‘The woman I phoned who backed up your alibi?’
‘That’s right, Jenny. She’s up on all the hi-tech stuff. Me, I don’t trust any technology that I can’t fix myself. Have you looked under the bonnet of a car recently? You wouldn’t know where to start if you had a problem. Most mechanics are lost, too. They need a computer to tell them what’s wrong and then they just replace whatever the computer tells them to.’
‘Yeah, it’s a brave new world, all right,’ said the superintendent. ‘Policing is going the same way. These days it’s all CCTV and forensics and DNA; no one bothers going around asking questions any more.’
‘You seem to be doing all right on the question front,’ said Nightingale, flicking ash.
‘Because with Connie Miller there’re no forensics, no CCTV, just a dead body and you crouched over her with a knife.’ The superintendent took a long pull on his cigarette and narrowed his eyes as he stared at Nightingale. ‘You ever worked a serial-killer case?’ he asked after he’d blown smoke at the ground.
Nightingale shook his head. ‘Not a case. But I talked to one once. He was holed up in his house with armed cops outside. I was sent to talk to him. Nasty piece of work. Liked butchering women. Raped them with knives.’ Nightingale grimaced. ‘Negotiators are trained to empathise but he was impossible to get close to. He was a true sociopath; killing to him was the same as eating and drinking. I spent the best part of three hours talking to him. He only wanted to tell me what he’d done.’
‘Like a confession?’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘It was more like boasting. He knew what was going to happen and he wanted to share what he’d done with someone. Anyone.’
‘And what did happen?’
‘He died,’ said Nightingale flatly.
‘Killed himself?’
‘Sort of,’ said Nightingale. ‘Charged the armed cops with a knife in his hand.’
‘Death by cop,’ said Thomas. ‘Probably best, if he was as evil as you say.’
‘He was evil, all right.’ Nightingale dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and stamped on it. ‘I can go, right?’
‘I guess so,’ said Thomas. ‘Just do me one favour?’
‘What’s that?’
Thomas flicked his cigarette away. ‘Don’t come back to Abersoch.’
‘I wasn’t planning to.’
‘And I’ll be talking to Superintendent Chalmers again.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ said Nightingale.
‘And I still think you killed Connie Miller.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘I did pick up on that,’ he said.
19
When he woke up early on Saturday morning Nightingale thought about going for a run in Hyde Park, but then decided against it in favour of a bacon sandwich, a black coffee, and two cigarettes while he read the Daily Express. The main story was about three bank bosses who between them were set to receive bonuses of more than £200 million. Nightingale shook his head in disbelief as he read the story. ‘Who the hell did you sell your souls to for a deal like that?’ he muttered. Inside the paper was a story about declining attendances in the nation’s churches while worship at mosques was up thirty per cent. The Archbishop of Canterbury said that the internet was to blame and that the Church of England would be revamping its website in a bid to win back worshippers. Nightingale put down the paper as he finished his coffee. He couldn’t think of any of his close friends who went to church regularly. For marriages and funerals, certainly, but not to worship.
He went through to the hall and took his tatty address book from his raincoat. He flicked through it, looking for Alfie Tyler’s number. Nightingale didn’t trust phones and rarely stored numbers in his mobile. Phones broke down and SIM cards mysteriously lost their data for no apparent reason, but, in Nightingale’s experience, once a number was written down in an address book it tended to stay there.
Tyler answered, his voice thick from sleep. ‘Who the hell is this?’
‘Jack Nightingale, Alfie. Wakey, wakey, rise and shine.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Just after nine-thirty.’
Tyler groaned. ‘What do you want, Nightingale?’
‘Had a late one last night, did you? Out hustling pool?’
‘Snooker. And I’ve got to do something for cash now that I’m no longer gainfully employed.’ He groaned and coughed. ‘Call me back later, I’m sleeping.’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need a chat. Can I come round?’
‘I’m all chatted out,’ said Tyler.
‘Why don’t I come round to your place with a wad of notes and I’ll play you for a monkey a game?’ said Nightingale. ‘We can talk while you beat me.’
Tyler chuckled. ‘You’re a persistent bastard,’ he said. ‘Okay, there’s a Starbucks on the way. Bring me a large Mocha and two chocolate croissants.’
‘You got a sweet tooth, Alfie?’
‘Just bring my breakfast and your money and we’ll talk,’ said Tyler, and he ended the call.
Tyler lived on the outskirts of Bromley in south London. The Saturday morning traffic was light and Nightingale got there just after eleven o’clock. The large black wrought-iron gates that fronted the driveway leading to the six-bedroom, mock-Tudor house, complete with tall chimneys, were locked. Chained and locked with a massive brass padlock. Nightingale frowned as he held the padlock. The last time he’d visited Tyler the gates hadn’t been locked. He looked around for a bell or an intercom but there was no way of announcing his presence. He leaned against his car and lit a cigarette, then took out his mobile phone and called Tyler’s number. It rang out, unanswered.
Nightingale cursed and put the phone away, then went back to the gates, wondering whether or not to try climbing over them. They were a good nine feet tall and topped with fleur-de-lys points. He peered through the bars. Tyler’s black Bentley was parked in front of the double garage. As Nightingale blew a tight plume of smoke through the gate, the front door opened and Tyler appeared, wearing blue and white striped pyjamas.
Nightingale waved at him. ‘Alfie, over here!’ he shouted. ‘The gates are locked.’
Tyler ran a hand through his hair, walked out of the house and headed towards the garage.
‘I’ve got your Mocha and your croissants!’
Tyler ambled into the garage and reappeared a few seconds later holding a coil of rope.
‘Hey, come on! Stop pissing about.’
Tyler showed no signs of having heard Nightingale. He went over to the front door and tied one end of the rope to the door knocker, a large brass lion’s head with a thick metal ring gripped in its jaws.
‘Alfie! What are you playing at?’
Tyler walked slowly to the Bentley, playing out the length of rope. Nightingale dropped what was left of his cigarette onto the tarmac and ground it with the heel of his shoe. He grabbed the metal gates and shook them. They rattled but the chain held firm.
‘Alfie, come on, this isn’t funny!’
Tyler stood next to the driver’s door of the Bentley and began to fashion the rope into a noose.
Nightingale cursed under his breath. He jammed his right foot against one of the bars and pulled himself up. He managed to get halfway up the gate before he lost his grip and slid down. He took off his raincoat, tossed it onto the bonnet of his MGB and threw himself at the gate. He hauled himself up, gritting his teeth at the pain, his feet scrabbling against the bars, but he didn’t have the strength and he slipped back down, tearing his palms. He yelled in frustration as he stared through the bars. Tyler had finished making the noose and he slid it over his head. For a couple of seconds he looked towards the gates but he didn’t seem to notice Nightingale standing there.
‘Alfie, for God’s sake, will you open these bloody gates!’ shouted Nightingale.
Tyler opened the door of the Bentley and climbed in. He pulled the door shut but the rope prevented it from closing completely. The engine started and white
exhaust billowed around the rear of the car.
‘Oh no, please, no . . .’ whispered Nightingale.
The engine roared and the car leaped forward. The rope went taut almost immediately but the two-ton Bentley didn’t even jerk as it accelerated down the driveway. Nightingale threw himself to the side a second before the car crashed into the gates, Tyler’s headless corpse slumped over the wheel, blood still pumping over the walnut dashboard.
20
Superintendent Chalmers sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling of the interview room. ‘Right, Nightingale, I’m sure you know your rights as well as any ex-copper does, but I have to tell you that you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘Are you going to charge me?’ asked Nightingale.
‘That remains to be seen,’ said Chalmers. There was a manila envelope on the table in front of him.
‘So why the caution?’
‘You know why,’ said Chalmers. ‘You’ve only been off the Force for two years. This questioning might well result in charges being laid, in which case you have to be cautioned prior to the questioning. I’m assuming you haven’t completely forgotten the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.’
‘I said I’d come here to help you with your enquiries.’
‘And we’re grateful for that. But we don’t know where those enquiries will lead so I have to caution you before we begin. Now, tell me again how Alfie Tyler comes to be sitting behind the wheel of his car minus his head.’
‘It was suicide,’ said Nightingale. ‘I told you. I’ve told you three times already.’ He nodded at the digital tape recorder on the desk. ‘It’s not my fault you didn’t have the machine switched on.’
‘Just answer the question, please,’ said the superintendent.
Detective Inspector Dan Evans, who was sitting next to Chalmers, sighed, folded his arms and stared at Nightingale with undisguised contempt.
‘He tied a rope around his neck, tied the other end to his door knocker and then he drove his car at the gates.’
‘Where were you while all this was happening?’
‘The other side of the gates. I couldn’t get in.’
‘And you just stood there and watched, did you?’
‘No, I shouted myself hoarse and tried to get over the gates, but they were too high. I was still outside when the cops arrived.’
‘So you just let him kill himself, did you?’
‘There wasn’t time for me to do anything.’
‘You were trained as a hostage negotiator. You’re used to dealing with suicides. Remember? That was part of your job, talking to people in crisis.’
‘I remember,’ said Nightingale. ‘But he wouldn’t talk. He didn’t say anything. In fact he didn’t seem to notice I was there – he looked like he was in a trance. He just tied the rope around his neck and got into the car.’
‘Did you say something to him, something that set him off?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe you insulted his mother. Maybe you threatened to expose some dirty dark secret. People don’t usually decapitate themselves for no reason.’
Nightingale took his pack of Marlboro out of the pocket of his raincoat.
‘You can’t smoke in here,’ said Chalmers.
‘I’m not smoking, I just like feeling the pack,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s a tactile thing.’ He tapped the pack on the table. ‘Look, Tyler was expecting me. I called him before I went round and he said he’d see me. We were going to play snooker.’
‘Snooker?’
‘We’d played before.’
‘So it was a social call but rather than play snooker with you he chose to take off his head?’
‘I’m as surprised as you, Superintendent.’
‘There’s no record of Mr Tyler having any mental problems in the past. Though he does have a conviction for GBH.’
‘He can handle himself,’ said Nightingale. ‘I mean, he could. He could handle himself.’
‘Broke a few limbs in his time, did Mr Tyler. Did you know that?’
‘I’d heard.’
‘He was an enforcer for a heavy mob in north London. Broke a few arms and slashed a few faces. Not the sort of guy you’d want to meet in a dark alley. Or any sort of alley, for that matter.’
‘I think he’d mellowed,’ said Nightingale. ‘He was fine with me.’
‘And you wanted to talk to him about what, exactly?’
Nightingale tapped the pack of Marlboro against his right temple. He wanted a cigarette, badly. ‘He drove my father around. He was a chauffeur slash bodyguard slash dogsbody.’
Chalmers frowned. ‘Your father? Which father? William Nightingale or the man who killed himself and left you the big house?’
‘Look, it doesn’t matter what Alfie Tyler did for my father. It was suicide. It was clearly suicide. I was on the other side of locked gates when it happened. He tied a rope around his neck himself, he started the car himself, and he drove the car at the gates himself. Once he’d killed himself I called three nines and I stayed outside until the cops showed up. This has nothing to do with me.’
Chalmers nodded slowly. ‘So you’re saying that his death was nothing to do with you?’
‘Absolutely nothing to do with me.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘That’s what I keep telling you.’
Chalmers smiled thinly and picked up the manila envelope. He opened it and took out a crime-scene photograph, the date and time printed across the top. ‘Perhaps you can explain this, then,’ he said. ‘This was how we found his bedroom.’
Nightingale took the photograph. It was a bedroom, presumably Tyler’s. A king-sized bed with leopard-print sheets and pillowcases and a large gilt-framed mirror above it. And written across the mirror in brown smears was a sentence that made Nightingale catch his breath:
YOUR SISTER IS GOING TO HELL,
JACK NIGHTINGALE.
21
Chalmers tapped the photograph with his index finger. ‘The thing is, Nightingale, you don’t have a sister, do you?’
‘It’s complicated,’ said Nightingale.
‘According to your personnel file, you were an only child.’
‘You’ve been looking at my file?’
‘You’re a suspect in several possible murders,’ said Chalmers. ‘I’m entitled to look at whatever files I want to.’
‘I haven’t killed anybody,’ said Nightingale. ‘I want a cigarette.’
‘You can smoke when we’ve finished.’
Nightingale stood up. ‘I’m finished now.’
Chalmers got to his feet and glared at Nightingale. ‘Sit the hell down, Nightingale. Sit the hell down and answer the questions I put to you.’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’m out of here.’
‘If you don’t sit down I will arrest you for destroying evidence at George Harrison’s apartment. Then I get to hold you in a cell for twenty-four hours. And if I can find a superintendent to sign off on you then I can add another twelve hours to that.’ He smiled cruelly. ‘Wait a minute . . . I’m a superintendent, aren’t I? So it’s an automatic thirty-six hours in a police cell. Is that what you want, Nightingale? All PACE requires is that I give you one main meal and two snacks a day; it doesn’t say anything about cigarettes. So are you going to stop being an arsehole and sit down or do I arrest you?’
Nightingale looked at Chalmers for several seconds, then he shrugged carelessly and sat down.
‘Thank you,’ said the superintendent. He dropped down onto his chair and linked his fingers. ‘Now, this is what I want from you, Nightingale. I want you to agree to give us a DNA sample and your fingerprints. We will cross-check them against the crime scenes we have.’
‘You already know I was at George Harrison’s apartment. And Connie Miller’s house. And I’ve been inside
Alfie Tyler’s house.’
Chalmers sighed. ‘Please don’t start telling me how to do my job,’ he said. ‘We’ll check your samples against Tyler’s car and the rope he used to kill himself. And I’ll be talking to my opposite number in north Wales. And we’ll be going over the Harrison crime scene with a fine toothcomb.’
‘You’ll be wasting your time.’
‘It’s my time to waste.’ Chalmers slid a sheet of paper across the table to Nightingale. ‘Sign this and we’ll do what has to be done.’
‘Then can I have a cigarette?’
Chalmers gave him a pen. ‘Yes, then you can have a bloody cigarette.’
22
Nightingale blew smoke up at the sky. Inspector Evans stared at the ground glumly. ‘What’s your problem?’ asked Nightingale. They were standing outside the police station. A uniformed constable and a community service officer were also on the pavement, smoking with serious faces.
‘I had tickets for the Arsenal match today,’ he said. ‘A bloody box.’
‘No way,’ said Nightingale.
‘I’ve got a mate who works for Emirates, the airline. He gets seats as a perk, and gave me two for the game today. I was going to take my boy.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Nightingale. ‘Really.’
Evans pulled a face. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said. ‘Chalmers is a prick. There are others he could have brought in today. But I’m an inspector so he brings me in because inspectors don’t get overtime. Plus, he knew I had the tickets.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s no big deal; my brother-in-law’s taking my boy.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m sorry.’
‘No problem.’ He jutted his chin out. ‘What you did to that paedo, that took guts.’
‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. He dropped his cigarette butt onto the ground and stamped on it.
‘That’s why you left, right?’
‘I wasn’t given much of a choice.’
‘But they couldn’t prove anything, right? You were in the office when he went out through the window?’
Midnight Page 9