Stephen Leather: Nightmare

‘I’ll wait for him,’ said Nightingale.

‘I don’t have any details yet, just that it’s a person in crisis,’ said the coordinator.

‘That’s okay; I know who it is,’ said Nightingale. He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.

The traffic ahead had slowed to a crawl and he tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. On the far side of the road a West Indian traffic warden was writing out a ticket for a white BMW sports car. A blonde woman with half a dozen carrier bags came out of a boutique and began pleading with him. Nightingale smiled to himself, but the smile froze when the woman and the traffic warden both turned to look at him. ‘You’re going to Hell, Jack Nightingale,’ they mouthed, sending a shudder down Nightingale’s spine.

A young woman pushing a pram stopped behind the traffic warden, and so did two pensioners, women with headscarves and matching overcoats. They all turned to stare at Nightingale, their eyes blank and their faces impassive. Then their mouths began to work in unison. ‘You are going to Hell, Jack Nightingale.’

The traffic started to move and Nightingale accelerated down the road. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw more than a dozen people standing still on the pavement, staring after him.

He drove into Chelsea Harbour. Ahead of him he could see the tower block. Sophie was on the far side, he knew. Sitting on the balcony. With her doll.

There was a police car pulled across the road to stop traffic and two Community Support Officers in police-type uniforms and yellow fluorescent jackets held up their hands, telling him to stop. One of them was about to tell Nightingale to turn his car around but he wound down the window and showed them his warrant card.

‘Inspector Nightingale,’ he said. ‘I’m the negotiator.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the CSO. He pointed over at a parked ambulance but Nightingale had already put the car in gear and was driving towards it. The two CSOs jumped out of the way.

As Nightingale climbed out of the MGB, Colin Duggan hurried over. He was wearing his inspector’s uniform and holding a transceiver.

‘Robbie’s on his way,’ said Nightingale.

‘Yeah, he’ll be here in five minutes,’ said Duggan. ‘He just called.’

Nightingale took his pack of Marlboro from his pocket and held it out to Duggan. The inspector took a cigarette and Nightingale lit it for him, then lit one for himself.

‘It’s a kid, Jack,’ said Duggan, scratching his fleshy neck.

‘I know,’ said Nightingale. ‘Nine years old.’

‘Her name’s Sophie. She’s locked herself on the thirteenth-floor balcony and she’s sitting there talking to her doll. Father’s at work, mother’s shopping, and the girl was left in the care of the au pair.’ Duggan gestured with his cigarette at an anorexic blonde who was sitting on a bench, sobbing, as a uniformed WPC tried to comfort her. ‘Polish girl. She was ironing, then saw Sophie on the balcony. She banged on the window but Sophie had locked it from the outside.’ Duggan frowned. ‘How do you know how old she is?’

Nightingale looked at his watch. ‘Where the hell is Robbie?’ he muttered.

‘I told you, five minutes,’ said Duggan. ‘He’ll be here. Do you want to talk to her? The au pair?’

‘No need,’ said Nightingale.

‘The girl’s talking to her doll, won’t look at anyone. We sent up two WPCs but she won’t talk to them.’

‘You’re supposed to wait for me, Colin,’ said Nightingale. He dropped his cigarette onto the ground and crushed it with his heel. ‘Amateurs only complicate matters, you know that.’

‘She’s a kid on a balcony,’ said Duggan. ‘We couldn’t just wait.’

‘There’s time,’ he said. ‘Just don’t do anything to spook her. Maybe you should call Robbie.’

Duggan was reaching for his phone when they heard a siren in the distance. He put the phone away.

‘She’s sitting on the edge, Jack. A gust of wind and she could blow right off. We’re trying to get an airbag brought out but no one seems to know where to get one.’

‘We don’t need an airbag, Colin.’

The siren was getting louder.

‘You could talk to her through the balcony window,’ said Duggan.

‘That won’t work.’

‘How do you know? You’ve only just got here.’

‘I know,’ said Nightingale flatly. He looked at his watch. There was time.

‘The way I see it, there are two possibilities,’ said Duggan. ‘She’s too high up for you to use a ladder, so we can either lower you down from the roof or we can get you into the flat next door.’

‘Robbie and I’ll handle it,’ said Nightingale.

A patrol car with its blue light flashing and siren wailing appeared at the entrance to Chelsea Harbour. It screeched to a halt. The rear door opened and Robbie Hoyle rushed out. He had a North Face fleece over his suit and was holding his mobile phone.

‘Better late than never,’ said Nightingale.

‘What’s the story?’ asked Hoyle.

‘Girl on the thirteenth floor, threatening to jump,’ said Duggan.

‘Her name’s Sophie Underwood, and her father’s been fiddling with her,’ said Nightingale.

‘What?’ said Duggan, stunned.

‘Her father’s been fiddling with her and the mother knows about it.’

‘How the hell do you know that?’ asked Duggan.

‘I just know,’ said Nightingale. He put a hand on Duggan’s shoulder. ‘Listen to me, Colin. Robbie and I are going to handle this but afterwards you need to get Sophie to a hospital and get her examined. There’s a bruise on her leg; the father did it. And there’ll be other signs. You arrest him and put him away. And the wife too. No matter what she says, she knew what that bastard was doing.’ He nodded at the au pair. ‘She’s got his business card. He works for a big bank in Canary Wharf.’

‘Jack, what’s going on?’ asked Duggan.

‘Just do what I say, Colin,’ said Nightingale. ‘As soon as you examine the girl you’ll know that I’m right.’ He turned to Hoyle. ‘Let’s go, Robbie.’

‘I’ve got a PC who can take you up,’ said Duggan.

‘I know where we’re going,’ said Nightingale. ‘Come on, Robbie,’ he said, and they hurried towards the apartment block.

‘Why aren’t you up there, getting her down?’ shouted a bald man holding a metal toolbox. He pointed at Nightingale. ‘You should do something instead of pissing about down here.’

Nightingale walked over to the man and punched him in the face. The cartilage splintered and the man fell on his back, blood pouring down his chin.

‘Jack!’ yelled Hoyle, pulling Nightingale away.

‘He asked for it,’ said Nightingale. ‘He just wants to see her jump.’ He jabbed his finger at the man on the ground. ‘She’s not dying today, you ignorant bastard!’

‘Jack, what the hell’s wrong with you?’ said Hoyle. ‘You’ll be thrown out of the job for that. You can’t go around thumping civilians.’ He tugged at Nightingale’s arm and the two of them began jogging to the entrance of the block.

The reception area was plush with overstuffed sofas and a large coffee table covered with glossy magazines. A doorman in a green uniform was talking to two uniformed officers.

‘Where’re the stairs?’ shouted Hoyle.

The doorman pointed to three lift doors. ‘The lifts are there, sir,’ he said.

‘We need the stairs,’ said Hoyle.

‘It’s okay, Robbie,’ said Nightingale. ‘We can take the lift.’

Hoyle stared at him in amazement. ‘You never use lifts.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘How many years have I known you? You’ve never once stepped inside a lift.’

Nightingale stabbed at the call button. ‘Yeah, well, today’s the day, the first day of the rest of my life.’