‘She was swinging from the banister when I got there.’
‘And her DNA is all over your clothes.’
‘Because I cut her down. Trying to save her.’
‘You said she was dead. Why were you trying to save a dead woman?’
‘I didn’t know she was dead. I just saw her hanging there. Then she moved.’
‘Moved?’
‘She was shaking and she was making sounds.’
‘So she wasn’t dead?’
‘No, she was dead. Some sort of autonomic reaction. I got a knife from the kitchen and cut her down. I checked for life signs and there were none. That’s when your guys arrived.’
‘Which raises two questions, doesn’t it?’ said the superintendent. ‘Why didn’t you call the police? And what were you doing in the house?’
‘I didn’t have time to phone anyone,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’d just finished checking for a pulse when your men stormed in and beat me unconscious.’
‘I’m told that you were resisting arrest,’ said the superintendent. ‘A neighbour called nine-nine-nine to say that a stranger had just entered Miss Miller’s house. When they arrived they found you crouched over her, holding a knife.’
‘They didn’t say anything, just clubbed me to the ground.’
‘You shouldn’t have been in the house,’ said the superintendent. ‘It’s not as if she invited you, is it?’
‘The back door was open,’ said Nightingale.
‘Even so,’ said the superintendent. ‘You committed trespass at best, and at worst . . .’
‘What?’
‘A woman is dead, Nightingale. And you still haven’t explained why you were in the house.’
‘I wanted to talk to her.’
‘About?’
‘It’s complicated,’ said Nightingale.
‘There you are again, suggesting that the Welsh are stupid.’ He banged the flat of his hand down hard on the table and Nightingale flinched. ‘Start talking, Nightingale. I’m getting fed up with your games.’
Nightingale sighed. ‘I think she’s my sister.’
‘You think?’
‘Like I said, it’s complicated.’
‘Complicated as the fact that her name is Miller and yours is Nightingale?’
‘She never married?’
‘Miller is the name she was born with. So how can you be her brother?’
‘Stepbrother. Or half-brother. We’ve got the same father.’
‘And would the father’s name be Nightingale or Miller?’
‘Neither. Gosling. Ainsley Gosling.’
‘So you’re telling me that Gosling was your father and hers and yet all three of you have different names?’
‘I was adopted. So was my sister. We were both adopted at birth.’
‘And so what were you doing at her house today? Surprise visit, was it?’
‘I wanted to talk to her.’
‘About what?’
Nightingale bit down on his lower lip. There was no way on earth the superintendent would believe Nightingale if he answered that question honestly. In the cold light of day he wasn’t even sure if he believed it himself. ‘I’d just found out that she was my sister. I wanted to meet her.’
‘Did you call her first?’
Nightingale shook his head.
‘For the tape please, Mr Nightingale.’
‘No, I didn’t call her.’
‘You just thought you’d pop round? From London?’
‘I wanted to see her.’
‘So you drove all the way from London for a surprise visit?’
‘I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,’ said Nightingale. ‘It wasn’t about surprising her. I just wanted to . . .’ He shrugged. ‘It’s difficult to explain.’
‘You see, any normal person would have phoned first. Made contact that way and then arranged a convenient time to meet. Not turned up unannounced.’
‘I’m a very spontaneous person,’ said Nightingale. He wanted a cigarette, badly.
‘And what made you think that Connie Miller is your sister? Or half-sister?’
‘I got a tip.’
‘What sort of tip?’
‘I was given her first name. And the name of the town.’
‘And that was enough to find her?’
‘I knew how old she is. Was. She was the only thirty-one-year-old woman called Constance in Abersoch.’
‘Is that right?’
‘You can check the electoral roll yourself. It’s all computerised these days.’
‘Well, I can tell you for a fact that Connie Miller isn’t related to you. I know her parents. I’ve known them for years. And they’ve just been to identify her body.’
Nightingale rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I was misinformed.’
‘Yes,’ said the superintendent. ‘You most definitely were. Connie was born in Bryn Beryl Hospital in Pwllheli, and I can assure you that there was no adoption involved.’
‘If that’s true then I was given a bum tip. It happens.’
‘If it wasn’t true then I wouldn’t be saying it,’ said the superintendent. ‘I’m not in the habit of lying. So you’re based in London?’
Nightingale nodded. The superintendent pointed at the tape recorder and opened his mouth to speak but Nightingale beat him to it. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s right.’
‘And before that you were a policeman?’
‘For my sins, yes.’
‘You were with SO19, right?’
‘CO19. It used to be SO19 but they changed it to CO19 a few years back. The firearms unit. Yeah.’
‘You were an inspector?’
It was clear that the superintendent had already seen his file. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was an inspector.’
‘Until that incident at Canary Wharf?’
Nightingale smiled sarcastically and nodded again.
‘People have a habit of dying around you, don’t they, Nightingale?’
‘She had already hanged herself by the time I got there. I had never met the woman, never set eyes on her before today.’
‘Let’s leave Connie where she is for the time being,’ said the superintendent. ‘For now let’s talk about Simon Underwood.’
‘With respect, that’s out of your jurisdiction,’ said Nightingale. ‘Way out.’
‘Paedophile, wasn’t he? Interfering with his daughter, according to the Press. She killed herself while you were talking to her?’
‘Where are you going with this, Superintendent? I’d hate to think that you were opening old wounds just for the hell of it.’
‘I’m simply pointing out that you have a track record as far as dead bodies are concerned. Simon Underwood went through the window of his office while he was talking to you. Sophie Underwood jumped off a balcony. Your uncle took an axe to his wife and then killed himself not long before you went around to their house. Bodies do have a tendency to pile up around you.’
‘Can I smoke?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Of course you can’t bloody well smoke,’ snapped the superintendent. ‘Last time I looked Wales was still part of the United Kingdom and in the UK we don’t allow smoking in public buildings or places of work.’
‘Can we take a break, then? I need a cigarette.’
The superintendent leaned back in his chair. ‘You know smoking kills,’ he said.
‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. ‘Ten minutes? It’s either that or you’ll have to charge me because I’m not going to continue helping you with your enquiries unless I have a cigarette first.’
The third supernatural thriller in the Jack Nightingale series is NIGHTMARE:
What goes around, comes around. Jack Nightingale learned that as a cop and discovered that it was just as true in the world of the supernatural.
His life changed forever on the day he failed to stop a young girl throwing herself to her death. Ever since, he’s been haunted by thoughts that he could have done more to save her.
; Now her cries for help are louder than ever. Is she trapped in eternal torment? Can Nightingale put things right? Or are the forces of darkness torturing and deceiving him in order to regain the ultimate prize – his soul?
Nightingale will have to face down the powers of the police, south London gangs, and Hell itself to find out. And evil is closer than he thinks . . .
Coming soon in trade paperback and ebook – read on for an opening extract . . .
1
Jack Nightingale opened his eyes to find the barrel of a police-issue Heckler & Koch MP5 carbine about an inch from the end of his nose.
‘If that’s anything other than your dick in your hand I’m pulling the trigger,’ growled the police marksman holding the weapon. He was wearing a Kevlar helmet and protective goggles.
‘That’s not the official police warning, is it?’ said Nightingale. Two more armed police appeared at the end of the bed and their weapons were also aimed at his head. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
The marksman stared at Nightingale with unblinking grey eyes. ‘Move your hands very slowly from under the quilt,’ he said, saying the words slowly and clearly.
‘I don’t have a gun and I’m stark bollock naked,’ said Nightingale.
‘Just show us your hands, nice and slowly,’ said the marksman.
Nightingale did as he was told, sliding his arms from under the quilt and raising them. A fourth officer appeared and grabbed Nightingale’s wrists, quickly fastening them together with a plastic tie.
‘Are there any weapons in the flat, Nightingale?’ asked a voice from the end of the bed. Nightingale squinted at the man. He was wearing a bulletproof vest over a dark blue suit. It was Superintendent Ronald Chalmers. Tall with greying hair and flecks of dandruff on his shoulders.
‘What the hell’s going on, Chalmers?’
‘We’re going to be searching your flat from top to bottom so you might as well tell us now,’ said the superintendent. ‘Do you have any weapons here?’
‘Of course not.’
Chalmers nodded at the door. ‘Take him through there and start on this room.’
The officer who’d tied Nightingale’s hands pulled him out of the bed.
‘At least let me hide my modesty,’ protested Nightingale.
The superintendent picked up a sheet and threw it at Nightingale. Nightingale caught it and the officer pushed him through the door to the sitting room. Two more armed officers in black overalls and bulletproof vests and helmets stood by his dining table, cradling their weapons.
Nightingale wrapped the sheet around himself and sat down on his sofa. A portly man in dark blue overalls was kneeling next to a plastic toolbox by the front door. ‘Did you pick my lock?’ asked Nightingale.
‘I’m just doing my job,’ said the man. He was in his sixties, his bald head spotted with dark brown liver spots.
‘Yeah, well, I hope they’re paying you overtime,’ said Nightingale, looking at his watch. It was five o’clock in the morning and still dark outside.
Chalmers walked out of the bedroom and glared at Nightingale. ‘Where’s the gun, Nightingale?’
‘What gun?’
‘We’ll tear this place apart, if we have to,’ said the superintendent.
‘Yeah? Well, you’d better have a warrant.’
Chalmers reached inside his jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper. He tossed it onto the coffee table.
‘Warrant or not, the Met’s going to be paying for any damage,’ said Nightingale.
A uniformed sergeant appeared at the door. Chalmers turned around to look at him and the sergeant shook his head. ‘Kitchen and bathroom,’ said Chalmers. ‘Then the spare bedroom.’ The sergeant went back into the bedroom to speak to his men. Chalmers pointed at Nightingale. ‘Get some clothes on,’ he said.
‘Are you arresting me?’
‘I will if you don’t get in there and get dressed,’ said the superintendent.
Nightingale held up his hands. ‘How am I supposed to get dressed like this?’
Chalmers sighed and took a Swiss Army knife from his pocket. He pulled out a small blade and cut the plastic tie. It fell to the floor and Nightingale rubbed his wrists. ‘What’s this about, Chalmers?’ he asked.
‘Get dressed. You’ll find out soon enough.’
2
Nightingale was taken down the stairs to the street handcuffed to a burly constable wearing a bright yellow fluorescent jacket over a bulletproof vest. Nightingale had pulled on black jeans, a blue pullover and a leather jacket but had forgotten to pick up his cigarettes and lighter from the bedside table. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a cigarette on you?’ he asked the cop.
‘Filthy habit,’ grinned the man, pulling open the side door of the police van. It was a grey Mercedes Sprinter van with TSG markings. The Territorial Support Group. The Met’s heavy mob. Behind it were two blue saloons. Armed cops were stowing their gear into the boots.
‘Yeah, well, it’s not as disgusting as breaking into people’s homes at the crack of dawn,’ said Nightingale.
The cop climbed into the van and jerked the handcuffs to pull Nightingale inside. There were two armed police officers in black overalls, bulletproof vests and Kevlar helmets sitting at the back, cradling MP5s. Nightingale grinned and waved with his free hand. ‘Expecting trouble, boys?’ he said as he sat down.
The two men stared at him impassively.
More armed officers were piling into the back of a Volvo V70 Armed Response Vehicle as the driver turned on the siren and flashing lights. Curtains and blinds all the way down the street began to twitch.
Nightingale looked at the cop sitting next to him. ‘This isn’t going to win you friends, you know that,’ he said. ‘Most people have got jobs to go to.’
Chalmers walked out of Nightingale’s building and nodded at the driver of the van as he got into the back of a black Vauxhall Vectra.
The driver put the van in gear and followed the ARV down the street; Chalmers pulled out behind them. They drove in convoy south to the Thames and over Vauxhall Bridge towards Stockwell. Eventually they pulled up in front of the main entrance of Lambeth Hospital.
Chalmers got out of the Vauxhall and went over to talk to the men in the ARV, then the Volvo peeled away from the kerb and sped off back to north London. Chalmers walked over to the van. A stick-thin cop with ginger hair and freckles across his nose and cheeks pulled open the side door. ‘Out you get,’ he growled at Nightingale.
Nightingale and the constable climbed out. Nightingale held up his handcuffed wrist. ‘There’s no need for this, Chalmers. I’m hardly likely to do a runner, am I?’
Chalmers said nothing. He turned on his heel and walked inside the hospital. Nightingale and the cop followed him. Heads turned to look at them as they strode across the reception area to a bank of lifts. They rode up in silence to the fourth floor. The Intensive Care Unit. They walked down a corridor lined with glass panels that looked into small rooms where patients, mainly elderly, were attached to machines that were either monitoring them or keeping them alive. The doctors and nurses paid the police no attention and there was a purposeful buzz of conversation overlaid with the beeping of sensors.
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on, Chalmers?’ asked Nightingale, but the superintendent ignored him. Nightingale grinned at the cop. ‘Maybe his wife’s giving birth and he wants me to be the godfather,’ he said. The cop scowled but said nothing.
At the far end of the corridor was a young constable sitting on a chair reading a newspaper. He looked up, saw Chalmers approaching and hurriedly got to his feet, hiding the paper behind his back. Chalmers brushed past the man and opened the door to the room. He walked in and jerked his thumb at Nightingale. ‘In,’ he said.
Nightingale went through first, followed by the cop he was handcuffed to. The man lying on the hospital bed in front of him was Afro-Caribbean and in his late twenties. There were wires leading from his chest to a heart monitor that was beeping softly at t
he side of the bed. His head was bandaged, covering his skull and one eye. The uncovered eye was shut.
‘You know him?’ asked Chalmers.
Nightingale shrugged. ‘Hard to say, looking like that.’
‘Dwayne Robinson,’ said Chalmers. ‘Gangbanger from Brixton. Someone shot him in the back of the head six months ago; he’s been in a coma ever since.’
‘And this concerns me how?’
‘Where were you on July the twentieth?’
Nightingale laughed. ‘Are you serious? How would I know? Who knows what they were doing six months ago?’
‘So it could have been you who blew his brains across the pavement?’
Nightingale sneered at the superintendent. ‘This is what passes for interrogation these days, is it? Look, Chalmers, I know you’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer but what makes you think I had anything to do with this? I’m not generally the first person that Trident calls on to help with their investigations.’
‘We don’t think this was black on black. There was a white male seen running from the scene.’
‘I’m not a great runner, for one,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I don’t often go south of the river, for two. And for three, I don’t go around shooting people.’
‘But a lot of people around you have been dying lately, haven’t they?’ said Chalmers. ‘Starting with your father.’
‘My biological father. And he killed himself, remember?’ Nightingale pointed at the man in the bed. ‘What’s this about? I’ve never seen him before and I certainly didn’t shoot him.’
The door opened and an Indian doctor walked in. He nodded at Chalmers. ‘I hope this isn’t going to take long, Superintendent. I’m not happy about having this many people in the ICU.’
‘A few minutes, Dr Patel. Has there been any change since last night?’
The doctor picked up a clipboard from the bottom of the bed, looked at it, then shook his head.
‘Robinson has been in a coma since he was shot,’ Chalmers said to Nightingale. ‘There’s minimal brain activity. He’s never going to wake up. That’s what they thought, anyway. Until yesterday.’ Chalmers stared at the beeping monitor and folded his arms.
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