for a few more weeks.'

'It makes no sense, Mr Nightingale,' said Mrs Grainger. 'What could do that to my husband? Dreams don't leave you with wounds. And before you ask, there's no way he could have done it himself. Rich is a nail-biter. I'm not, but I could never do that to my husband.' Nightingale asked all the obvious questions. Were they sure the door had been locked? Could anyone have come in through the small window two stories up? Might Grainger have fallen asleep with his razor in his hand? Did they keep a large aggressive cat? And finally... 'Had you ever seen this woman before?'

'For sure, no. If I had, I'd never have forgotten her. She seemed almost unhuman, inhuman, more than human.' He threw up his hands. "I can't explain it.'

'Can you help us, Mr Nightingale,' said Mrs Grainger. 'There has to be some rational explanation for what happened to my husband, surely? We're scared stiff to be in the house after this.'

Nightingale gave a good impression of a man who was thinking hard, though, truth be told, he had very few ideas. 'Are you going home now? I think I ought to drive down this afternoon and take a look. Maybe then I can help.'

'That would be great,' said Mr Grainger. 'Would five hundred be OK as a retainer?'

'Just fine. If you'd make the cheque out to Nightingale Investigations. I should be with you around three.'

* * *

A year or so before, Nightingale might really have been confident of finding a rational explanation, but these days he was beginning to feel that the answer might end up being completely irrational. As usual his MGB was in the garage whilst its latest problem was being dealt with, so he was obliged to spend twenty minutes persuading Jenny that her dearest wish was a drive in the Sussex countryside in her smart Audi. Every now and again he thought that it really wasn't all that good for office politics to have a secretary who was cleverer, more accomplished and much richer than her boss, but he generally decided to forget about it, since there was no chance he'd ever find anyone else to put up with him. The promise of dinner finally swung the deal, and it was just after three that Jenny drove into Bletchingford. It seemed to be an almost stereotypical English village, and they spotted the church, two pubs, a Post Office and a village store as they drove through. Duck Lodge wasn't hard to find, being the biggest house in the place, set back from the main road behind some impressive gates which opened once Jenny announced their arrival to the intercom.

There was a drive a few hundred yards long which led up to the imposing Manor House, and they spotted the duck pond over to the left. As a duck pond, it was impressive, but it certainly didn't qualify as a lake. Maybe a couple of hundred yards across. Nightingale couldn't see any ducks about.

Jenny stopped in front of the main door, where the Graingers were waiting to meet them. Nightingale was dying for a cigarette, since Jenny had a strict 'No Smoking' policy in her car,('And besides Jack, it's a place of business') but the Graingers ushered the two of them straight inside.

'Coffee for you?' asked Mrs Grainger.

Nightingale declined, the thought of coffee without a cigarette was worse torture. 'Maybe we should take a look at the bathroom first?'

Sarah Grainger led the way up two flights of stairs, past some sinister portraits of what Nightingale assumed to be Grainger ancestors, and along a landing to an impressive looking oak door. 'You broke this down?'

'Not really, Mr Nightingale, I'm not Wonder Woman, there was only a small bolt on the other side, held in with some short screws. It came away easily enough.'

'Do you usually lock yourself in the bathroom, Mr Grainger?'

'Yes, I do I suppose. I know a lot of people don't ...but...'

'Would you like to go inside, Mr Nightingale? I'll wait here if you don't mind. We've been using the ensuite downstairs since Friday.' Nightingale stepped inside with Jenny behind him. The bathroom was an impressive size, and dominated by the huge bath that stood against the left-hand wall. Nightingale had never seen such an old one, or one of such a size. It stood on four balled feet, and clearly pre-dated the idea of the built-in fixture. Two taps were set into the wall at the far end, but there was no trace of the ubiquitous modern shower fitting. On the opposite wall was a wash basin and a toilet, with a high-level cistern. They weren't new, but clearly a lot more modern than the bath. Above the wash basin was a medicine cabinet, and between the basin and the toilet stood a large square wicker basket, presumably full of towels. There was one window, quite small and quite high up. Far too small for a full-grown woman to crawl through, even if she had climbed up two storeys.

Grainger had followed them in. He seemed much less apprehensive about the room than his wife. 'Not much to see, now I'm afraid. The first thing Sarah did was to pull out the plug and get me out. Once she'd finished disinfecting the scratches, she came straight back in here and cleaned the bath out. Sorry.'

'Natural I suppose. Was the window open when you were in here?'

'Yes, it was pretty warm and I didn't want the place steaming up.' Nightingale always started with the obvious, so he spent ten minutes tapping the walls and the floor, until he was pretty sure that there were no trap doors, priest's holes, secret panels or any other obvious ways of entering the bathroom. The wicker basket was indeed full of towels, and wouldn't have held a woman anyway. As far as he could make out, you came in by the door, or you didn't come in at all. There was nothing to show that any mysterious woman had ever been here. The only thing even vaguely out of place was a small brown feather on the windowsill. Nightingale shoved it in his pocket...maybe he could identify it later. Then it was more questions.

'Mrs Grainger, did you see anything at all in here when you first came in?'

'No, nothing. Just as I burst in, Rich stopped screaming, but there was nobody here...just him...lying in that awful water...'

'There were no wet footprints on the carpet?'

'No, nothing like that. There was a lot of water on the floor, as if Rich had been thrashing about...but no sign of anyone else.'

'Maybe I should take a look outside now.'

The four of them went back downstairs and out the front door. Nightingale took a good look at the house. Architecture wasn't his strong point by any means, but it looked old.

'Elizabethan?' asked Nightingale.

'Apparently, though according to Rich's solicitor parts of it have burnt down and been restored over the centuries. A lot of modernisation inside. Let's walk round to the back, and you can see the bathroom window.'

They walked off to the left, and Nightingale got a better view of the duck pond as they turned down the side of the house. Out in the middle of it swam a solitary brown duck. 'Are there fish in it?' asked Nightingale.

Again it was Sarah who answered. 'I think so. And plenty of newts or whatever. Our little friend seems to find plenty to eat. She showed up last month.'

Jenny looked puzzled at that. 'All alone?' she asked.

'Yes'

'Odd, they usually come in mated pairs.'

Nightingale looked impressed. 'I didn't know you were a twitcher, Jenny.'

'I'm not. Just a country girl. Show my father a duck and he reaches for his shotgun.' They reached the back of the house, which looked out onto a few more acres of garden and grounds, ending in a small wood. Nightingale looked up at the back wall, counted up two storeys and eventually found the bathroom window. It was much smaller than any other one, and free from any convenient ivy by which a naked redhead might climb up and surprise the lord of the manor. The nearest tree was two hundred yards away.

'Any ladders about?' he asked.

'Just a few step ladders. Nothing anywhere near long enough to reach up there.'

'It seems unlikely that your redhead would arrive with a fireman's ladder over her shoulder, or be able to squeeze through that window.'

The husband gave a look of annoyance. 'Look, I know it sounds like a load of old crap, and I don't blame you for not taking me seriously. All I can do is tell you what I saw...or thought I saw.'

Nightingale wiped the smile off his face, and spoke very quietly and slowly. 'On the contrary Mr Grainger, I am taking this seriously. Very seriously indeed. Perhaps it's time we went back inside and took your wife up on that offer of coffee now.' Nightingale was pretty twitchy by now, so stood outside the house to smoke a cigarette and talk to Jenny while the Graingers went in to organise the coffee. 'What's going on here, Jack?' asked Jenny. 'This simply isn't possible, if they're telling the truth. And what would be the point in making it all up?'

'Those scratches are real enough, and as you say, what's to be gained by making up such a daft story. No, I think there's something nasty going on here.'

'You're not talking about that bloody Ouija board stuff, are you? I had enough of that last time. There must be some sensible explanation.'

'Well, let's go in and see what we can find out.' They walked back through the front door, along a panelled hallway lined with yet more portraits and into what Nightingale might have called a lounge if it had been half the size, but he supposed it qualified as a 'Drawing-Room'. It was bigger than his entire flat in Bayswater. The furniture seemed to owe more to the Modern Yuppie school rather than any other period, which meant that the sofa he sat on was comfortable rather than valuable. The coffee was poured, Nightingale took a few sips, then started on more questions. 'So, do you live here alone?'

Yet again the woman took the lead, since her husband seemed lost in thought. 'Yes, it's a huge place, but we're not really the type to think in terms of servants. It' s not an Australian thing. We have two women come in three times a week to clean, and we pay a couple of gardeners. Old George and Young Steve. Father and son. We're really still sorting stuff out, replacing old furniture and some bits of renovation. Fortunately there's plenty of money, and old Uncle Cedric seems to have kept the place in good order.'

'Was Mr Grainger his only relative then?'

'Yes, apparently he never married, and lived here pretty much alone after his parents died.'

'Do you know anything about the history of the house?'

'Not much at all...though we were thinking that maybe some of the books in the library might have some information.'

'Hmmm. Worth a try. Do you mind if we take a look?'

Sarah led the way into the library, and Nightingale's heart sank. It was another huge room, with every wall lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, all crammed with books of varying sizes, ages and states of repair. Finding anything useful in here was going to be well-nigh impossible, unless....

'Is there a catalogue? An index?'

'Not as far as I know, Mr Nightingale, though this is the one room we haven't really explored much...it just seemed like so much work.'

Nightingale nodded. If the answer were in here somewhere, then he'd probably die of old age before finding it.

'There is always the possibility of selling up, you know. Maybe returning to Australia?' This time it was Mr Grainger who spoke.

'Not a chance,' said his wife. 'This is our home now. It's been in the family for generations apparently. We're not going to be frightened out of it.'

'I think I've seen as much as I need to now. I need to go back to London and get started on some enquiries with a few people I know. In the meantime, I suggest you lock up the bathroom and don't let anyone inside it.'

'Do you think we're in danger, Mr Nightingale?'

'I hope not, Mrs Grainger, but stay out of that room. And it might be best to stick to quick showers from now on. I hope I'll have some information for you by the end of the week.'

As they drove back to London, Jenny had plenty of questions. 'What in God's name is going on there, Jack?'

'Whatever it is, I doubt that God has got much of a hand in it. I need to talk to some people, take some expert advice.'

'Expert advice in what, Jack? Who do you know who's an expert in being raped and attacked by mad redheads in an old bath?'

'Well, since you put it like that, maybe it is rather a specialised area. I'll have to put out a few feelers.'

'Honest, Jack...you're so bloody vague...half the time I have no idea what you're talking about. And best you stay in ignorance, my love, thought Nightingale. If you knew half of the truth it would probably drive you mad. Apart from Nightingale himself, there were precious few people who did know the full truth of the last year's events. And most of those who did wouldn't really qualify as 'people' anyway. He shuddered.

'What's the matter, Jack? Cold?'

'Not really, just someone walking over my grave.' He hoped not, after all he used to think that was just a phrase. Jenny dropped him at his flat in Bayswater around nine. He got himself a takeaway order of duck noodles from the Chinese downstairs and a few bottles of Corona from the off-licence opposite. Once his nutritional requirements were taken care of, he took out his mobile and switched it on. He'd planned to make a call to his oracle on all things supernatural, Mrs Steadman, but he noticed a message in the inbox from a number he recognised but had never expected to see again. 'In town tonight. Meet me at the Ritz anytime. JW.'

Nightingale ran down to street level and was in a cab heading for the West End inside three minutes. Some of the richest and most stylish people in the world regularly pass through the foyer of the Ritz, and it's a mark of how well the reception staff are trained that the girl who dealt with Nightingale gave no indication that he didn't belong amongst their number. Not by a flicker of an eyebrow did she suggest that the worn suit, noodle-stained tie and sad looking Hush Puppies were not the epitome of current male fashion. Nightingale gave his name and the name of the guest he'd come to see, and was taken up to a fourth-floor suite. The uniformed bell-boy knocked, opened the door and announced Nightingale. A familiar voice boomed at him.

'Come on in, Jack, make yourself at home.' The tall, black Texan sprang to his feet, put his huge cigar into an ashtray and walked over to shake Nightingale's hand.

'Joshuah Wainwright. It's been too long. How long has it been? Or is this the first time?'

'Hah! That's a mighty good question, Jack...but I suggest you don't try to find an answer to it. It sort of brings up too many paradoxes. Let's just leave it that I know you and you know me, and we both remember a little business we've done in the past.'

'Fair enough. So what brings you to London?'

'A few more bits of business. And I thought maybe I might give a little help to an old friend while I'm here. Take yourself a seat. Jack.'

Nightingale slumped down on a sofa that was roughly the size of his lounge and lit a cigarette. 'What makes you think I need help?'

'Well, first of all because you have a habit of blundering into things you don't understand, so you're pretty much always way outta your depth. And second, I've seen one or two things.'

'What, you've been watching me from the Astral? Hovering over London?'

'Not as simple as that, Jack, and it's best not to joke about it, but some of us adepts see and feel things without needing to look. Trust me, I'm not your guardian angel, but I check in on my friend from time to time. Anyway, never mind how I know, what you'll be interested in is what I know.'

'Which is?'

'I know you need to read that book.' Wainwright pointed to a slim, old volume lying on the writing desk. It was covered in what appeared to be very cracked brown leather, though Nightingale was never too confident in his ability to recognise book-binding materials.

'What is it?'

'It's John Stearne's diary. The original, one and only.'

'Very nice too. Who's he?'

'These days, I guess he's nobody. In the days of your English Civil War, he was assistant to Matthew Hopkins, the guy who liked to call himself the Witchfinder General. Between the two of them they killed over three hundred people they claimed were witches. When Hopkins died, Stearne went back to his farm and wrote a book called A Confirmation And Discovery Of Witchcraft. I'm probably one of the few people alive who's read it. But this is his personal diary. You might try looking in June 1644.'

'I can take it? Isn't it valuable?'

'I guess, since it's the only copy there is, but it'll come back to me. Now, I hate to be a poor host, but I'll be needing to get along with some of that business I talked about. I guess there's no point telling you to take care, you'll just need to trust to that luck of yours.'

A bone-crushing handshake later and Nightingale was on his way, with the book in a Ritz carrier bag. The commissionaire hailed him a cab and he headed back to Bayswater. His own sofa felt like a sack of second-hand springs after the luxury of Wainwright's hotel suite, but he opened another Corona, lit a cigarette and settled in to read Stearne's diary.

The farmer's handwriting was none too good, and spelling worse, but after a while Nightingale started to get used to it. June of 1644 had been a busy month for the Witchfinders, and the diary entries were a horrendous tale of torture, brutality and death. The entry Nightingale needed was for 21 June. To Bletchingford in the County of Suffex, where My Lady Bletchingford had denownced Mistreff Neffa Kannard as a Wytche, for that she had bewytched her husband with a love potion, that he knew not his own Wyfe. Mistreff Kannard was a comely wench of some five and twenty, with hair of deepest red. A red most lyke unto fire, with which I was much taken and think of to this day. Master Hopkins ordered that she be swum in ye duckpond of the Manor House. This being done, it was seen that Mistreff Kannard did float upon the water, larfing the while, and shouting 'Know you not that the water be mine element? It shall never harm me.' Master Hopkins ordered that she be brought to shore, whereupon she fell to cursing My Lady Bletchingford, swearing that her marriage should never prosper, nor should any marriage ever prosper in the Manor House. She was conveyed to ye gaol, there to await execution upon the morrow.

Nightingale had started to sweat by now, and opened another Corona before he turned the page to the following day's entry. Something fell out onto his lap as he turned the page, but he picked it up without looking and placed it next to him on the sofa. A great mistery today as when the cell was opened no trace of Mistreff Kannard could be found. The bars of the window were untouched, nor was the lock disturbed, and the gaoler took his oath that none had been near. Master Hopkins was heard to say that truly there was wytchcraft abroad. No sight of her has been reported. Nightingale would surely never have believed any of it a year before, but he wasn't about to dismiss anything these days. The idea of a five hundred year old witch returning to visit vengeance on the new owner of Duck Lodge seemed pretty credible compared to his encounters with demons from the gates of Hell and Shades who'd taken on children's bodies. But what was he going to do about it? He had no idea. But he knew a woman who might.

The following morning found Nightingale outside the Wicca Woman shop in Camden Town a few minutes before ten. At ten on the dot a small woman dressed in black arrived to open up, gave Nightingale a smile and ushered him inside. 'Ah, Mr Nightingale. How nice to see you again.'

'You don't look surprised to see me, Mrs Steadman.'

'Hardly that, my dear. One hears things. I suppose I've been expecting you.' The shop door opened and in walked a teenage girl, also dressed in black and with a faceful of assorted piercings. 'Tansy, my dear, I'm going to need to chat with this gentleman for a little while,' said Mrs Steadman. 'You'll be alright by yourself?' The girl nodded, and Mrs Steadman showed Nightingale into the back room. She made tea and opened a new packet of Hob Nobs, to which Nightingale helped himself, since he knew she wouldn't let him smoke. 'Now then, Mr Nightingale. Suppose you tell me how I can help you this time. I assume you're in need of help?'

Nightingale told her everything, from the attack on Grainger through to what he'd discovered in Stearne's diary. The mention of Stearne and Hopkins caused an outburst of anger. 'Those evil, evil men. Murdering swine. Such ignorance.'

'Yes, I suppose they must have done for quite a few witches.'

'Not at all. I consider it very unlikely that a true Adept would have been caught by such buffoons. More likely innocent women with enemies who'd denounce them when their cows fell sick, or as a love rival. An evil time in history indeed.'

'But what about this Nessa Kannard... could she have been a true Adept?'

'Well, I have no way of knowing, but it certainly seems as if she was amusing herself at the expense of her accusers. And that curse is quite specific and rather nasty. It might certainly tie in with the attack on your friend.'

'But surely, not even a real witch could still be around after five hundred years? Witches aren't immortal, are they?'

Mrs Steadman gave a sad little sigh. 'Far from it, Mr Nightingale, far from it. Of course, some Adepts can achieve a certain power over death, but it merely delays the inevitable. Though, quite often, abilities and learning can be handed down through generations.'

'You're saying this mystery woman could be a descendant of Nessa Kannard?'

'Many things are possible, Mr Nightingale. Power takes many forms, some of them hereditary.'

'But what can this woman want? And how could I stop her?'

'Stopping her might be difficult, if she has such power. As for what she wants...I suppose you could ask her.'

'And exactly how do I go about finding her?'

'Well, we know what form she can take, when she wishes.'

'We do?'

'I believe you have the clue in your pocket, or so you told me.'

Nightingale took out the brown feather and looked at it carefully. 'This?'

'Exactly. From a duck I suspect.'

'Oh no. You're not suggesting this woman can turn herself into a bloody duck? That's just plain ridiculous.'

'Is it, Mr Nightingale? I'm sure you've heard legends of people who can transform themselves into bats...or cats...or even wolves?'

Nightingale couldn't stop himself from laughing. 'Oh for goodness sake. Maybe werewolves, yes...but be serious...a wereduck? It's like something out of Wallace and Grommit.'

'Don't confuse form with power, Mr Nightingale. I believe you once watched Proserpine blast a man's soul to Hell...what form did she take?'

Nightingale stopped laughing very quickly. That particular memory wasn't funny at all. 'A teenage girl with a collie dog. Yes, I see what you mean.'

'And Lucifuge Rofocale?' This time Nightingale shuddered. That night he'd come desperately close to losing his own soul and his sister's.

'A dwarf, a dwarf with a black beard. OK, I take the point. I'm sorry.'

'No need for an apology, but remember that evil may take many forms. Often the most innocent and harmless.'

'So how might I find this witch...or Adept...or whatever she is?'

'I would no doubt be wasting my time if I cautioned you strongly against it? You are once again dealing with forces far stronger than you, and which you cannot understand. Advise your clients to pull down that house, and go back to Australia. It will be better for them.'

'I doubt that they would. I need to lift this curse from them. Will you help me?'

This time the sigh was longer and deeper. 'You're an obstinate man Mr Nightingale, sooner or later I fear your extraordinary luck will run out...but I'll help you. I have what you need here.'

* * *

The MGB was in full working order, at least for a day or two, so Nightingale drove himself down to Sussex. The Graingers had gone up to London for a couple of days to see the sights, at his advice, so were safely in a hotel. He had a key to Duck Lodge and a box containing all the things that he'd bought from Mrs Steadman. Her warnings had once again fallen on deaf ears, especially since Nightingale knew he was facing a witch, rather than the Demons he'd dealt with on previous occasions. His soul would be in no danger. He felt almost confident.

He smoked a final cigarette outside the house, then let himself in. He headed straight for the bathroom on the second floor. It was a relief not to have to go through the ritual of scrubbing himself clean and drawing the bloody pentagram on the floor, but his preparations still needed to be precise in order to minimise the danger.

He took out eight candles from his box, placed one in each corner of the room and one in the middle of each wall. That meant one behind the bath, which was a little fiddly but he managed it. Next he took eight small brass dishes and placed one in front of each candle. There was a bag of earth in the box, and he used it to fill each dish in turn. Finally he lit the candles. Everything was prepared. Nightingale took a deep breath and began the ritual he'd been shown. He took out his lighter and the feather, then lit the end of it. He pronounced nine Latin words, exactly as Mrs Steadman had taught them to him, and let the feather burn down until it scorched his fingers. Rather than yelp in pain, he shouted 'I summon thee' three times at the top of his voice.

Nothing happened. Nightingale cursed himself for a gullible fool. What in God's name was he doing giving credence to this mumbo-jumbo anyway? Then he heard it. A fluttering of feathers, and suddenly a shape appeared in the middle of the room. A brown duck. Despite what Mrs Steadman had stressed to him, he had to fight back the urge to laugh, as the creature waddled clumsily about the room. Who could be scared of a duck?

He remembered the next step. 'What is your name?' The duck quacked. 'What is your name?' The duck grew, shimmered and was gone. In its place stood the most striking woman Nightingale could ever have imagined. She was as tall as him, with pale, almost translucent skin, and a glorious mane of red hair hanging down her shoulders and back,

Nightingale gasped. He noticed, almost in passing, that she was completely naked. His mouth was horribly dry, and he could barely croak the third question. 'What is your name?'

'My name is Anas Kannard, Jack Nightingale. Could I trouble you for a cigarette?'

Despite himself, Nightingale reached for his pocket, but he stopped in time. 'Not just at the moment. I have summoned you, and I have questions for you.'

The woman looked around at Nightingale's preparations. She beamed a smile at him. 'Hmmmm. Blessed church candles and soil from consecrated ground. Earth and fire, and since my element is water, you figure it'll keep me prisoner. All a bit Harry Potter, isn't it Nightingale?'

Nightingale recognised a touch of Irish in her soft voice. 'I was told you'd try to distract me, but I have questions for you. You must answer.'

'Must I now? Well, we'll see about that. Anyway, I'm here now, so ask away.'

'What do you want from the Graingers?'

This time she laughed. 'Oh dear me, Nightingale...you really are out of your depth here. Do you not know? Well, I want nothing from her, and, as it happens, there's nothing I want from him anymore.' She patted her stomach and gave another smile.

'So why not leave them in peace?'

'Oh I shall be leaving soon enough, don't you worry about that. It was just a little family duty that brought me back here for a while.'

'So, you're a descendant of Nessa?'

'Well, I can see how you manage to make a living as a detective, Nightingale. Nothing gets past you. A lot of greats would need to go before granddaughter, but descendant will do. And it's not just her looks that I've inherited.'

'I noticed, And it seems you can carry a grudge too.' She smiled. It didn't bring Nightingale any cheer at all.

'Well, a curse is a curse, you know. One can't just let these things slide. They'd have hanged Nessa, given the chance. Still, that was all a long time ago. Now, was there anything else? It's a little chilly here, and I'm not dressed for an evening out.'

'Yes, I want you to swear to leave this house and leave Richard Grainger alone.'

'Now why on earth would I be doing that? I've told you, I've family duties to perform. It's something of an obligation.'

'I've got something to offer you in exchange.'

She laughed, but this time there seemed very little humour in it. 'Really? You wouldn't even give me a cigarette five minutes ago. And now you're offering me a bribe? Am I meant to be tempted by your body? I don't think so.'

Nightingale pulled the book out of his pocket and held it up. 'You know, I'm really not that much of a reader, Nightingale.'

'You might be interested in this, it's the diary of John Stearne.'

The name struck home. She stiffened and the smile was gone. 'That murdering bastard. Why would I be interested in what he had to say?'

'Well, it's not so much what he has to say, though he does write about Nessa. It's more what he used as a bookmark.'

Nightingale held up something red. 'What might that be?'

'He seemed much taken with Nessa's hair. I'm betting that this is a lock of it, which he cut off and kept. And Mrs Steadman tells me that a lock of a witch's hair, unwillingly taken, can be a very powerful charm, especially when used by a descendant.'

The smile was back, briefly, before Annas dissolved into peals of laughter. This time she seemed genuinely amused. 'Is that it? By the Dark Waters, is that all you've got? Oh dear me, Nightingale, how have you stayed alive this long? Honest, you're like a babe-in-arms amongst giants.' Nightingale was beginning to feel that she might be right. This wasn't going as well as he'd hoped. 'You're dealing with power beyond your comprehension and you're offering me knick-knacks? Sure, I'm beginning to like you, fool that you are. Great-great-granny Nessa's hair might be quite an interesting thing to put in a locket, but it's hardly a bargaining tool, or the key to world domination. Still, for all that, you make me laugh, so I'll do a deal with you. Hand it over, and I'll promise to leave within a week.'

Nightingale's head was starting to swim and her soft voice seemed to be coming from further away now. He blinked and shook his head, trying to break the spell. He was sure he was forgetting something, overlooking a question he should be asking. 'And what about Richard Grainger? You have to promise not to harm him.'

'I never was going to harm the poor soul.'

'What about flaying the skin off him?'

'Pah, that was just me being a little over-enthusiastic. Alright, here you go. I promise to leave within a week, not to come to him anymore, and not to harm him in any way. Good enough for you, Mr Negotiator?'

'How do I know you'll keep your word?'

'Well now, you'll not be expecting me to swear on a Bible, I assume. My word's good, Nightingale.'

Nightingale still had the feeling that he was overlooking something; it was all a little too easy. Her voice seemed to be making him sleepy again, but again he fought it, took another deep breath and handed over the lock of hair. Her face hardened.

'You know, Nightingale, you need to be very careful not to let your ego get the better of you. You've been lucky so far, but you're dealing with powers you have no understanding of, and very soon you're likely to end up dead, or much worse. An awful lot of people who come near you have already ended up dead. If you take my advice, you'll stick to divorce work from now on.'

'I'll consider it. Ok, you can go. I'm told I need to make a breach in the wall of earth and fire for you to leave.'

Her eyes flashed fury at him. 'I can go? I can go now can I? As if you and your joke-shop conjuring tricks could keep a Magus of the left hand path here against her will? You need a lesson in manners Nightingale.' Every candle in the room blew out at once, there was a flash of lightning which singed Nightingale's eyes and all the air was sucked from his lungs. His chest hurt. A lot. Every breath was torture, but not to breathe was impossible. He took small shallow breaths through his nose, and after a while his chest seemed to ease. He opened his eyes. It was daylight. He was lying in the bath, naked. He looked down at his chest. It was covered in blood.

With a huge effort he sat up, and nearly vomited with the pain. He reached for a tap and managed to turn it on, running cold water over his feet and then the rest of him. There was a towel draped over the side of the bath and very gingerly he wiped the blood from his chest. The same scratches he'd seen on Richard Grainger's chest, though probably not the result of over enthusiasm this time. Three sets. Two slanting, one horizontal, to make a giant A from throat to waist. They were going to take a long time to heal. 'That definitely could have gone better.' It was the devil of a job to get himself dressed and drive back up to Bayswater. Every movement sent flames of agony through his chest and once or twice he nearly passed out. A less obstinate man might have called an ambulance, but then Nightingale was never renowned for taking the prudent option. He collapsed on the sofa and tried not to move.

Later he made a call to the Graingers at their hotel in London. 'Mrs Grainger? It's me. I've dealt with the problem, you have my word for it that there'll be no more nocturnal visits to your husband.'

'Thank God, what on earth was it all about.'

'You know, I don't think you'd believe me if I told you. Just enjoy your new home from now on. I'll be in touch.'

He took Monday off but was back in the office on Tuesday, when Sarah Grainger called. 'Just to say thank you once again, Mr Nightingale. The whole house seems to have a different feel to it now, so much calmer. Richard still seems shaken up by it all, a little vague, but I think he's starting to get better as the scars heal. He's even talking about using the bathroom again. You'll send us an invoice, of course. Oh, and the duck pond's getting more use, that duck's had her babies. Seven little ones I counted this morning.'

'So that was what she was after,' mused Nightingale.

'Sorry?'

'Nothing Mrs Grainger,' he said quickly. 'Glad I could help.' Nightingale lit a cigarette and gazed out of the office window. He shook his head. 'So much for The Case Of The Demonic Duck.' Jack owed Jenny dinner and he was a man who always paid his debts, especially to women who reminded him about them for three solid days, so he splashed some of the cash he expected to receive from the Graingers on a fairly pricey Thai that Thursday night.

Naturally Jenny had to drive, since he wasn't any too good at staying off the beer when he ate out. It had to be Thai beer since the restaurant didn't do Corona, but Nightingale liked to think he was flexible in dietary matters. Just so long as the world didn't run out of Marlboro. The food was great, the company was better and it was just after midnight when she dropped him outside the Bayswater flat. 'Tell you what, Jenny, we've had a pretty good week and there's not much on. Why don't we take tomorrow off. Go home for the weekend or something.'

Jenny grinned. 'Well I don't care what they say about you, you're my favourite employer. See you Monday, Jack. Take care.'

Nightingale staggered upstairs, got his key in the lock at the second attempt and made for the sofa, by way of the fridge. A final beer and a cigarette seemed the ideal way to end the day, and he could look forward to a lie-in the following day. Or, as it turned out, not. The phone was ringing in his dream, except he soon began to realise he wasn't dreaming. He was still on the sofa, so staggered over to pick it up. The mantelpiece clock said nine-fifteen. 'Jack?'

'Robbie? What do you want at this time of night?'

'Jack listen. I need to know what the hell you did with the Graingers?'

'Me, nothing. Why? What's happened to them?'

'Not them, Jack. Her. Sarah Grainger. She's dead, I've just been told about it.'

'Dead? How, when?'

'I dunno, I've just heard about it. But I need to know what happened.'

Robbie was a good friend, but there were things that Nightingale didn't tell even those closest to him. 'Nothing. He had some sort of bad dream, I went down to look into it, but there seemed to be nothing in it. What state's he in?'

'I dunno at the moment, I'm trying to get more details, but it's not my case and I don't want Chalmers hearing your name. It has a tendency to upset him.'

'Robbie, look, as soon as you find out anything, could you let me know?'

'I'll try Jack, though chances are you'll find out more from the Press. This one looks nasty.'

Nightingale gave brief consideration to driving down to Sussex, but abandoned the idea pretty quickly. For a start he still felt pissed, and then there would be no chance of the Sussex Police letting him take a look around. Instead he took a cab to the office, not that he had any idea what he was likely to achieve there either. As the day passed, he pieced together details of the death, some from radio and TV, others via Robbie's hasty phone calls. It was the cleaners who'd discovered the body...but then it always was, unless there were dog walkers or joggers which seemed unlikely in a second-floor bathroom. Sarah Elizabeth Grainger was discovered at around eight o'clock lying in a vintage bath, which was full to the brim with a mixture of water and her own blood. It appeared that she'd been stabbed multiple times, though death probably occurred due to the torn veins in her wrists causing her to bleed out.

The police were very anxious to interview Richard Gordon Grainger, husband of the deceased, who was missing. The public were warned not to approach him as he was considered dangerous. It was beginning to make some sense to Nightingale. So much so that on the Sunday he paid a visit to one of his less reputable acquaintances, a Mr Perry Smith. As usual, it took a while to get past Perry's security, but the man himself didn't seem displeased to see him. He tore himself away from his video game for long enough to listen to Nightingale's request.

'What you need that for man? Better a sawn-off.'

Nightingale demurred. 'I'm planning on a little hunting.'

'OK man, whatever, I owe you one for that nonce. T-Bone, equip the man.' Perry returned to manipulating his video-game controller with one hand and his escort's spectacular right breast with the other. Impressive independent co-ordination skills in Nightingale's opinion.

Inside five minutes, Nightingale left Perry's place of business with a long package, which he placed in the boot of the MGB.

He left it until Tuesday to drive down to Duck Lodge. If anyone had asked him, he would have been obliged to confess that it did seem a little foolhardy to show up at a murder scene with a shotgun, but nobody asked. Nightingale rarely gave a great deal of thought to his decisions, they just seemed to take over as if he was running on rails.

It appeared that the police had seen all they needed at Duck Lodge, since the place was deserted. The gates were wide open, but there was nobody around, which was hardly surprising at six fifteen in the morning. Nightingale took the long bag out of the boot and walked up the drive. He looked out over the duck pond which seemed devoid of life. No great surprise, it seemed Annas was a woman of her word. If only he'd listened to those words more carefully.

'What you doing here?'

The sudden interruption to his thoughts made Nightingale drop his bag. Behind him stood an old man who seemed a stranger to both barber and tailor. A name sprang into his memory. 'George?'

'Mr. Cartwright to you. And who might you be?'

'Nightingale, Jack Nightingale. I knew the Graingers a little. Thought I'd come down and pay some respects.'

'Hah! Not many people bring a shotgun to pay respects with. Thought you might shoot some duck, I'll bet. Somebody should have.'

'The thought occurred to me. But there don't seem to be any about.'

'No, nor there won't be for a long time. I saw them go on Friday morning.'

'Friday?'

'Yes, about this time. I always gets an early start. I saw them all fly off. Nine of them.'

'Nine?'

'Yes, the mother, seven chicks and the male. Funny it was, I'd never seen the male before that morning.'

Andrew Peters discovered Stephen Leather's thrillers in the early '90s and has been enjoying them ever since, particularly the ones set in the Far East and the newer Jack Nightingale series. This Blood Bath story was written early last year, the day after Stephen posted his cover art, and in response to some daft comments on Facebook from one or two unimportant people of the Northern persuasion. It was great fun to write, but he never expected it to see the light of day until 70 years after Stephen's death. He also wrote 10 books and 3 Kindle novellas of his own in 2012-2013, none of which plagiarise more famous writers (well, not so blatantly). Find out more at https://www.facebook.com/Andrewpetersstories

### Blood Bath

By Conrad Jones

It was a cold grey dawn, no longer dark but not yet light either. The headlights were still necessary for her to drive safely. Jenny McLean checked her reflection in the rear view mirror of her Audi. Her blond hair was scraped tightly to her scalp and tied up in a donut on the back of her head. Waiting for Jack was her pet hate but then he paid her wages, so she tolerated his tardiness. He had said twenty minutes at the most. The thought of climbing out of bed so early didn't appeal in the slightest but there was something in his voice which worried her. He had said it was an emergency and to make sure that she wasn't late. For Jack to use the word 'emergency' meant something catastrophic had happened. The urgency in her employer's voice had trumped her need to sleep. Jenny didn't let the fact that he employed her stop her from scolding him about making her wait, not that he paid any attention to her protestations anyway. Waiting for him was nothing new. The biggest problem at the moment was the early hour and the place where he had chosen to meet that bugged her. The drunks, burglars and lunatics were on their way home, while the workers were still in their beds clinging to slumber.

The Bayswater area of London where Jack lived was inhabited by a diverse group of cultures but early in the morning the Hyde Park area was awash with weirdoes. As the sun came up, it chased them out of the shadows and forced them to go home. She had only been parked for twenty minutes and three different people had already knocked on her window, two asked for change and the third was so drunk that he couldn't string a sentence together. It wasn't often that Jack needed her so early in the day and he said it was urgent so she was willing to persevere. When he called he had sounded anxious. No, he was more than anxious. She knew that he didn't sleep well sometimes and he often sounded tired, but this morning he sounded different. He sounded frightened. She didn't question his request to pick him up, nor did she quibble about the place he had chosen to meet. She was sure that he would explain when he arrived. She would insist that he explained.

A loud tap on the passenger window startled her. She was about to tell whoever it was to sod off, when she realised it was Jack. Jenny couldn't see his face but his raincoat was unmistakeable. The central locking clicked open allowing him to open the door.

'Have you been waiting long?' he asked looking around before climbing in. He took a deep drag and then flicked what was left of a Marlboro into the gutter. The smell of tobacco wafted into the Audi behind him. He looked up and down the street furtively, 'I got here as quick as I could.'

'Did you come out of the park?' Jenny frowned. She had been expecting him to come from the opposite direction. His demeanour was all wrong. Jenny could tell that he had been disturbed by something.

'Yes,' he muttered. He checked behind them again. 'We need to get out of here. Drive towards Kensington.' He sat back in the seat and wrapped the seatbelt over his shoulder, clicking it into place as the vehicle moved off. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly as if trying to calm himself. She hadn't seen him looking so shaken for a long time.

'Do you want to tell me what I'm doing here at this ungodly hour?' She slid the Audi into light traffic. There was next to nothing on the roads. 'And then you can tell me what you were doing in the park in the dark wearing that raincoat. You'll get arrested.'

'I always wear this raincoat,' he shrugged and closed his eyes as he spoke. He ignored her attempt at humour. 'Since when has being in possession of an old raincoat been a crime?'

'Excuse me?' she nudged him with her elbow. 'When you were on the force it was a prerequisite to arrest, wasn't it?' she chuckled.

'You're not far wrong,' he smiled for the first time, although there was no mirth in it. Locking up villains had been much simpler than what he did now. Sometimes he yearned to return to those times. 'In my day, a man in a raincoat in the park after dark was as guilty as sin itself.'

'And if he didn't confess, you'd have beaten it out of him!'

'How dare you?' Jack scoffed. He half smiled and looked behind them again.

'So,' she said, steering the car around the park. 'What exactly are we doing here?'

Jack shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. 'We're going to see an old friend of mine,' he tilted his head as he spoke. Jenny knew that meant that he was being inventive with the truth. 'He'll be able to help.' He paused, 'I know what to do but I need to know that you will be safe first. You may have to stay there for a while,' he took a breath as he thought about his next words. 'You're in grave danger, Jenny. You'll have to stay there until I can sort this out.'

Jenny looked at him, her mouth open in surprise. She shook her head in disbelief. Sometimes working on the checkout at Aldi seemed like a desirable alternative career. After working with Jack as long as she had, nothing much surprised her any more but she had to admit that this time she was and it wasn't a pleasant surprise. 'Why would I be in some kind of danger?' she asked incredulously. 'What the hell can be so bad that I couldn't even pack some underwear and a toothbrush?'

'Trust me, it's bad.'

'Jack!' she snapped. 'That is not fair. I'm not a child, so don't you dare treat me like one.' She looked sideways at him. The steel in her eyes warned him not to try to bamboozle her with nonsense. 'What exactly is going on?'

'Pull in here,' Jack sighed and took out his phone. She indicated left and guided the Audi to the kerb. The traffic was light enough to get away with it for now. In a few hours time changing lanes would cause havoc. 'They sent me this last night,' he said, as they stopped. He opened up the message and clicked on the attachment. Jenny squinted to look at the image as it opened and then came into focus. She took a sharp intake of breath and covered her mouth with her hand. 'Oh my God!'

'I'm not sure where God is right now but he certainly wasn't around when this happened.' Jack sighed, as he looked at the screen. The image showed Jenny crucified upside down. Her hands, wrists and ankles had been nailed to a tree with metal spikes. Her throat had been slashed from ear to ear. A deep black gaping hole exposed her trachea to the world. Blood streaked her neck and face and her blond hair was matted and red. A silver vessel resembling a wide goblet had been placed beneath her to collect her life force as it flowed from her.

'Oh my god!' she whispered hoarsely. 'How?'

'Photoshop, I presume,' Jack replied flatly. 'They superimposed your image onto the victim. That's why I couldn't tell you on the telephone. If they're watching you and you had an overnight bag, well, it wouldn't take much to find you.'

Jenny looked up as a bus honked its horn at a cyclist who had wandered too far from the kerb. A black hackney cab slammed on its brakes, the rear lights illuminating for a second. Her eyes shifted back to the image. 'You said victim?' She looked at Jack to enlighten her. 'What victim?'

'I don't know who she was,' Jack swallowed hard and smiled thinly. 'Whoever she was, she is nailed to a tree in the park.'

Jenny now understood the angst she had heard in his voice earlier. Her imagination was running riot. Fear fuelled adrenalin coursed through her veins. 'You saw this woman crucified in the park?'

Jack nodded and looked out of the passenger window. 'We need to drive, Jenny,' he turned to her. 'I don't think that I was followed. I checked. That's why I was late but I can't guarantee that you weren't. He checked behind them again nervously. 'We need to get to Kensington quickly. I'll tell you about it on the way.'

She nodded and pushed the vehicle into gear. A space in the traffic appeared and she slotted into it. Her actions were those of an automaton. Shock had numbed her senses. Whoever the poor woman in the park had been, she had been butchered to send a message to Jack. Seeing her own face imposed onto the dead body had knocked her sideways. It looked so real. 'Do you have any idea who is doing this?' she asked quietly.

'I can guess,' Jack shrugged and sighed. 'The crucifixion indicates Satanism.' He shrugged. 'If I had any doubts at all, the inversion of the crucifix and the exsanguination and collection of her blood, that's concrete evidence that they're Satanists.'

'Do you think they're going to try to kill you or something?'

'No,' Jack said, shaking his head. 'If they wanted to do that then they could have done it this morning.'

'Did you call the Police?' Jenny asked biting her bottom lip.

'They'll find her soon enough and we can't afford to waste time answering their questions. She was dead.' Jack shook his head as if to dismiss the image from his mind. 'I got a call telling me that the photograph was on the way and that I should go into the park and look at the oak tree, near to the statue of Peter Pan.' He rubbed his hands together; the urge to smoke was making him tetchy. 'When I saw the image, I thought it was you. I went to the park and the rest you know.'

'They're threatening you?'

'I don't think so,' Jack shook his head as he answered. 'This isn't a crackpot making threats. It's far too organised.'

'So what are we dealing with?' she glanced sideways nervously trying to read his expression.

'I think it's a statement of intent.'

'What do you mean?'

'They're telling me, or should I say, showing me what they are intending to do to you.' Jack looked at her and lowered his voice. 'Hence the early-morning drive through London to get you somewhere safe. Whoever they are, they're not going to go away. They've gone to a lot of trouble already. I need to get you safe, lure them out and stop them permanently.'

Jenny shivered and exhaled loudly. When Jack said he was going to have to stop them she knew what he meant. She could only think of one way to discourage people like them and she didn't need to know any more details than that. The entire morning was a nightmare and it seemed obvious that it would only get worse. Jack shifted in his seat so that he could see the traffic behind them in the wing mirror. He scanned the vehicles carefully looking for someone who was too close or too interested in the Audi.

'You're making me nervous,' Jenny said, scanning the rear view mirror.

'Concentrate on driving.'

'It is hard to concentrate when you're acting skittish,' she snapped. Her attention was taken by a motorbike behind them; the driver and pillion were both hidden by black visors. Suddenly, every vehicle was a threat. The motorcyclist to their left was a sinister assassin. The Suzuki saloon on her right was being driven by a psychopath.

'Jenny!' Jack shouted. He instinctively stamped on the brake pedal which unfortunately was fitted on the driver's side. Jenny jumped with shock and looked through the windscreen to the road in front. The traffic had come to a stop at a red light. She slammed on and the Audi screeched to a halt stopping inches from the rear of a double-decker bus.

'Jesus!' she hissed, putting her forehead onto the steering wheel. He heart felt like it was about to punch through her ribs and jump out of her chest. She took a deep breath. 'Sorry but this has got me spooked,' she said.

'Don't apologise,' Jack shook his head. He checked the mirror again and looked around the area. They had circumnavigated the park and were entering the Kensington area. 'Pull into the drive-thru up ahead.'

Jenny tried to stop shaking as she indicated to swap lanes. 'Is now the best time for an Egg McMufin?' she muttered. Her nerves were shot.

'I'm not sure there is ever a best time for one of those,' Jack smiled thinly. He could see that she was taut. How could she not be? Someone had mocked up her death and slaughtered an innocent in the process. Whoever it was, meant business. They were hard core nut jobs. 'However their coffee is undeniably caffeine rich. I need a cocktail of caffeine and nicotine to balance my system.'

'I think we should be more concerned with who might be following us.'

'Have faith,' Jack said as the pulled onto the car park. 'Go through the drive-thru and order a black coffee, then drive around again and order another one for yourself.'

'What?'

'Drop me off here,' he pointed to a smoking shelter which had been erected for the staff. 'I can see if anyone is tailing us and have a cigarette at the same time,' he smiled and opened the door. 'Make sure you go around twice, yes?'

'I get it, Jack,' she said shaking her head. He slammed the door and walked away. Jenny checked her mirrors and pulled into the drive-thru lane. There was nothing behind her when she pulled up at the speaker post.

'Welcome to McDonald's,' the speaker crackled. Some bright spark had flung a ketchup covered pickle at the menu board. Jenny frowned as it looked like it had been there for some time. 'May I take your order, please?' Jenny checked her mirror again. A black transit van trundled into the drive-thru lane behind her. The driver had a beanie hat on his head and dark glasses, which Jenny thought was odd as it was barely light yet. 'Hello?' the voice cackled. 'May I take your order, please?'

'A large coffee, please.' Jenny mumbled. Her attention was taken by the van. She looked for Jack but he had gone. He wasn't where she had dropped him.

'What type would you like?'

'What?'

'Coffee,' the voice sounded irritated. 'What type of coffee would you like?'

'Oh, sorry,' Jenny said distractedly. 'Latte is fine.' The van driver seemed to be looking straight at her in the mirror, but she couldn't be absolutely sure because of the glasses. He was sat bolt upright and unmoving.

'Is that large?' Jenny heard the question but it didn't register. The van drew closer to the rear of her car. So close that she could no longer see the headlights. 'Hello?' the speaker box cackled. 'Do you want a large coffee?'

'What?' Jenny frowned and looked at the order screen.

'Large?'

'Yes. Large is fine.'

'Any breakfast items with your order?'

'For God's sake!' Jenny snapped. Her nerves were at the point of cracking, 'I just want a coffee, okay?'

'Drive to the second window to collect your order,' the voice said, irritably. Jenny edged forward faster than she normally would have. The van edged up to the speaker box and stopped. As the space between them widened, she felt her fear subsiding. The driver leaned over to place an order. Jenny felt a wave of relief wash over her. She stopped at the window and handed over a five pound note. The cashier took it and handed her the change without a word, obviously irritated by her impatience. Jenny took her coffee from the order presenter and blushed a little. Biting the head off a teenager had not been on her list of things to do that day. She was probably either just starting or just finishing her shift. An obnoxious customer wasn't what she needed either way. A pang of guilt bit her.

She pulled out of the drive-thru lane and drove around the car park. There was no sign of Jack anywhere. As she reached the back of the store, she noticed that the drive-thru lane was empty. A lone crew member was huddled in the smoking shelter puffing on his cigarette, as if it was to be his last. She guided the Audi back around the building and pulled up at the speaker box again. Her heart thumped uncontrollably when the black van followed her. The driver stopped the vehicle at the entrance to the drive-thru lane, confused by her actions. He wasn't sure whether to enter the lane, where he would be funnelled through the drive-thru again, or to drive around the car park to the exit. The fact that he was hesitating and contemplating entering the drive-thru lane was enough to alert Jenny that he was suspect.

Jack appeared from nowhere, pulled the passenger open and jumped into the seat with a bump. He snapped the seatbelt on and closed the door in one movement. 'Did you get coffee?' he asked, looking at the driver of the black van.

Jenny gestured to the cup, her eyes fixed on the van which was thirty metres behind her. It crawled forward slowly and entered the lane. She watched as a black hackney cab pulled behind it, blocking it in. 'Reverse as fast as you can,' Jack nudged her. She looked confused. 'Put the car into reverse, Jenny,' he repeated, slowly.

'What?' she frowned and looked into his eyes. They were sharp and full of intelligence, tinged with a little bit of fear. 'I don't understand.'

'I want you to put the car into reverse and floor it,' he explained calmly. 'The radiator on those things sits very low. If you reverse as fast as you can, we should be able to disable it and stop him following us.'

Jenny nodded imperceptibly. The cogs in her mind clicked into place and she understood the plan. She sighed and pushed the gear stick into reverse. Looking over her left shoulder, she stamped on the accelerator. The tyres screeched and the Audi lurched backwards at speed. The engine roared and she watched the van driver's expression turn from confusion to terror in seconds. He braced himself for the imminent impact and covered his eyes with his forearms. The Audi connected with the front of the van with a sickening crunch. The sound of shattering glass filled the air and coloured glass exploded from between the vehicles. A cloud of steam erupted from the front of the van. Jack was rocked backwards in his seat and Jenny let out a high pitched shriek.

'First gear and drive!' Jack shouted. He watched the van driver trying to open his door but it was jammed by the speaker box. 'Do it now, Jenny.'

Jenny engaged first gear and floored the accelerator. The Audi sped along the drive-thru lane, across the car park and out onto the main road. The rear end fishtailed as the tyres found purchase on the tarmac and the powerful engine catapulted the vehicle forward. Jenny steered between a bus and a queue of waiting traffic, then turned right down an alleyway which serviced two rows of shops which were back to back. A grey wheelie bin bounced off the front wing as they exited the alley and joined the main route which headed West around the park. 'Shit!' she finally allowed herself to speak. 'Shit, shit, shit!'

'Calm down,' Jack said coolly, 'Calm down and slow down.'

Jenny slowed the vehicle considerably and switched lanes, exiting the main route onto the back streets. The rear view mirror was empty of pursuers. She shook her head and whistled as she exhaled heavily. 'Okay, okay, calm down he says,' Jenny mumbled to herself, 'someone is trying to nail me to a tree and Jack wants me to calm down. Easier said than done, Jack!'

'I know this is difficult to get your head around but you did brilliantly well,' he touched her elbow gently. 'We lost the van and whoever else was following us.'

'You're sure?'

'Look behind for yourself,' he assured her trying to keep his voice calm. 'If I ever need to rob a bank, you're my driver.'

'I don't want to rob a bank.'

'I know, but if you did, you would be the driver.'

'Well, I won't.'

'I know.'

'I don't want to.'

'Neither do I,' Jack shrugged. 'It was just a joke.'

'Do you think this is funny?'

Jack sighed and shook his head. 'The whole thing is laughable,' he said looking out of the window as a police car hurtled by with its sirens blaring. The blue lights illuminated the interior of the Audi for a second. Thankfully the officers inside only had a view of the front of the Audi. 'Definitely not funny but laughable, I mean who would believe it?'

'I work for Jack Nightingale,' Jenny shook her head and snorted, 'so I would believe most anything.'

'Head for the Olympia but keep off the main roads,' Jack pointed to a sign for Kensington High Street. 'If the police see the state of the back of the car, they'll pull us over. We need to get off the main drag, okay?' As if the gods were conspiring against him, the rear bumper section fell off with a clatter and a shower of sparks erupted behind them as it dragged along the road. 'Shit!' he moaned, 'Pull over there onto the kerb.'

Jenny bit her bottom lip and swerved to the side. The front wheel thumped up the kerb and another section of the rear fell away and clattered along the road under its own momentum. It came to a standstill under a Post Office truck. 'Now what?' Jenny moaned as she turned the engine off.

'We walk,' Jack said, taking off his belt and opening the door. 'Move it quickly before the police get here. They'll soon realise that we rammed the van at McDonald's. I'm pretty sure that we can cut through the estate there.' Jenny climbed out of the Audi, immediately missing the warmth and security that it offered. The light was winning its battle against the darkness but there was no warmth in yet. The summer mornings were months away yet. She instinctively walked to the back of the vehicle and took a sharp intake of breathe and her hand went to her mouth. Jack watched her from the front end hoping that it was repairable. 'It'll look like knew after some filler and a touch of paint.'

'Shut up, Jack!' she cocked her head to the side and he thought that she looked a little bit mad when she did that. 'I'm no mechanic but filler isn't going to cut it here.' She pointed to the boot which was now concertina shaped, 'The Restoration Man couldn't fix this up.'

'You reversed into a transit van,' he shrugged. 'What did you expect it to look like?'

'Shut up, Jack!'

'Okay, I'm shut up,' he made a zip gesture with his hand. 'We need to move.' He looked at his watch and a concerned expression appeared on his face. 'Come on, before it's too late!' He turned and crossed the road walking towards a row of terraced houses to their left. The driver of the Post Office van eyed them suspiciously and caught Jack's gaze. Jack stared at him and made an imaginary gun with his fingers. The driver looked away immediately, gunned the engine and drove towards the main road and the park beyond. He could hardly blame the driver for being suspicious, after all they had parked up a badly damaged car and appeared to be abandoning it. 'Will you move yourself!' he called back to Jenny. Her eyes narrowed and she glared at him. 'I know, shut up, Jack,' he mumbled to himself.

Jenny pulled her coat tightly around her and jogged to catch up with Jack. They walked the rest of the journey and spent most of it speculating about who had killed the woman and gone to all the trouble of using Photoshop to send a dreadful message to him. At some point he would have to speak to the Police and he would need something more convincing to tell them than he had at the moment. A Photoshop image and a hunch would make him sound like he was either a participant or a fruitcake. 'They're not the only Satanists on the block,' Jenny said, slightly out of breath. They were walking quickly. Jack seemed to be on a mission. They were both of the opinion that Jack was being targeted by the Order of Nine Angles once more and that rattled him. 'After the last lot I did some research on others outside of the ONA,' she said, a little nervously.

'I told you that was a bad idea,' Jack stopped suddenly and turned to her. 'What type of research did you do exactly?'

She looked sheepish as she answered, 'I used the internet, of course.'

'Tell me that you didn't set up any false profiles to sign into their websites?' Jack asked, sternly. 'Tell me you didn't.'

She looked away and walked on ignoring his stare. It wasn't often that she had to admit to being wrong but Jack could tell that she was hiding the truth. 'I set up two. That's all.' Jack walked quickly to keep up with her. He grabbed her by the arm and stopped her turning her to face him. 'You're hurting my arm, Jack.' She shrugged free and tried to walk on but he held her tightly. 'Okay, okay. I set up two profiles, just to monitor their chat boards.'

'Who?' he snapped and shook his head. 'Who did you look at?'

'The New Church of Satan and the Nine Angels,' she quipped, as if it was irrelevant. 'Not angles, angels.'

'Yes, I know who they are, Jenny.'

'Good,' she turned and walked away.

'Jenny, they make the others look like boy scouts,' Jack said, angrily. 'They broke away from the Order Of Nine Angles because they weren't quite sick enough!'

'Don't exaggerate, Jack.'

'You have no idea how dangerous they are,' he shook his head incredulously. 'I know exactly who they are.'

'Then you'll know that it's important that we have a handle on them,' she said stubbornly. 'We can see their chat rooms from my profiles and if there's anything on there about you, then we'll have advanced warning,' she said over her shoulder. 'It is important that we can see them.'

'And they can see you, Jenny.'

'Don't be ridiculous!'

'They can follow a URL address and trace the link to whoever owns the email address,' he explained in a heated fashion. 'Once they have an owner's identity, they have a name and an address. Then they have you, Jenny.'

'They can't do that.'

'They obviously have done that.'

She stopped again and put her hands on her hips. Her lips were quivering and her eyes filled with tears. 'Are you saying that this is my fault?'

Jack looked at her and despite his frustrations, he shook his head. 'Not really, no.'

'You are.'

'You weren't to know.' He couldn't look her in the eye. 'They may have come after me anyway.'

'Maybe, but I rattled their cage didn't I?'

'We can't change that now.' He looked at the road as he spoke. 'We need to get you safe and then I can fix this.'

'I'm sorry, Jack,' she muttered. A tear rolled down her cheek. 'I was trying to help.'

'Best intentions line the road to hell, Jenny,' he muttered. He gestured to an alley between the houses. Larger buildings made from brick with corrugated iron roofs loomed behind them. 'We're nearly there, through here and across the industrial estate. It will take us twenty minutes at best.'

Exactly twenty minutes later, Jack pointed to a Victorian terraced house which had the number 9 on the door. 'That's very apt,' he quipped, 'I wonder if they chose it on purpose.' Wide stone steps climbed from the pavement to the door and spiked metal railings formed a barrier to the basement flat below. 'He lives down there in the flat,' Jack said, crossing the road at a jog. 'I can only hope that we're in time.'

'Why do you keep saying that?' Jenny moaned. 'In time for what?'

'I haven't got a clue,' Jack shook his head, 'therein lies the problem.'

'Is there where I'm supposed to be safe?' Jenny frowned at the scruffy basement windows.

'No, but the occupier will know.' He paused at the top of the steps which led down to the basement. The road was clear in both directions. 'I want you to stay here and wait for me.'

'Not a chance,' she said adamantly. 'I am not waiting anywhere on my own.'

'You will be fine for two minutes. I need to make sure that it is safe, okay?'

'Two minutes, Jack,' she whined. 'Please don't leave me here any longer than that.'

'I promise.' He turned and ran down the steps, peering into the grimy windows. His face wrinkled as he tried to see inside. He cupped his hands against the glass and tapped with his right hand.

'Jack,' Jenny called from the pavement. He turned to see her face looking over the railings. 'Who lives here?'

He knocked louder on the glass and ignored her question. Inside, the net curtains and dust conspired to stop him seeing anything clearly but he could make out the shapes of a settee and a dining table. He could also see that everything was draped thick with cobwebs. A shiver ran down his spine. He checked his watch and moved towards the front door. It was a four panel wooden fitting. The paint was blistered and cracked. At the base of the frame where the weather bar would be fitted, six inches of leaves and fast food wrappers were piled against it. It hadn't been opened for months, if not years.

He pushed at the door beneath the lock and it creaked open slightly. Peering into the darkness behind it, he shoved a bit harder and it moved some more. Something behind it was stopping it from opening completely. His instincts told him to leave it well alone, but he couldn't. Jenny didn't know it yet but they had taken her cousin already. She was a young girl called Constance. Jack had no idea that she existed until now but they had told him to be at the flat below number 9 Otley Way, before seven o'clock. He checked his watch and it read ten past the hour. They had said that if he didn't get Jenny there on time, the young girl would take her place on the cross.

Left with few options, Jack had taken the sawn-off shotgun, which he had purchased from his associate T-Bone, a local hood and intended to comply with their instructions, until he could get the girls away safely. If that meant leaving a trail of dead Satanists, then so be it. He had no choice. Kill them, or they would kill Constance. He nudged the door with his shoulder and looked behind it. A substantial mound of junk mail had been causing the problem. He took the sawn-off from his inside pocket and shoved the door with his shoulder to open it completely.

The cloying smell of damp stuck in his nostrils. Specks of dust circled in the weak beams of light which tried to penetrate the deep blackness of the hallway. Jack felt that eyes watched him from the shadows; evil eyes. As he took his first step inside, he heard Jenny screaming. Her scream was cut short and an engine roared. Jack bolted up the steps three at a time. He gripped the shotgun tightly, his knuckles white with the pressure. As he reached the top of the steps he saw a Post Office van screeching around the corner at the end of the street. All that remained of Jenny was a pink Puma training shoe.

The temptation to ring the Police was overwhelming, but what would he say to them? At this point in time, it could do more harm than good. He had no choice. He had had no choice from the beginning. There was a reason why they had chosen that address. He had to find out what that was. Maybe that would lead him to wherever that had taken Jenny and Constance. The Satanists had upped the stakes and he had to react accordingly. They had threatened his family before. It was time for him to cross the line into their world. Instead of waiting for them to come for him, this time he had to become the hunter.

He took the steps running and burst into the hallway, shotgun raised. The darkness seemed to inch backwards visibly, as if it had life and form of its own. His Hush puppies crunched brittle leaves beneath them. He reached for the light switch and ever the optimist, switched it on. It clicked and the bare light bulb fizzled and then exploded in a shower of glass. Jack covered his eyes to protect them but the images he had seen were etched into his brain; the fleeting vision of thousands of shapes.

Jack kicked at the pile of junk behind the door and grabbed a copy of the local free paper. He twisted it tightly and lit one end with his lighter. As the flame glowed, the shapes at the end of the hallway became clearer. Books. Hundreds and thousands of books. He edged along the hallway and studied the titles as he past piles which were taller than himself. Magick, witchcraft, wicca, ley lines, satanic worshipping; the entire spectrum of the occult and dark religions was covered by this incredible collection. He knew that he was in the right place.

As he neared the only doorway which led off the hallway, another smell drifted to him with the dankness. It was the rotting stench of death. He had experienced it before, both consciously and unconsciously. Its foul sweet odour was almost palpable. Jack reached around the door frame and searched for the light switch. His fingers felt exposed as they touched the cold damp plaster. He touched the cover and flicked the switch.

The flames from the torch burnt his fingers. The paper had burned away unnoticed. He threw it down and stamped on the burning embers. Sparks floated upwards threatening to set fire to the mountains of books. 'Shit!' he mumbled as he extinguished the flames. The low wattage bulb flickered and then glowed dimly. Jack looked around the room. It had a feeling of abandonment to it. Something that once thrived here had gone. The walls were lined with stacks of books piled above head height. There was no television, which after seeing the number of books was no surprise. A dining table with barley twist legs stood against one wall. On it, half a dozen books lay open.

Jack entered and the smell of death thickened to the point where he could almost taste it. It filled his airways and tried to suffocate him. The urge to turn and run was powerful, almost impossible to defy. Jack knew it was a trick of the mind. Someone or something was testing his resolve. He shook his head and composed himself. Breathing deeply, he crossed the room to the table. In the centre was an ornately covered book, titled The Beast. It was open at a page which depicted the burning of a sacrifice. Two females tied back to back either side of a post, flames devouring their bodies. They were mother and daughter. He didn't know how he knew but he did. Next to it was a manuscript, 'The Sigil of Baphomet'. It too described the selection and abduction of female victims. The other books were opened at similar subjects. A notebook lay to one side, the entries written by someone deranged, numbers and snippets of text were scrawled next to sketches of demons that no parent would allow their children to see. Scribbled in the notebook next to a sketch of a young girl being tied up, was an address. Black Mound Mill. Jack eyed a line of text which explained that the name was used in connection with the burning of the innocent to empower the dark ones.

* * *

Four hours and a hundred and fifty miles away, Jack studied the mill from the safety of some trees. The mill was a single storey structure with a vaulted loft space constructed of timber and breeze-block walls with a corrugated iron roof. A window above its double doors was protected by a mesh grill. There were two cars parked on a gravel path which didn't move all the time that Jack watched. Another vehicle arrived and a bald man in his fifties stepped out of the mill and shook hands with the driver who, handed over a carrier bag with a logo resembling a pasty printed on it. They chatted for a moment then the bald man went back inside and the vehicle left. Jack assumed it was a delivery of pastries to keep the captors and the hostage from starving to death. He guessed that it would only take five minutes for him to cross the field between where he was hiding and the mill. Rapeseed was growing waist high and its intense yellow flowers were almost dazzling to the eye; its scent sweet. He ducked low and headed towards the side of the mill where there were no windows.

There was a path around the mill, made from tons of compacted waste sawdust. Waist high grasses leaned over from either side, threatening to swamp it forever. Jack headed for the rear of the building hoping that the images on Google were recent. They were and he thought he had seen a way in, but until he saw it close up, he couldn't be sure. A conveyor belt protruded from the rear elevation, its cogs and wheels red with rust. The hatch above it was padlocked but below it was a flywheel, half in the building and half out. The axle was fitted to the rear wall, its belt twisted and warped by time and the elements. The mill had once supplied wooden beams to the coal industry, which were used to support the miles of tunnels deep beneath his feet. When the pits were closed, the mill went bust with them and it had never been sold on. There was a gap between the flywheel and the wall, which he had guessed was big enough for him to squeeze through. It was a tight fit but Jack was inside the mill in seconds.

The smell of freshly cut wood had long since been replaced by must and mould, damp and decay. Armoured grey wood lice in their thousands scurried beneath his Hush Puppies, making the floor look alive. Every footstep seemed to crush a hundred of them, their crunching bodies threatening to give away his arrival. The loft above him was supported by a suspended wooden platform, thick curtains of grey cobwebs dangled from every crack in the floorboards. An antiquated giant band-saw dominated the ground floor and he had to skirt around it to reach the front of the building.

Jack heard muffled voices upstairs. All male. Three at least. A rotten wooden staircase was the only access, its handrail splintered into several sections, some of which dangled uselessly in the air. Beneath it, another set of steps led to a cellar. Jack looked into the gloomy stairwell. The darkness at the bottom was inky black. The nerves in his spine tingled and the voice of reason inside his head told him to leave the cellar alone. There was no need to go down there. A dreadful feeling of desolation crept into his mind, hopelessness and misery touched his soul. Despair oozed from the cellar. He felt a tear form in his eye and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Wretchedness dwelled down there in the darkness and he had to confront it.

He took a deep breath and steeled himself against the sense of despondency that threatened to engulf him. The steps creaked beneath his weight and he heard tiny claws scurrying away, searching for dark corners to hide in. As he neared the bottom of the staircase, his feet seemed to disappear from view as if he had stepped into a stream of blackness. A sense of total dereliction overwhelmed him. He reached for his torch, anxious at what horrors its light would reveal and clicked it on with his thumb. The light flickered and the beam struggled to push the darkness back. It seemed to retreat and then creep forward again, threatening to envelop him. The beam hardly illuminated the dank space; the corners of the cellar remained hidden. Jack swung the beam in a wide arc.

Near the far wall was an altar draped with goatskins. Thick church candles encircled it. On top of it the skull of a four-horned ram sat staring at him. The empty eye sockets were black. On the wall behind it was the pentangle with a goat's head daubed within. 'The Sigil of Baphomet,' Jack whispered to himself. He knew that this wasn't a place of group worship. The symbols and markings were all wrong. This was where the priestess prepared herself. He stepped onto the cellar floor and felt a tingle run through him. Sweeping the beam beneath the stairs, he saw different markings daubed on the grimy plaster. Syrian demonology, he guessed. They were similar but not exactly the same as some he had seen in his research. A thick rope dangled from a block-and-tackle, which was fixed to the rafters above and beneath it stood an iron bath. The feet were shaped as demonic claws grasping human skulls. The enamel was stained with a dark tidemark and the wall was dotted with bloody handprints. 'Jesus Christ,' he whispered beneath his breath.

Invisible hands gripped him, cold fingers clawed at his soul. He gasped as the image of Jenny Mclean entered his mind. She was hung upside down, her throat slashed from ear to ear, blood pouring into the bath beneath her. Her eyes were black, piercing and accusing. 'Help me, Jack,' she giggled. Her voice was a thick guttural gurgling. She smiled. It was an evil twisted smile; her teeth were smeared with her blood. 'Aren't you going to help me, Jack?' She laughed hysterically and it echoed through his mind reaching an unbearable pitch. Her expression changed. She looked surprised, as if she was going to choke. Her mouth opened wide. Projectile vomit splattered the bath. She screamed and her body began to spasm, her jaw distended and a thousand bloated flies exploded from her throat. The black jet of buzzing insects gushed towards him. He staggered backwards and clasped his hands over his ears to stop the vision. His foot hit the bottom step and he dropped the torch. Blackness swamped him, evil, sickness and decay smothered him. The insects tried to enter his every orifice and suffocate him. Jack bolted up the stairs gasping for his breath and crouched against the wall. He knew that the images were imaginary but he still waited for the vile flies to chase him. Sweat ran down his back in cold rivulets. He shook his head and tried to compose himself. 'Breathe deeply, Jack,' he muttered. 'Get a grip of yourself.' His breathing slowed as the nauseating effects of the cellar waned. 'Get a grip? That's easy for you to say. The bitch has got a blood bath.' His senses returned slowly.

The urge to push on to find the girls was strong, but his experience in the cellar had drained him. He was a cynic and always would be but there was no doubting the overwhelming sense of evil that he had felt. There was an explanation for it, there always was. Yes, he knew that the devil existed and yes, he knew that there were those who could direct his energy for their own benefit, but what he had felt in the cellar was misery on a cosmic scale. Whoever this woman was, she had a God given talent. Maybe not God given, but it was impressive in a sick way.

Jack felt his strength returning with every breath that he took. The sense of numbness faded. He could hear the men chattering as they ate their lunch. The aroma of pies drifted to him. They were having their dinner, which was a bonus. Jack had hoped that his rescue mission would be simple and straightforward, as after all, they weren't expecting him. He planned to surprise them so much that they wouldn't know what had hit them, until it was too late.

Jack shook the disturbing images from his mind, crouched at the bottom of the stairs and pulled his collar up. He took a deep breath and sprinted up the stairs, taking the steps three at a time. He heard the conversation stop and a few surprised expletives were exchanged as his footsteps alerted them to his presence. As Jack reached the landing at the top, he shouted as loud as he could and held up his old police warrant card.

'Armed police,' he bellowed. He held the sawn-off tightly against his shoulder and knelt down to make himself a smaller target. 'Get your hands up in the air now!'

The sudden noise, combined with the shotgun startled them. He hoped that they would think that he was part of an armed police unit, long enough for him to disarm them. There were three men sat in a semicircle below the only window; the bald man who he had seen outside, a grey bearded man in his sixties and an old biker looking guy with sideburns and a ponytail. Jack couldn't see any weapons, which was a bonus. The chairs were arranged around a small screen television, which was perched on an old crate. Ponytail stood up, his pies in one hand, raising the other above his head. His mouth was open, revealing the half chewed contents. Jack couldn't take his eyes off them to look for Constance and Jenny.

'Don't shoot,' greybeard joined ponytail and stood up. 'I can explain everything.'

'Get your hands up, now!' Jack screamed. They jumped visibly and complied, three bags of pastry spilled in the dust. 'Where are Jenny and the girl?'

None of them spoke but their eyes involuntarily flickered to a point behind him. 'Get on the floor face down and do it now!'

Two of them responded quickly but baldy hesitated and eyed Jack suspiciously. He fired a shot above him. The lead shot blew a hole in the roof bringing down a landslide of grit and filthy debris. It was more than enough to discourage him from arguing. He hit the floor like a sack of spuds, giving Jack the opportunity to glance behind him. A young girl was sat on the floor, tied to a roof support. She was gagged and blindfolded. Her long blond hair hung lankly to her shoulders. She was struggling against her restraints which was causing a small avalanche of dust to fall from the pitched ceiling, showering her with powdery grime. 'Stay calm, Constance,' Jack shouted. 'I'll have you out in a minute.' He could see the shape of a woman tied on the other side of the post. 'Jenny!' Jack shouted.

'He's not the Police,' Baldy hissed to the others

'What do you mean?' whispered ponytail.

'He's on his own, and since when did they use sawn-offs?'

'Shut up!' Jack shouted. He walked over to them.

'Who are you?' the Satanist sneered.

'I'm the man that barbecues Satanists,' Jack looked at their reactions, 'one wrong word from any of you and I'll blow your balls off. Get it?' They nodded that they understood, the colour draining from their faces. 'Get up baldy,' he aimed the gun as he spoke. He was the mouthy one and therefore the one most likely to cause him problems. 'Sit on the chair.'

He sat down as instructed. 'She'll find you eventually,' he sneered. 'You have no idea what she is, the High Priestess is barely human. She uses their blood to bathe. The blood of the females keeps her young and of course we get to have some fun with them first.' The look on his face was one of disdain, disgust and an almost perverse superiority. 'You're a dead man but you haven't realised it yet. Do you know what she is? I don't think you have a clue what she can do to those who cross us!' His expression of disgust really bothered Jack.

'She doesn't scare me,' he lied.

'She'll eat you alive, you fool,' the Satanist sneered, 'you and your family and friends.'

'She hasn't done so far.'

'Do you have any idea how many of us there are?' he scoffed, like a schoolboy bragging about how big his dad is. 'Taking your friend is just a message. It's nothing to what we can do to you. You do not understand what we are capable of!'

'Maybe not, but the mistake that you're making is not understanding what I'm capable of.' Jack saw fear in his eyes, as he raised the gun. 'I need you two to remember this. Tell the other sickos in your little group what happens to people who threaten my friends.' He pulled the trigger twice and blew the annoying expression off his face along with most of his head. Ponytail whimpered like a wounded dog and greybeard retched as he reloaded. Blood and globules of grey matter splattered their faces. Constance let out a scream, the sound muffled by the gag. 'Constance,' Jack called, 'I need you to stay still and do not panic no matter what you hear. I'll come and untie you in a couple of minutes. Do you understand me?'

She nodded silently although Jack could see her legs were trembling and a puddle of urine began to spread beneath her. He turned his attention back to the horrified Satanists. 'I was going to tie you up and leave you here until the police arrived, but I'm beginning to get the impression that you lot think that I'm some kind of cockroach, running and hiding under a rock somewhere.'

'I don't think that,' Ponytail stuttered.

'I'm not hiding from you,' Jack explained calmly. 'I will never hide from you. Understand?'

Ponytail put his hands together, as if in prayer. 'Please don't kill me.' His eyes were closed so that he couldn't see the ruined body of his friend. 'I'll do anything you ask, if you let me live.'

'Okay. Let's see, shall we?' Jack tossed a bundle of cable ties onto the floor in front of him. 'Tie him up with those, two around the ankles and two around the wrists.'

Ponytail scurried off on his hands and knees. His hands were shaking so much that he fumbled clumsily with the zip ties. He avoided looking at the headless corpse which was still sitting upright on its chair. The cloying smell of excrement mingled with the coppery smell of blood. Baldy's bowels had relaxed upon death, releasing his waste into his trousers. 'Your friend is starting to stink already,' Jack commented on Baldy's deterioration. Ponytail just stared at him, his lip shaking like an epileptic pink slug beneath his moustache. He obviously didn't have an opinion to share with Jack. 'I don't think he's gone to hell to be a dark angel, I think he's just a dead paedophile with the contents of his lower intestines in his pants.' Tears ran from Ponytail's eyes.

Jack took out his telephone and dialled. The emergency operator began asking a stream of questions but he placed the phone on the floor next to greybeard's head. 'Tell them who you are and why you kidnapped the girl,' Jack aimed the gun at his head. 'If you mention Jenny or me, you're dead. Lie once and your brains will be all over that wall.'

He nodded that he understood. 'My name is David Wilder and I'm involved in the kidnapping of a girl.'

'Tell them her name,' I ordered.

'Her name is Constance Bonner.'

'Tell them why.'

'She was kidnapped because we were going to use her in part of a satanic ceremony.'

Jack ended the call and strapped his hands and feet together leaving the two of them cowering in the dirt. Ponytail was sobbing in the filth as Jack ran to Constance. He cut through her bonds and lifted her to her feet. Jenny looked like she had been drugged. He removed the gag and pulled off her blindfold. Her eyes showed signs of consciousness and terror in them. He reached for a bottle of water and put it to her lips. She gulped thirstily from it. Jack couldn't see Jenny in her features. Constance was olive skinned and her eyes were green. He kept his body between her and the carnage behind him. 'Your Auntie Jenny doesn't look too good, does she?' Jack joked trying to build a rapport with her. The little girl looked at Jenny with confusion etched into her features. Jack stopped for a moment. 'Is she your auntie?'

'No.'

Jack swore beneath his breath. It was one thing falling for a bluff, but when it was such a schoolboy error, he couldn't forgive himself. 'Now listen to me carefully. I want you to close your eyes and run down the stairs, okay?'

'Okay,' she said her voice a whisper.

Jack turned to Jenny and lifted her like a doll and carried her quickly down the creaking steps. The double doors were unlocked and he put his back against them and pushed them open. The fresh air was invigorating, a stark contrast from the reek of death inside. He put her down on the weed strewn tarmac, which led to the road. The sound of the first responding Police car whined in the distance. Jack turned to Constance, 'Now, I need you to trust me, okay?'

'Okay,' she whispered again. 'I want my mummy.'

'The Police are coming,' he cocked his head and smiled. 'Can you hear them?'

Constance nodded and bit her lip, 'I thought you were the Police.'

'No, but I had to tell the bad men that,' he shook his head. 'Now listen to me. I need you to run down this road until the Police car reaches you, okay?'

'I'm scared,' she tightened the grip on his hand. 'I want to stay with you until they get here.'

'I know you are frightened, but I'm going to stay here and make sure that none of the bad men follow you, okay?'

'Okay.'

'Now run.'

Constance took one last teary look at him and then bolted down the road. She moved quickly for one so young. Jack waited until a curve in the road hid her from view, then he grabbed Jenny and sprinted into the rapeseed and headed back the way he'd come. He knew that Constance would be safe now but knew that things could unravel at any time. He was cursed after all. It was a matter of time before they got to his family and friends again. Jack felt the muscles in his legs burning from the exhaustion as he ran for the trees. He knew that he had to track the leaders of the cult that was targeting him. They had to be stopped and only he could do it. He knew that he would be going back to the flat below 9 Otley Road at some point soon. He wanted more time to study the notes and research that the occult librarian had made. Armed with that information, he would be able to find the serpent. To stop a serpent from biting you, you have to chop off its head and that was exactly what he was going to do. The next time he saw them, it would be at his bequest and this High Priestess would get her bloodbath. Jack Nightingale promised her that.

Conrad Jones is a 49-year-old Author, who has 13 novels published by Constable and Robinson and Thames River Press. The Soft Target Series has six books following a Special Forces Unit and the first book, 'Soft Target' is permanently free to download. The Hunting Angels Diaries, A Child for the Devil (Always 77p/99c), Black Angels and Nine Angels is a horror series. The Detective Alec Ramsay Series, including the Best Selling 'The Child Taker' has five novels to date. You can find more about Conrad's novels at.

<http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/j/conrad-jones/>

<https://www.facebook.com/conradjonesauthorpage>

### Blood Bath

By Lynnette Waterman

This was something new, a female hand stroking his forehead. Jack Nightingale slowly opened his eyes to see a beautiful, young blonde girl looking at him tenderly. 'This could be a stupid question, but who are you?' he asked.

She looked hurt, 'You don't remember last night? I know you had been drinking, but your performance was good. My name is Mandy, we met in the bar across the road.'

'Cigarette, I need a cigarette.' Nightingale pulled himself up in the bed and looked around. Hmm, not a bad room he thought, at least it's clean. I need my jacket. He managed to reach it and he got a packet of Marlboro and his lighter out of the pocket. He lit up. 'That's better, I needed that.' After he had finished the cigarette he lit another one straight away and he started to feel relaxed.

'So what do you want Mandy? I'm not paying you. I don't remember anything.'

'I don't want money, I want you to keep your promise'

'What promise?'

'You don't remember?'

'Would I ask if I did?'

'You told me that you could help me get rid of my husband, that you would shoot him for me.'

Nightingale closed his eyes. 'Oh shit, no,' he muttered to himself. He started to slowly open his eyes and through the slits he saw not a blonde beauty but an evil looking face looking down at him. The face had morphed from beauty to evil.

'Ok, ok, what and who are you? Where are you from?'

'Come on, Jack. You know a good friend of mine. Proserpine. You owe her big time, you belong to her and she has told me that she will let me use you for as long as I need you.'

'Great, I thought Proserpine and I had come to an understanding.'

'You can never trust a devil worshipper, you should know that by now. You will never be free Jack.'

'Get out, go on, sod off. Tell Proserpine I've paid my debts to her. I don't intend to start with you.

Her eyes became fiery red, first wide, then slits. Suddenly a big black rat appeared sitting on her right shoulder. Its eyes were also fiery red, glowing, staring straight at Nightingale. He hated rats they gave him the creeps and just to make matters worse another one appeared and then another.

Nightingale shouted again. 'Get out, go.'

Mandy turned and walked off, her hair was now black, her cloths ragged. She walked towards the wall and said as she vanished into it. 'I will be back, you made me a promise.'

Nightingale sat on the edge of the bed wondering how he had got into this situation.

'Proserpine' Nightingale shouted. He waited a few moments, nothing.

Nightingale dressed, went down the creaky stairs to a hallway. There was a desk with an old fashioned bell on it, he pushed it. It sounded like a rusty old foghorn. An old lady tottered out from a back room.

'I've come to pay my bill,' he said.

The old lady smiled at Nightingale with a toothless grin. 'It has been paid,' she said.

Nightingale turned and headed for the front door thinking, what a great start to the day and it was barely 8.15am.

Nightingale felt great as he stepped out into the fresh air and sunshine. He looked around and he didn't recognise the road or where he was, he decided to turn left. He walked slowly as he did he so he got a whiff of bacon. He followed his nose and came across a café. He went in and ordered a full English and coffee. He sat by the window while it was being cooked.

Nightingale started questioning himself mentally. Did I dream what happened? No It was too clear. When am I going to be free of this horror bequeathed to me by my father, surely it could not go on forever. Nightingale hated this warped life, living between two worlds. He wanted to help people, be nice, kind, after all he was an ex-cop with a lot of skills. He decided to contact Proserpine, he mentally called out and was trying so hard he gave himself a headache. Nightingale was just about to give up when he heard a voice.

'Jack you are not finished yet. Mandy told you what she wanted. You cannot escape, you know that.' Proserpine laughed, 'She certainly sucked you in, I was impressed'

'Well I'm not. This is going to be the end. I'm going to finish this once and for all. I've had enough of you and your silly bloody games. Making my life hell.'

'Not my doing Jack, blame your father.'

'If I could get hold of him, I'd do more than blame him.'

'He's dead, not much you can do.'

'There must be a way and I'm going to find it.'

'This I must see.'

Then her presence was gone.

* * *

Somehow Nightingale found his way home and flopped into an armchair. There has got to be a way to stop this, he thought. He got up and began searching through the books on the bookshelves. He felt sure the answers must be in them somewhere. He selected what he thought were the best books that might give the answers he wanted. Pen and paper to hand he started trawling through the books and making notes of important words – circles, pentagrams, mirrors, prayers, salt and garlic. He had read about some of these things before but this time it was with much more determination to find answers. Shadows seemed to be dancing around the room There were banging and clinking noises, and cold breezes. He felt afraid and vulnerable he needed protection. Nightingale searched book after book. Nothing. But there must be something. He settled on one book. It didn't even have a title just a cloudy looking cover. Paging through he came across Protection, reading on he found page after page of how to protect your self from all things evil. Why had he not seen this book before? It was almost as though it was writing itself as he was reading it. He had not seen this book before. It started by saying – Get yourself in a comfortable position in the centre of a sparsely decorated and furnished room. Make a circle of salt. In that circle draw a out a pentagram then in the centre put a chair. Get a blade of steel and go around the whole room and nothing but good can enter. Once this has been done sit in the chair in the centre of the circle and pentagram. Look above your head and pull down a bright white light through the top of your head, down through your whole body and surround yourself in a pure white bubble. This is your protection and nothing can penetrate it. You must not go outside the circle until the work is done.

The phone rang interrupting his thoughts. It was Jenny Maclean.

'Hi Jenny, what can I do for you?'

'Where have you been? I've been trying to get hold of you for hours.'

Nightingale glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that half a day had gone by.

Jenny continued, ' Jack you are needed, there has been a murder in a basement room attached to Victoria Station, a derelict unused part that is used by homeless people. Apparently it's a really, horrid, rank place, the smell is indescribable. The poor people have nowhere else to go, disease is rife, its like going back to the dark ages.'

'Why do they need me?' After all nobody cares about them, most of them won't have families. Jenny are you sure?'

'Jack I would not be asking if you were not wanted, so please can you get down there and have a look.'

'Okay, I'm on my way. I'll meet you there in half an hour.'

'Why do you need me there?'

'Oh I don't know, take notes, photos etc. I just want you there.'

Nightingale picked up his two packs of Marlboro, lighter, wallet and notebook. He was just about to turn and leave when he had a thought that he would take the book he had been reading. He picked it up and it fitted into his pocket nicely.

* * *

Nightingale arrived at Victoria Station, parked, got out of his car and looked around. He spotted Jenny who was waving frantically at him. He strode over to Jenny. She was standing by a small alleyway, 'What's up with you, you looked like a windmill?'

'Jack, it's not funny. It's terrible in there, I can't bear to look.'

'That bad, well let's look together. Come on.'

They went down the short dark alleyway Nightingale got his pen torch out of his top pocket and switched it on, the little light it put out showed up a gap in the wall to the right it looked like a doorway. As they drew level the torch illuminated five stone steps, followed by a landing. They began to go down and Nightingale was almost knocked back by the hot, fetid stench coming up the stairwell. Nightingale braced himself and continued down to the landing with Jenny. The torchlight showed that there were three more steps to the right that opened into a dark dank room. They stepped down and the torch showed a shadowy group of people wearing ripped and torn clothing The stench was overwhelming now and Nightingale and Jenny both retched they took a few moments to control themselves. All the people were facing away from them, looking towards the back corner. Nightingale moved forward and shone his torch towards the corner. To say he was shocked would be an understatement. It was not a stabbing or a shooting, but a complete bloodbath consisting of two bodies hacked to pieces. There was blood everywhere, up the walls, on the ceiling and pools of it on the floor.

None of the down-and-outs had noticed Nightingale and Jenny they all stood there like statutes, glued to the spot, eyes bulging, mouths open staring into the corner.

Nightingale broke their trance-like state by using his most assertive voice he could muster, 'Someone please tell me what happened. How did this start? I can see how it finished.'

No one responded. They were all in shock.

'Come on guys I need answers. We have to get this sorted as soon as possible before it stinks even worse than it does already.'

There was a small voice from somewhere behind him. 'It was so sudden.'

Nightingale turned and saw an old stick-like man with long, greasy, matted grey hair and a beard to match. He was wearing an old raincoat that was once presumably beige but was now more like a camouflage coat having been stained with various bits of suspect matter from years on the road. The old man continued. 'A man rushed in with a butcher's knife. He was shouting, really shouting at Billy. How dare you take my woman, he said, and then started hacking at him. Going berserk he was, swinging his blade as hard as he could. Billy reached into his coat and pulled out a bloody great knife and fought back with all his might.'

Jenny turned and spoke quietly in Nightingale's ear, 'My god, what woman would sleep with any of these filthy dirty men? She had to have been desperate or as filthy as them.'

'I don't think I have ever seen such a mess,' said Nightingale. 'However from what the old man has said it seems to be a straightforward case of two men fighting to the death, cutting each other to bits as they did so. Jenny can you call Sergeant Blackwell and tell him that there is not really anything for me to investigate here and that we need some heavy duty cleaning equipment once someone has removed what's left of the bodies.'

Jenny moved off back up the stairs just then Nightingale heard a cackling woman's laughter. It was Mandy. He looked around and couldn't see anything. 'You bitch Mandy, why?'

'Billy was the one you were supposed to kill for me. There are other ways, Jack, but I wanted you to see what happens if you don't do what I ask.'

Suddenly there was silence and Nightingale spotted something sunk into the ground. He focused his torch beam on it. He could not believe his eyes, it appeared to be a large square bath full of blood. Nightingale verbalised his thoughts, 'What was this place and what is that doing here?'

The old man explained. 'This was once an abattoir, it was cold here and they could slaughter the animals and get them on the train. So the meat would be fresh, never been changed. Billy used to sleep in there.

'Well I'll leave it up to the powers that be to sort this out. It may even be a better place for you after it's been cleaned up. I'm sorry for your loss mate. Best of luck for the future.'

Nightingale climbed the stairs back out of the basement and he met up with Jenny outside.

'Jenny, see if you can find some blankets, cloths and food for the guys in there once the place is cleaned up and if you can hang around and chase up the relevant people to get it cleaned and sorted as soon as possible.'

' I'll do my best Jack. Where are you off to?

'Me? I've got some things I must do, but first shopping. Yes! You heard right.'

Nightingale called into a supermarket on his way home and bought four bags of salt, and a packet of white chalk. As he was about to go to the till he decided he could do with a bottle of whiskey and a six-pack of beer for when he was in the circle. Nightingale paid for his shopping and picked up the carrier bags and was pleased he had not parked too far away as it was heavy.

Sitting in his car Nightingale relaxed and lit up a cigarette and retrieved the cloudy-covered book from his pocket. He checked through to make sure he had bought all that he needed. Satisfied that he had got everything Nightingale finished his cigarette, drove home and parked up.

* * *

After getting his shopping in, Nightingale started thinking about what the book said about selecting a sparsely furnished and decorated room. He remembered that the back room which was rarely used did not have much furniture and should be ideal. He headed towards it, opened the door and yes, it was virtually empty. It also felt warm, bright and airy, a feeling he had not noticed before. Nightingale went into the kitchen and found a steel bladed knife, he put the salt and chalk beside it. He made some sandwiches. He was feeling peckish and he didn't know how long this was going to take. He hoped it wouldn't be long but this was just something he had to see through. He was determined to do this, he was fed up with what life had thrown at him with his father having traded his soul and the constant other worldly interruptions in his life and the carnage that seemed to follow him around. It was going to stop and what he was about to do should do it but he had to be prepared.

He went into the back room. There was nice soft comfortable chair in there he moved it to the centre of the room. There was hardwood flooring so he didn't have to bother moving any carpets, just a small rug which he rolled up and stood in the corner. He put the small coffee table beside the chair. The other pieces of furniture were shunted up against the walls. All done.

Nightingale got the chalk and some string from the kitchen and returned to the back room. He drew a circle by tying the string to the leg of the chair pulling it out to where he thought the circle should be and tied a piece of chalk to that end and keeping it taut he walked round with the string and chalk drawing on the floor. Perfect. A good even circle and now for the pentagram. The book mentioned the need to organise it so that the chair needed to be facing the two points. He drew the pentagram. What next?

He went to the kitchen gathered up the whiskey, beer, cigarettes and the knife and put them on the table next to the chair. He paused thinking that it would be a good idea to get some food. He looked through the cupboards, found some packets of crisps, two packets of biscuits and bar of chocolate, right at the back he spotted a bag of peanuts, bonus. He took his stash and put it on the table beside the drink. Nightingale went back into the kitchen and got two glasses, a very large ashtray and a waste bin. He looked around but couldn't think of anything else. He had another look in the book just to make sure he had not forgotten anything and was pleased to see that he had everything. He read that all he had to do now was go over the circle and pentagram with the salt and stay put. On no account was he to move out of the circle and that he would be told when he could move out of it. Nightingale looked puzzled, who was going to tell him when he could come out of the circle? He read on. The book told him that everyone had a guardian angel and to call upon this angel to help and guide him through. This really was a leap of faith. He muttered under his breath. 'Come on angel, I need your help.' He suddenly felt cold air around him, yet at the same time he felt an inner glow. Nightingale had never felt this before so he decided to ask 'Are you my angel?' he asked.

Nightingale was shocked to hear a faint voice, 'Yes, I have been waiting for you to ask me for help. I could do nothing until you asked.'

'Do you have a name?'

' Yes my name is Molly. I will be with you all the time and together we are going to get through this and your life will be trouble free. It is going to be hard work but we will win.'

Nightingale got the bags of salt and drew over the outline of the circle. He suddenly had a thought. He had forgotten the blade, now what? He felt slightly panicked. He looked over at the table and there it was, Thank god for that. Nightingale carried on pouring salt over the chalk drawn outline of the circle. That was the circle done. Now for the pentagram. When he had finished Nightingale checked to make sure there were no gaps. Nightingale was happy with what he had done and sat in the chair and was just getting comfortable when he leapt to his feet as he remembered from the book that he must use the blade to add an extra layer of protection. Nightingale gabbed the knife, holding it firmly by the handle he pointed it at the wall in front of him. His hand was shaking, it took all his will power to concentrate.

He slowly turned and began repeating 'Protect me' until he had completed a full circle. Nightingale put the knife back on the table and sat down. Now what? He waited and then called Molly. 'What now?'

'You need to pull down the bright white light.'

Nightingale put his hand above his head and visualised a bright white light and pulled it down through his body and until he had surrounded himself in what the book called a bubble. He felt very peaceful, though he suspected that this was the calm before the storm. Molly appeared, Nightingale was surprised at how old and frail she looked. Molly knew what he was thinking, 'Don't worry Jack, this vision of me is merely an appearance. Together we are going to get through this.'

* * *

Nightingale was suddenly aware of shadowy figures: they were dark and there was a sense of evil with them. Horrendous screams filled the air. Devil-like shadows moved forward on all sides, their eyes focussed on him. They were obviously after him and when they got to the circle the screams got louder and more infuriated as they tried to get through. Then he saw Proserpine with her dog. Mandy and Lucifuge Rofocale were also there. Then he spotted his father who pleaded, 'Let me in and I'll explain.'

Molly cut in. ' Ignore him, Nightingale, and the others, they will try anything to get at you.'

Nightingale was feeling stressed. He lit a cigarette in an attempt to relax and wondered whether this was going to work. His head started pounding. It felt as if it was going to burst. He clung to the arms of the chair, his knuckles white, his heart was almost beating out of his chest. Nightingale decided this was the most frightening thing he had experienced in his whole life.

Molly tried to calm him she put a hand on his shoulder. 'This is quite normal, Jack, and in fact it could get much worse,' she said.

Nightingale felt a cozy warmth emanate from her hand on his shoulder 'Oh, thanks for that,' he replied sarcastically.

The noises in the room were horrific and grew in intensity; there were faces coming at him that were pure evil and yet they could not penetrate the circle.

Molly shouted at him. 'Mirrors, Jack, surround yourself with mirrors and face them outwards so that the evil see themselves and that whatever they throw at you they get bounced back at themselves.'

Nightingale mustered up all of his strength and put the imaginary mirrors around himself. This all sounded bit far fetched he hoped it was going to work.

The noises seemed to grow louder again, the faces seemed bigger. There was a wind blowing around the room like a hurricane with things crashing and banging and breaking. Nightingale vaguely wondered how long he had been in his circle. It was daylight when he started, darkness had fallen and it was now getting light again. He must have been there for hours. Doubt and panic started creeping into mind.

'Molly, Molly, where are you?' he called.

'I'm here Jack. I'm not going anywhere, now calm down. We will get through this.'

'How much longer is this going on for, I can't stand much more of this.'

Suddenly Nightingale saw that Proserpine and Lucifuge Rofocale were revving up for a determined attempt to break through. Nightingale's father was also walking very determinedly towards him with a sadistic smile on his face.

'Mirrors' shouted Molly

Nightingale reinforced the mirrors, there was a loud bang like thunder, the room filled with smoke and sparks as Nightingale saw his father disintegrate into a pile of dust on the floor. This was followed by Proserpine's dog who leapt towards him and the same thing happened.

Nightingale's head felt as though it was going to burst then he heard Molly shouting, 'Concentrate, Jack, concentrate harder.'

Nightingale did so with every fibre of his body. He reinforced the mirrors around him and also the white protective light. He just felt so tired. Molly tried hard to help him, to keep him strong and ensure he was doing the right things.

Lucifuge Rofocale shouted, 'I am coming for you, Nightingale!' as he threw himself at the circle. Again it was like an explosion of sparks and fire until he also ended up as a pile of dust on the floor.

Nightingale looked Molly, 'I can't take any more,' he said.

'Come on Jack, we're nearly there. We have only one to go, together we are going to win.'

Molly gave Nightingale as much power as she could, What Nightingale could not see were the other helpers she had with her all working together. Nightingale looked in front of him and saw Proserpine looking back at him, her eyes glowing red.

'You are going to hell, Jack Nightingale. I'm coming to kill you.' Proserpine yelled in a croaky, high pitched voice.

Nightingale braced himself as Proserpine launched herself at him. She hit the circle, she did not penetrate it. She tried again and saw herself in the mirrors, she screamed the most awful scream. It was too late, there was nothing Proserpine could do, as she hit the circle she turned into a fireball. From the fireball faces emerged burning as well. There were sparks flying everywhere and claps of what sounded like thunder. The fireball changed from a flaming ball into a glowing sphere that gradually got darker until it went black. It fell to the ground and broke into dust. Nightingale could not believe how quiet it was. He opened his eyes and looked around himself. Everything outside the circle was smashed to bits and he could see a lot of ash and singed bits of floorboard.

Nightingale sat back in his chair not daring to get up, supposing this was not the end. He wondered if he stepped outside the circle whether it could all start again.

* * *

Molly stood beside him. ' Jack it is all over, you did it, you're free and I will always be with you whenever you need me.'

Nightingale lit a cigarette and drew deeply on it. It felt good. He looked at the ashtray and was surprised to see only a few butts in it. Suddenly the room was filled with sunlight everything felt right with him. He felt lighter and brighter than ever before. 'Thank you Molly,' he said.

Molly smiled, 'I'll always be with you, you just had to ask and you did.'

'When can I leave the circle? When will it be safe?'

'Whenever you want to Jack. There is nothing stopping you. You are free.'

Lynnette Waterman was born in what was the isolation hospital in Bexhill on Sea, Sussex. Left Tech school at 16 and became apprentice hairdresser finishing up as manager. Worked in a psychiatric hospital. Had various jobs as an insurance saleswoman, care assistant, cook, matron in residential and nursing homes. Worked as a cleaner in a local hospital Worked in an ice cream van. Sold water softeners, worked in various veterinary practices as receptionist, vet nurse and practice manager. She has always loved animals and bred Siamese cats for a while also did cat and dog rescue. She became a member of The Order of the Black Prince, a 14C medieval re-enactment group where one occasion she prepared and cooked for 250 people over an open fire. She also became proficient in the use of bow and arrows, mangonel, cannon and firearms of the period.

### Blood Bath

by Matt Hilton

'You can't smoke in there, Mister Nightingale.'

'Why not? Afraid I'll pollute the atmosphere?' Nightingale winked at the uniformed officer standing guard at the warehouse doors. When he'd got out of his MGB roadster over a hundred yards away he'd immediately caught the charnel house stench wafting from the open doors. The stink was a mixture of vomit, feces, putrefaction and soured blood, with a touch of boil-in-the-bag tramp for good measure. By contrast the richness of the smoke wafting from his Marlboro should be as welcome as expensive perfume. The cop didn't appreciate it though.

Nightingale pinched his cigarette from his lips and held it butt end to the cop. 'Want to finish this for me? Price of ciggies these days it's a shame to waste it.'

'Just put it out, will you?' The cop curled his lip in distaste as he finished writing Nightingale's name and time of arrival on the scene log. 'And get in there. Superintendent Chalmers expected you ages ago. He's not happy.'

'When is he ever?' Nightingale said.

The cop's mouth made a quirk, but he refrained from commenting. Instead he gave Nightingale the once over. He didn't appear impressed. 'Didn't you used to be in the job?'

'CO19,' Nightingale said. 'Then I was a negotiator.'

'Yeah, I thought I recognised your name.' By his dull tone, he wasn't impressed. Maybe it was because Nightingale's PI de rigueur raincoat, chinos and scuffed Hush Puppies didn't live up to his legend. 'Nowadays you're a private investigator?'

'For my sins,' Nightingale said.

'I don't understand why the Super wants you in there. There's nobody to shoot or to talk out of suicide. You're too late for either.'

Nightingale ground his cigarette beneath the toe of his shoe. Superintendent Chalmers hadn't summoned him because he was an expert with a carbine or negotiation skills, but he wasn't going to share that with the uniformed cop. 'Is there a scene approach route?'

'Follow the tape to the right,' the cop said. He glanced down at the stubbed cigarette butt, then back up at Nightingale. 'Those things will kill you, you know.'

'Trust me, the promise of cancer's the least of my concerns,' Nightingale said. When you'd made enemies of Satanists and demons, smoking wasn't worrying, burning in Hell was.

The stench was bad outside. As he entered the warehouse it was like a solid slap to the face. It wasn't the first time he'd smelled death, and likely wouldn't be the last, but this was by far the worst. How many victims had died in the warehouse, and how long had they lain without discovery? Perhaps it wasn't as long as he first assumed. It was hot and bright outside, and the tin roof and walls of the warehouse had turned the building into an oven. He stood a moment at the threshold, acclimatizing himself to the stink and the darkness. Blue and white crime scene tape was strung from the left doorpost and extended diagonally into the interior. Distantly some portable lights cast a lambent glow, and the silhouettes of a number of people moved back and forward with the slow steady movements of pallbearers at a graveside. Nightingale spotted the large figure of Superintendent Chalmers towering over the others.

Grit and flakes of rust crunched underfoot as he followed the taped off cordon. Nightingale found he was tiptoeing, but he still sounded like the proverbial bull in a china shop. Long before he'd reached the group of police and CSI techs, he'd caught everyone's attention. All but Chalmers ignored him and bent back to their tasks. By contrast Chalmers stormed towards him. The superintendent thrust his face out, gnashing at his cheeks. He went almost nose-to-nose with Nightingale.

'Maybe you've all the bloody time in the world but I haven't. What kept you, Nightingale? Bloody slacking as usual?'

'Nice to see you too, Superintendent. And, hey, really, dropping everything to answer your beck and call really is my pleasure.'

Chalmers snorted. Their interactions had become a familiar dance. Chalmers insulting him, Nightingale slyly rebutting. It should have been tiresome for both by now, but it was a tango neither would relinquish and they continued to step on each other toes.

'I thought we had a special relationship,' Chalmers reminded him. 'When I call you come, and you don't dillydally on the way.'

Their "special relationship" was based on Chalmers' bullying and intimidation tactics. As long as Nightingale answered his summons and worked his butt off on the Superintendents behalf, then Chalmers wouldn't look too deeply into Nightingale's background. The superintendent suspected him of having some involvement in a number of suspicious deaths, but had intimated he'd look the other way as long as Nightingale used his special knowledge where and when it was demanded. He'd even threatened to veto Nightingale's private investigator's status on more than one occasion, suspecting he could hogtie Nightingale into subservience through his need of earning a living. Little did he know that Nightingale could place his hands on a library of books that were priceless to the right collectors. He wasn't a private dick because of the few measly quid the job brought in.

'Dillydally.' Nightingale ruminated over the word. 'Now there's a phrase you don't often hear these days.'

Chalmers stared at him, deciding if Nightingale was trying to take the piss. Nightingale simply looked back, giving no obvious clue. Chalmers breathed out slowly through his nose and there was a waft of fresh mintiness. Nightingale noted the slick of Vicks VapoRub on the superintendent's top lip. It was a common trick of coppers at smelly crime scenes, even if using an oil-based mentholated ointment in such proximity to the nose or mouth was allegedly bad for the lungs. Then again, Nightingale was breathing in the particulated remains of eviscerated humanity so what could he say. Chalmers grunted in decision. 'Come this way. But put on a pair of those overshoes first.' He gesticulated at a CSI toolbox, with a pack of blue plastic shoes lying open on top.

Nightingale knew the routine. He slipped on the elasticated crime scene shoes over the top of his Hush Puppies. Chalmers was already wearing a similar pair over his highly glossed brogues. The superintendent led the way around another taped off cordon to the designated approach path. Ordinarily he would be required to wear latex gloves, but Nightingale simply shoved his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. No way on earth was he going to touch anything any way.

Chalmers stopped a few feet from where the fully suited CSI techs were busying themselves with collecting, recording and cataloguing evidence. He rocked back and forth, and without looking at Nightingale asked, 'Well?'

'It's a mess.'

'I was hoping for something more eloquent and thoughtful.' Chalmers grunted again. 'But I guess for once you're right. It is a mess.'

'How many victims?'

'From what we can tell there are nine of them. Five male, three female, and one yet to be determined.'

Nightingale glanced sideways at the superintendent. 'What do you mean?'

'Like you said: it's a mess. We're struggling to decide which body part belongs to which torso. SOCO are having a hell of a time making sense of it, let alone matching them up. It's almost like some insane jigsaw with all the parts scattered everywhere, and as far as we can tell, some of them are missing.'

'Who's the pathologist? MacDiarmid?' MacDiarmid was a dour Scot, a no nonsense type, and preeminent in her field. Nightingale had worked with her before and despite what others might think of her, he liked her. She had the ability to make him smile even during the gloomiest of situations.

'No. She's off on her summer hols. Gallivanting around the Greek islands as far as I hear.' Chalmers paused. "Gallivanting" was up there with "dillydallying" in his repertoire of outmoded terms. He waited for Nightingale's wry retort but none came. 'It's Benson Kwok. He's not as good as MacDiarmid in my opinion, but he comes highly recommended.'

'Hmmm,' Nightingale said. 'It looks as if he might have a job on his hands with this one.'

Arms, legs, heads, entrails and viscera were scattered in a wide circle in the corner of the warehouse. Yellow, numbered flags had been placed as markers to pinpoint the location of each body part. Bloody, dangling chains showed where the bodies had hung before they'd been pulled apart. Nightingale counted ten chains hanging from the rafters. He spied across the wash of blood and sticky chunks of humanity to where the torsos of the victims had been stacked like firewood against the wall. Some of them were missing chunks of flesh, the wounds deep and ragged. Caught in among the bodies were bloodstained sheets. There was something else. 'What's with the bathtub?'

'That's what I wanted you to see,' said Chalmers. 'And what I most want your opinion on.'

'It looks old. Cast iron. The taps are burnished brass.'

'Thanks for that,' Chalmers snapped. 'But I meant what's in it.'

'Can we take a closer look?'

'Be my guest.'

The superintendent allowed Nightingale to lead the way this time, following in his footsteps along a path marked with more crime scene tape. Before he'd reached the bathtub Nightingale was almost overwhelmed by the sour tang, and he even tasted the smell as if he was sucking on a two pence piece.

Blood filled the deep tub to the two-thirds mark, and was splattered and splashed up the inner curves. The blood had congealed to a purple-brown crust in places, and there was an oily film in others. A clot had formed round the mixer tap, reminding Nightingale of the tops of sauce bottles in some of the less salubrious cafes he'd eaten at. If he didn't know otherwise he'd think that the blood had poured from the tap to fill the tub, but it was apparent that there was no plumbing.

'It's like a scene out that old Hammer horror movie,' Chalmers offered from the sidelines. 'Y'know the one with Ingrid Pitt?'

'Countess Dracula,' Nightingale said. He'd been thinking the same thing.

'Wasn't that movie based on a true story? Lady Báthory or something.'

'I'm impressed,' said Nightingale, sounding less than. 'Yeah, it was loosely based on the legend of Countess Erzsebet Báthory de Ecsed, a Hungarian royal allegedly responsible for the murder of up to six hundred virgin girls. Supposedly she believed that by bathing in their blood it would restore her youthful appearance and libido. I guess they didn't have Botox and Viagra back in the sixteenth century.'

Chalmers shook his head, frustrated by Nightingale's poor attempt at humour. 'Erzsebet? Not Elizabeth?'

'Elizabeth is the modern version of the name.' Nightingale shrugged without taking his hands out of his pockets. 'Some people swear she was a vampire, and it's said that her story influenced Bram Stoker's Dracula.'

'You don't believe that rot about vampires, do you?'

Nightingale only smiled to himself. 'This wasn't Elizabeth Báthory come back from the dead,' he reassured the superintendent. Though he didn't say how he was so adamant. 'But we might have some kind of copycat on our hands. Look at the tap. It looks like someone was taking a nice leisurely soak and stuck their big toe up there.'

'I noticed that.' Chalmers cleared his throat. 'So you think we might have a killer copycatting Ingrid Pitt?'

'No. If it were someone consumed by their own vanity, I'm assuming they'd bathe in a nicer spot than an old draughty warehouse in Clapham.' Nightingale bent at the waist for a closer look. 'Those aren't splashes there.' He pointed with his chin at some teardrop shaped spots on the edge of the bath. 'They fell from above.' He paused to check out the chains again and saw they were attached to pulleys on a configuration of girders among the rafters. 'The victims were hung one at a time over the bath, ripped open and their blood allowed to pool in the tub. I don't see any sign of neat cuts on the body parts.'

Chalmers made a signal to one of the CSI techs, who put down what they were handling and ambled over. Swathed in a white hooded forensic suit and a mask extending over the mouth and nose, and filtered yellow goggles, it was difficult to determine the tech's gender until she spoke. 'Yes, Superintendent, sir?'

'Have we ascertained the murder weapon or tools used yet?'

'No, Sir, but judging by the twisting and splintering we can see at the ends of the limbs, my best bet would be that somebody incredibly strong pulled them apart. But that's just plain crazy. Nobody has that kind of strength. It's more likely that some kind of machinery was used. Maybe the chains, pulleys and levers were used. I couldn't say. Perhaps you could ask Dr Kwok, Sir.'

Chalmers must have found the CSI tech's suggestion insolent, because he chewed at his inner cheek while he thought. In the end he simply waved her away, dismissing her as an underling, and the tech hurried off without a backwards glance, though she did give Nightingale a passing wink of camaraderie. Nightingale was glad he wasn't the only one who found Chalmers a pompous ass.

'Any IDs made yet?' Nightingale asked.

'That's the damndest thing,' Chalmers said. 'We haven't found any personal effects belonging to the victims yet. No clothing, no wallets or purses. Nothing. I have uniform conducting an extensive search of the surroundings, but am yet to hear of anything found.'

Nightingale wasn't really listening. He bent at the waist again, hands fisted in his pockets as he studied something he'd initially missed.

'So you've spotted it then?' Chalmers said, as if he'd been building anticipation for the big denouement.

Beneath the clogged tap a symbol had been daubed on the bathtub. It was partly concealed beneath a fresher splatter of gore, and the reason why Nightingale hadn't immediately noted it among the random patterns. 'I see it.'

'What does it say?'

'Well it doesn't say "Armitage Shanks",' Nightingale noted.

'It's one of your satanic symbols, isn't it?' Chalmers said.

'My satanic symbols?'

'All that Black Magic stuff you're so keen on,' Chalmers pushed.

'I'm more a Milk Tray man myself,' Nightingale replied.

'I just bet you are.' Chalmers huffed something rather un-PC under his breath, before straightening himself. 'You know what I'm talking about. It's one of those pentagle things. It is the only reason I brought you in on this.'

'You're confusing your pentacles with your pentagrams and pentangles again. They're only usually associated with the devil, or witchcraft, if two points of the five pointed star are uppermost.' Nightingale didn't really want to get into a long explanation, as there was more to the star symbol than he could explain to someone as impatient as Chalmers; the pentagram had many meanings dependent on respective faiths, religions and even political allegiances. 'But, actually this symbol is none of those. It isn't a true polygon if you take a closer look, and there are extra additions that aren't usually associated with either Wicca or Satanism, or even the Latter Day Saint Movement.'

Chalmers was sufficiently confused already, so Nightingale shut up. Instead he asked, 'I take it you want me to identify it for you?'

'I didn't ask you here because I enjoy your sparkling company,' Chalmers said.

Nightingale took a mobile phone from his pocket, and puzzled over it a moment. His assistant Jenny McLean had showed him half a dozen times where to find the camera app, but could he get it working? 'I think my thumbs are too big for this thing,' Nightingale grumbled.

'You Neanderthal. Give it here.' Chalmers clicked his fingers and Nightingale handed the phone over with barely a scowl. He took various snaps of the symbol on the tub, from a variety of angles. Then he thrust the phone back at Nightingale who shoved it and his hands back in his raincoat pockets.

'Time and expenses?' Nightingale asked hopefully, though he'd little chance of earning any fee from the superintendent.

'No, you're doing me a favour. The same as I am for you...when allowing you your liberty.' Chalmers eyed him steadily. 'I expect to hear from you very soon, Nightingale. I don't expect to hear you're trampling all over my case, though. Intel only, then you're out. Got it?'

'Loud and clear,' Nightingale said.

Later Nightingale drove his classic MGB to his office in South Kensington, then had to circle the block three times before he found a parking space and fed a metre three hundred yards from his front door. He called into Starbucks and picked up lattes and muffins, then wandered back to the office, sweating under his raincoat, shirt and tie. He took the opportunity to smoke as he walked, a man keen on the concept of economy of motion. The hot spell had lasted the best part of a fortnight, a rarity in the UK these past summers. His office was above a hairdressers shop, and he wondered if he'd time for a trim. A shorter hairstyle would help keep him cooler in the stifling heat. He decided no: if he was going to butter Jenny up for a favour, it was best he deliver her coffee while it was still hot.

When he entered the office, waving the brown paper bag and his acquisitions her way, Jenny looked up and gave him a beaming smile. Her openness made her even prettier than usual. 'There had to be some good reason for you to be late,' Jenny said.

'I bring banana muffins,' Nightingale announced. 'Lateness is only a state of the mind, while these are delicacies for the tummy.'

' They're stodge,' Jenny corrected him. 'But welcome all the same. I'm starving.'

'Did you miss breakfast this morning.'

'Yes. I'd no appetite first thing. I'd been up all night with this oppressive heat, and must have showered three times. But I have to admit, I could eat a horse now.' She stood up, and her pale blue dress drifted around her shapely thighs. Nightingale tried to look elsewhere. 'You like?' Jenny asked.

'Like what?'

'My new summer dress.'

'Of course. It's very pretty.'

'I see you haven't dressed for the weather yet. You must be sweltering, Jack. At least take off your raincoat.'

'I was just about to. Any way, I am wearing my summer get up.' Normally he wore a suit over his shirt and tie, habitual from his days as a negotiator with the Met. The concession of a pair of lightweight chinos was his attempt at the summer look.

He put down the brown paper bag and Jenny delved inside. Her blond ponytail swung over the tanned skin of her bared shoulder, a pointer towards the display of paler cleavage that Nightingale quickly averted his gaze from. Nightingale loved her, but not in that way: theirs was a special relationship totally unlike the one he shared with Superintendent Chalmers or anyone else.

'Did you get through to Bromwich?' Nightingale asked.

Frank Bromwich had hired him to get evidence that his wife was having an adulterous affair. Nightingale had done so, but the big surprise was that Mrs Bromwich's infidelity was with her girlfriend Lisa Chapman, and not Lisa's husband Bob, as Frank had suspected. Nightingale didn't care one way or another about Mrs Bromwich's sexual preferences, but because she hadn't been with a man, Frank thought he could default on Nightingale's agreed fee. Some people were just plain odd.

'Yes,' Jenny said round a mouthful of muffin. 'I threatened him with a day in court, and he agreed to pay up rather than wash his dirty washing in public. I had him pay by bankers draft, and I already checked and your fee's in the company account.'

'Good work. Anything else come in?'

'I'm guessing from the way you're tiptoeing around there's something you want to ask me to do. You're the boss, Jack. Ask away.'

'It's another special request,' Nightingale pointed out.

'I expected nothing else when you went off radar this morning. What is it this time? Demonic possession, child sacrifice, theft from the blood bank by vampires?'

Nightingale sniggered in good humour. 'How does ancient demi-god grab you? Well at least that's one idea I'm running with.'

Jenny frowned at her unfinished muffin. 'Why do I get the impression I should eat this quickly, before I lose my appetite again?'

'What do you know about blood sacrifice? Particularly where the body is literally torn apart.'

'I knew it!' Jenny pushed the muffin away, looking a little green.

'Sorry.' Nightingale grinned, scuffed a toe on the carpet, suitably abashed.

Jenny sat down primly. She adjusted her dress so that it covered her thighs, but her knees still stuck out. A tiny crumb of muffin on her knee caught Nightingale's eye, until Jenny brushed it away brusquely and leaned towards her computer. 'What have you got?' Her words didn't match her tone: it said, "You swine, I was enjoying that cake, Jack".

He handed her his mobile phone. 'There are some photos on there.'

'Why didn't you text me them? I could have got on with this while waiting for you to drag your backside into the office.'

'I was driving.' Nightingale gave her the same sickly smile that said he'd forgotten how to send the photos as a text attachment. The same as he had the last times after she'd explained the process to him.

'You're such a Luddite,' Jenny said, for about the umpteenth time. She shook her head in mild exasperation, but it was all as much a part of their eternal dance as Chalmers and Nightingale's bickering was. She took out a USB cable and fitted the phone to her computer. Within minutes she had the photos snapped earlier at the crime scene up on the screen. Jenny's only comment was a sound of disgust deep in her throat.

Nightingale explained how Chalmers had summoned him to the crime scene, about the ten victims, the way their bodies had been torn limb from limb, the chains and pulleys, the blood dripping into the bathtub. 'I didn't think we needed pictures of the scene itself, only of the symbol.'

'I'm glad you showed good judgement for a change. This is horrid enough.' In some of the photos the gelatinous blood at the edges of the tub could be seen. But most images were centred on the star shape, the circle around it and the accompanying less obvious symbols partly covered by fresher blood splotches.

'It's not you usual pentacle,' Nightingale observed. 'See how the lines are wavy, while a normal pentacle has straight and equal sides?'

'Perhaps whoever left it there wasn't that particular about the dimensions being exact.'

'Then why bother? If it isn't depicted correctly then it holds no significance.'

'So you don't think it's a regular occult symbol the likes we've come across before?'

'Something different,' Nightingale said, and to some effect he was relieved. 'I don't think this has anything to with the Order.'

The Order of Nine Angles was a powerful group of devil worshipers, and Nightingale's sworn enemies. He'd just about had his fill of their attempts on his life, and his soul, and was happy to learn that this time he was up against something else. Not that murderers responsible for ripping their victims limb from limb were anything to be sniffed at.

'See if you can find anything on the Net about blood sacrifice, will you?'

' Christianity,' Jenny said without preamble, and quoted John 6:54-55. '"He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life: and I will raise him up on the last day. For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink". Of course, these days, the flesh and blood is ritualized as representations through bread and wine, but it's still a practice regularly observed in most Christian churches. But did you know that the practice goes back to ancient pagan times? For instance in Greece, some cults engaged in omophagia, the eating of the raw meat of both human and animal sacrifices. The worshippers tore the sacrificial victims apart with their bare hands and teeth, and consumed the flesh and blood, believing that it was a shortcut to godhood. Some time later, in ancient Roman Mithraism, initiates were baptized in blood, usually lying in a pit while the blood dripped on them. They would then eat the flesh and drink the blood for renewal, and therefore become as one with the gods.' Jenny paused, and looked slowly up at Nightingale. 'But you already knew that, right? You already mentioned you thought this had something to do with a demi-god.'

Nightingale shrugged, caught out. 'On my way over I called at the Wicca Woman Shop and asked Mrs Steadman for a few ideas.'

'Mrs Steadman, your very own fairy godmother?'

More like his guardian angel, if Nightingale's recent suspicions about the small bird-like woman held any validity.

'She mentioned Mithras, and how the pagan religion was the blueprint on which modern Christianity was based. She showed me some books with depictions of the god. Normally he is shown as a warrior astride a bull, slitting its throat, while a dog bites the bull's genitals and a scorpion or serpent stands poised to strike. Look again at those smaller symbols around the star and tell me they couldn't be the same animals.'

Jenny nodded in agreement. 'Could be. But a star doesn't look much like a man astride a bull.'

'According to Mrs Steadman the Mithras legend is based on even earlier beliefs, possibly those of those ancient Greeks you mentioned. Mithras was basically a representation of the sun – or a star – and the bull that of the cosmic gulf, or eternal darkness, represented here by the circle. Think about it. Light and dark. Good and evil. God and the devil. You can see how one belief would easily morph from ancient paganism to our modern Christianity. Nowadays it's Jesus Christ and Satan, but it's basically the same idea.'

'So in other words we are up against some form of devil worship?'

'Yes, just a much older form than we're used to.'

Jenny thought a moment, then leaned into her computer and brought up the browser. She typed in "Mithras" and was rewarded with more than thirty thousand hits. 'I might have to do some digging to see where your idea can lead us. But there's something I just thought of. Mithraism is about balance. Dark and light in cohesion, and is much the same idea as all other religions and even Eastern concepts like Yin and Yang. It's probably why that symbol shows a wavy star overlaying a circle – it's the sun and the eternal gulf combined. For that reason, I've also heard that Mithras was sometimes depicted as a god with two faces – both good and evil – in a single form. I've got an idea, let me run with it, OK?'

'Go for it.' Nightingale pushed her latte towards her after peeling off the top. It was still steaming nicely. 'In the meantime I'll get in touch with another two-faced git with delusions of godhood. Best I let Chalmers know what I've learned.'

When Nightingale and Jenny went to collect his MGB, the coupe's engine would barely turn over. It coughed and whirred then gave up the ghost.

'I've been having some trouble with the battery terminal leads,' Nightingale admitted. 'Let me give them a wiggle and see if that helps.'

Jenny folded her arms, more or less in resolve. 'We'll take my Audi. Really, Jack. I don't know why you hang onto this old thing, it must cost you a fortune to keep getting it repaired.'

'Parts are becoming hard to come by, and when I can get them they're expensive. The other day I walked into the garage and said I wanted a windscreen wiper for my MG, and the guy behind the counter said it sounded like a fair swap. What's wrong with people these days, they've lost their sense of style?'

'Your love affair with your MGB has nothing to do with style it's about nostalgia. And a misplaced one at that. You should buy something more reliable, then you'd have more pleasant memories to look back on than how many times you broke down.'

'You're as bad as all the rest, Jenny. My MG's a classic.'

'So is "Agadoo" by Black Lace but it doesn't make it a good song.'

After transferring to Jenny's Audi A4 they headed for Clapham. They had no intention of going near the warehouse where the slaughter had taken place, but to a semi-derelict temperance hall at the fringe of a council-housing scheme. En route Jenny threatened to bash Nightingale's head in with something heavy if he didn't stop singing that stupid song.

'It was you that brought up Aga-bloody-do,' He replied. 'Now I can't get the damn song out of my head.'

'I swear if you start doing the hand actions I'll drive us head-on into a tree.'

'...push pineapple, grind coffee...'

'Jack!'

Nightingale laughed.

Then the laughter caught in his throat and he blinked in slow astonishment as they drove by a girl sitting on the pavement outside a pawnshop declaring "We Buy Your Gold." Lying at her side was a Border Collie. The sheepdog stared balefully back at him with more intelligence even than the vaunted Collie should have. To anyone else the girl would look like any number of the street people lounging about nearby. She was sitting with her knees up near her chin, arms wrapped round them, sparing her modesty somewhat. Her skirt was far too short to sit splay-legged, and even sat as she was she still displayed a fair expanse of fishnet stocking top. There were strategic rips in the stockings. She wore a black leather jacket covered in metal spikes and studs, matching piercings in her lips, nose and ears. Her hair was spiky and jet black, the same colour as her eyes. She also wore black lipstick, but her tongue was brightest red as she stuck it out at Nightingale, then lifted both hands and extended her index fingers skyward and jabbed thrice in quick succession, before extending her palms and making three pushing motions. By that time they had already gone past her, but she then clasped her hands and rocked them side-to-side.

'What's a nice pineapple like you doing in a place like this, Jack?'

There was no possible way that he should have heard her voice, but to Nightingale it was if Proserpine was in the back seat of the Audi with them. He was almost afraid to check in case the devil had spirited herself from outside the pawnshop and into the car. For that matter he'd no idea how she could have known what song he was singing, except that she was keeping an eye on him much closer than he'd ever imagined she could.

'Get out of my head,' he snarled under his breath.

'Now you're a flaming Kylie Minogue fan?'

Nightingale jerked to attention, blinking in confusion at Jenny. 'What?'

His assistant grinned back at him. 'That's what you're singing now, isn't it? That Kylie song? I must admit it's more to my taste than Agadoo.' She did a little jig in her seat, singing along 'Oh, I can't get you out of my head...'

Nightingale frowned.

Then he quickly checked the wing mirror. The pawnshop was dwindling in the distance, but still he could tell there was no impish devil girl or her dog sitting on the pavement outside. He wondered if he'd dreamed the weird sequence of events, but knew it was wishful thinking. Despite her denials on previous occasions, Nightingale suspected that he was never out from under the radar of the demon from whom he'd won back his soul. Theirs was another special relationship that he was eternally caught up in.

But why had Proserpine chosen to show herself like that? Why now? Despite its whimsical nature, he had to consider her brief appearance as a warning of sorts: she didn't care if he died, but when it happened she wanted to be the one to snatch away his severed soul.

'Are you OK, Jack?'

'I'm fine, Kiddo. Just reminiscing again.'

'What about?'

'Just this girl I once knew.'

Jenny briefly studied him in profile, noting his downturned mouth and deep frown lines. 'I told you already, Jack: misplaced nostalgia is never good for you.'

'You're telling me.'

The old temperance meeting hall stood on its own walled lot on the corner of a T-junction. On two sides urban regeneration had started, the prewar tenement buildings flattened, but that was as far as the construction work had gone before the latest round of governmental budget cuts had kicked in. Mounds of shattered red bricks lay in rubbish strewn heaps, making the landscape look like the aftermath of an apocalyptic event. Distant tower blocks were indistinct through the pollution of vehicle fumes and coal fires. The skies overhead should have been black and gloomy, but the cobalt blue and flashing brilliance of the sun was in direct contradiction. Kids played among the ruination, feral-looking boys and girls.

'Is it safe leaving my car parked out here?' Jenny wondered as she pulled up a block down from the old church. This part of Clapham was a world away from the streets she was familiar with around her mews house in Chelsea.

'Probably not, but if you still intend coming with me we've no other option.'

'Damn you, Jack. That's why you had me bring my Audi. You didn't want to risk your MG getting trashed.'

'It wouldn't start.'

'You fiddled it somehow. Thinking back I didn't see you pull out the choke. When we get back I'm going to make you start it up, and I'll be watching your every move.'

'It's temperamental. It probably will start next time. I told you: I've got loose terminal leads.'

'And I must have a screw loose to fall for it,' Jenny growled. 'I should leave you here and make you walk back to your precious car.'

'Hopefully we'll both still be walking when we come out of there, and not carried out in body bags,' Nightingale said, changing the subject, but not exactly for the best.

They got out the car and Jenny locked it. Across the road five young black boys with bicycles had gathered to watch them. Jenny moaned under her breath. Nightingale smiled at her. 'Let me handle this, Kiddo.'

He whistled and beckoned the group of boys. The eldest was no more than ten. It was him, the leader, who wheeled his bike over and then stood astride the bike to stare up in defiance. The other four made a semi-circle of bikes and attitude ten feet distant.

'Want to make some money?' Nightingale asked the boy.

'Are you one of those dirty old men my mum warned me about?' said the boy, sounding ten years older. Behind him his pals sniggered.

Nightingale shook his head, smiling at the joke for effect. 'Do I look like a dirty old man?'

'You look like Five-O.'

'Well, I'm not a policeman. So, what is it? Want to make a couple quid or not?'

'To do what?'

'Watch my friend's car for her for a few hours.'

'For a couple of quid? Ha! Give us all two quid each or we'll burn it.'

Nightingale winked. 'Done.'

He took out his wallet, careful to obscure its contents from the craning heads of the boys. He held out a ten-pound note to the leader. As the boy reached greedily for it, Nightingale snatched it back. 'I heard from my good friends, Perry Smith and T-bone, that a man's word was his honour on these streets. Do you give your word that you'll watch and protect my friend's car til we get back?'

'Word, man,' said the boy in his best Gangsta he could summon. Though they were both now dead, until recently Perry Smith and T-bone were the Gangstas of note in this no-go area of South London. Their names still held gravitas, and it seemed name-dropping them had done the trick.

'Word.' Nightingale held out the note. The boy swiped it, and immediately wheeled away to join his pals. All began demanding their share of the unexpected booty. For a second Nightingale expected them to ride immediately away in search of the nearest sweet shop. But the leader said a few harsh words, aimed a few mock slaps and his little gang fell into order. They moved to encircle the Audi A4, but it seemed that word carried a lot of weight here. They stood astride their bikes, facing out with tough looks on their faces.

As they walked away, Jenny shook her head at Nightingale. 'You just let yourself get railroaded by a bunch of snot-nosed brats. Ten pounds? You must be mad.'

'It's less than I pay for parking in South Kensington,' Nightingale replied, 'and a lot less than I'd have to pay you if we came out and found your Audi up on bricks.'

Jenny conceded the point. But she still expected that on their return the kids would be long gone, and a few of those bricks lying nearby would have ended up hurled through the Audi's windows, or worse, a burnt out husk.

They entered the grounds of the old meeting hall through a gap devoid of the iron gates that had probably been stolen for their scrap metal value. Nightingale grinned to himself, and said, 'I don't know what the fuss is these days about going Green. The churches round here have had lead-free roofs for years.'

'Har-de-har,' said Jenny. 'Are you getting nostalgic about the oldest jokes in the book now?'

'Just trying to add a little levity to the moment. Are you nervous?'

'About my car still being there when I get back?'

'About entering the belly of the beast,' Nightingale said with a nod for the old meeting hall.

'We don't even know if we've got the right place yet,' Jenny reminded him.

'It's the right one. I trust your research, kiddo. And I trust my eyes. Look.'

The meeting hall was a large, formidable structure, formed of the same red brick as the nearby buildings from where it had once attracted its congregation. It had a large portico at the front and the remainder of the structure was a single oblong two storeys tall, along which there were rows of boarded up windows. There was a peaked slate roof on the portico, but covering the oblong was a flat roof with a concrete balustrade around it. The front doors, the portico walls and as far they could see along one side of the oblong was barely spared an inch from graffiti. Some of the artwork was what you'd see anywhere somebody got jiggy with a spray can, some of it was the usual smut and lewd depictions of genitalia, but then there were fresher glyphs – gang tags - that stood out as a warning against further defilement. Daubed directly across the two large front doors was the exact same star-upon-circle symbol Nightingale had witnessed on the bathtub at the crime scene that morning. Beneath the symbol were depictions of a dog, snake and scorpion.

'It certainly looks promising,' Jenny agreed.

They stood side by side before the doors. They were closed tight. Nightingale fished his mobile phone out of his pocket. 'Here,' he said.

Jenny took it and glanced at the screen. Nightingale had already punched in Superintendent Chalmers' personal number, and all was needed was for Jenny to hit the call button. 'You told the Superintendent where we are?'

'I told him I was following a lead against his instructions. He blustered and threatened to lock me up but it was all bluff. He really wants me to do his dirty work for him, then he can come charging in with a CO19 tactical team and take all the glory for breaking the case. Knowing Chalmers he's already got someone spying on us, has a team on stand-by, and an aggravating little itch in his arse to get moving. The phone's just for emergencies. If you need to, hit the call button then scream for all your worth.'

'I'm not that good at all that girly screaming.'

'Don't worry, Chalmers will probably hear me screaming louder than you.'

'You're happy he's letting you walk in there like a lamb to the slaughter?'

'It's not sacrificial lambs that have anything to fear in there,' Nightingale said. 'Just virgins.'

Jenny blinked at him.

'Is that your weird way of assuming that we're both safe?'

Nightingale winked, but said nothing more. He checked his watch. 'It's just gone five-thirty. They should start arriving soon.'

Earlier Jenny's efforts at the computer had turned up various clues leading to a modern Mithras cult, and she'd been able to track their recent activities, and where they'd held their gatherings, and there had even been references to where prospective initiates should gather for what had been obscurely referred to as an "introductory feast". The advert had been disguised to look like a regular religious meeting, but there were hidden clues in the flyers posted on various social networks. Like dillydally and gallivanting, omophagia wasn't a term you heard much these days but it had slipped into the background on the flyers, hidden among other words. The last flyer had advertised such an event at the same Clapham warehouse Nightingale had visited that very morning, and the next meet was right there at the old temperance hall, beginning 6.30 pm sharp that evening. Initiates had been requested to begin gathering a quarter hour earlier, while volunteers weren't expected until the set time. Volunteers. Apparently the cult was very good at attracting the kind of lost soul willing to lie down and allow themselves to be eaten alive! It was madness, but not a first. Nightingale had heard of a recent and well-documented case of cannibalism in Germany where victims had been persuaded to offer themselves up as repast. Allegedly it had been an honour for the victims to be chosen, though Nightingale wondered how any of them said so while they resided in the stomach of the cannibal. The world was crazy, even without the inclusion of the demons and devil worshippers that populated his.

'Do we go in, or wait for the others to arrive?' Jenny asked.

'Let's wait,' Nightingale replied, and pulled out his Marlboro's. 'I want a smoke first. And before you try talking me out of smoking again, I'll remind you it might be my last one. You wouldn't deny me my last request?'

'Go for it. I'm even tempted to have one of those smelly things myself.'

People began arriving twenty minutes later. Some arrived on foot, some in cars and vans, one came on a moped, and he was wearing colourful motorcycle leathers and full-face helmet, resembling a spoof Evel Knievel. In all they looked liked normal, everyday people, and not the cannibals and murderers that Nightingale suspected. But he knew – both from his police career, and from his recent tussles with devil worshipers – that looks could be deceiving. Nearby the kids playing in the rubble had made themselves scarce, even those that Nightingale had paid to watch Jenny's Audi A4. But then, with all the other vehicles arriving, some of them easier to steal, the Audi was probably now safe enough.

Nightingale puffed away at his Marlboro, while Jenny stood upwind from him. It was actually his third since declaring his need to smoke, his previous two cigarettes now stubbed out underfoot. The small amount of litter he'd added to the yard didn't matter considering the proliferation of crushed beer cans, broken bottles, used condoms and syringes that were piled in drifts against the walls. At least someone had been at the church earlier to sweep a path to the front doors, so they didn't have to be too careful about where they put their feet. The late afternoon sun still beat down over that part of South London, giving everything an amber cast. The warmth and brightness was still in odds to the incongruous setting.

Some of those that arrived cast their eyes over Nightingale and Jenny, but not with any obvious signs of suspicion; it was more as if they were eyeing up the choicest morsels on an all you can eat buffet. Other people arriving at the meeting hall had to be volunteers. They stood, as did Nightingale and Jenny, to one side of the path, making way for those already initiated, or those hoping to be. Nightingale counted six nervous people not including him or his long-suffering assistant. None of the volunteers spoke to each other, and that suited Nightingale. Instead he concentrated on watching those others that arrived, checking out the large wooden crates some of them lugged from the rear of the vans. He finished his cigarette and dropped it on the ground, smearing it to a yellowed pulp beneath the toes of his Hush Puppies. He took out his packet and lit a fresh one. Jenny frowned at him. 'I chain smoke when I'm about to be eaten,' he whispered.

A delivery truck pulled up.

Some of those nearby spoke to the driver and a runner sent inside the church. A few seconds later the man in motorcycle leathers appeared in the doorway. He was still wearing the full-face helmet with the tinted visor down. He stood with his gauntleted hands fisted on his hips, and gave a grandiose nod. Nightingale couldn't help but notice that the figure was well muscled and lithe beneath the leathers. On closer inspection he saw that the blue stars on his Evel Knievel get up were actually set in white circles. Nightingale nudged Jenny with an elbow.

'I see him,' Jenny replied out the corner of her mouth.

'You see what's being delivered?'

'A bath.'

The driver and a couple of the initiated were jostling a large cardboard box off the back of the truck. The box bore the name of a well-known DIY chain store, and a diagram of a bath. On the side a large sticker said 20% off. It seemed that even demi-gods and their flesh eating devotes still enjoyed a bargain.

'Haven't we seen enough?' Jenny whispered.

'Not yet. For all we know they're a bunch of well-meaning volunteers restoring this old meeting hall. We need to see what's happening inside before we call in Chalmers and his storm troopers.'

The box was carted inside, though the driver went no further than the front door where he offered the delivery manifest to the man in leathers for signing. The helmet was turned away in aloof disdain, and one of the others stepped forward and signed for the bath. The driver drove off with nary a hint of suspicion about a possible mass murder he was about to be implicated in.

'It's not exactly as if they're hiding their activities. Even if we weren't here to witness it, and another slaughter occurs, it wouldn't take Chalmers long to discover where the bath came from and who ordered it.' Jenny shook her head in disbelief.

'In my experience demons don't fear the weight of the laws governing mortals, why should a god be any different?' He nodded shortly, and expelled gouts of blue smoke. 'Look at the followers. You ask me they're all as brainwashed as the volunteers are. My guess is that if the police do find them then there are plenty of them willing to take the fall for Mithras. I noticed ol' Evel over there wasn't prepared to put his signature on the delivery note, and I don't think it was because he thought it was beneath him.'

'I can't believe that anyone would be willing to buy into this absurd fantasy,' Jenny said under her breath.

'It only takes an enigmatic leader, and his followers will happily do whatever he asks, however despicable those actions sound to others. Take Charles Manson, Jim Jones, David Koresh, Marshall Applewhite and even Adolf Hitler: any one of those loonies could have probably talked their followers into doing anything.'

'Hmmm,' said Jenny. 'The way in which you talk me into doing ridiculous things for you.'

Jenny offered a lopsided smile, while Nightingale just puffed on his cigarette, lost for words.

They had to wait another quarter hour, so Nightingale put it to good use satisfying his nicotine craving. While he smoked, the initiated entered the hall and closed the double doors behind them. Another couple of shy volunteers arrived and joined the queue standing alongside the path.

A bell tolled from within and suddenly the double doors creaked open.

A figure stood in the doorway dressed in a bright yellow rain slicker, waterproof over-trousers and wellington boots. It was a male, probably in his mid-fifties, but it was hard to tell. He had the hood pulled up and tied securely round his features and was wearing tinted goggles.

'Bloody hell, it's Findus the Fisherman,' Nightingale quipped.

The man stood at the threshold, opened his arms expansively and announced, 'Say friend, and be welcome.'

'I guess they sourced their doctrine from reading The Lord of the Rings,' Jenny said, but the reference was lost on Nightingale.

Some of the volunteers moved forward. Nightingale touched Jenny on the elbow, signalling her to wait.

'It's a code word they're expected to say,' he whispered. 'Try to hear what it is first.'

Unfortunately, the man in the waterproofs leaned his head close to each volunteer's lips in turn, urging them to whisper.

'Shit,' Nightingale swore.

'Amice,' Jenny said. 'If they are copying the Rings, the Fellowship had to say "friend" in an ancient tongue to open a door to the Mines of Moria. But this cult is based on an ancient Roman religion. They'll be using Latin. Amice means friend.'

'Thank God you're a geek,' Nightingale said.

'I'll take that as a compliment, shall I?'

'It was meant as one.'

They stepped forward joining the short queue.

Jenny was up first and she leaned in to whisper the code word to the doorman. He nodded and smiled. 'Welcome,' he said, and offered Jenny entrance.

Nightingale was up next. He moved forward even as Jenny stepped in through the doors and into dimness. He met the doorman's gaze and leaned in. 'Amice,' he said, and noted a faint curl of distaste on the man's face. But the look was only fleeting, and the man forced a beatific smile in place.

'Welcome.'

Nightingale stepped past him, but even as he did so he caught a flicker of movement from the man's arm, and he jerked to look in reaction. He saw that the man had lifted his hand, and folded over the two middle fingers and then jabbed the extended two at him.

Nightingale had been hexed before, but that wasn't what this hand signal was about. It summoned two other initiated from where they lurked in the shadows, and now Nightingale had his back to them. They each grabbed him by an arm and held him tightly. 'What's going on?' Nightingale demanded.

'You are a smoker,' the doorman said, and his face was a picture of revilement. 'And by the stench, a heavy one at that.'

'Jeez, the anti-smoking brigade get everywhere these days,' said Nightingale. 'What's the problem? Want me to pop some spearmint gum first?'

'You are tainted.'

'Pardon me?'

'The poison invades your veins and infiltrates your flesh. You are anathema to our kind.'

'Man, you lot sound worse than vegans.'

'You are unwelcome here,' said the man.

'Fair enough,' replied Nightingale. 'I'm sorry about the misunderstanding and am happy to leave. Let me just call my friend and we're out of here.'

'Your friend is the one who went before?'

'Yeah, the blond that just went in.' Nightingale tried to crane round to see where Jenny was, but his captors held him too tightly. He looked back at Findus, and saw the man shaking his head softly.

'Your friend was already admitted, and welcomed, she won't be leaving with you.'

'Like hell,' Nightingale snapped. He stamped down on the instep of the man on his left, and aimed an elbow at the face of the other. He felt his captors react, their grips slackening, and thought fleetingly that his Chuck Norris moves were to be proud of. But then Findus stepped forward and delivered a blindingly fast uppercut to his gut. The wind went out of Nightingale in a gust of five cigarettes' worth of pent up smoke. The nicotine addiction that had just spared him being eaten alive was now his undoing. He couldn't pull in another breath. While he struggled, an arm wrapped around his throat and cut off his air completely. Then a tattoo of punches landed about his face and neck, and Nightingale went into that place where he was blissfully unaware of the beating that followed.

He awoke groggily.

He was sitting against a wall, and his arms were bound behind him. Rough ropes chafed his skin raw. He was aware of a number of sore spots on his skull and face, but after a moment the pain simply blended so that his entire head and upper body became one big aching bruise. He snapped up his head, expecting to find he'd been dumped like trash behind the meeting hall, but he was inside. He was in some kind of stall, with a door about three and a half feet tall blocking his view of the main hall. Candles had been lit, and they cast their lambent glow on the flat ceiling overhead. Shadows writhed among the candle glow and there was some sort of weird chanting he could make no sense of.

Jenny?

Where was Jenny?

He attempted to stand, but the blood rushed to his head and he almost swooned again. He fought the dizzying sensation down, gritting his teeth and forced himself up, using the wall behind him for support. He tried to brace his feet and staggered. Looking down he found the same rope that secured his hands behind him had hobbled his feet. He attempted to wrench free, but the man in the rain slicker was as apparently as good with tying knots as any fisherman he resembled.

The chanting rose in pitch.

Nightingale pushed off the wall, hopping forward, taking the pressure in his bent knees, and then buckled over the door as he craned to see what was happening.

It was unlike any church service he'd seen before. The congregation was all standing, dressed in a mixture of waterproof clothing, some in slickers like Findus wore, others had on CSI-style forensic suits. Others wore their own clothing but had plastic aprons and rubber gloves, and plastic hair caps. They encircled a stage, on which stood the bath recently delivered by the truck, and above the bath hung chains and manacles. A slim young woman hung from the manacles, and Nightingale balked, thinking it was Jenny, but couldn't tell because she was dressed head to foot in a white robe that also covered her head. He was about to shout in warning but realized it would be both their undoing. Instead, he pulled again trying to free his wrists. All the while he watched in some sense of distraction as the man in colourful leathers stepped from the shadows at the side of the stage and stood alongside the unresisting offering. He still wore the helmet with the visor down. At his feet were some small objects, and it took Nightingale a second or two to recognize them as children's plastic toys. Animals. Namely a dog, a snake and a scorpion. Symbolic representations of the real creatures often depicted accompanying Mithras and the bull he slew. He took it the maniac in the leathers was the supposed avatar of the demi-god, Mithras, himself.

The man stepped closer to the sacrificial woman, easing off his crash helmet. From Nightingale's angle he saw a handsome face in profile, freshly shaved and salved by the look of the abnormal glow of the skin. Highlights from the candle glow twinkled in the eye that appraised the woman. He said something in what had to be an archaic form of Latin and a murmur of anticipation went through the congregation, who all took a pace forward. With one movement, the Mithras-man stripped away the coverings from the woman and she hung in all her naked glory over the bathtub. Again a murmur of longing went through the crowd, and a bunch of them at the front took another pace forward. They were the lucky initiates, Nightingale thought. Bloody murderers more like.

But he was wrong.

Apparently signing a delivery note was beneath Mithras, but not getting his hands dirty. He stripped off his gauntlets, displaying long, thick fingers tipped by black claws. He stood behind the dangling woman, reaching around her as if about to caress her middle, then laid his fingers either side of her navel. The black claws sank without resistance into her flesh, and without a moan of pain from the sacrificial woman.

'Oh no,' Nightingale moaned to himself.

Quickly he searched again for Jenny among the nine robed volunteers standing behind Mithras on the stage.

He couldn't define her from the other eight.

Then his attention was torn away as Mithras pulled apart his arms, and with it opened up the woman's torso. Blood fountained out of the horrific wound and splashed in the bath. Below the carnage, a prospective male initiate disrobed and walked up the stairs, ready to slide into the bath. Mithras held out his hand and the initiate dipped his head and accepted the glistening morsel of flesh into his mouth. He chewed blissfully, blood dripping on his chin. Mithras indicated the bathtub and the man stepped in, then lay down as blood showered him. The congregation oohed and aahed in awe. Then Mithras gripped the sacrifice's arms and yanked them from their sockets, the body dropped over the man in the bath, then slowly slipped off and flopped lifelessly to the floor. Those in the congregation already in the inner circle fell on the feast like a pack of hungry hyenas. Nightingale had seen enough.

'Noooo!'

His holler brought round every face in the hall, including that of Mithras. Only the robed volunteers seemed unconcerned by the horror in his voice, enthralled somehow to obedient subservience through Mithras' presence. They stood silent and unmoving. All nine of them.

Nine?

Why did that number trouble Nightingale, even if only in some distant corner of his brain?

He was positive that there'd only been eight volunteers waiting in line with them. Even counting Jenny up there on the stage, one volunteer had already been eviscerated. There should only be eight robed figures left, shouldn't there? Nightingale had obviously missed the newcomer's late arrival while he was unconscious. It didn't matter. Now wasn't time for mathematics, not while the baleful stare of Mithras was upon him.

The man's claws, and his unearthly strength, had already marked him as unnatural. But now Nightingale could see the entirety of his face and he understood. This was no mere representation; this indeed was the avatar of an ancient demi-god. One side of Mithras' face was beautiful, beatific almost, whilst the other side was the absolute opposite. There were features reminiscent of a bull, but the ugliest bull ever conceived. The skin was brown, wrinkled, puckered by warts and growths, and a short horn curled from the temple down towards the jaw. A red bulging eye protruded from the socket, the nostril flared, dripping mucus, and when Mithras opened his mouth, thick, yellowed tusks that never belonged to any herbivore caught the candle glow, unlike the pearly whites on the other side.

Nightingale's shout had curtailed to a faint moan.

'You would dare to disturb our sacred ceremony?' Mithras demanded in a booming voice that rattled the walls. He swept a blood-clotted claw at Nightingale. 'Fetch the defiler to me.'

Still bound, and hurting, there was little that Nightingale could do to fight off those who pounced on him and lifted him aloft. They carried him forward and dumped him on the floor, among the gore and viscera of the slaughtered sacrifice. Nightingale lay stunned, and could do little as Mithras bounded down from the stage to straddle him. The demi-god leaned over, his claws pulsing in and out in anticipation.

'You are unclean,' Mithras growled, and a glob of snot dripped from the ugly nostril and splattered on Nightingale's cheek.

'You should talk,' Nightingale said. 'Never heard of Kleenex?'

'I will not permit you to foul my claws,' said Mithras.

Nightingale's relief was short-lived.

To the congregation, Mithras commanded, 'Tear him apart.'

A sea of bodies moved in.

'Proserpine!' Nightingale roared. 'I know you are there.'

On the stage, unnoticed by those reaching for Nightingale, the ninth volunteer moved forward shedding her robes in one swift motion. Nightingale had never been so happy to see her black eyes staring gleefully down at him. Around him it was as if time had halted, feral faces so close to his, mouths open to rip and tear at him with their teeth, fingers hooked in rending claws. Even Mithras was held in stasis.

'Forgive me for gatecrashing, but you didn't really expect me to miss the party?' said the demon girl. 'It's not every day I get to see you torn limb from limb, except for in my dreams.'

'There's no show without Punch,' Nightingale said. They conversed directly mind-to-mind, while his mortal shell was as paralysed as world around them. 'But that's not why you're here, Proserpine. You don't want to see me die.'

'Oh but I do.'

'Not like this. You want my soul for yourself.'

'And are you ready to give it to me?'

'Save Jenny and it's yours.'

'Cross your heart and hope to die?'

'I would if I could but I can't.'

'Your word is your seal.'

'Done,' said Nightingale.

'Word,' corrected Proserpine, and her voice was that of the mini-gangsta who'd tricked him out of a tenner earlier.

Time switched back on.

Hands reached for Nightingale and he squirmed to avoid them. Then something sleek, scaled and bristling with spines streaked from the doorway towards them. Snapping teeth and rending claws tore a swathe through the initiated, casting chunks of steaming flesh and buckets of blood around. The congregation fell back screaming in terror. Mithras reared back with a roar, and the thing that was no longer a Border Collie dog swept upwards, launching itself onto the demi-god's chest like a leopard going in for the kill, and bore him over backwards against the stage. Behind him, Proserpine crouched down, her knees either side of his head, and she cupped her palms around his forehead almost intimately as her demonic companion tore his throat to ribbons between its clashing jaws.

'Stop or I'll kill her!'

On the stage, Findus held a knife to the throat of one of the sacrifices. To add validity to his warning he pulled down the hood, and even craning from the floor, Nightingale saw that the man held Jenny.

'Proserpine!' Nightingale yelled. 'You have to save her.'

'I'm busy.' A look of ecstasy was on the demon's face as she stole the life essence of the dying god.

'You bitch!'

'All in good time, Jack Nightingale.'

A sharp crack sounded over the top of the racket caused by those clamoring to reach the exits. A black spot appeared on Findus' forehead, while behind him red misted the air, and bits of his skull, brain and tufts of hair rained down on the stage. Jenny slumped to her knees as the man fell dead alongside her.

'Jenny!' Nightingale struggled to his knees.

On the stage Jenny shook her head, as if waking from a deep sleep and looked at him groggily. Then her eyes brightened in recognition and she lurched to the edge of the stage to help him.

Proserpine was gone. So were her monstrous companion, and its meal.

But CO19 officers in full tactical kit were flooding into the meeting hall, shouting and commanding at gunpoint as they forced the surviving initiates face down on the blood-slicked floor.

'Superintendent Chalmers to the rescue,' Nightingale quipped, then made a trumpeting noise with his puckered lips.

Jenny slid off the stage and knelt beside him. 'I don't know what I missed, but it's a good job I hit the call button on the phone the second you were set upon.'

'Yes, good work, Kiddo. You saved us, no doubt about it.'

'What happened here?'

Nightingale wasn't sure what to say. One thing he was certain of though, his soul wasn't pledged to Proserpine again. She hadn't saved Jenny as promised, the timely intervention of a firearm officer's bullet had, so their agreement was nulled. Proserpine wouldn't be too upset, she seemed content with the bonus prize she'd stolen from Mithras.

But she'd be back, of that there was no doubt.

Now that the prisoners were all contained and held under guard by carbine-wielding CO19 officers, it was safe for Superintendent Chalmers to enter.

He tiptoed through the gore, probably wishing he had some of those forensic booties to save his nice, shiny brogues. As he approached, Jenny finished untying Nightingale's wrists and he sat up to greet the superintendent.

'Well, I must say,' Nightingale said, 'for a change I'm pleased to see you, Chalmers.'

'I can't say the feeling is mutual.'

'Ah, you love me really.'

'I should have you thrown in a cell.'

'No, you should say, "Thank you, Jack. Your hard work on my behalf is very much appreciated".' Nightingale finished untying the rope from his ankles and stood up.

'Your hard work? From what I see you've been lying around, slacking as per usual, while somebody else does your dirty work.' His tone was loaded, but that's as far as he was going to mention his suspicions regarding how Marcus Fairchild died, particularly when the dead man's goddaughter was standing right there. He glanced at Jenny and offered a conciliatory smile. 'Are you OK, Miss McLean?'

'I'm fine.'

He nodded.

Then to Nightingale he said, 'Come on, Nightingale. Stop cluttering up my crime scene. Off you go from where you're not wanted.'

As Nightingale and Jenny turned to go, Chalmers halted them gruffly. 'I'll expect you to both come in and make a statement about what happened here.'

'We'll be there,' Nightingale promised, but only after they'd got their story straightened between them. 'But there's stuff we need to do first.'

Jenny collected her clothing from where it had been placed in one of the wooden crates, alongside the clothes of the other volunteers. 'I'll dress later,' she said. 'This sheet is kind of cool in this warm weather.'

'Are you naked under there?' Nightingale wiggled an eyebrow. Jenny slapped him on his arm, but it was playful.

'Jack Nightingale, you'll go to hell for thoughts like those.'

As they stepped out of the hall, passing more uniformed police officers arriving at the scene, Nightingale lit up a Marlboro. 'I'm starving,' he said. 'Fancy grabbing a take-away curry on the way back to the office?'

'Anything,' Jenny said, 'except a raw steak. I'm not sure I could face one for a long time after this.'

Matt Hilton quit his career as a police officer to pursue his love of writing tight, cinematic American-style thrillers. He is the author of the high-octane Joe Hunter thriller series, including his most recent novel 'The Lawless Kind' – Joe Hunter 9 - published in January 2014 by Hodder and Stoughton. His first book, 'Dead Men's Dust', was shortlisted for the International Thriller Writers' Debut Book of 2009 Award, and was a Sunday Times bestseller, also being named as a 'thriller of the year 2009' by The Daily Telegraph. Dead Men's Dust was also a top ten Kindle bestseller in 2013. The Joe Hunter series is widely published by Hodder and Stoughton in UK territories, and by William Morrow and Company in the USA, and have been translated into German, Italian, Romanian and Bulgarian. As well as the Joe Hunter series, Matt has been published in a number of anthologies and collections, and has published three novels in the supernatural/horror genre, namely 'Preternatural', 'Dominion', and 'Darkest Hour'. He is currently working on the next Joe Hunter novel, as well as a stand-alone supernatural novel. www.matthiltonbooks.com

### Blood Bath

By Robert Waterman

Jack Nightingale felt tired. It had been a long, exhausting day. He had been following a 28-year-old married woman, whose husband suspected her of cheating on him. It took a lot of concentration maintaining the balance between being close enough to see everything yet not too close to be seen and to not lose the target. There was also the stress of his up and coming tax returns and the well-intentioned mother henning of Jenny Maclean reminding him to get and keep all his receipts. So it was with great relief that he opened the door and went into his modest flat. He was home.

He switched the light on and went to the fridge and got a cold Corona. He headed towards the living room. He pushed the switch and the energy-saving bulb flickered to life. It dimly illuminated a lithe woman sinuously draped over the sofa. Heart pounding, he took a half step back in surprise and shock. After the initial shock he realised there was a familiarity to this beautiful woman in his living room. She was everything he had ever visualised in his perfect woman. Slightly wavy, shoulder length, brunette coloured hair, blue eyes, a beautiful body not too fat, not too thin, and beautiful long legs. He relaxed somewhat but was still perplexed.

'Don't just stand there, Jack, mouth agape, come and sit down,' she said and patted the sofa next to herself.

'Who are you?' Nightingale said

'Oh Jack! Don't you recognise me. I am really hurt.'

Nightingale began to move forward into the living room and a low growl erupted from the far end of the sofa. Nightingale stopped immediately and saw the head of a black and white collie with odd eyes, one an electric blue, the other a deep amber. They pierced through him bringing a chill to his spine. The penny dropped, it was Proserpine on the sofa.

'Hush' she said to the dog, which immediately dropped its head and relaxed.

'What are you doing here Proserpine?'

'I am here to collect on a favour you promised for information on the shades. Take a seat, Jack, we have a lot to talk about.'

Nightingale went and sat on his favourite armchair that was set obliquely to the sofa. He took a swig from his bottle of Corona and tried to relax.

'So how come you look like you do? I didn't recognise you.'

'Oh Jack!' She laughed. You really are so naïve sometimes. I can appear how I like.'

'But why exactly as the image of my perfect woman?'

'Fun!" she said, "The look on your face was priceless.'

Nightingale took another swig of Corona. 'But how did you know?'

'In Nowhen, as you call it, we can see all your thoughts and feelings. We can also influence some natural things to make things happen and as you are well aware we can influence some people's thoughts. Which leads very nicely as to why I am here. There has been massive disruption in the power and influence in Nowhen by a fallen Grigori, Bombata, who evolved and gained power from the darkest deeds in Africa. So he is one of the oldest and most powerful of what you call devils.'

'So how does this gaining power thing work?' Nightingale interrupted.

'As a fallen Grigori, the more animated life you can influence and the greater the evil deeds they commit, the more power you get so you get greater influence in Nowhen and on earth. Just recently as I said there has been a massive shift in power and influence around Bombata not only in Nowhen but also on earth. It can be seen in the unrest in countries in all the countries of Africa, the Middle East and Far East. So Bombata needs stopping to rebalance everything here on earth and in Nowhen.'

Nightingale laughed in disbelief. 'After what you have just told me; how you and your kind can influence people and shapeshift. How do you expect a mere mortal like me to take the power away from Bombata?'

'We need you to track down the earthly person supplying Bombata with so much power.'

'We?' Nightingale questioned. 'I thought it was just you.'

'Ah! Well there has been a meeting of interested parties of a much higher position than me who felt the need to redress the balance and it was decided you were an asset we could use. I am merely a spokesperson and the one with the favour that you owe.'

'So this really is a big thing then?'

'Yes Jack. We have managed to track down a massive vibrational power source to this country but its exact location and who is creating it is protected by black magic. We need your investigative prowess and instinct to track it down and deal with it.'

'Deal with it? What do you mean?' said Nightingale.

Before Proserpine could reply Nightingale was startled awake by the shrill ringing of his alarm clock. He hit the button and the racket stopped. He could feel that he was drenched in sweat and his heart pounding in his chest. Nightingale shook his head trying to get rid of the residual images and thoughts of his very vivid dream. He staggered to the bathroom where he shaved and showered and where he still could not believe how real that dream of Proserpine was. He dressed casually in his chinos, pale green shirt and oatmeal thick jumper.

He had a couple of slices of toast and a mug of coffee and half an hour later he walked through the doors of his office to be greeted by Jenny Maclean. 'You look absolutely shattered,' she said, 'Are you alright?'

'Just a restless night, didn't get much sleep,' Nightingale lied.

I'll get you a strong coffee, hopefully it will perk you up. You've a busy day.'

Nightingale sat in his comfortable leather office chair and realised that the images and thoughts of the dream were still playing around in his head. He decided to do his best to forget the dream and ignore what Proserpine had said. With that he took a deep breath and blew it out slowly with his eyes closed trying to clear his mind and release the tension. Just as he finished Jenny came in with a steaming mug of coffee. He took a sip of coffee feeling slightly more revived. This moment of euphoria was broken by the phone ringing. He picked it up and heard an educated female voice with a South African twang. She announced that she was Susie Mtwetwe and that she was concerned that her husband Adam was having an affair. He had been late coming home on a number of occasions and had become more distant. Nightingale got his vehicle details, his office address and his normal schedule. Nightingale informed Susie of his hourly rates and said it would probably be a couple of weeks before he could start work on the case.

'What's that then?' Jenny enquired.

'Another wife suspecting her husband of cheating on her,' Nightingale said as he handed her the scribbled notes from the phone call. 'Can you do the usual on the details and get as much background as you can from the internet, Facebook and Twitter?'

'Yes, Master,' Jenny replied sarcastically. 'Now here are your cases for today.' She handed over three beige coloured folders containing the case notes. 'There is the missing cat case of Felicity Carmichael. Then there is that surveillance camera retrieval from the Premier Inn in the cheating husband case for Lucy Taylor and the fraud whiplash injury claim by Violet Cunningham.'

'Thank you, Jenny.' Nightingale replied, 'What would I do with out you?'

'Starve! I have worked out the most economic route for you and entered the details into the sat-nav.'

* * *

Nightingale slid into his MG, buckled up, turned the key and nothing, no lights on the dash, no whirring of the starter motor or clicking of it. Nothing.

'Sod it!' he said. Then he heard a husky malevolent female voice say, 'YOUR SOUL WILL BE MINE, JACK NIGHTINGALE.'

Nightingale looked round startled, there was no one in sight. He stormed back into the office, throwing the door back on its hinges so hard that it crashed against the wall. Jenny jumped in surprise at the unexpected loud noise and looked in bewilderment at Nightingale coming in through the door. 'What's up?' she said.

'Bloody car won't start! Can I borrow yours?'

'I've told you before to get something more modern and reliable. Yes, you can borrow it but any damage or fines, you are paying.'

'Thanks Jen, you're an angel.' Nightingale said as he caught the keys she had thrown at him.

* * *

Nightingale drove into the Premier Inn car park in Jenny's Audi and parked up. He strode up to the reception desk and asked to see Jahred Patel, the manager. He arrived a couple of minutes later. There was no words exchanged they just set off in the direction of room 9. Once out of earshot of the front desk Nightingale said, 'I presume they turned up as usual.'

'Oh yes, Mr Nightingale they did indeed.'

Jahred opened the door to room 9 with his set of master keys. They both went in and Nightingale went up to the picture over the top of the headboard of the bed and removed the hidden camera. He thanked Jahred and handed him £25.

Back in Jenny's Audi, he connected the camera to his laptop. The video began to play and there was Lucy Taylor on her back, naked as the day she was born. On top of her was Mark Fisher, her work colleague hammering away like a buck rabbit. At the climatic moment Lucy Taylor threw back her head and winked at the camera and Nightingale heard her say, 'YOUR SOUL WILL BE MINE, JACK NIGHTINGALE.'

Nightingale pressed the back button and replayed it, same again. He had not imagined it. A feeling of dread and confusion crept over him. He closed the laptop, started the Audi and selected the preset destination for Violet Cunningham, the whiplash injury fraud case.

* * *

Nightingale pulled up in the courtyard of a riverside apartment block that had been adapted from an old warehouse. There were various top-of-the-range models of Mercedes and BMW, including 4x4's. Nightingale rang the intercom button for Violet Cunningham. Nightingale announced himself and was buzzed in. He went to apartment 4 where the door was answered by a tall, slim, blonde woman whose hair and make-up was over the top. She was wearing a short skirt that left nothing to the imagination and a yellow blouse that was so sheer and flimsy that it exposed the fact that she was braless.

The room was very large and open plan, with very modern furniture and a minimalist décor.

'So what's happening with my claim for whiplash?' Violet asked in an aloof manner and in an accent that spoke of someone trying too hard to sound a class or two above their station.

'Well, that's what I am here to sort out with you,' Nightingale replied. 'If we can sit down then I can discuss this with you. I need to go over a few things with you on the laptop. So perhaps we can sit on the sofa and I can put the laptop on the coffee table. How is your neck by the way?

'Oh, it's so stiff and I can't turn my head to either side without a lot of pain'

They both sat on the luxurious black leather sofa. Nightingale turned to Violet. 'The insurance company asked me to investigate your claim. I have looked at all the accident reports, statements and medical reports. There has been some concern that such an injury could not be caused by such a slow speed impact.'

'Well I can assure you I am in absolute agony.'

'OK, Well I find that hard to believe as I would like you take a look at this. It was taken late evening on the day of your accident.' Nightingale selected a video on the laptop. It showed Violet gyrating on the dance floor of a well known West End nightclub, her head flicking from side to side in time to the music and then throwing her head back in an ecstatic movement coinciding with a flourish in the music.

'You bastard!' Violet yelled at Nightingale in a cockney accent

Nightingale snapped the lid closed on the laptop. 'From that evidence I suggest you withdraw your claim or you will be having a visit from the police who will prosecute you for attempted fraud,' he said.

Violet 's face contorted and in a husky witch like voice said 'YOUR SOUL WILL BE MINE, JACK NIGHTINGALE.'

Nightingale stared at Violet in disbelief. This was getting really creepy. Nightingale broke out in a cold sweat and said stutteringly 'I will see myself out then.'

Nightingale got to the relative familiarity and safety of the Audi and he realised that he was shaking. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. It was difficult to discount what he had just heard or explain it. He could not understand why he would hear that same phrase from the ether or from people. He shook his head to try and rid himself of the feelings and took another couple of deep breaths letting them out slowly as he tried to control his emotions. A few moments later he felt he had gained control of himself. Now for Mrs Felicity Carmichael and her missing cat.

* * *

Nightingale heard the dulcet female tones coming from a house as the sat-nav announced that he had arrived at his destination. It was a private estate of detached houses with large frontages of manicured lawns that featured a kaleidoscope of coloured roses. Nightingale turned the Audi up the driveway with the 'Roselynn Mansion' signpost. Nightingale parked and got out of the Audi and stretched his arms and legs. He turned to the front door and there stood in the doorway was a slightly rotund woman in her sixties. She was elegantly dressed and had beautifully coiffured grey wavy hair.

'Mr Jack Nightingale?' she enquired politely in a very soft, assertive, cultured voice.

'Yes,' Nightingale replied as he stepped forward and proffered his hand right. He shook hers and said, 'Pleased to meet you Mrs Carmichael'

Nightingale was invited in and sat on a comfortable worn sofa. He immediately felt warm and cosy with the antique pine coloured floorboards, doors and the log fire in the hearth.

Mrs Carmichael came back into the lounge with a large tray bearing a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits and a couple of teacups.

'Have you got a picture of your cat?' Nightingale asked as Mrs Carmichael presented him with his cup of tea and biscuits.

Mrs Carmichael produced three pictures of a long-haired blue Persian. 'This is Pebbles, she is a champion pedigree Persian. I paid over £1000 for her as a kitten. She has been missing for four days now, she is on the pill so she will not come into season. She always comes when she is called.'

'Ok! Thank you Mrs Carmichael, you have answered a lot of questions I was going to ask. Have you spoken to any of your neighbours?'

'No, I have trouble getting about now'

'I will get started on the case now,' Nightingale said as he got up from the sofa. 'No time like the present. You stay there Mrs Carmichael, I'll see myself out.'

Nightingale decided to go right first. He knocked on three doors to the right and got the same answer. They all knew the cat and had seen it about but not in the last four days. The next house he went to said they had last seen the cat in the next door neighbours garden four days ago and that they didn't like animals.

Nightingale felt that at last he might be onto something. Nightingale saw that the house was called 'Chaka's Rest' as he walked up the drive. There was a top of the range white BMW parked in front of the double garage doors. Nightingale rang the doorbell and it was answered by a petite elegantly dressed black woman. Nightingale announced who he was and before he could finish he was interrupted by a sweet South African lilt. 'That was quick. I really appreciate your promptness.'

Nightingale looked puzzled and continued. 'I am looking for Mrs Carmichael's cat,' as he showed her the picture.

'Oh ! I thought you had come about my husband's infidelity. I called you this morning, my name is Susie Mtwetwe.' she said as she proffered her hand. Nightingale responded and followed her inside and immediately noticed the African wooden masks adorning the walls. There was a sharp contrast between Mrs Carmichael's house and this one, it felt cold and oppressive. As he got further into the house he could feel the atmosphere. It was difficult to find the words to describe it. It was just pure evil. A cold chill ran down his spine and he felt he was being watched by hundreds of people. He had never felt anything like it. Mtwetwe and Nightingale moved into the kitchen. Nightingale tried to ignore his feelings as he sat at a stool in front of the breakfast bar. Susie Mtwetwe was very pleasant and polite which was at odds with the feelings he felt about the house. Mrs Mtwetwe made a pot of Rooibos tea. With the tea made, she sat on one of the other stools at the breakfast bar and then said, 'That cat you are looking for is dead, my husband killed it. He doesn't like animals pissing and shitting in the garden.'

'Have you got the body?' asked Nightingale.

'No! My husband burnt it. Now are you going to help me or not? My husband has a very successful import-export business. I appreciate that he will have various late meetings with clients but just recently he has been coming back very late.' She handed Nightingale a business card for Mukulu Importers, depicting a photo of Mr Mtwetwe, who strangely for a South African had a Rasta dreadlock hairstyle. The eyes were black and intense and gave Nightingale an eerie feeling. Nightingale assured Mrs Mtwetwe that he would set up surveillance soon and he thanked her for her honesty about the cat. As Nightingale got up and began to move towards the front door, Mrs Mtwetwe said in a rather serious hushed tone, 'A word of warning Mr Nightingale, please be careful. My husband is a powerful Sangoma, a South African witch doctor, and let's just say he is more associated with the darker side of things. If he senses that you are tracking him, you will suffer severely.'

Nightingale was relieved to get out of the house, where the sense of oppressiveness lifted immediately. After Susie Mtwetwe's warning he now knew why he had felt odd in there. He reported back to Mrs Carmichael and gave her the sad news about her cat Pebbles.

* * *

Nightingale set the sat-nav for the office and drove out of the private estate. As he approached a crossroads he saw a long-haired blue Persian cat sat in the middle of the crossroads. It was Pebbles. Suddenly everything went into slow motion as Pebbles stared at him with intense yellow eyes that bored right into his soul. He suddenly felt very vulnerable and heard ' YOUR SOUL WILL BE MINE, JACK NIGHTINGALE.' He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and his focus on the cat was broken by a loud continuous blast of a horn as an articulated lorry hurtled passed the front of the Audi missing by a couple of inches. It had frightened him so much he was struggling to breathe. Pebbles was nowhere to be seen.

Nightingale could feel the sweat running down his spine. He was in no fit state to drive, He spotted a sign pointing to a picnic spot 400 yards to the left. He turned left and drove to the picnic spot and parked up. He walked over to a bench that overlooked a lake surrounded by willow trees and sat in a dazed state not really able to appreciate the beauty of the scene surrounding him. His heart was still racing in his chest and he was panting for breath. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing by taking in a long slow breath and letting it out slowly. He did it a second time and was just beginning to feel calm and relaxed when he became aware of a presence beside him on the bench. Then he heard a low growl. There was the girl from his dreams again and the collie dog. It was Proserpine. He relapsed into the pounding heart and short breaths.

'Jack I warned you, I will have your soul if you don't do what I asked,' hissed Proserpine.

'So it's been you that has been influencing people and getting in my head?'

'Yes Jack, and after our conversation last night I expected you to drop everything and get on with the investigation immediately. It is very important. Although time is not important to us, here on Earth however as I said before things will change for the worse if you don't act now. Things are critical.'

'Whoa, hold on there. I didn't even think what happened last night while I was asleep was real. Ok I think I've got it now but I don't see how I can help. I've got nothing to go on.'

'You are going to have to rely on your natural instinct and sensitivity.' Nightingale turned to look at the lake deep in thought. After a few moments he shook his head in disbelief at Proserpine's expectations and he turned back to tell her it was impossible but she had gone.

* * *

Nightingale returned to the office and handed the keys of the Audi to Jenny. ' Not a scratch on it and thanks again.'

'I called a garage to come and look at your MG and they couldn't find anything wrong with it. It started first turn of the key. I reckon it must be the way you turn the key,' she chuckled.

'Hmm' was all Nightingale could muster as a response, he was not in the mood after his traumatic day. He handed over the completed files. 'If you could bill everybody appropriately. I'm off home I have had enough for one day. I need a hot shower, something to eat and to just relax.'

Nightingale turned and strode out of the office, behind him Jenny watched him go and she knew not to engage him in banter or conversation when he was in one of his deep, morose, thoughtful moods, but she hadn't seen him that bad before.

Back home, Nightingale sat sprawled on the sofa in his bathrobe. He felt somewhat refreshed after something to eat and a hot shower and now sipping a Corona he was quite relaxed. He was half watching a wildlife documentary. It was about game rangers in various Southern African countries over the last year finding many elephants, rhino, lion cheetah and leopard all dead. The strange thing about it though was that they had all been exsanguinated after they had been snared. The documentary focussed mainly on Kruger National Park where this strange phenomenon had caused serious concern as after checking with various other neighbouring countries it was found they were experiencing similar problems in their game reserves. At the end of the documentary there was an interview with a Sangoma, a Zulu shaman-witchdoctor, who explained that the blood of such animals was powerful 'muti', in that the life blood of these powerful animals contained a spiritual essence that could make a person very powerful. Nightingales' thoughts started racing, he made a connection between what he had just heard and to what Proserpine had said the previous night. He realised this must be where the spiritual power that Proserpine spoke of must be coming from. But who and where was it happening in the UK. The he remembered that Susie Mtwetwe had told her that her husband, Adam, was a Sangoma and practised black arts. Nightingale remembered that he was also an importer/exporter which would make it easy for him to get the blood into the country. There was nothing Nightingale could do at this time of night to follow up on his thoughts.

* * *

Nightingale sat in the café opposite Mukulu Importers offices occasionally sipping at his third cup of coffee. A black BMW was parked in a small car park to the side of the office building. At 2.30 a tall, heavily built black man, sporting Rasta dreadlocks and dressed in a grey pinstripe suit emerged from the front door of the offices and moved towards the black BMW that from Susie Mtwetwe's information Nightingale knew was Mr Mtwetwe's vehicle. Nightingale rose quickly and moved smartly towards his silver Ford Focus hire car, it was 50 yards up the road.

As Nightingale got to his car the black BMW was pulling out from the car park and turned away from where he was parked. He jumped in, started the engine, belted up and pulled into the line of traffic heading in the direction the BMW had taken. Nightingale couldn't see the BMW but the direction it had taken was in the rough direction of a business park where Nightingale knew from Susie Mtwetwe's information that Mukulu Importers had a big warehouse. Nightingale decided to follow his instinct as he had lost sight of the car and he turned off at the sign for the business park.

At the entrance to the business park there was a map and he saw that Mukulu Importers was situated at the back in the right hand corner. Nightingale drove forward slowly and saw a small customer car park for another business that was obliquely situated to Mukulu Importers warehouse. He parked up and looked across and saw the black BMW parked with its rear to a loading bay. It was fifteen minutes later that Mr Mtwetwe came out of the loading bay doors followed by a forklift truck with a pallet on which were five white plastic drums. It was difficult to see from where he was but Nightingale thought he saw a black stencil silhouette on each of the white plastic drums.

The forklift driver unloaded the plastic drums into the boot of the BMW. Mr Mtwetwe then closed the boot and then appeared to chat earnestly with the forklift driver. Mr Mtwetwe then got into his BMW so Nightingale started his car in readiness to move off behind the BMW.

After half an hour of following the BMW it had turned off the motorway and it was now deep in the countryside of Kent and the roads were getting narrower. He had his Sat-nav on and he knew roughly where he was. As he came to the brow of a hill he caught glimpses of the BMW to the right moving along what appeared to be a lane boarded by hedgerows, it appeared to be heading towards an isolated modern barn.

Nightingale stopped on the crest of the hill and waited until the BMW stopped and he saw Mr Mtwetwe get out and unload the white plastic containers. Nightingale moved forward and parked in the splayed entrance to the lane. Nightingale got out of the car and began to move carefully up the lane.

As Nightingale moved closer to the barn he had a headache start up and get stronger with every step he took towards the barn. He also had a feeling of irrational fear that he tried to shake off. There was a sense of real evil in the air that also got worse with every step he took towards the barn but there was nothing visible. At the point where the lane opened up into a sort of courtyard in front of the barn, Nightingale suddenly felt very nauseous and he stepped to one side behind a bush and retched and retched until suddenly there was an explosion of bile and half digested coffee from his mouth. Nightingale went down on one knee holding the larger branches of the bush for support, closed his eyes, breathed deeply, very slowly in an effort to calm his pounding heart and head and regain his composure. After a few minutes he had calmed his pounding heart and he felt somewhat better but the severe headache persisted along with the feeling of evil and dread.

He became aware that it was deadly quiet, no sound, no birds chattering. The BMW was parked with its rear towards a small side door of the barn.

As he began to move towards the barn again the wind suddenly got up and it became very dark. There was a very large, dark, ominous cloud that had formed it was darkest and most menacing over the barn.

Nightingale realised the sudden manipulations of natural phenomenon were the works of black magic, which meant that Mr Mtwetwe must have started his ritual, whatever that might be. With this realisation Nightingale suddenly felt more confident and he moved swiftly to the door of the barn. He opened the door as quietly and gently as possible.

It was quite dark in the barn but up one end Nightingale could see the flickering light of candles burning. He closed the door and tried to move towards the flickering light of the candles but it felt as if he was trying to walk through treacle and as if an invisible force was pushing against him to prevent him from moving closer.

He was struggling to focus as the headache was more like a migraine but he managed a moment of clarity where he remembered reading about 'mirroring' in one of the ancient magic books in his father's library. It was supposed to give spiritual protection to a person under spiritual attack. Nightingale visualised his body completed surrounded by outward facing mirrors, almost immediately his migraine headache and his feeling of dread disappeared and he felt lighter.

He began to move forward easily along the side of the barn. He had only gone a few steps when he saw a white, Victorian style bath with the light from the candles flickering over it. As he got halfway to the bath Nightingale came across the white plastic containers. They were empty and there was a sickly metallic smell coming from them with the aid of the light from the distant candles he could just make out smears and droplets of a dark liquid up the sides and in the bottom of the containers. When he bent down and looked closer at the silhouettes he had seen earlier on the containers he saw an elephant, lion, buffalo, rhino and leopard. He remembered the documentary of those animals being exsanguinated. It was all beginning to fit together, it must have been blood from the various animals in the containers and Mr Mtwetwe must be having a bath in blood.

The severe headache was returning. He had lost focus so he revisualised the mirrors and moved towards the bath. Suddenly there was an eruption from the bath and Nightingale saw the head of Mr Mtwetwe rise up, blood dripping from his dreadlocks. Luckily he was facing the other way from where Nightingale was. Mr Mtwetwe breathed deeply for a few seconds then disappeared back into the bloodbath. Nightingale moved forward quickly and as he got closer he saw a chalk pentagram in the flickering light of the candles, which were situated in the points surrounding the bath.

As Nightingale got closer the metallic smell of the blood became overpowering. He could feel his stomach starting to heave. He held his breath. He knew what he had to do; remove the protection of the pentagram and candles. He rubbed out the chalks marks on his side and snuffed out the two nearest candles. Immediately there was a large flash of lightening followed by a loud crack of deafening thunder. Yellow whorls of sulphurous smelling smoke billowed all around. As Nightingale stood up he saw that the blood was bubbling as if boiling. He saw two indistinct, shadowy, ethereal forms either side of the bath with what appeared to be arms in the bloodbath.

Mr Mtwetwe's arms and legs began thrashing about wildly and bubbles appeared where his head would be. The bubbles stopped and his arms and legs twitched gently as the life drained from him.

Just as quickly as it all started it was all over and it was very quiet and calm and the sun shone through the translucent panels in the roof. The change was dramatic and Nightingale found it hard to believe what he had just experienced. He breathed deeply, relieved it was all over.

As he turned to walk away he was startled to see Proserpine in front of him.

'Well done Jack, your favour is paid,' she said. 'You have rebalanced the powers on Earth and in Nowhen. The situation on Earth will take time to come back but Bombata has lost his biggest power source and is much less of a threat. You found the source and broke the protection which allowed us to intervene.'

'That is all well and good,' Nightingale said. 'But I'm puzzled. You are a devil, a demon, you don't do things that are good.'

'As I told you before Jack I can appear however I need to. I am not who you think I am.

Before Nightingale could ask who or what she really was Proserpine and her collie had gone.

Robert Waterman was born in Ipswich, Suffolk, grew up in Rhodesia and Zambia. He worked as a labourer on building site, worked as an apprentice bricklayer, and studied HND in building construction. He was a Kent police officer and was on duty during Deal floods and was in police life saving team. He worked for Everest Double Glazing as a salesman, as a ticket collector for P&O, and as a loading supervisor. He has completed a counselling course and recently did a psychology degree with the OU. He was Southern Area Zambian breaststroke champion swum for Bexhill swimming club and taught swimming. He rowed for Bexhill rowing club got his novice status and rowed in junior and junior/senior crews in one day.

###
