Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘Think a tyre burst,’ said Nightingale. ‘Spun off the road. Don’t suppose you’re going Edinburgh way, are you?’

‘I am actually,’ said the man.

‘You couldn’t give me a lift to the airport, could you?’

‘Sure,’ said the man. ‘But aren’t you supposed to stay with the car?’

‘No one’s been hurt and it’s a rental,’ said Nightingale. ‘Give me a minute to get my bag. I’ll phone the rental company while we’re on our way.’ He flicked the cigarette butt into the road. Finally he’d caught a lucky break. It was about time.

Nightingale placed his overnight bag on the conveyor belt and undid his belt. He dropped the belt, his phone, watch, wallet and keys on top of his raincoat and walked through the metal detector arch. It remained silent and he smiled at the two shirt-sleeved security personnel, but they stared back stonily.

His coat and belongings came through first, and he put on his belt and coat. A bored woman chewing gum slouched in her chair as she stared at the screen in front of her. She waved her hand in the air and said something, and she was joined by an Asian man in a grey suit. He bent down to get a better look at the screen and nodded. As he straightened up, Nightingale had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he realised that he’d forgotten about the knife.

The bag appeared from the scanner and the man in the suit picked it up and looked at Nightingale. Nightingale smiled apologetically. ‘I know, I know, I forgot all about it.’

The woman picked up a phone and began talking into it.

‘Is this your bag, sir?’ asked the man.

‘Of course it is. That’s why I’m standing here.’ Nightingale could see from the look on the man’s face that he’d chosen completely the wrong time to be sarcastic. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Do you mind if I open it?’

Nightingale bit back a second sarcastic comment. ‘Sure. It’s a ceremonial knife. I forgot it was there.’

The man ignored his comment, moved the bag to a side table and unzipped it. He took out Nightingale’s washbag, his laundry and travel alarm clock, then pulled out the evidence bag containing the crucible and frowned at it before putting it down next to the washbag. Then he pulled out the bag containing the knife. He held it up and looked at Nightingale, one eyebrow raised.

Nightingale shrugged. ‘I know, I know.’

‘Why were you trying to take this onto the plane?’

‘I forgot it was there. I’m sorry.’

‘You forgot you were carrying a foot-long knife?’

‘It’s not really a foot long, is it? Nine inches, maybe.’ He smiled. ‘Not that size is everything, right?’

The man stared at him with cold eyes, still holding up the evidence bag. ‘You think this is funny?’

‘We have a comedian, do we?’ said a gruff voice behind him. Nightingale turned to see two uniformed officers standing either side of him. One was carrying a carbine in the ready position, the other had a Glock in a holster on his hip and his arms folded.

‘It was an honest mistake,’ said Nightingale.

The uniformed cop with the folded arms shook his head. ‘No, sir. Forgetting to zip up your fly is an honest mistake, trying to take a knife onto a plane is a criminal offence.’

There were two of them and they could have been twins. Hard faces, receding hairlines, carrying more weight than was good for them and wearing cheap suits. They both had the weary faces of men who had been lied to for decades. Detectives. They looked the same the world over, and Nightingale figured that if he’d stayed in the job he’d probably have looked just like them by now.

Nightingale had been escorted to the room by the two armed policemen and left there until the two detectives had turned up.

One of the detectives was an inspector but he hadn’t said anything. His colleague, a detective constable, had done the introductions and swung Nightingale’s bag onto the table. Nightingale got the feeling that the constable was new to CID and the inspector was assessing his performance. The conversation wasn’t being recorded and there didn’t appear to be any CCTV cameras, which he took as a good sign, despite the hard stares. The constable’s name was McKee and he had an accent so impenetrable that Nightingale had trouble understanding him. He held up the evidence bag containing the knife. ‘What is this?’

‘A knife. A ceremonial knife. It’s an antique.’

McKee wrinkled his nose as he stared at the knife. ‘It looks old, I agree. But it doesn’t look like an antique. And why were you taking it onto the plane?’

‘I’m taking it to London.’

‘You know that you can’t take knives onto planes?’

Nightingale held up his hands. ‘It was a mistake. An honest mistake. I’d forgotten it was in my bag, that’s all.’

‘And why is it in an evidence bag?’

‘I’m taking it to be analysed.’

‘Analysed?’

‘I want to run it through a lab.’

‘A lab?’

Nightingale was about to make a joke about the detective repeating everything he said, but he doubted that he’d appreciate the attempt at humour. ‘I wanted to get the blood checked.’

‘You know there’s blood on the knife, then?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘I’d noticed it.’

‘And can you explain how the blood got there?’

Nightingale took out his wallet. ‘I’m a detective, private,’ he said. He handed over a business card. ‘The knife and the crucible are a case. Evidence.’

The detective studied the card and then passed it to the inspector. ‘Evidence or not, you can’t take a knife onto a plane.’

‘Absolutely, I’m sorry. It was a genuine mistake. Look, I used to be in the job. I was a detective with the Met.’

‘Were you now?’ He looked over at the inspector as if seeking his approval. The inspector nodded.

‘CO19. And I was a negotiator. If you need a reference, I can give you the name of an inspector who’ll vouch for me.’

The detective held out his hand. ‘Do you have your passport?’

‘Sure.’ Nightingale took his passport from his pocket and gave it to the detective.

The detective flicked through it, then studied the photo. He handed it to the inspector, who also flicked through the pages and checked the photograph. He checked the name in the passport with the name on the business card, then stood up. ‘I’ll be back shortly,’ he said. His voice sounded more Northern Irish than Scottish.

Nightingale looked at his watch. ‘I’m going to miss my plane.’

‘We’ll get you on the next one, Mr Nightingale,’ said the inspector. ‘Assuming that you check out.’ He went out of the room.

Nightingale smiled at the remaining detective. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’

‘About as much chance of Hell freezing over,’ growled the detective.

‘Good to know. Don’t suppose I can smoke in here?’

The detective stared at Nightingale silently, his lips a thin bloodless line.

Nightingale folded his arms and sat back in his chair. Five minutes later the inspector reappeared and gave him back the passport. He sat down and interlinked his fingers. ‘Well, a police officer you were, Mr Nightingale. You left the Met under a cloud but at least you didn’t kill anyone.’

‘That would be the silver lining,’ said Nightingale.

The inspector pointed at the knife. ‘You said that the knife was evidence in a case. Would that be a criminal case?’

Nightingale looked at the inspector and tried to smile as amiably as possible. Lying to police officers was never a good idea, especially detectives, but he didn’t want to start a conversation about the murders in Berwick. ‘Divorce,’ he said.