Jack Nightingale 03 - Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  Nightingale headed up the stairs and the builder followed him, still scribbling on his clipboard. They stopped at the hallway, where the fire had started. The smell of smoke and burned wood was much stronger here. There were darker burn marks running down the centre of the hallway and scorch marks up the walls.

  ‘How did this start?’ asked Garner, kneeling down to examine the burned floorboards.

  ‘About a gallon of petrol and a match.’

  ‘It was deliberate?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘That’s funny. If someone wanted to burn the house down, why pour the petrol up here? They’d have been better off setting the fire downstairs.’

  ‘Who knows what was going through his mind?’ said Nightingale. Actually he knew exactly what the arsonist had been thinking. Nightingale had been in the master bedroom and if all had gone to plan he would have died in the fire.

  ‘What about the bedrooms?’

  ‘Smoke damage, mainly. And water. The water went everywhere.’

  Garner opened the nearest door and looked into the bedroom beyond it. ‘What happened to all the furniture?’

  ‘The place was empty.’

  ‘That’s lucky,’ said the builder, making a note on his clipboard. He went back to the hall and stamped down on the boards in several places. ‘All the boards are going to have to be replaced,’ he said. ‘Until we’ve taken them up we won’t be able to see how much damage has been done to the joists. But the wood is so old that it’s as hard as metal, so you should be all right. All the panelling’s going to need replacing.’ He gestured at the ceiling. ‘All the plaster’s going to have to come down. It’s been soaked and even if you let it dry out it’s never going to be right.’

  He took out an electronic tape measure and measured up the hallway, then nodded at Nightingale. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mr Nightingale. I’ll give you two estimates. I’ll give you a basic one where I’ll put it back in as-new condition. New panelling, new floorboards, new joists, whatever needs doing, but using new materials. And I’ll give you a proper restoration estimate, where it’ll be put back to the condition it was before the fire. As if the fire never happened, if you get my drift.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘But do you have a ballpark figure?’

  The builder looked pained and scratched his ear with his pen. ‘Difficult to say off the cuff,’ he said. ‘There’re a lot of materials to price. But for a basic repair job you won’t be getting much change from twenty-five thousand pounds. That’s assuming there’s no major damage to the joists. And that we don’t uncover anything else when we start pulling panels off.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Dry rot, wet rot, insect infestation. Panelling can hide a multitude of sins. But if we do find anything then we’re best dealing with it there and then.’

  ‘And the restoration budget?’

  Garner exhaled through pursed lips in the same way the mechanics did when they were about to give an estimate for work on Nightingale’s MGB. ‘A hundred grand. More maybe. We need craftsmen carpenters and they’re not cheap.’ He put away his pen. ‘You’re insured, yeah?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I’m assuming I am. I’ll check.’ He handed the builder a business card. ‘Send the estimates to me at the office.’

  They walked together down the stairs, across the muddy hall and outside. The builder looked up at the house. ‘They don’t build them like this any more,’ he said. ‘Did you just buy it?’

  ‘My father left it to me.’

  ‘Are you going to live here? Or are you planning to sell it?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’ve not decided.’

  ‘Let me know if you want to sell. I’m doing some work for a Russian who lives a few miles away who’s always complaining about his place being too small. He keeps putting in plans to extend but the local council don’t like him so he’s not getting anywhere. He’d love this place.’

  ‘Let me think about it,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll let you know once I’ve seen your estimates.’

  They shook hands, then Garner climbed into his van and drove off. Nightingale lit a cigarette and was just about to go inside when Jenny came out.

  She shook her head when she saw that he was smoking. ‘How many do you smoke a day?’ she asked.

  ‘A pack. Two, sometimes.’

  ‘Even though you know the dangers?’

  ‘Of smoking?’

  ‘Of course of smoking. Is everything a joke to you, Jack?’

  Nightingale blew smoke up at the sky. ‘Everybody dies,’ he said. ‘Life is a zero sum game. The best you can do is to enjoy yourself as you go along.’

  ‘But smoking shortens your life.’

  ‘Maybe. But it only takes the years from the end of your life. Not the beginning or the middle.’

  Jenny looked at him, confused. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you mean.’

  Nightingale took another drag on his cigarette before continuing. ‘Say I live until I’m seventy-five without smoking. And say I die at seventy if I do smoke. I lose five years. But really, Jenny, what am I going to be doing during those five years? Sitting in a bedsit somewhere watching the football, assuming I’ve enough of a pension to be able to afford Sky Sport?’

  ‘That’s how you envisage your final years, is it? What about grandchildren? What about family?’

  Nightingale laughed. ‘To have grandkids I’d need kids and to have kids I’d need a wife or at least a steady girlfriend, and that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen any time soon. Here’s the thing, Jenny. It’s not about how long you live, it’s about enjoying the life you have. And I’m happy smoking.’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘Maybe. It’s like my car. My MGB.’

  ‘The car that you can’t use because the battery’s flat again?’

  ‘It’s a classic,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You keep saying that. But it’s not. It’s an old banger.’

  ‘It makes me happy. I enjoy driving it. It’s got a history and I like the way it handles.’

  ‘On the few occasions that it’s actually on the road, you mean?’

  ‘I’m not saying that your Audi isn’t a great car. But driving your Audi is a totally different experience to being at the wheel of a classic car. You feel connected to the road. You really feel the speed when you’re in the MGB, even though the Audi is faster. Driving it could well shorten my life. There’re no airbags, the seatbelts are crap, the brakes aren’t smart like they are in the Audi, so if I get into a smash I’ll probably come off worst. But does knowing that stop me driving it? No. Because I enjoy it. The pleasure outweighs the risks.’ He held up the cigarette. ‘Smoking makes me feel good. It relaxes me, it helps me concentrate . . .’

  ‘It gives you something to do with your hands.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Everyone knows that cigarettes help people get through awkward social situations.’

  ‘Jenny, really, I just enjoy smoking.’

  Jenny threw her hands in the air. ‘I give up,’ she said. ‘So how did it go with Bob the Builder?’

  ‘His name’s Chris,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’s going to send me an estimate.’

  ‘You’re going to get more than one, right?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Nightingale. ‘First thing I’ve got to do is get some cash.’ He tossed his keys to her. ‘Can you lock up? I want to make a call.’

  As Jenny went up the steps to the front door, Nightingale took out his mobile phone and called the number of Joshua Wainwright. The American had bought several volumes from the basement library and if Nightingale was going to have any hope of paying the builder he was going to have to sell him quite a few more.

  ‘Jack, my man, how the hell are you?’ said Wainwright. Nightingale could hear the hum of engines and figured that the American was probably on his Gulfstream jet.

  ‘All good,’ said Nightingale
.

  ‘How was your Christmas?’

  ‘Quiet,’ lied Nightingale. He’d spent Christmas Day at Jenny’s parents’ house and the fact that one of the gamekeepers had blown his head off with a shotgun had taken the gloss off the festive season, somewhat.

  ‘Well, I hope you have one hell of a new year,’ said Wainwright.

  ‘You too,’ said Nightingale. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Cruising at thirty-one thousand feet.’

  ‘Going anywhere nice?’

  ‘Private island in the Caribbean, as it happens. You should drop by if you get the chance. There’re some very interesting people on the guest list – a couple of former prime ministers, a vice-president, three Oscar winners. And a couple of Russian billionaires.’

  ‘I’ll have to take a rain check on that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Hey, the reason I’m calling is to see if I can send you another list of books. We’ve inventoried another couple of hundred.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Wainwright. ‘Look, Jack, how many books do you have in this library of yours?’

  ‘Thousands,’ said Nightingale. ‘I haven’t counted but there’re a lot.’

  ‘So why don’t I call in one day and have a look-see? Be easier that way.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Nightingale. ‘When are you in the UK again?’

  ‘I’ll be with Richard for two or three days, then I’m heading over to China. I could stop off on the way. I’ll call you and fix up a time.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Nightingale. He ended the call as Jenny came back down the steps. ‘Wainwright’s going to come and look at the books for himself. Save us from doing the inventory.’

  Jenny shuddered and looked back at the house.

  ‘Are you okay, kid?’

  ‘The house is beautiful,’ she said, looking up at the massive chimneys. ‘Like a picture from a box of chocolates. But down in the basement, on your own . . .’ She shuddered again. ‘It feels a bit . . .’

  ‘Spooky?’ He laughed. ‘There’s some pretty weird stuff down there, Jenny. The books. The artefacts. God knows what my father was involved with, or what he did down there.’ He put an arm around her. ‘But there’s nothing down there that can hurt you. Or me.’

  She shivered. ‘Let’s go.’ She handed him the door keys.

  ‘I’ll buy you dinner.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said as she walked with him to the Audi. ‘I promised I’d go to the gym with Barbara.’

  ‘Pilates?’

  She pointed a finger at him. ‘Don’t take the piss or you’ll be walking home.’

  Nightingale mimed zipping his lips closed as she got into the car. He climbed in next to her. ‘You know, you’re right. I should sell the house. The builder says he might have a buyer. I’ll get him to put out some feelers.’

  Jenny started the engine. ‘Probably best,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe I’ll move to Chelsea,’ he said. ‘I could be your neighbour.’

  She flashed him a tight smile. ‘Please don’t,’ she said. ‘We’re having enough trouble with falling property prices as it is.’

  15

  Two days later Nightingale’s mobile rang while he was sitting down with a plate of chicken tikka masala and pilau rice that he’d picked up from an Indian restaurant in Queensway. The caller had blocked their number so Nightingale hesitated before taking the call.

  ‘Nightingale?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  Nightingale recognised the voice. Dan Evans. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In front of the TV.’

  ‘Can you meet me in the park, by the water?’

  ‘It’s Saturday. Since when did they start paying inspectors overtime?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? The powers that be have stopped all overtime and they’re making us work until we’re sixty. It’s a brave new world for us public servants. I tell you, if we could strike we would but as always we just have to bend over and take it up the arse.’

  ‘I hear your pain, Dan.’

  ‘Anyway, I figured it best that I do this on my day off. So can you meet or not?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Twenty minutes. I’m on the other side of the park.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll be wearing a red rose and carrying a copy of the Financial Times.’

  ‘Nobody likes a smart arse, Nightingale,’ said Evans, and he ended the call.

  Nightingale got off the sofa, put his meal in the microwave, then picked up his raincoat and hurried out of his flat. He walked down Inverness Terrace towards Hyde Park, his breath feathering in the evening air. He lit a cigarette as he waited to cross Bayswater Road. He spotted a gap in the traffic and jogged across. Evans was standing by the Serpentine, watching two swans gliding across the water.

  ‘Property of the Queen,’ said Nightingale, nodding at the birds.

  ‘That’s a myth,’ said Evans. ‘She only owns the unmarked mute swans on open water. Dates back to the twelfth century. It was to make sure the royals had enough swans for their banquets.’

  ‘Yeah? I’m told they taste like chicken.’ He flicked what was left of his cigarette into the water.

  ‘That’s littering,’ said Evans.

  ‘You’re not going to arrest me, are you?’

  ‘Not if you give me one,’ said Evans. ‘A cigarette, I mean.’ Nightingale grinned, took out his pack of Marlboro and lit one for the detective, then another for himself. Evans inhaled deeply then let the smoke out slowly. He smiled as he looked at the cigarette in his hand. ‘Just don’t tell the wife,’ he said.

  ‘I hope she’s worth it.’

  ‘She is,’ said Evans. ‘But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss it.’ He reached inside his coat and took out a manila envelope. ‘That Range Rover was registered in the name of a Lydia Brown. She lives in Brixton.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a woman driving,’ said Nightingale, opening the envelope.

  ‘Yeah, me too. But she’s got three kids by a Jamaican called Perry Smith, and Smith is Dwayne Robinson’s right-hand man.’ He nodded at the envelope. ‘Smith’s picture is in there, along with mugshots of the rest of his crew.’

  Nightingale slid out a dozen photographs. Most of them were shots taken in custody suites but a few were surveillance photos taken with a long lens. All of the men were black, most of them with shaved heads and heavy gold chains around their necks. The ones who’d had their pictures taken in custody all had the same arrogant tilt to the chin and contempt-filled eyes, as if being arrested was no big thing. And of course, in the grand scheme of things, getting arrested was no big thing. Men like Robinson ruled by terror and witnesses to their crimes either refused to give evidence or were killed. The police, overstretched, under-financed, with the upper echelons more concerned about box-ticking and press conferences than they were about putting away villains, were just an occupational hazard.

  Nightingale recognised one of the men immediately. He’d caught a glimpse of him sitting in the back of the Range Rover. He handed the photograph to Evans. ‘This is one of the shooters. I’m pretty sure that he was in the back when they cruised by me in Inverness Terrace.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything about them cruising by.’

  ‘I was on my way to a surveillance job. The car went by, windows half down. Then I saw the car again in Queensway. The two guys got out wearing ski masks and started shooting. Then they ran off and got onto two motorbikes.’

  Evans looked at the photograph. ‘Reggie Gayle. He’s one of Robinson’s foot soldiers. Trident reckon he’s behind half a dozen killings in south London over the past two years.’ He narrowed his eyes as he looked at Nightingale. ‘You’ll give evidence, right?’

  ‘Sure, and I’ll pop down to the station and wash and wax Chalmers’s car while I’m at it. One, I didn’t actually see the faces of the guys who were shooting at me, and two, how long do you think I’d last if they thought I was a witness?’

 
‘You’re already in the firing line, Nightingale.’

  ‘They won’t try again,’ said Nightingale. ‘Not after you’ve explained to them that what happened to Robinson is nothing to do with me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They came after me because they think I shot Robinson. You need to go and turn Smith and Gayle over. If you’re lucky you’ll find forensics in the car, maybe a gun. But even if you don’t you can put them right about Robinson.’

  ‘You think they’ll believe me?’

  ‘I think either way they’ll be warned off. If anyone else takes a potshot at me they’ll know that their names are in the frame.’ He handed a second photograph to the detective, another custody picture. ‘This is Smith, right?’ Evans nodded. ‘He was in the front passenger seat of the Range Rover.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Not a hundred per cent. But it was a big guy, thick neck like he was on steroids, lots of rings on his fingers.’

  ‘We can look for CCTV of the car, and we’ll pay him a visit.’

  ‘The guns are what you need,’ said Nightingale. ‘You know how it works; they’ll have passed them onto junior members of the gang, kids who can’t be prosecuted for possession.’

  ‘I know the drill,’ said Evans, taking the remaining photographs back from Nightingale and putting them into the envelope.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Nightingale. ‘Didn’t mean to teach you how to suck eggs. What about the guy that got hit?’

  ‘He’s okay. Turns out he’s hooked up with a gang in north London so the shooting’s being looked at as a turf war. Which is good news for you.’

  ‘And what about Robinson? Best way of getting his gang off my back is to catch the guy who did shoot him.’

  ‘Yeah, well, like Chalmers said, it was a white guy so Trident aren’t interested.’

  ‘That’s bollocks. They’re the ones with all the intel.’

  ‘It has to be black on black for Trident to be involved, you know that.’

  ‘But the shooting had to be drug-related, and it had to be personal,’ said Nightingale.