Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  Nightingale blew smoke. ‘It’s a mystery,’ he said.

  ‘But you say you never met him,’ pressed Evans. ‘Presumably he didn’t pluck your name out of the air.’

  ‘You weren’t there.’

  ‘No, but I was there last night when we were called in.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Robinson started talking. No brain activity, but the words were coming out of his mouth. Your name. Jack Nightingale. The doctor told the woodentop sitting outside and he called his boss; his boss ran your name through the computer and Chalmers got a call.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Which is when I got dragged out of bed just as the missus was about to give me my weekly treat.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Yeah, not as sorry as I was,’ said Evans. ‘Anyway, Chalmers drags me down to Lambeth and we go into the ICU and, sure enough, there’s Robinson saying your name. Chalmers gets all excited and books an armed response team for first thing this morning.’

  ‘You know, with the way the Met’s budget has been cut you’d think he’d have better things to spend his money on.’

  ‘Yeah, well, with you it’s personal, I think. And you can understand why, can’t you? Just look at the body count racking up around you. That’s just a coincidence, is it?’

  ‘Chalmers doesn’t seem to think so.’

  ‘He’s got a point, though, hasn’t he? People close to you seem to have a nasty habit of either killing themselves or being killed. So what’s going on? Are you cursed, is that it? Some sort of Jonah.’ He laughed but stopped when he saw the frown on Nightingale’s face. ‘You do know what’s happening, don’t you? It’s not a coincidence, right?’

  ‘Dan, you don’t want to know. And even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Nightingale sighed. The officers in fluorescent jackets started laughing and one of them looked over in his direction. Nightingale sensed that they were laughing about him and he turned his back on them. He looked at Evans and smiled. ‘Okay, you want to know, so I’ll tell you.’ He took a drag on his cigarette, blew smoke, and then shrugged. ‘You know that my biological father killed himself. But what you don’t know is that Ainsley Gosling was a Satanist. A devil-worshipper. And he sold my soul to a devil, a bitch by the name of Proserpine. I managed to get my soul back from her but then it turns out that Gosling also sold the soul of the sister I never knew I had, so then I had to negotiate with another demon from Hell and as part of that deal Proserpine sent three of her minions to kill me. And pretty much everyone who might be able to help me dies violently before I can talk to them. I think that pretty much sums up the state of play, Dan. Happy now?’

  Evans shook his head sadly. ‘You’re a bastard, Nightingale. I was only trying to help.’ He took a last drag on his cigarette, dropped the butt onto the ground and stamped on it. ‘You should remember who your friends are.’ He gestured at the door. ‘Get your arse back inside.’

  6

  Nightingale sat down and toyed with his pack of cigarettes as Evans pressed ‘record’ and nodded at the superintendent. Chalmers looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘It is now nine twenty on Tuesday January the fourth and this is Superintendent Ronald Chalmers and Inspector Dan Evans recommencing our interview with Jack Nightingale. So, Mr Nightingale, we were talking about what happened at Lambeth Hospital this morning.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You heard Mr Robinson say your name several times, did you not?’

  ‘That wasn’t him,’ said Nightingale.

  Chalmers snorted dismissively. ‘I can assure you that it was most definitely Dwayne Robinson that we saw in the ICU.’

  ‘His body, yes. But it wasn’t him speaking.’

  Evans grunted and shifted in his chair. Chalmers looked across at the inspector and then shook his head slowly. ‘We both heard him speak. We both heard him say your name. He was identifying you as his killer.’

  ‘As I said before, at the time he wasn’t dead. Brain dead, maybe, but that’s not the same as dead dead.’

  ‘But he is dead now. Dead dead. And this morning, before he passed away, he identified you as his assailant.’

  ‘That’s not what happened.’

  ‘Mr Nightingale, I put it to you that on the evening of July the twentieth last year you shot Dwayne Robinson in the head and that this morning he identified you to that effect.’

  ‘It wasn’t Robinson talking,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Who was it, then? Because I’ll be swearing in a court of law that it was Dwayne Robinson lying in that hospital bed.’

  ‘You know who it was,’ said Nightingale. ‘It was Sophie.’

  Chalmers looked down at his notebook and clicked his pen. ‘You said the name Sophie while you were in the ICU. Who were you referring to?’

  Nightingale folded his arms. ‘What are you trying to do here, Chalmers?’ he asked.

  ‘What I’m trying to do, Mr Nightingale, as you well know, is to find out who killed Dwayne Robinson. And so as far as I am concerned, you are the prime suspect. Now, who was the Sophie that you kept referring to at the hospital?’

  ‘You’ve forgotten already, have you?’ Nightingale sneered.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know full well who she is.’ Nightingale took a deep breath. ‘Sophie Underwood.’

  Chalmers frowned. ‘Sophie Underwood? Why do I know that name?’

  Evans jutted his chin at the superintendent. ‘That was the little girl who died at Chelsea Harbour two years ago,’ he said. He nodded at Nightingale. ‘The one that . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished.

  Chalmers looked back at Nightingale. ‘The girl whose father you threw out of the window?’

  ‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘And what made you start talking about her? Is she connected with Dwayne Robinson in some way?’

  ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ said Nightingale. ‘It wasn’t Robinson talking. It was Sophie.’

  Chalmers sneered. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  Nightingale clasped his hands together and leaned across the table towards the superintendent. ‘It was her. She was asking me to help her. You heard that, didn’t you? She wants my help.’

  Chalmers looked across at Evans, then back to Nightingale. ‘Are you seriously telling me that a girl who died two years ago was talking to you through Dwayne Robinson?’ Chalmers sat back and tapped his pen on his notepad. ‘Are you planning some sort of insanity defence, Nightingale? Because I’ll tell you now that’s not going to wash.’

  ‘You heard what she said,’ said Nightingale. ‘You were there.’

  ‘I heard Dwayne Robinson say your name several times, and as far as I’m concerned that was because he was identifying you as his killer.’

  ‘It wasn’t him. How could it be? You heard what the doctor said. Dwayne Robinson was brain dead. It couldn’t have been him speaking.’

  ‘So what are you saying, Nightingale? That a dead girl has a message for you from beyond the grave?’

  Nightingale ran a hand through his hair and then rubbed the back of his neck. He could feel the tendons there, as taut as steel wire.

  ‘Cat got your tongue again, Nightingale?’

  ‘I don’t know what was going on,’ said Nightingale. ‘But it was her.’

  Chalmers nodded slowly. ‘I see what’s going on here,’ he said. ‘That was the day your life turned to shit, wasn’t it? You screwed up with the little girl; you threw her father out of his office window and your career with it. And don’t think we’ve forgotten about the father. That case is still open.’

  Nightingale shrugged.

  ‘Just because he’d been fiddling with his daughter didn’t give you the right to kill him,’ said Chalmers.

  Nightingale shrugged again.

  ‘No comment?’

  ‘It sounds like you’ve already made your mind up,’ said Nighting
ale.

  ‘This Sophie, how old was she?’

  ‘Nine when she died. She’d be eleven now.’ Nightingale picked up his pack of Marlboro and toyed with it.

  ‘And why do you think she’d want to talk to you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you think she blames you for her death?’

  Nightingale’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that maybe this is just your guilty conscience at work. Maybe you feel that you’re responsible for her death and for the death of her father. That’s a lot of guilt for a man to bear, and in my experience sooner or later guilt manifests itself.’

  ‘You were there this morning, Chalmers. You heard her.’

  ‘I heard Dwayne Robinson say your name shortly before he died.’

  ‘Sophie was talking through him. She wants me to help her.’

  ‘She’s beyond help. She’s dead.’

  Nightingale sighed and looked at his watch pointedly. ‘I’ve got a business to run,’ he said.

  ‘You’re a self-employed private detective,’ said Chalmers.

  ‘Look, Chalmers, I didn’t kill Dwayne Robinson, and you haven’t got any evidence that says I did. All you’ve got is Robinson saying my name and I’ve explained that.’

  ‘By telling me that a dead nine-year-old girl was using him as a ventriloquist’s dummy? You think I’m going to buy that?’

  ‘Buy, sell, steal, I don’t give a toss.’ Nightingale stood up. ‘I’m out of here. The only way you can keep me here is to charge me and if you do that I’ll sue you for false arrest faster than you can say “Colin Stagg”.’

  Chalmers glared at Nightingale but didn’t say anything. Nightingale pulled open the door and walked out.

  7

  Jenny McLean was sitting at her desk sipping a mug of coffee and reading the Guardian when Nightingale walked in. She was wearing a dark blue dress that ended just above the knee and had her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She put down her mug and looked at him quizzically. ‘You haven’t shaved,’ she said.

  ‘Or showered. Or had breakfast. I was hauled in by the cops first thing this morning. I’ve come straight from the station.’

  ‘Now what have you done?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘Shot a drug dealer in Brixton,’ said Nightingale. ‘Allegedly.’ He hung his jacket on a rack by the side of the door and went through into his own office, which overlooked the street. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’ There were two old Starbucks cups next to his computer and he tossed them into the wastepaper bin.

  Jenny got up from her desk and followed him into his office. ‘You shot a drug dealer?’

  ‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale again. He dropped down into his chair and swung his feet up onto the desk. ‘Of course I didn’t shoot a drug dealer,’ he said. ‘And when was the last time I was in Brixton?’ He rubbed his hand across his chin. ‘Do you think I need to shave? Have I got any meetings today?’

  ‘You’ve got a three o’clock and after that you’re supposed to be pitching your services to that solicitor in St John’s Wood, and you look like shit so, yes, you need a shave. And a shower.’

  ‘But coffee first, yeah?’

  Jenny sighed and went over to the coffee-maker. ‘Why do they think it was you?’ she called as she poured coffee into a mug.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ said Nightingale, picking up a copy of the Sun. ‘But there’s no hard evidence. No evidence at all, as it happens.’ He looked up as she brought over his coffee. ‘I don’t suppose you can tell me what I was doing on July the twentieth last year, can you?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  Nightingale picked up his mug. ‘They might be asking for proof, down the line.’

  Jenny walked behind his desk and clicked on the mouse of his computer. ‘You know how this works, right?’

  Nightingale looked pained. ‘I can never find the diary,’ he said.

  ‘You click on this icon,’ she said. ‘The one that says “Diary”. Really, Jack, it’s time you joined the rest of us in the third millennium.’ She tapped on the computer keyboard and peered at a spreadsheet that filled the screen. ‘Tuesday?’ she said. ‘Tuesday the twentieth?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what the cops said.’

  ‘You had a six o’clock meeting with a Mr Winters. Divorce case. He came after work, remember? Wanted you to follow his wife while she was at a conference in Brighton.’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ he said.

  ‘Jack, come on. You spent two days in the Metropole and ran up a ninety-quid bar bill.’

  ‘I remember Brighton and I remember Mrs Winters and the guy she was shagging but I don’t remember Mr Winters. Were you here?’

  ‘I let him in and then left you to it. He was a big guy, balding, had a sovereign ring and a big gold chain on his wrist. Called me “darling”, which I didn’t care for much. When did the drug dealer get shot?’

  ‘Evening. I didn’t ask when exactly. Do you have any idea what I did after the meeting with Winters?’

  Jenny grinned. ‘United were playing Liverpool,’ she said.

  Nightingale laughed out loud. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ he said. ‘I was in the pub with Robbie, watching the game. United won two–nil and I won twenty quid off Robbie.’ His smile slowly faded as the memory flooded back: Robbie handing over the money but insisting that Nightingale spend the cash on a decent bottle of red wine that they drank there and then. Four months later Robbie had died, run over by a black cab as he crossed the road. A stupid, senseless accident. ‘They’ll remember me in the pub,’ said Nightingale. ‘The landlord knows me. Do me a favour and call Winters sometime, just ask him if he recalls being here and what time he left. I’ll talk to the landlord. I’m pretty sure there won’t be a window of opportunity for me to have gone south of the river to shoot anyone.’

  ‘Do you know the guy? The guy that was shot?’

  ‘Drugs was never my brief when I was a cop,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I rarely went south of the river.’

  Jenny sat down on the edge of his desk. ‘What happened, Jack?’ She took the newspaper from him and dropped it on the desk. ‘The police generally don’t arrest people for shooting drug dealers unless they have reasonable grounds for believing it.’

  ‘First, it was Chalmers, so reasonable doesn’t enter into the equation,’ said Nightingale. ‘And second of all . . .’ He shrugged but didn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘What? What aren’t you telling me?’

  ‘You’ll think I’m crazy.’

  ‘I think that horse has already bolted,’ she said.

  Nightingale looked up at her. She was smiling but he could see from the look on her face that she was genuinely concerned. He explained to her what had happened in the ICU. Her expression gradually changed from concern to dismay. ‘See, I knew you’d think that I was crazy,’ he said.

  ‘It was her voice?’

  ‘No. It sounded like a twenty-something gangbanger from Brixton. But there’s no way that it could have been him talking. The bullet blew away a big chunk of his brain. He was brain dead according to the doctor.’

  ‘So you think Sophie’s talking to you from beyond the grave? That makes more sense, does it?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘When I told Chalmers he suggested that I was on some sort of guilt trip. That I was imagining it because I feel responsible.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘Feel responsible? Come on, Jenny, what do you think? I was there when she jumped. If I’d handled things differently maybe . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Who knows, yeah? Maybe I should have tried to grab her, maybe there was something I could have said that would have got her down off the balcony, maybe if someone else had gone up to talk to her . . . Could have, would have, should have, right?’

  ‘You were there to help. That was your job.’

  ‘Yeah, I was there to help but I didn’t, did I? Not unless the dictionary definition of “help�
�� has changed recently. She jumped and she died and the answer to your question is yes, I do feel responsible. But that doesn’t mean I was hearing things.’

  ‘But it wasn’t her voice, was it? You said it was the man’s voice. So why do you think it was her?’

  ‘Why would a drug dealer be asking me for help?’

  ‘The better question is why would Sophie? She’s dead, Jack. So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to read the Sun, drink my coffee, and then go back home to shower and change before heading back here all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for my three o’clock meeting.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘That’s my plan.’ He picked up his coffee mug.

  ‘And what about Sophie?’

  Nightingale grinned. ‘If it’s important, she’ll call back.’

  Jenny stared at him for several seconds, then sighed exasperatedly and went back to her desk. Nightingale sipped his coffee, wishing that he felt half as relaxed as he’d pretended to be. It had been Sophie trying to talk to him in the ICU, he was sure of that. And he was equally certain that whatever she wanted, she’d try to contact him again.

  8

  Mrs Chan was the lady who owned and ran the small Chinese restaurant on the ground floor of the building where Nightingale lived. She waved at him as he walked by her window and he waited for her on the pavement as she bustled out of the door. She was barely five feet tall with a round face and thick-lensed spectacles that gave her the look of a mole that had just emerged from its lair. ‘Mr Jack, is everything okay?’ she asked. She had arrived from Hong Kong with her husband thirty years earlier but she still spoke English as if she had just stepped off the plane. Her husband had died five years earlier and now she ran the restaurant with her two daughters while her son was back in Hong Kong running a very successful property company.

  ‘Everything’s fine, Mrs Chan.’

  ‘The neighbours said police take you away.’

  ‘It was a misunderstanding.’

  ‘You look terrible.’