Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘I’ll get you a coffee sent in and we’ll have you out of here as soon as possible.’

‘Thanks, Sergeant.’

True to his word, the custody sergeant brought Nightingale a cup of coffee about half an hour after he’d been placed in a cell. ‘I sent one of the lads out to Starbucks,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d save you the canteen rubbish.’

‘I appreciate it,’ said Nightingale, taking the cup from him.

‘Probably your first time on this side of a cell door,’ observed the sergeant.

‘That’s true enough.’ Nightingale was sitting on the bed, a concrete block on which lay a blue plastic mattress. To the right of the door there was a toilet without a seat.

‘Do you want a blanket or something?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Nightingale.

The sergeant started to leave, then stopped. Nightingale could see that he wanted to say something. ‘After the guy went through the window…’ said the sergeant.

‘Yes?’

‘There were no… ramifications?’

‘I left the force,’ said Nightingale.

‘But you weren’t charged?’

‘There was no evidence. No witnesses, no CCTV. And I said nothing.’

The sergeant smiled. ‘Always the best way,’ he said, ‘especially when dealing with the Rubber Heels.’ Rubber Heels was the nickname of the Professional Standards Department, the cops who investigated other cops. ‘And now you’re a private investigator. Pays well, does it?’

‘Pays okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘But there’s no pension and not much in the way of perks.’

‘You miss the job?’

Nightingale sipped his coffee. ‘I miss the job, but I don’t miss all the crap I had to wade through to do it.’

‘A lot of the guys, they’re saying they wish they had the balls to do what you did.’

Nightingale didn’t respond.

The sergeant looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead he nodded and left.

It was just after half past five in the morning when the custody sergeant unlocked the cell door. He gave Nightingale a printed sheet informing him of his court date and told him he was free to leave. ‘Are you going home?’ he asked.

‘I thought I’d get my car,’ said Nightingale.

‘Why don’t you have another puff in the breathalyser first?’ said the sergeant. ‘I wouldn’t want you picked up again. They’d probably blame me for letting you out too soon.’

Nightingale gave another breath sample, and this time he was below the limit. ‘Is there a minicab firm I can use?’ he asked.

The sergeant nodded at a row of orange plastic seats. ‘Sit yourself down. I’ll see if I can arrange something,’ he said. He went to his counter and spent a few minutes on the phone, then called Nightingale over. ‘Two of our guys will run you out,’ he said. Nightingale thanked him. ‘All part of the service, Jack,’ he said.

Nightingale got home at just after eight o’clock. He let himself into the house, made himself a cup of coffee and phoned Robbie Hoyle. ‘What’s wrong?’ said Hoyle.

‘Maybe I just wanted a chat.’

‘It’s Saturday morning – early Saturday morning. My day of rest. Yours too. So I’m guessing there’s something wrong.’

‘You should be a detective,’ said Nightingale.

‘Yeah, so should you,’ said Hoyle. ‘Now what’s wrong?’

‘I was pulled in for drink-driving last night.’

‘Oh, shit,’ said Hoyle. ‘Did you hit anyone?’

‘No, nothing like that. I’d had a few beers and they breathalysed me.’

‘You stupid bastard.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘You’ll lose your licence, you know that?’

‘That’s why I’m calling, Robbie.’

‘Come on, Jack, you know there’s nothing I can do if you’re in the system. Not these days.’

‘I wasn’t asking you to pull strings,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need a brief, a good one. Who’s hot on drink-driving right now? There’s got to be something that could sway the court. Former officer of the law, under a lot of stress, father just committed suicide – I’m thinking mitigating circumstances.’

‘I’ll ask around,’ said Hoyle. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine, just kicking myself.’

‘Do you want to come to the house tomorrow? Anna’s doing a roast.’

‘Maybe, mate. Let me see how my hangover shapes up.’

‘If you need anything, let me know,’ said Hoyle.

‘Just get me that lawyer, mate,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I lose my licence I’ll be well screwed.’

Nightingale spent most of Saturday asleep. He woke up at six o’clock that evening, cooked himself eggs and bacon and made himself a coffee, then watched Sky News as he ate. A large computer company had sacked two thousand workers, two high-street retailers had gone into receivership, and unemployment was heading towards three million. The pound was continuing to slump, the stock market was in the doldrums, and the tame economist that Sky had wheeled out said things would get worse before they improved.

When he’d finished eating he sat with his feet on the coffee-table, flicking through a hundred or so cable channels, unable to find anything that held his attention. He switched off the television and stared at the sideboard. A dozen photographs in various-sized frames stood on it. There was his graduation picture, in which he was wearing a robe and mortar board, his passing-out at Hendon Police College, a photograph of Robbie and Anna Hoyle on their wedding day and, to the right in a small group, three of his parents. He stared at the family portraits. The middle one was a wedding photograph, his mother in white holding a spray of flowers, his father in a grey suit, his arm around her waist. He was thirty-two when he married, and Nightingale’s mother had just turned twenty-five. She was pretty, with curly black hair and green eyes, which suggested Irish ancestry, and a sprinkling of freckles across her upturned nose. She was smiling at her husband in the same way that Nightingale had seen her look at him throughout his childhood. There had never been any doubt that she had loved him with all her heart. The photograph to the right of that one was smaller, in a silver frame. It was the first picture of Nightingale as a baby, wrapped in a soft white blanket, his cheeks red and his eyes closed, clasped by his mother who was held by his father, both gazing down at him with love and pride.

It was, Nightingale now realised, the start of the lie. He wasn’t their child: he had been given to them. On the day that photograph had been taken, they had been strangers with no connection to him, no family link, no DNA, just a man and a woman who had been given a baby. The child they were holding could have been anybody’s. Everything that had happened to Nightingale after that day, everything he had become, was based on a lie.

The third photograph had been taken outside Manchester United’s Old Trafford stadium. Nightingale was just twelve, flanked by his father and uncle, all three sporting red-and-white scarves. They were on their way to take their places in the stands. It was a few years before the stadium had been made all-seating and Nightingale’s father had always preferred to watch his football on his feet. A fellow supporter had taken the photograph with a camera that Nightingale’s father had given him the previous Christmas.

Nightingale stared at it. His uncle must have known. Good old Uncle Tommy. Laughing, joking Uncle Tommy, who always turned up with a present, a card and a bear-hug every birthday and Christmas, and had slipped him an envelope containing a thousand pounds the day Nightingale had headed off to university. Good old Uncle Tommy, who must have known about the lie right from the start. And Auntie Linda. They must have known because they’d have seen that his mother hadn’t been pregnant and that Nightingale had appeared from nowhere – and they had never let on, not even at the funeral. They had both been there, of course, standing either side of Nightingale as the two coffins were lowered into the ground. And neither of them had ever said anything about him being adopted, not then and not since.