Nightmare jn-3

  ‘Dwayne said he wanted to go out on his own.’

  ‘To the Flamingo?’

  ‘Didn’t know he knew that place. Not his thing. He just said he didn’t want anyone with him.’

  ‘And that was unusual?’

  Smith shrugged. ‘Sometimes he wanted his space. But if it was business, I’d have been there, for sure.’

  Nightingale rubbed his chin. ‘So he was, what, on a social visit? How was he fixed for women?’

  ‘Dwayne? Had all the women he wanted. Lived the life.’

  ‘Could he have been at the Flamingo to meet a woman?’

  Smith took another drag on his joint. ‘It’s possible. Yeah. He went out wearing his Hugo Boss.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘And stinking of aftershave. You might have something there, Jack-Shit. What are you thinking? Boyfriend?’

  ‘Maybe. Or a honey trap. It wouldn’t be the first time that a pretty girl has set someone up for a killing.’

  ‘So what next? What’s your plan?’

  ‘I’m going to ask around. See what I can find out.’

  ‘This doesn’t let you off the hook, Jack-Shit.’ Smith picked up the gun and lazily pointed it at Nightingale. ‘You try to screw me over and you’ll be squealing like new tyres in a car park.’

  ‘I love the simile,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Simile, analogy, so long as you get my drift, okay?’

  ‘I get it. But I’ve got seventy-two hours, right?’

  ‘You’ve got it, Jack-Shit. But that’s all you’ve got.’

  30

  Jenny put Nightingale’s coffee down on the desk by his Hush Puppies. He was sitting back in his chair with his feet up on the desk and the keyboard to his computer on his lap. There was a photograph leaning against the monitor and Jenny picked it up. The two men in the photograph were standing in what looked like a nightclub, their arms around each other, grinning at the camera.

  ‘Good-looking guys,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Yeah, under other circumstances we’d all go out for dinner, but as it is the one on the left is dead and the one on the right still wants to kill me.’

  ‘Who are they?’ she asked.

  ‘Guy on the left is the guy I shot,’ he said. ‘Allegedly. Dwayne Robinson.’

  ‘The one who talked to you while he was brain dead?’

  ‘Yeah. And the guy next to him is the guy who tried to shoot me in Queensway. Perry Smith.’

  ‘You’re calling the police, right?’ She put the picture back against the monitor.

  ‘I’m Googling and then I’ll put in a call,’ he said.

  ‘Googling what?’

  ‘Just seeing what’s out there about Robinson.’ He sighed. ‘Not much, as it happens.’ He sat up and put the keyboard back on the desk.

  ‘They’ll arrest this Smith guy, will they?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘What’s going on, Jack?’ said Jenny, sitting on the edge of his desk and folding her arms.

  ‘He’s sort of a client.’

  ‘Sort of?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s an unusual fee structure. Basically, if I can find out who shot Robinson, Smith will leave me alone.’

  ‘You have to go to the police. You know that.’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘The cops can’t help me. There’s no evidence and even if there was, putting Smith away still leaves his gang. I’ll be a target for the rest of my life.’ He grinned. ‘It’ll be okay. All I have to do is find out who shot Robinson and then I’m free and clear.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘We’ll see. I’ve got a few ideas.’

  ‘If you need a place to stay, you can have my spare room. As long as you want.’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen for the next two days. Let’s see how it goes.’ He could see the look of concern on her face and he felt suddenly guilty for worrying her. He reached for his phone.

  As Jenny went back to her desk, Nightingale tapped out the number for Andrew Britton, a chief inspector that he’d worked alongside in CO19. They’d both joined on the Met’s graduate entry scheme and two months before Nightingale left the force Britton had been promoted and transferred to the Operation Trident team.

  Britton answered with a cautious ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Andy? Jack. Can you talk?’

  ‘Bloody hell, a blast from the past. Hang on, give me a minute.’ Nightingale heard muffled voices and then traffic. Britton had obviously taken his phone outside. ‘Where are you?’ asked Britton.

  ‘The office, why?’

  ‘Thought you might be banged up and this was your one phone call,’ said Britton. ‘What’s this I hear about you knocking off south London drug dealers? You haven’t gone all vigilante on us now that you’re in the private sector?’

  ‘That’s not funny,’ said Nightingale. ‘But, yeah, that’s why I’m phoning.’

  ‘If you’re calling me to confess let me switch on the recorder,’ said Britton.

  ‘Have you looked at the case?’ asked Nightingale, ignoring Britton’s attempt at humour.

  ‘It’s not black on black,’ said Britton. ‘And your old mate Chalmers has grabbed the case.’

  ‘Yeah, tell me something I don’t know. Had you been looking at Robinson’s crew?’

  ‘Sure, they’re on our radar. They’ve been responsible for a dozen or so shootings across the capital but they’ve not killed anyone yet, not that we know of anyway. Drive-bys mainly, and they favour the MAC-10 so not much in the way of accuracy.’

  ‘And when you heard that Robinson had been hit did you have any thoughts, before you knew it was a white shooter?’

  ‘Nothing sprang to mind. There was the usual rough and tumble but nothing that should have led to an execution.’

  ‘That’s what it was, yeah? No gunfight at the OK Corral?’

  ‘Guy in a hoodie walked up behind him and put a bullet in the back of his head. Nine mill. They got the casing.’

  ‘Just the one?’

  ‘There were civilians on the street. Looks like he didn’t want to hang around.’

  ‘Understood. But one nine mill, even in the head, is no guarantee of a kill, is it?’

  ‘You mean that a pro would have shot him twice?’

  ‘Once in the heart and once in the head. That’s how I’d do it. Anything on the gun?’

  ‘We got the round and the casing and nothing known on either.’

  ‘But he took the gun?’

  ‘We assume so. Either that or he dropped it and someone else took it but that doesn’t seem likely.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve had a good look at the evidence.’

  Britton chuckled. ‘Once I heard your name was in the frame I had a look-see,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all nonsense,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was north of the river. Watching the footie with Robbie.’

  ‘Damn shame about Robbie. I couldn’t get to the funeral; I was over in Jamaica on a case. How’s Anna?’

  ‘Bearing up,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Life sucks sometimes,’ said Britton.

  ‘Yeah, no argument here,’ said Nightingale. He picked up the photograph and studied it. ‘What about someone in Robinson’s own gang?’

  ‘Last time I looked there weren’t any white faces in the Robinson posse.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was wondering if Smith or Gayle might have brought in some outside help. Pay a pro to do the dirty.’

  ‘Yeah, but a pro wouldn’t have left him alive, would he?’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  Britton laughed. ‘I’m a policeman; I’m not paid to think. I’m paid to tick boxes. Besides, your mate Chalmers has the reins. What’s your interest in this?’

  ‘Are you kidding? If I don’t find out who shot Robinson, no one else will.’

  ‘The thing is, if it had been another gang they wouldn’t have brought in an outsider. It has to be mano a mano otherwise they lose all street cred. I think
you need to find a white guy who wanted Robinson dead, someone who hated him but wasn’t used to shooting people.’

  ‘A civilian with a grudge?’

  ‘That would be my bet.’

  ‘And you’ve no intel on that?’

  Britton smiled thinly. ‘We don’t have any informers on their crew, if that’s what you mean. But I’ll keep my ear to the ground for you.’

  ‘Cheers, Andy.’

  ‘No sweat. And don’t be a stranger. Do you want to swing by for a pint and a curry tonight?’

  ‘I can’t. I’m having a drink with an old mate.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s a private session,’ said Nightingale.

  31

  Nightingale climbed out of his MGB, locked the door and lit a cigarette as he walked down the street. He had to park some distance away from the off-licence because it was late evening and the roadsides were lined with cars. A police van drove slowly by and three officers in stab vests stared at him with expressionless faces through the side windows as if they were considering arresting him for smoking. When it reached the end of the street its siren kicked into life and its tyres squealed as it accelerated and turned right. Nightingale walked by a row of shops. Half of them were charity shops, two were boarded up, and a clothing shop was offering seventy per cent off.

  A figure was sitting cross-legged in the doorway of an Oxfam shop, dressed in black and holding a cardboard sign. Scrawled in black felt-tip were the words ‘I am hungry. Please help. God bless.’ And below the words there was a pentagram. The figure looked up. Black hair, thick mascara and black lipstick. Nightingale stopped, his mouth open in surprise.

  ‘Proserpine?’

  Something stirred next to her. The dog. A black and white collie. The dog sat up and stared at Nightingale with coal-black eyes, panting softly.

  Proserpine smiled and ran a ring-encrusted hand through her spiky black hair. ‘How’s it going, Nightingale?’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Nightingale.

  She smiled up at him. ‘Why do you think anything’s wrong?’ She was wearing a silver choker from which hung an upside-down crucifix.

  ‘Why are you here? What do you want?’

  ‘You think I’m here for you?’ She chuckled and stroked her dog’s neck. The dog’s tongue lolled out of the side of its mouth as it stared at Nightingale with dead eyes. ‘You’re not the centre of my universe, Nightingale,’ said Proserpine. ‘You’re not even the centre of your own universe.’

  ‘So it’s a coincidence? Is that it?’

  ‘A happystance,’ said Proserpine. ‘A pleasing serendipity. Two ships that pass in the night.’ She grinned. ‘Give my love to Robbie.’

  Nightingale’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you know everything I’m doing?’

  ‘You’re an open book, Nightingale. And not a particularly well-written one.’

  Nightingale blew smoke up at the night sky. The dog growled.

  ‘Be careful with your smoke, Nightingale,’ said Proserpine quietly.

  ‘I need to ask you something,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I told you before that I’m not your phone-a-friend. Remember what happened the last time you asked me something?’

  ‘This is different,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s about Sophie.’

  ‘Ah. The little girl. That was sad, wasn’t it?’

  Nightingale looked at her, wondering whether or not she was joking.

  ‘You wish you’d saved her, don’t you?’ said Proserpine.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll get the chance.’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  She shrugged. ‘You’ll find out. Eventually.’

  Nightingale leaned towards her. ‘How can I save her? What do I have to do?’

  The dog growled and she stroked the back of its head. ‘You’re on a journey, Nightingale. A voyage of discovery. Now how boring would that be if you had a map that showed you every step of the way?’

  ‘But you can see it? You know where I’m going and what’s going to happen?’

  ‘I see things differently to you,’ said Proserpine. ‘But trying to explain it to you would be like running quantum physics past a tapeworm.’

  ‘You don’t believe in building a man’s self-esteem, do you?’ He inhaled smoke and held it deep in his lungs.

  ‘You’re so far beneath me that even the tapeworm analogy is lacking.’

  Nightingale blew out the smoke and smiled. ‘So why do you bother with me? And the rest of us?’

  ‘It’s your souls we want, Nightingale. It’s like when you want a steak. Do you care about the cow?’

  ‘I guess not,’ he said. ‘Where is Sophie?’

  ‘Beyond your reach,’ she said.

  ‘Heaven?’

  ‘She killed herself. That’s a mortal sin.’

  ‘She was a child being molested by her father. That has to count for something, right?’

  ‘Why are you so concerned about her?’

  ‘She died on my watch. I was there. If I’d done it differently, maybe.?.?.’ He shook his head. ‘What happened to her was so damn unfair.’

  ‘Life’s unfair, Nightingale. You’ll find the journey easier if you just accept that fact.’ She waved a languid hand in the direction that he’d been walking. ‘You should go.’

  ‘Can you just tell me, is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Go, Nightingale,’ she said, her voice harder and deeper. ‘If you stay, worlds are going to collide and you won’t like that.’ Nightingale sighed and started to walk away. ‘Oh, and one other thing, Nightingale.’

  Nightingale stopped. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t keep taking my name in vain.’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘Stop talking about me. You do it with the lovely Jenny McLean and you did it with Dan Evans. I don’t mind you doing it with Robbie because he’s dead, but if you carry on talking about me there’ll be consequences.’

  ‘Consequences?’

  ‘Let’s leave it at that, shall we? I’d hate to spoil a wonderful relationship.’

  ‘Is that what we have, a wonderful relationship?’

  She pointed down the road. ‘It’s time for you to go, Nightingale. And don’t do a Lot’s wife on me.’

  Nightingale nodded and walked away. He had to fight the urge to look back but he reached the end of the street and turned left. In the distance he heard another siren and high overhead there was the sound of a helicopter heading in the same direction as the police van. He flicked what was left of his cigarette into the gutter and pushed open the door to the off-licence. A bell jangled and the shop assistant looked up from her copy of Hello! magazine. She had dyed-blonde hair with dark brown roots showing and slab-like teeth that appeared grey under the off-licence’s fluorescent lights. Nightingale whistled softly to himself as he studied the rows of bottles. He’d never been a great wine drinker and the names on the labels meant nothing to him.

  ‘Can I help you?’ said the assistant, who had appeared at his shoulder. Her accent was East European, Polish maybe.

  ‘I’m looking for something red and not too pricey,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Spain, France, Italy.?.?. what country you like?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’m easy. Just something that tastes good and doesn’t cost the earth.’

  The woman took a bottle and held it up so that he could see the label. ‘This is a Bordeaux, from France,’ she said. ‘Seven ninety-nine.’

  Nightingale looked pained. ‘Do you have something with a screw top?’ he said. ‘I don’t have a corkscrew.’

  ‘I can sell you a corkscrew,’ said the woman. ‘Cheap. One ninety-nine.’

  ‘A screw top would be better,’ said Nightingale.

  The woman replaced the bottle and selected another. ‘This is Chianti, from Italy.’

  Nightingale looked at the screw top and nodded.

  ‘Is it good?’

  ‘It’s okay
.’ She squinted at the price label. ‘It’s four ninety-nine.’

  ‘Perfect,’ he said.

  Nightingale paid for it and she put it in a plastic bag for him. He walked back to where he’d left his MGB. The shop doorway where Proserpine had been sitting was now empty but the cardboard sign was there, shifting in the wind that was blowing down the street. He climbed into the car and drove away with the bottle of wine on the passenger seat. It took him less than half an hour to drive to the cemetery where Robbie Hoyle was buried. The clouds overhead were threatening rain and he buttoned up his raincoat after he’d parked the car.

  He swung the carrier bag as he walked through the cemetery, humming quietly to himself. There were security lights around the church and they cast long shadows from the statues and headstones. The line of conifers behind Robbie’s grave swished back and forth in the wind and Nightingale shivered. He heard a rustling sound to his left and he flinched but it was only a brown and white cat, crouched beside a statue of an angel. The cat stared back at Nightingale, its eyes seeming to glow as they reflected back the halogen light.

  As he reached Robbie’s grave he took the bottle from the bag. The wind whipped the bag from his hands and it blew across the grass towards the church. Nightingale unscrewed the top and then poured a good measure over the soil. ‘Cheers, mate,’ he said. ‘How’re things?’

  There was a simple wooden cross at the top of the grave giving Robbie’s name and the date that he had died. Nightingale nodded at the cross. ‘Wonder what they’ll say on the headstone when they finally put it up?’ he said. ‘Loving husband, doting father, or dumb detective who forgot the Green Cross Code and stepped in front of a black cab?’ He raised the bottle in salute, then took a long drink before wiping his mouth with his sleeve and nodding appreciatively. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Not bad at all. Last time it was French, right?’ He looked at the label. ‘You know, I think I might have had some of this at your house, the year before last. Anna’s birthday. Remember?’ He took another drink from the bottle and then shook his head. ‘I’m knackered, Robbie,’ he said. He sat down carefully and crossed his legs, then stuck the bottle in his lap and took out his cigarettes and lighter. Nightingale held up the pack of Marlboro. ‘You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?’ he said, then grinned. ‘A graveyard’s just about the only place left where you can have a fag these days,’ he said. ‘I bet it’s going to be a criminal offence before too long.’