Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘Hand on heart, Jenny, I don’t remember what happened to the father. I don’t remember if he jumped or if I pushed him. There’s a gap in my memory, just a few seconds, but no matter how many times I replay it in my mind, I can’t remember what happened. It feels like I pushed him – I know I wanted to and I know he deserved to die the way Sophie died, but I can’t remember doing it. But the one thing I can remember is what he said to me. Or screamed at me, more like.’ He forced a smile. ‘He yelled at me that I was going to hell. Not a curse, not an insult, but like he knew it was a fact.’

‘It’s an expression, Jack.’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘He meant it. And I remember him saying it as clear as if he was standing here right now. But I don’t remember what happened after that. The next thing I do remember I was downstairs, heading towards my car. He said it, and I saw it just then, on the fortune that came out of my cookie.’

‘But it doesn’t say that, Jack.’

‘Not now it doesn’t. But it did when I looked at it. It did, Jenny. I swear.’

‘Maybe your subconscious is playing tricks. You heard about Robbie, it made you think about sudden death, and your subconscious replayed what happened two years ago and muddled things up.’

‘Since when were you a psychiatrist?’

‘It’s common sense. We’ve both been under stress since we found out what happened to Robbie. And stress does funny things to people.’

Nightingale drank the rest of his beer. ‘I still can’t believe Robbie’s dead. You know, I’ve known him almost ten years. We were at Hendon together.’

‘He was a nice guy,’ said Jenny.

‘He was a better cop than me,’ said Nightingale. ‘A better human being, too. A husband, a father. He didn’t deserve to die like that.’

‘Nobody deserves to die,’ said Jenny. ‘It was just a stupid accident.’

‘He was leaving a message for me when he was hit by the cab,’ said Nightingale. ‘Maybe if I’d answered the phone it wouldn’t have happened. Do you want another beer? One for the road?’

Jenny shook her head. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘It was an accident, Jack. You have to stop blaming yourself. And at least it was quick. He didn’t suffer.’

‘That’s bollocks,’ said Nightingale. ‘They always say that. “At least he didn’t suffer. At least it was quick.” One moment they’re there and then they’re gone. Bang. Thank you and good night.’

‘But isn’t that better than lying in a hospital bed wired up to a life-support machine?’

‘There’s too much unfinished business. There’s no time to prepare yourself, or to prepare the people you care for. Sudden death just rips people away. It leaves too many unanswered questions.’ Nightingale opened his wallet and dropped three twenty-pound notes onto the saucer. ‘I need a smoke,’ he said. ‘And don’t worry, I won’t be driving.’

Jenny picked up the money and gave it back to him. ‘My treat, remember?’

‘Thanks.’ He returned the notes to his wallet.

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Secondary smoke kills,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want you on my conscience.’

Jenny opened her mouth to argue but Nightingale held up his hand to silence her. ‘I just want to be on my own,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I need to think.’

‘And you can’t think when I’m around? Jack, you can’t always push people away like this.’

‘I’m not pushing anyone away,’ he said.

‘No, you’re running away, and that’s worse. You can’t solve your problems by running away from them.’

Nightingale headed for the door. ‘Watch me,’ he said.

First thing on Tuesday morning the forensics lab phoned Jenny. When she’d hung up she hurried into Nightingale’s office. ‘The lab came back with the results,’ she said. ‘Rebecca Keeley’s your mother.’

‘There’s no doubt?’ said Nightingale.

‘Only that one in six billion nonsense,’ said Jenny. ‘She’s your birth-mother, no question of it. They’re sending me a fax to confirm it and their bill.’

‘Will petty cash cover it?’ asked Nightingale, hopefully.

‘It might if we had any,’ said Jenny. ‘We’ll need a cheque.’

Jenny’s computer beeped to tell her that she had received an email. She went over to her desk while Nightingale phoned Hillingdon Home and spoke to Mrs Fraser, who told him that Miss Keeley had slept through the night and now seemed much calmer. Nightingale explained that, following a DNA test, he was now sure that Rebecca Keeley was his mother, but thought better of mentioning that he’d stolen the hairbrush. Mrs Fraser said she had no objections to Nightingale visiting again. This time he didn’t take flowers, but he had with him an old photograph album.

The male nurse met him in Reception and explained that his mother was sitting in the garden. It wasn’t so much a garden as a patch of grass with a couple of wooden benches, a rockery filled with heathers of various hues, and a stone birdbath covered with sparrow droppings. Nightingale’s mother was on one of the benches, wearing a tweed coat and a purple headscarf. She was staring at the birdbath and stroking the crucifix around her neck.

‘I like her to get some fresh air now and again,’ said the nurse. ‘I’ll take her back inside in half an hour.’ He pointed at a large picture window overlooking the garden. Three old women were sitting in armchairs, staring blankly through the glass. ‘I’ll be in the residents’ lounge,’ he said. ‘If she starts getting agitated again, I’ll have to end the visit.’

‘I understand,’ said Nightingale.

He went over to the bench and sat down next to her, unbuttoning his raincoat. He had the photograph album on his lap and said hello, but she ignored him.

‘It’s me, Jack,’ he said. ‘I’ve come back to see you.’

There was no sign that she was aware he was there. He opened the album. The first picture was of himself at only a few days old, wrapped in a white cloth, his eyes wide open. ‘This is me, not long after I was born,’ he said. He pushed the album towards her. ‘Do you remember me as a baby? Did you see me when I was born or did he take me away from you straight away? I know you’re my mother, Rebecca. I checked. There’s no doubt. I’m your son.’

The woman looked down at the picture, still rubbing the crucifix between her thumb and first finger.

‘Do you recognise me, Rebecca? Do you recognise the baby in this picture?’

‘Edward?’ she whispered.

‘Edward? Is that the name you gave me? Is that what you called me? My name’s Jack now, Jack Nightingale.’ He turned the page. There were six photographs across the spread, different views of his parents holding him. ‘These are the people who took care of me, Rebecca. Bill and Irene Nightingale, my parents.’

She reached out and gently touched the pictures one by one with her left hand, holding the crucifix tightly in the right.

‘Do you remember, Rebecca?’ asked Nightingale, in a soft whisper. ‘Do you remember holding me when I was born? Did you kiss me?’

He turned the page. The next set of photographs was of himself at two weeks old, tiny and defenceless. He flicked through the pages and showed her one of him smiling. He’d always been a happy baby, according to his mother. Happy and smiling and as good as gold.

A single tear trickled down Rebecca Keeley’s cheek.

Nightingale reached across and held her left hand. ‘Why did you give me away?’ he asked.

She shook her head slowly. Nightingale wasn’t sure if she hadn’t understood his question or was denying what he’d said.

‘What was the money for? The twenty thousand pounds?’