Stephen Leather - Nightmare

‘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 Nightingale.

‘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.

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.