Dead Men's s Boots

To come back as yourself – in living, human flesh – that was a sweet deal. And to come back again and again (because Les Lathwell’s fingerprints were the same as Aaron Silver’s) – well, that was the cherry on top of the sempiternal trifle.

Either way, Mount Grace was the link. That was where the killers went. That was where John had gone after he’d engaged Todd to change his will. And I was willing to bet a rupee against a roll-over lottery win that that was where Myriam Kale had been taken, after Ruth gave up her sister’s mortal remains to Mister Bergson, the charming killer with the bleach-blond hair.

‘Thanks, Nicky,’ I said. ‘I owe you.’

‘Yeah,’ he confirmed. ‘You do. More than you can pay. That briefcase is full of the Git’s bits and pieces. There’s no way I’m gonna try and sell them now: I’m going underground, and they’re too fucking easy to track. So you keep them to remember me by.’

‘Going underground?’ I tried to read his expression. ‘Do you mean that literally, or-?’

‘Ask me no questions, Castor, I’ll tell you no fucking lies.

’

I looked out of the window. I had the sense of clocks ticking and events accelerating past me, out of control. I’d vaguely assumed that we’d be taking the North Circular and I could jump out at Wood Green on the way through to Nicky’s gaff in Walthamstow, but the cabbie had taken the M25 and we were coming down on the A10 now, through Enfield and Ponders End. A memory stirred in my mind.

I looked at my watch. It was very late, but what the hell. If nobody was home I could always come back another time.

It felt like more than coincidence that I was passing this close right after Nicky had dropped that bombshell on me. Then again, that’s how all the best coincidences feel. First things first, though. Too much unfinished business was pressing on me: if I could shunt some of it off, I’d travel lighter.

‘Can you get a message through to someone for me?’ I asked Nicky. ‘On your way to wherever it is you’re going?’

‘Maybe,’ he allowed warily. ‘Who’s the someone?’

‘The governor of Pentonville.

’

He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Fine. What do you want me to say? That you love him after all?’

‘That a demon from Hell is probably going to walk through his front door some time in the next twenty-four hours, looking to let a serial killer back out onto the street. A guy in the remand block. Douglas Hunter.’

Nicky stared at me.

‘A demon from Hell?’

‘Yeah. Wearing human flesh. Answering to the description of a wet dream.