‘Are you okay, Jack?’
Nightingale lifted the bottle of Corona. ‘Hunky dory,’ he said.
‘Not a phrase one hears a lot these days,’ she said. ‘Are you drinking?’
‘Affirmative.’
‘Corona?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘At least you’re not on the brandy. How many bottles?’
‘What are you, my mother?’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Oh no, she’s dead. In fact they’re both dead, aren’t they? My biological mother and my real mother. Shuffled off this mortal coil.’ He placed the bottom of the bottle against his forehead.
‘How many bottles, Jack?’
Nightingale groaned, took the bottle off his head, rolled sideways and peered down the side of the sofa. There were several empty bottles there and he counted them one by one. ‘Five,’ he said. ‘I’m on my sixth. A baker’s dozen.’
‘Thirteen is a baker’s dozen. Six is half a dozen. Please tell me it’s six.’
‘It’s six. I can handle it.’
‘Do you need company?’
Nightingale sat up. ‘I’m okay.’
‘I can come round.’
‘I’m not drunk, Jenny.’
‘No, but you’re not happy.’
‘Which one of the seven dwarves do you think I am, then?’
‘I’d have to go for Grumpy. Or Moron.’
‘There wasn’t a dwarf called Moron.’
‘That’s what I thought. I’ll settle for Grumpy, then. You’d be better off with coffee.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on. Soon as I’ve finished my beer.’ He sighed. ‘I’m okay, Jenny. Really.’
‘Call me if you need me, all right?’
‘Like the Samaritans?’
Jenny didn’t say anything for several seconds, and when she did speak he could hear the concern in her voice. ‘Why would you say that, Jack?’
‘It was a joke.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m not suicidal.’ He laughed but it came out half bark, half cough. ‘I’m just having a few beers and then I’m going to bed, and I’ll be in the office bright and early tomorrow.’
‘Sometimes you worry me.’
‘I’m sorry. But I really was joking.’ Jenny didn’t say anything. ‘Jenny, I’m okay.’
‘It wasn’t your fault; you know that, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. Jenny, it’s not about guilt. I’m sure of that.’
‘I know you, Jack. You’re not one of life’s sharers. You bottle things up. And as I’ve said before, that’s not healthy.’
‘Okay, tomorrow I’ll take you for a lunch and we’ll have a heart to heart. I’ll share.’
‘There you go again, making a joke of it. That’s your defence mechanism as soon as anyone tries to get close to you.’
‘I just don’t want you worrying about me,’ said Nightingale. ‘I can take care of myself. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.’
‘I wish I believed that,’ said Jenny, and she ended the call.
Nightingale stared at the phone thoughtfully for a few seconds, then set it to silent and tossed it on the sofa. He picked up the remote, turned on the sound and began flicking through the channels looking for football.
41
Nightingale lit a cigarette and blew smoke towards the Thames. The wind whipped it away.
‘Cigarettes are bad for you,’ said Sophie.
‘I know,’ said Nightingale. He looked over at her and smiled. ‘That’s why they don’t let children smoke.’
Sophie held her Barbie doll close to her face and whispered to it. Then she held the doll near her ear and nodded seriously. She clasped the doll to her chest and swung her legs back and forth as they dangled over the edge of the balcony. ‘Jessica says you can get cancer,’ she said.
Nightingale tilted his head back and tried to blow two smoke rings but the wind was too strong. ‘Jessica’s right,’ he said. A police boat was heading up river, fighting against the current.
‘You know you’re going to Hell?’
‘So I’ve been told.’
‘Doesn’t that scare you?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘Scared or not scared, if it happens, it happens.’
‘You don’t care?’
‘Shit happens,’ Nightingale said, grinning.
‘You shouldn’t say “shit”, Jack. It’s a bad word.’
‘What do you want, Sophie?’
Sophie whispered to her doll. Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette.
‘You’re here to help me, aren’t you?’ Sophie asked.
‘That’s the plan.’
‘But you can’t, can you?’
Nightingale rubbed the back of his neck and his hand came away wet with sweat. ‘I don’t know, Sophie. I don’t know what to do; I don’t know what to say. Can you tell me?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘I don’t know either.’
Nightingale felt something cold run down the small of his back and he shivered.
‘Jack?’
He looked over at her. ‘What?’
‘Could I just go with you now? Could you take me inside? Will that fix it?’
Nightingale smiled. ‘I don’t think it will. No.’
‘Because I’m dead?’
Nightingale nodded.
‘I don’t want to be dead, Jack.’
‘So what do you want, Sophie? Tell me what you want.’
A single tear rolled down her cheek. ‘I want to be alive, Jack. I want to take back what I did. I thought I wanted to be dead but now I don’t. And only you can help me. Only you.’
‘Sophie, I don’t know how,’ said Nightingale.
‘You said you could help me, remember? You said we could go inside and talk about it. You said that you could help me and you said “cross your heart”, do you remember?’
Nightingale smiled sadly. ‘I remember, Sophie.’
‘So help me now. Cross your heart and help me.’
‘It’s too late. There’s nothing I can do.’ He put the cigarette to his lips.
‘No one can help me, then,’ said Sophie. She lifted her doll, kissed it gently on the top of its head, and then slid off the balcony without making a sound.
Sophie’s skirt billowed up around her waist as she fell. He leaned forward and reached out with his right hand even though he knew there was nothing he could do. ‘Sophie!’ he screamed. Her golden hair was whipping around in the wind as she dropped straight down, her arms still hugging the doll.
He closed his eyes at the last second so that he didn’t have to see her hit the ground but he couldn’t blot out the sound, the dull thump her body made as it slammed into the tarmac at terminal velocity. The cigarette fell from his nerveless fingers and he ran into the apartment.
There was an old couple sitting on the sofa, holding hands. Mr and Mrs Jackson. They stared up at him with blank faces. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ they said in identical flat, emotionless voices.
Nightingale hurried by them. There was a young uniformed constable standing at the doorway, his right hand touching the mic on his shoulder. The constable’s radio crackled but as Nightingale drew level with him his eyes misted over. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ he said. Nightingale pushed him out of the way and rushed along the corridor to the emergency stairs. He hurtled down the stairway. The cop shouted something after him but Nightingale was already out of earshot, taking the stairs two at a time.
He burst into the reception area, where a dozen paramedics and uniformed officers were all talking into their radios. Nightingale pushed through them. One of the men, a heavyset bruiser in a fluorescent jacket, grabbed Nightingale by the arm. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ he said, his voice a deep growl as he stared at Nightingale with unseeing eyes. Nightingale shook him away and ran out of the building, turning left towards the river.
Two female paramedics crouched over the little girl’s body. The younger of the two was crying. Four firemen in bulky fluorescent jacke
ts were standing behind them. One was being sick, bent double and heaving, while another was wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his gloves.
Nightingale went over to the paramedics. The younger one looked up at him, her face glistening with tears. Her lower lip trembled, then her face froze and her eyes glazed over. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ she said, staring up at Nightingale, her voice a dull monotone. He elbowed her out of the way and knelt down beside Sophie. A pool of blood was spreading around her shattered skull. Her eyes were closed as if she was sleeping and the Barbie doll was still in her right hand. Nightingale reached out to stroke her hair but as he did so her eyes opened wide. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ she croaked, then she took a long slow breath that rattled in the back of her throat before she began to scream at the top of her voice. The scream turned into the ringing of his mobile phone and that’s when he woke up.
42
Nightingale groped for his phone and took the call.
‘Jack?’ It was an American voice. Joshua Wainwright.
‘Joshua, how’s it going?’ It was still dark outside and Nightingale squinted at his wristwatch. It was half past five. He groaned.
‘Sorry, man, did I wake you up?’
‘Nah, I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.’
‘Say what?’
‘English humour,’ said Nightingale, sitting up. ‘Where are you?’
‘New York,’ said the American. ‘Shoot, what time is it there?’
‘Half five in the morning.’
‘Man, I’m sorry. I lost track of the time with all the flying I’ve been doing.’
‘Not a problem, Joshua.’ He yawned and covered his mouth.
‘Are you okay? You sound a bit tense. I can call back.’
Nightingale rubbed his chin. ‘I’m okay. I just had a bad dream, that’s all. What’s up?’
‘Is it that girl? The dream?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because it’s been on your mind, and problems have a way of making themselves known in your dreams.’
Nightingale sighed. ‘Yeah, so my assistant keeps telling me.’
‘I might be able to help,’ said Joshua.
‘Is that why you’re phoning? You’re not psychic, are you, Joshua?’
‘You mentioned her when I was round at your house. Doesn’t take much to put two and two together. No, I’m calling about the books. My team can be at your house today, if that’s okay. Late afternoon.’
‘Today?’
‘Yeah, I know it’s short notice but they’re heading back from Rome and they can stop off in the UK for a couple of days to work on the inventory.’
‘Okay, sure,’ said Nightingale. ‘Get them to call me on my mobile when they’re about ninety minutes away and I’ll be there to let them in. I haven’t had time to get any camp beds in, though.’
‘They can find a hotel,’ said Wainwright. ‘Now this Sophie thing.?.?. how determined are you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How serious are you about contacting this girl?’
‘I’m still trying,’ said Nightingale.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said the American. ‘I hope you’re steering clear of dark mirrors.’
‘I tried a medium but he was a con artist.’
‘There’re a lot of them about, Jack. It can be tough separating the wheat from the chaff. But I can put you in touch with a group who might be able to help.’
‘I’m listening,’ said Nightingale.
‘The thing is, Jack, we’re talking about the dark side. Not as bad as the Order of Nine Angles, but they’re still on the side of the fallen.’
‘Devil-worshippers, you mean?’
‘It’s more complicated than that, but they do have a track record of dealing with the dead. It’s up to you.’
‘What would I have to do?’
Wainwright chuckled. ‘You wouldn’t have to sell your soul, if that’s what you mean. I know one of the guys in a London group and I could put you in touch.’
‘And it’s safe?’
‘It’s a hell of a lot safer than what you were trying to do in the basement,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I’ll talk to them and get back to you with the details if they’re cool about it.’
Wainwright ended the call. Nightingale decided that there was no point in trying to get back to sleep so he shaved and showered and put on his second-best suit, a dark blue pinstripe. He had a meeting with a solicitor in Earl’s Court and wanted to make a good impression. Solicitors were a good source of work and Nightingale was trying to get more legal firms on his books.
He was in the kitchen frying bacon, wearing a blue-and-white-striped apron over his suit, when he heard his phone beeping to let him know that he’d received a text message. It was from Wainwright, with a name, a mobile phone number and a brief message: ‘You can trust him.’
‘I hope that’s true,’ muttered Nightingale, putting the phone on the coffee table and heading back to finish frying his bacon.
43
The meeting with the solicitor in Earl’s Court went really well. He was a middle-aged Bangladeshi wearing what seemed to be a Savile Row made-to-measure suit that probably cost ten times as much as Nightingale’s pinstripe, a gold Rolex wristwatch and handmade shoes that put Nightingale’s Hush Puppies to shame. The solicitor did a lot of immigration work and needed a private detective to do the legwork on cases where failed asylum seekers were being threatened with deportation. Most of the work appeared to be computer-based and Nightingale was confident that Jenny would be able to handle it in her sleep, so after an hour he shook the man’s expensively manicured hand and headed back to his MGB. He’d parked in a multi-storey car park not far from the Exhibition Centre.
He lit a cigarette, blew smoke, then put the key in the ignition and turned it. There was a dull clunking sound from under the bonnet, then silence. He cursed and tried again. This time there wasn’t even a clunk. He got out of the car and phoned Jenny.
‘Dial-A-Cab,’ she said when she answered.
‘Is the whole world psychic?’ he asked.
‘You drove your MGB; it’s an hour since your meeting started so I’m guessing you’ve just left the solicitor; I doubt that he’s told you anything that merits an immediate phone call, so I’m guessing your car has died again.’
‘You should be a detective,’ said Nightingale.
‘And you should buy yourself a decent car,’ said Jenny.
‘I know, I know,’ said Nightingale. ‘I hang my head in shame. But I’ve got a problem.’
‘I know. You’ve to get to Gosling Manor.’
‘Can you pick me up?’
‘I can. But Jack, you really can’t keep using me as a taxi service. I’ve got a stack of accounts to deal with here and I was going to go to the bank to pay in those cheques that arrived today.’
‘Pretty please?’
‘You’re the one who’s going to be paying my expenses, so you can do whatever you want. I just think that you could be making better use of my time, that’s all.’
‘So you’ll come and get me?’
‘Yes, master.’
‘I’ll be in the Starbucks close to the Exhibition Centre. Give me a bell when you’re in the area and I’ll bring you a coffee.’
‘Make it a mocha,’ she said. ‘I could do with giving my blood sugar a boost.’
‘And a muffin?’
‘Banana choc-chip.’
‘You’re a sweetheart.’
Nightingale locked up the MGB and finished smoking his cigarette as he walked to Starbucks. Jenny phoned when she was ten minutes away and by the time she drove up in her Audi he was standing outside with a large mocha and a muffin in a paper bag.
‘Did you call the AA?’ she asked as he slotted her drink into a cup holder and put the muffin on the dashboard.
‘What’s my drink problem got to do with anything?’
She laughed as she pulled away from the kerb. ‘Idiot.
The AA. For what you laughingly call a car.’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ he said. He nodded at the Starbucks bag. ‘Do you want that now?’
‘I’ll save it for later,’ she said. ‘How did it go with Mr Deepak?’
‘Great. Nice guy, very professional. Says he can put a lot of work our way.’
‘Can I ask you something?’
Nightingale looked across at her, surprised by the question. ‘Sure.’
‘Wainwright’s going to buy the library, right?’
‘Fingers crossed.’
‘Probably for a lot of money?’
‘Fingers and toes crossed, sure.’
‘He paid you a stack for those books you sold him last year. Two million euros.’
‘Which went straight to the bank, if you’re thinking about a pay rise.’
‘What I’m thinking is that if he’s going to buy the entire library from you, he’s going to pay millions.’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘So you’ll be able to pay off the bank and have a small fortune left.’
‘Maybe a big fortune,’ said Nightingale.
‘And then what?’
Nightingale frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
She sighed and shook her head. ‘Sometimes you can be so obtuse.’
‘What?’ said Nightingale, genuinely confused.
‘What happens to Jack Nightingale Investigations?’
‘It’ll take the pressure off,’ he said.
‘Jack, you’ll be a very wealthy man. You’re not going to want to work, are you?’
‘I’m not old enough for a pipe and slippers.’
‘No, but you’ll be rich enough to buy a villa in Spain or a go-go bar in Bangkok, or pretty much anything you want.’
Nightingale grinned. ‘A go-go bar? Where did that come from?’
‘It’s an example of what guys do when they come into money,’ she said. ‘And you’re coming into a lot of money.’
‘And you think I’ll just up sticks and run off to the sun?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Jenny. ‘But if that’s what you’re going to do I’d appreciate some advance notice so that I can make plans.’
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