Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘Coffee?’

‘Great.’ He put the cap back on the bottle and the bottle back in the drawer.

‘Where were you today?’ asked Jenny, as she went to make the coffee.

‘It’s a long story,’ said Nightingale, dropping onto his chair and swinging his feet up onto the desk. ‘I went to see Barry O’Brien, the taxi driver.’

‘And what did he have to say?’

‘Nothing. He was dead.’

‘What?’

‘He’d killed himself. Sat in the bath and slit his wrists.’

‘My God,’ said Jenny.

‘Must have done it a day or two ago. Maybe yesterday, while we were at Robbie’s funeral.’

Jenny brought over two mugs of coffee and gave him one. ‘You think he felt bad about what he’d done? Couldn’t live with himself?’

‘Chalmers thinks I did it.’

‘He what?’ She sat on the edge of his desk.

‘He had me in for questioning, along with the two cops who came to tell us about Robbie. Evans and Derbyshire. The three bloody musketeers. They were firing questions at me for hours.’

‘They can’t seriously think you did it, Jack. Anyway, you were at the funeral or you were with me.’

‘They do have a point, though,’ said Nightingale. ‘You know what’s been happening to me. My father, my real father, blows his head off with a shotgun. My uncle kills my aunt and hangs himself. Barry O’Brien cuts his wrists before I can talk to him. It doesn’t look good, does it? From their point of view. And that was before they mentioned Simon Underwood.’

‘They’re morons if they think you had anything to do with any of those deaths. Sometimes people can be so bloody stupid.’

‘Chalmers has always had it in for me,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t think he seriously believes I killed O’Brien – he just wants to make my life difficult. And he’s never forgiven me for the Underwood thing.’

‘They never charged you, did they, for what happened to Underwood?’

‘They couldn’t. There were no forensics, no witnesses, no CCTV. And I didn’t tell them anything.’ He shrugged. ‘What could I tell them? That I’d conveniently contracted a nasty case of amnesia?’ He flashed her his little-boy-lost smile. ‘I need you to do something for me, Jenny.’

‘I am here to serve, O master.’

‘I’m serious,’ said Nightingale.

‘So am I,’ said Jenny.

‘I need you to find someone for me. A guy by the name of George Harrison.’

‘The Beatle? He’s dead.’

‘George Arthur Harrison,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’d be in his early sixties now. He was a truck driver in the nineties. He lived in south London then, but he could be anywhere now.’

‘I’ll get on to it,’ said Jenny. ‘What’s he done?’

‘He killed my parents,’ said Nightingale.

‘Jack,’ said Jenny, ‘are you sure you want to do this? It was a long time ago.’

‘I know that,’ said Nightingale, ‘but it’s unfinished business.’

‘Unfinished in what way?’

‘I need to know what happened, Jenny. I need to know why my parents died.’

‘It was an accident. You should let sleeping dogs lie.’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘I should have spoken to him then, but I was too young, just a kid.’

‘What on earth do you stand to gain by confronting him now?’

Nightingale ran his hands through his hair. ‘I just need to do it, Jenny. Can’t you leave it at that?’

‘It’s because of Robbie, isn’t it? And because of what happened to O’Brien.’

‘That’s part of it,’ admitted Nightingale. ‘Bad things are happening around me, Jenny, and it’s all to do with Ainsley Gosling being my father. If I can find out what happened to my parents, maybe it’ll explain what’s happening now.’

‘It was an accident.’

‘That was what everyone said. But Robbie’s death was an accident, too. Doesn’t that seem a bit coincidental?’

‘Coincidences happen.’

‘Sure they do. And people commit murder and kill themselves. It’s just that it seems to be happening to people I know a hell of a lot recently. Maybe I’m the key. Maybe Gosling had my parents killed – have you thought about that? Maybe he paid this guy Harrison to kill them.’

‘And he paid O’Brien to kill Robbie from beyond the grave, is that what you think?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘But if I talk to Harrison maybe I’ll find out.’

‘You’re starting to worry me, Jack.’ The phone rang and she picked it up. ‘Nightingale Investigations,’ she said. She listened, then placed her hand over the receiver. ‘It’s Mrs Fraser at the Hillingdon Home. It’s about Rebecca Keeley.’

‘Now what?’ said Nightingale.

‘Jack, she’s dead.’

Mrs Fraser was sitting behind her desk when an assistant showed Nightingale into her office. The Australian male nurse was also there, his arms folded across his chest, his face a blank mask. Mrs Fraser didn’t get up and waved Nightingale to a chair.

‘What happened?’ asked Nightingale.

‘What happened, Mr Nightingale, is that after you visited her for the second time, your mother took a knife and slashed her wrists,’ said the administrator.

‘What was she doing with a knife?’

‘She was eating her dinner. Your mother wasn’t considered a danger to herself or anyone else, so the use of cutlery wasn’t an issue.’

‘Did she leave a note?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Do you have any idea why she did it?’

‘She did it because you upset her,’ said the male nurse. ‘She was fine before you came along.’

‘She was practically psychotic,’ said Nightingale. ‘According to you she never spoke, but she spoke to me.’

‘And then she killed herself,’ said the nurse. ‘What did you say to her?’

The administrator raised a hand to silence him. ‘Darren, please, let me handle this.’

‘What’s to be handled?’ asked Nightingale.

‘The thing is, Mr Nightingale, as things stand we have no confirmation that you are in fact Miss Keeley’s son.’

Nightingale reached into his jacket pocket and took out an envelope. ‘Here’s the result of the DNA test I told you about,’ he said. ‘It clearly shows she was my mother.’

Mrs Fraser took the report out of the envelope and read it. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘How did you get a sample of her DNA?’

‘I borrowed a hairbrush,’ said Nightingale. ‘The cells on the root of the hair are all they need these days.’

‘You stole a hairbrush?’

‘I borrowed it,’ said Nightingale. ‘And, as you can see, I’m quite definitely her son so there’s no problem at all in my visiting her.’

‘Your mother killed herself, Mr Nightingale,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘Questions are being asked as to how that happened, and it might be that our level of care is called into question.’ She gave the report back to him.

‘My mother was upset. I don’t see that anyone can blame you,’ said Nightingale.

‘She died in our care, which means we’re responsible,’ said Mrs Fraser.

‘Have the police been informed?’ asked Nightingale.

Mrs Fraser nodded. ‘Yes, but purely as a formality,’ she said.

‘She died in my arms,’ said the nurse. ‘I was holding her while she bled to death.’ There were tears in his eyes.

‘Did she say anything?’ asked Nightingale.

The nurse shook his head.

‘The point, Mr Nightingale, is that it was clearly your visits that upset Miss Keeley,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘I think we’re all agreed that prior to your visits she was calm, albeit uncommunicative. And afterwards…’

‘I understand,’ said Nightingale. ‘I certainly wouldn’t be in disagreement with you on that.’