Stephen Leather: Nightmare

‘Detective Inspector Dan Evans.’

‘Mr Nightingale has been informed that Dwayne Robinson has succumbed to his injuries and that this is now a murder enquiry,’ continued Chalmers, taking a slim gold Cross pen from his pocket.

‘And can I point out that I am here helping you with your enquiries,’ said Nightingale. ‘I haven’t been charged and I haven’t requested legal representation.’

‘Duly noted,’ said Chalmers. ‘Earlier this morning we took you to see Mr Robinson in the intensive care unit at Lambeth Hospital.’

‘After dragging me out of bed at gunpoint,’ said Nightingale.

Chalmers ignored the interruption but his fingers tightened on his pen. ‘Mr Robinson was shot on July the twentieth last year. Can you tell me where you were on that date?’

‘No,’ said Nightingale.

‘No?’

‘That was almost six months ago. How am I supposed to know what I was doing? Can you tell me what you did on the twentieth of that month? What did you have for breakfast? What time did you get home? What position did you use to satisfy your wife sexually-’

‘Nightingale-’

‘Mr Nightingale to you. Let’s not forget that I haven’t been charged.’

Chalmers took a deep breath that reminded Nightingale of the way that Robinson had inhaled just before he started talking. ‘So you are unwilling to account for your whereabouts on July the twentieth last year?’

‘Not unwilling. Unable. What day of the week was the twentieth?’

‘It was a Tuesday. Same as today.’

‘Then I’d have been at work during the day. Probably in the office. But I could have been out on a job. I’d have to check with my assistant. She keeps my diary.’

‘So it is possible that you were in Brixton on July the twentieth?’

‘I don’t remember being in Brixton during the summer; but, like I said, the diary will tell you. Or you can check my phone records.’

‘Phone records?’

‘My phone has got GPS. If I was in Brixton on July the twentieth the phone company would be able to tell you.’

‘Unless you left your phone at home that night. Or gave it to someone else.’

‘Now you’re being ridiculous,’ said Nightingale.

‘I’m simply asking you to account for your whereabouts on the night of July the twentieth. And you seem unwilling to do that.’

‘Talk to my assistant, Jenny McLean. She’ll confirm where I was. But sitting here, no, I don’t know where I was that night. But I’m damn sure that I didn’t have a gun and just as sure that I didn’t shoot Robinson.’

Chalmers put down his pen and linked his fingers on the table as he looked at Nightingale without saying anything. Nightingale looked back at him. It was a standard interrogation technique, he knew. The idea was to leave a long silence in the hope that the suspect would start talking. It often worked. People didn’t like sitting in silence and nerves kicked in; they’d start to talk and hopefully they’d trip themselves up. Nightingale settled back in his chair and folded his arms.

Chalmers’s eyes hardened as he realised that Nightingale was playing him at his own game. Nightingale saw the man’s knuckles whiten and he smiled.

‘Do you think this is funny?’ asked Chalmers.

‘Ridiculous rather than funny,’ said Nightingale. ‘Exactly what evidence have you got to tie me in with Robinson’s shooting?’

Chalmers tilted his head back and glared at Nightingale. ‘You were there in the hospital, you heard him yourself. Several times Mr Robinson identified you as his killer.’

‘That’s not what happened and you know it,’ said Nightingale. ‘For a start, when we were there he wasn’t dead, so being a killer doesn’t come into it.’

‘Attacker, then,’ said Chalmers, picking up the gold pen. ‘If you want to split hairs, he identified you as his attacker before he died.’ He tapped the pen on an open notepad as he stared at Nightingale.

Nightingale stared back. The intimidating stare and the long silences were both techniques taught on the Basic Interrogation Course at the Hendon Police College in north-west London. The simplest way to counter either method was simply to say nothing.

‘Cat got your tongue, Nightingale?’ said Chalmers.

‘I need a cigarette,’ said Nightingale. Evans had brought a pack of Marlboro and a yellow disposable lighter into the interview room along with the bacon roll and coffee.

‘Your smokes can wait,’ said Chalmers.

Nightingale looked pointedly at his watch. ‘It’s been almost twelve hours since I last had a cigarette and I usually smoke forty a day,’ he said. ‘So I am now suffering from the symptoms of nicotine withdrawal, which means that anything I say during this interview can be treated with suspicion.’

‘What the hell are you talking about, Nightingale?’

‘The lack of nicotine in my system will produce medical side effects that will invalidate anything I say. Plus, deliberately depriving me of nicotine could be deemed to be a form of torture and is almost certainly a violation of my human rights.’ He smiled amiably. ‘Easiest option would be just to let me go outside for a smoke.’ He jerked his thumb at Evans. ‘Dan here’s a smoker; he can keep me company.’

‘I don’t smoke,’ protested the inspector. He looked over at Chalmers. ‘I’m not a smoker, sir.’

Nightingale caught Evans looking wistfully at his cigarette and he offered him the pack.

‘The wife’ll kill me,’ Evans said.

‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ said Nightingale. They were standing in the car park at the rear of the building, hidden from the street by a high brick wall topped by razor wire. A blue metal gate rattled open to allow two detectives to leave in an unmarked Vauxhall Vectra.

Evans grinned and took a cigarette. Nightingale lit it for him and Evans inhaled with relish and then slowly blew smoke up at the sky. ‘You know, if it wasn’t for bronchitis, cancer and heart disease, cigarettes would be great.’

‘All that stuff is down to your genes more than the ciggies,’ said Nightingale. The metal gate rattled shut.

‘You believe that?’

Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke before replying. ‘If cigarettes caused cancer, everyone who smoked would get cancer. And they don’t. Less than fifteen per cent of smokers get lung cancer. Eighty-five per cent don’t. So how can they say that cigarettes cause cancer?’

‘Because the incidence of lung cancer is greater among smokers.’

‘Everybody dies, mate,’ said Nightingale.

‘That’s certainly true.’ Evans grinned at Nightingale. ‘And it feels good, doesn’t it? Smoking?’

‘We wouldn’t do it if it didn’t,’ agreed Nightingale. He took another long pull on the cigarette and held the smoke deep in his lungs. He could almost feel the nicotine leaching into his blood, coursing through his veins, revitalising him. Evans was right. Smoking did feel good. He exhaled slowly and watched the smoke gradually dissipate. He looked over at Evans, who was doing the same, and they giggled like naughty schoolboys. ‘When was your first ciggie?’ asked Nightingale.

‘At school, where else? The proverbial bike sheds. I was thirteen. Benson amp; Hedges. Coughed like nobody’s business and I was nearly sick but I was hooked. You?’

‘I was a late starter,’ said Nightingale. ‘Sixteen. Down at the pub. Back in the days when they didn’t throw you in prison for smoking in a bar.’

‘Strictly speaking, it’s only a fine,’ said Evans. He flicked ash onto the ground. ‘First brand?’

Nightingale held up his cigarette. ‘Marlboro,’ he said. ‘Red pack. It’s the only brand I smoke.’