‘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 bee
n 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 beati
fic 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.