Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  ‘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.’

  Nightingale lit a cigarette, took a long drag on it, and then poured a stream of wine over the grave.

  ‘I’ll go and see Anna and the girls soon,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, mate; I haven’t been around as often as I should. I just . . .’ He shrugged, then took a drink from the bottle. ‘I never know what to say, Robbie. What the hell can I say? You’re dead and they’re alone and they miss you like hell.’ He shook his head and felt tears sting his eyes. ‘You bastard, Robbie. You stupid bastard.’ He drew on his cigarette, holding the smoke deep within his lungs for several seconds, before blowing a tight plume of smoke into the air. ‘People get sick and die; that’s the way of the world. People get old and die. Planes crash. Shit happens. But how the hell do you manage to walk under a black cab, Robbie? Look right, look left, and look right again. How bloody hard is that?’ He drank more wine and then poured a slug over the soil and watched as it bubbled away. ‘I wish there was some way I could go back, Robbie. Some way of telling you to watch what you’re doing. But that’s the bastard thing about time, isn’t it? It only goes the one way. There’s no going back. So you’re dead and you’re staying dead and I have to go back to Anna and the girls and make small talk.’

  Nightingale sighed and lay back on the grass. He stared up at the clouds high above as he took another long pull on his cigarette.

  ‘Robbie, if I’m talking to myself here, let me know, will you? I’d hate to be making a fool of myself.’ He blew smoke up at the sky. Off in the distance an owl hooted twice and then fell silent.

  ‘I was wondering if that’s how it works,’ said Nightingale quietly. ‘Maybe you can hear me but I can’t hear you. Maybe it’s a one-way thing. Your soul is there, watching or doing whatever souls do, and I’m stuck here. I just wish I knew for sure, you know? It’s the not knowing that screws with your mind. Until all this started I was a happy enough atheist, or maybe an agnostic. Not that I’m sure what the difference is. Now I really don’t know what the hell’s going on.’ Nightingale sat up, took a drink from the bottle, and then poured some more over the grave.

  He blew smoke across the grave and then smiled ruefully. ‘Here’s the thing, Robbie. I know you can’t communicate with me. If you could’ve you would’ve, I’m sure of that. According to Mrs Steadman it’s because we’re not all on the same frequency. But maybe you can hear me, right? And if you’re there listening to me, maybe you can do me a favour.’ He drank from the bottle and once again used his sleeve to wipe his mouth. ‘Remember the girl who died at Chelsea Harbour? Sophie Underwood. She’s been trying to talk to me and not doing a very good job of it. She’s a kid, Robbie. Nine years old when she died and I’m guessing that souls don’t age, right?’ Nightingale chuckled. ‘How would I know that? How would anyone know? Age, don’t age . . . it’s not as if there’s a handbook for death and what comes after, is there?’ He gestured at the church with the bottle. ‘And the vicars and priests are no bloody help, are they? Even the ones that aren’t paedophiles don’t exactly inspire confidence, do they? And the guys at the top seem to be more concerned with not offending the multicultural minority than spreading God’s word. Does anyone really believe that God talks to the Archbishop of Canterbury? Because I damn well don’t.’

  He shook his head and took a long pull on his cigarette. ‘Okay, so here’s what I need you to do, Robbie. I need you to take care of Sophie. She doesn’t have anyone – her father was a bastard and her mother looked the other way – and I’m guessing that she’s lonely and scared, and you were always great with your girls.’ He poured the rest of the wine over the grave. ‘So if you’re there, Robbie, and if Sophie’s around, just take her under your wing, will you? Find out what she wants. And if there is anything I can do to help, I will. Tell her I will, I swear. If she wants me to apologise, then I will. If she blames me for what happened, then maybe she’s right. Maybe I could have stopped her from jumping. Hell, I’m not even sure if she jumped. One second she was sitting on the edge of the balcony, the next she was over the edge. Maybe she fell. Maybe she didn’t mean to do it.’ Nightingale put a hand over his eyes and sighed. ‘It’s the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning, Robbie. And the last thing I think about at night. So if she wants me to apologise, I’ll do that.’

  The cigarette he was holding had almost burned down to the filter and he slotted it into the bottle where it spluttered in the dregs of the wine and went out. He got unsteadily to his feet and stood looking down at the wooden cross.

  ‘I can’t bear the thought of you d
own there, rotting,’ he said quietly. ‘Please, please, please, just let me know that there’s more to it than that.’ He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘If Sophie can try to get through to me, why can’t you, Robbie? Why did my parents never try to get in touch after they died?’ He took a deep breath and then opened his eyes and stared up at the sky. ‘Just listen to me, talking to myself again. What the hell is wrong with me?’ He winked at the cross. ‘Catch you later, mate.’

  He walked back to his car, dropping the empty wine bottle into a rubbish bin on the way out of the churchyard.

  32

  Nightingale drove from the graveyard to Brixton. He was reluctant to leave the MGB on the street but it was late and he couldn’t find a multi-storey car park. He decided to leave it close to Brixton police station in the hope that the proximity of the boys in blue would be a deterrent to any would-be car thief. Just to make sure he took a printed sign out of the glove box and left it on the dashboard: ‘BATTERY DEAD – AA ON THE WAY.’

  It was a ten-minute walk to the Flamingo and on the way Nightingale was asked by three different black teenagers if he was looking to buy drugs. The third dealer couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old and was riding a BMX bike. He was wearing a black Puffa jacket and gleaming white Nikes.

  ‘Weed, crack, blow?’ he said to Nightingale as he pulled up next to him.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘How old are you?’ said the teenager.

  ‘Old enough not to be buying drugs from someone I don’t know,’ Nightingale said. ‘How do I know you’re not an undercover cop?’ He carried on walking and the teenager followed him on the bike.

  ‘I’m a kid,’ he said. ‘They don’t have kids as cops.’

  ‘How do I know that? Maybe they’ve got a special kids unit.’

  ‘Why would I be a cop and try to sell you drugs?’

  ‘Entrapment,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You’re fucking crazy,’ said the teenager.

  Nightingale stopped and studied the boy. ‘You’re really selling drugs?’

  ‘Sure. What do you want?’

  ‘But you’re not carrying, right?’

  ‘Course not. You give me the money.’ He nodded over at the other side of the road where another teenager in a blue Puffa jacket was sitting on a bike. ‘He’ll give you what you want.’

  ‘Clever,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘What are you, Five-O?’ asked the teenager suspiciously.

  ‘If I was a cop I’d have busted you already for dealing,’ said Nightingale. He took out his wallet, extracted a fifty-pound note and moved as if he was going to give it to the teenager. ‘You’re out every night?’

  The teenager grinned at the banknote. ‘Rain or snow.’ He reached for the note but Nightingale snatched it away.

  ‘What about when that guy was shot last year?’

  ‘This is Brixton,’ said the teenager, standing up on the pedals of his bike. ‘People get shot all the time.’

  ‘July the twentieth. Dwayne Robinson. Dealer from Clapham.’

  ‘Oh yeah, him,’ said the teenager. He mimed firing a gun at his own head. ‘He’s not dead, though, right? I heard he was in a coma. Brain dead or summfink.’

  ‘That’s changed,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’s dead.’

  The teenager shrugged. ‘Shit happens,’ he said. He nodded at the fifty-pound note. ‘You gonna give me that or not?’

  ‘Where were you when he was shot?’

  ‘You think I did it? You’re mad, man.’

  Nightingale chuckled. ‘I’m just asking if you know what happened. You’re a smart kid and I bet you keep your ear to the ground.’

  The teenager nodded at the banknote. ‘You gonna give me that?’

  ‘If you’ve got something to tell me, sure.’

  The teenager held out a gloved hand. ‘Cash up front.’

  ‘Info first.’

  The teenager shook his head. His eyes were hard and his jaw was clamped shut. Nightingale gave him the money. The teenager pocketed it and gripped his handlebars as if he was about to take off. ‘The shooter was a white guy.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that. Did you see it?’

  ‘Nah, but I heard the shot. It was around the corner from the Flamingo.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that too.’

  ‘Do you know the gun jammed?’ Nightingale raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, he shot Dwayne in the head and then went to shoot him again but the gun jammed and he ran off.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  The teenager tapped the side of his nose. ‘I got my sources.’

  ‘But did your source see it or did he get it from someone else?’

  The teenager shrugged. ‘Maybe he saw it; maybe he spoke to someone who saw it. But that’s the word. One shot in the head and then he was gonna shoot him again but the gun didn’t fire and he ran off and got picked up by a bike.’

  ‘A motorbike?’

  ‘No, a BMX. What do you think, man?’

  ‘Do you know what sort of bike?’

  ‘A trail bike. That’s what I was told. Leathers and a full-face helmet and off they went.’

  ‘And does anyone have any idea who did it? Turf war?’

  The teenager pulled a face. ‘Dwayne never did nothing on our manor. He knew there’d be a war if he did.’

  ‘But there’d be no problems with him going to the Flamingo?’

  ‘Business is business and social is social,’ said the teenager. ‘Providing he don’t try to sell gear here no one’s going to care where he drinks.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. What’s your name?’

  ‘Jason,’ said the teenager.

  ‘You take care, Jason.’ He took out his wallet and gave him one of his business cards. ‘If you hear anything else, you give me a call. I’ve more fifties with your name on them.’

  Jason slipped the card in the pocket of his jacket, winked at Nightingale, and pedalled away.

  33

  The Flamingo was on the first floor above a row of shops in a side road not far from Brixton Tube Station. There were two big black men wearing glossy black bomber jackets and black cargo pants standing at the entrance. Two young white guys in tight Versace jeans walked by them, holding hands, and headed up the stairs. The doormen both had earpieces and their IDs hanging on lanyards. They smiled professionally at Nightingale as he walked up. They were both well over six feet tall and looked as if they spent a lot of the time in the gym. Or swallowing steroids. Or possibly both.

  ‘I thought this was a salsa club?’ he asked.

  ‘Salsa is Tuesday and Friday,’ said the first doorman. ‘Wednesday is swing night. Saturday is disco. Thursday is Gay Night.’

  ‘And today is Thursday,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You gay?’ asked the second doorman.

  ‘Do I look gay?’ asked Nightingale, taking out his cigarettes.

  ‘That would be sexist, us making an assumption like that,’ said the first doorman. ‘Be like you assuming I’m black just by looking at me.’

  Nightingale chuckled and slipped a cigarette between his lips. Another gay couple arrived – a young blond man wearing mascara and a black man with a shaved head and a tight-fitting Everlast shirt – and Nightingale stepped aside to let them get by.

  ‘Maybe you should try another night,’ said the second doorman. He had a large diamond in his right ear. ‘You might have fun on disco night. We get an older crowd.’

  ‘I like women so I guess for the purposes of tonight you can put me down as a lesbian,’ said Nightingale. He offered the pack to the doormen but they both shook their heads. ‘Were you guys here when Dwayne Robinson got shot?’

  The two doormen looked at each other, then back at Nightingale. ‘You a cop?’

  ‘Private,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘We don’t talk to cops.’

  ‘Well, actually, you do because if you don’t
then you lose your Security Industry Licence and then you lose your job. And while the few quid you get paid for standing here freezing your nuts off probably doesn’t mean much I’m damn sure you wouldn’t want to lose the kickbacks you get from the dealers you let in.’ The first doorman took a menacing step towards Nightingale but Nightingale smiled amiably. ‘Look, I’m not here to rock anybody’s boat, I just want some guidance as to what happened to Dwayne, that’s all.’

  ‘Who are you working for, if you’re private? Someone’s got to be footing your bill.’

  ‘Yeah, this time I’m working pro bono,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘What, the U2 singer?’ said the first doorman, straight-faced.

  Nightingale was just about to explain what ‘pro bono’ meant when the man started laughing and poked his colleague in the ribs. ‘Pro bono, get it?’

  Nightingale grinned. ‘Nice one. Seriously, guys, I know you probably wouldn’t want to tell the cops much but I’m just trying to get a handle on what happened.’ He pulled out his wallet and fished out two fifty-pound notes.

  ‘You’re not thinking of bribing us?’ said the first doorman.

  ‘That was the idea,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘With fifty?’

  ‘There’s a hundred here.’

  ‘And there’re two of us.’

  Nightingale raised his hands in surrender. ‘My bad,’ he said. He took out two more banknotes and gave the doormen a hundred pounds each. The money disappeared into their bomber jackets.

  ‘Dwayne took a bullet in the head, that’s what happened,’ said the first doorman.

  ‘Here?’