Midnight

by Stephen Leather

  Nightingale rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I was misinformed.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the superintendent. ‘You most definitely were. Connie was born in Bryn Beryl Hospital in Pwllheli, and I can assure you that there was no adoption involved.’

  ‘If that’s true then I was given a bum tip. It happens.’

  ‘If it wasn’t true then I wouldn’t be saying it,’ said the superintendent. ‘I’m not in the habit of lying. So you’re based in London?’

  Nightingale nodded. The superintendent pointed at the tape recorder and opened his mouth to speak but Nightingale beat him to it. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And before that you were a policeman?’

  ‘For my sins, yes.’

  ‘You were with SO19, right?’

  ‘CO19. It used to be SO19 but they changed it to CO19 a few years back. The firearms unit. Yeah.’

  ‘You were an inspector?’

  It was clear that the superintendent had already seen his file. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was an inspector.’

  ‘Until that incident at Canary Wharf?’

  Nightingale smiled sarcastically and nodded again.

  ‘People have a habit of dying around you, don’t they, Nightingale?’

  ‘She had already hanged herself by the time I got there. I had never met the woman, never set eyes on her before today.’

  ‘Let’s leave Connie where she is for the time being,’ said the superintendent. ‘For now let’s talk about Simon Underwood.’

  ‘With respect, that’s out of your jurisdiction,’ said Nightingale. ‘Way out.’

  ‘Paedophile, wasn’t he? Interfering with his daughter, according to the Press. She killed herself while you were talking to her?’

  ‘Where are you going with this, Superintendent? I’d hate to think that you were opening old wounds just for the hell of it.’

  ‘I’m simply pointing out that you have a track record as far as dead bodies are concerned. Simon Underwood went through the window of his office while he was talking to you. Sophie Underwood jumped off a balcony. Your uncle took an axe to his wife and then killed himself not long before you went around to their house. Bodies do have a tendency to pile up around you.’

  ‘Can I smoke?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Of course you can’t bloody well smoke,’ snapped the superintendent. ‘Last time I looked Wales was still part of the United Kingdom and in the UK we don’t allow smoking in public buildings or places of work.’

  ‘Can we take a break, then? I need a cigarette.’

  The superintendent leaned back in his chair. ‘You know smoking kills,’ he said.

  ‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. ‘Ten minutes? It’s either that or you’ll have to charge me because I’m not going to continue helping you with your enquiries unless I have a cigarette first.’

  3

  A cold wind blew through Nightingale’s paper suit and he shivered. ‘If I get a cold I’ll bloody well sue you,’ he muttered. He and the superintendent were standing in the car park at the rear of the police station. A patrol car had just driven in and large blue metal gates were rattling shut behind it. There were two white police vans and half a dozen four-door saloons parked against the high wall that surrounded the car park.

  ‘You’re the one that wanted a cigarette,’ said the superintendent. He took a pack of Silk Cut from his jacket pocket, flipped back the top and offered it to Nightingale.

  ‘I’m a Marlboro man, myself,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Your fags are in an evidence bag so if you want a smoke you’ll have to make do with one of mine,’ said the superintendent. He took the pack away but Nightingale reached out his hand. The superintendent smiled and held out the pack again.

  ‘I wouldn’t have had you down as a smoker,’ said Nightingale. The superintendent struck a match and Nightingale cupped his hands around the flame as he lit his cigarette.

  The superintendent lit his own cigarette with the same match, then flicked it away. ‘I used to be a forty-a-day man when they allowed us to smoke in the office,’ he said. ‘These days I’m lucky if I get through six.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘The wife won’t let me smoke in the house either. Tells me that secondary smoke kills. I keep telling her that the fry-up she makes me eat every morning is more likely to kill me than tobacco, but what can you do? Wives know best, that’s the order of things.’ The superintendent took a long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke at the sky. ‘What I can’t understand,’ he said, ‘is if the only two people in a room want to smoke, why the hell they just can’t get on with it. Do you have any idea how many man hours we lose a year in cigarette breaks?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘A lot?’

  ‘A hell of a lot. Assuming the average detective smokes ten during his shift, and each cigarette takes five minutes, that’s almost an hour a day. Half a shift a week wasted. And do you know how many of my guys smoke?’

  ‘Most?’

  ‘Yeah, most,’ said the superintendent. He took another long drag. ‘My first boss, back in the day, kept a bottle of Glenlivet in the bottom drawer of his desk and every time we had a result the bottle came out. Do that these days and you’d be out on your ear. Can’t drink on the job, can’t smoke, can’t even eat a sandwich at your desk. What do they think, that we can’t drink and smoke and do police work?’

  ‘It’s the way of the world,’ agreed Nightingale. ‘The Nanny State.’

  ‘Another five years and I’m out of it,’ said the superintendent. ‘I’ll have done my thirty. Full pension.’

  ‘It’s not the job it was,’ said Nightingale.

  The superintendent sighed and nodded. ‘You never said a truer word,’ he said. ‘Tell me something. Did you throw that kiddy-fiddler through the window? Tapes off, man to man, detective to former firearms officer – you threw him out, right?’

  Nightingale flicked ash onto the tarmac. ‘Allegedly,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t give me that allegedly bullshit,’ said the superintendent. ‘If you did do it, I’d sympathise. I’ve got three kids, and even though they’re fully grown God help anyone who even thought about causing them grief. What about you, Nightingale? Kids?’

  ‘Never been married,’ said Nightingale. ‘Never met a woman who could stand me long enough to get pregnant.’

  ‘Yeah, I could see you’d be an acquired taste.’ He chuckled and inhaled smoke.

  ‘When can I get my clothes back?’ asked Nightingale. ‘I feel a right twat in this paper suit.’

  ‘If your clothing is evidence, you’ll never get it back,’ said the superintendent. He grinned. ‘I don’t see what the problem is – white suits you.’ He jabbed his cigarette at Nightingale’s chest. ‘Wonder if those things are flameproof?’

  Nightingale jumped back. ‘That’s not funny,’ he said, brushing off the ash.

  The superintendent dropped what was left of his cigarette onto the ground and squashed it with his foot. ‘This tip about Connie being your sister. Where did that come from?’

  ‘A friend,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘How could he have got it so wrong?’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’ve been asking myself the same question.’

  ‘Who is this friend? Is he in the Job?’

  ‘Robbie Hoyle. An inspector with the TSG.’

  ‘One of the heavy mob, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. You could say that. But he was a negotiator too. Same as me.’

  ‘I’ll need Inspector Hoyle’s number.’

  Nightingale’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

  ‘To check out your story,’ said the superintendent. ‘If he confirms that he sent you here on a wild goose chase, it helps your case.’

  ‘There is no case,’ said Nightingale. ‘I found her hanging there when I went into the house.’

  ‘And if Inspector Hoyle says that he sent you to the house that gives you the reason for being there. Without confirmation from him you’re still in the wro
ng place at the wrong time.’

  Nightingale pulled on his cigarette. ‘I’m not sure that Robbie would back me up.’

  ‘Abusing the CRO database, was he?’

  Nightingale flicked away his cigarette butt. ‘Robbie’s dead,’ he said.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘RTA,’ said Nightingale. ‘A stupid, senseless accident. He was on his mobile and he stepped out in front of a taxi.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the superintendent. ‘Did you tell anyone else that you were coming to Abersoch to see Connie Miller?’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘My assistant. Jenny McLean.’

  ‘And where is she at the moment?’

  ‘London. Holding the fort.’

  ‘And if I were to telephone this Jenny McLean she would confirm your story, would she?’

  ‘She knew I was coming to Abersoch and why, yes. She helped me track down her address.’

  The superintendent frowned. ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘All I had was a first name. Constance. And the town. Abersoch. Jenny helped me track down the address. She’s good with databases.’

  ‘And she’ll confirm this, will she?’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Nightingale. ‘I really, really hope so.’

  Thomas gestured at the door. ‘Okay, let’s get back to it.’

  4

  Mia sipped her caramel latte and stared longingly at the packet of Rothmans on the table. Coffee and cigarettes went together like fish and chips, and coffee never tasted right if she wasn’t smoking. She looked out through the window at the three metal tables and chairs that had been set up on the pavement. She desperately wanted a cigarette but it was freezing cold outside and the weather forecast had been for snow. She hated winter, especially an English winter. She shivered and looked over at the customers queuing up to buy coffee. The door opened and as a cold wind blew into the shop a man joined the end of the queue. He was in his early thirties, maybe five years older than her, tall with jet-black hair and pale white skin. He was wearing a long overcoat that looked like cashmere and a bright red scarf around his neck.

  She stared out of the window again for a while, and when she looked back at the queue the man had gone. She twisted around the other way and saw him sitting in an armchair by the toilets. He caught her look and smiled. She flashed him a tight smile and looked away. She picked up her pack of cigarettes and toyed with it. A grey-haired old woman sitting at the next table glared at her with open hostility as if she was daring Mia to light up. Mia scowled at her.

  There was a mirror on one wall and she could see the man’s reflection. As she watched, he took a coin from his pocket, flipped it into the air and caught it. He slapped it down onto the back of his left hand, and then grinned as he looked at it. He put the coin back in his pocket, picked up his coffee mug, and walked over. Mia pretended not to see him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. She turned to look at him. ‘I just had to come over and say hello.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘Fate,’ he said. ‘My name is Chance.’

  ‘Chance?’

  ‘As in Chance would be a fine thing. May I join you?’

  For a moment she thought of saying no, but then he smiled and she waved at the chair on the opposite side of the table. ‘It’s a free country,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it used to be,’ he said, and sat down, carefully adjusting the crease of his trousers. ‘I didn’t get your name.’

  ‘Mia,’ she said. ‘Is Chance your real name?’

  ‘It’s the name I answer to,’ he said. He had the most amazingly blue eyes. The blue of the sky on a crisp autumn morning, Mia thought.

  ‘So it’s like a nickname?’

  ‘Sort of,’ he said.

  She sipped her coffee and watched him over the rim of her mug. He had the chiselled good looks of a TV soap star. A doctor in Holby City, maybe. She put her mug back down on the table. ‘What was that thing you did, with the coin?’

  He shrugged as if he didn’t know what she was referring to.

  ‘Come on, you know what I mean,’ she said. ‘You were looking at me and then you tossed a coin and then you came over.’

  ‘And what do you think happened?’

  She giggled. ‘I think you weren’t sure whether or not you wanted to talk to me so you tossed a coin to decide. Am I right?’

  He shrugged carelessly. ‘Sort of,’ he said. ‘I’d already decided that I wanted to talk to you, but I let the coin choose whether or not to follow through on what I wanted.’

  She frowned. ‘That’s the same, right?’

  ‘As near as makes no odds,’ he said.

  ‘And you do that a lot?’ she asked. ‘Toss a coin to decide what to do?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ he said. ‘Always. And not just any old coin.’ He put his hand in his pocket and took out a fifty-pence piece. ‘This one.’

  She held out her hand and he gave it to her. She examined both sides but she couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. ‘It’s just fifty pence,’ she said.

  He took it back, made a fist of his hand and kissed the knuckles before putting the coin back in his pocket.

  ‘Are you serious?’ she said. ‘You let the coin make all your decisions?’

  He shrugged again. ‘It’s more complicated than that, Mia,’ he said. ‘I give it choices, and it decides whether or not I proceed. That way fate takes responsibility for my actions.’

  ‘So you toss a coin to see if you’ll order a latte or a cappuccino?’

  ‘Not a coin. The coin. And no, I only ask it to decide on the important things.’

  ‘Like whether or not to talk to me?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. He clinked his coffee mug against hers. ‘That was one of the big decisions of my life.’

  She laughed and put her hand up to cover her mouth. Her fingernails were painted the same garish pink as her lips. ‘You could have just come over,’ she said. ‘I would have talked to you anyway.’

  ‘You’re missing the point,’ he said. ‘If I’d just walked over, everything that happened would have been my responsibility. But doing it this way, the coin is responsible. Do you see?’

  ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘But what’s special about it? It’s just a fifty-pence piece.’

  ‘It’s not special,’ he said. ‘It’s just that it has to be consistent. It has to be the same coin every time or it won’t work.’

  ‘What won’t work?’

  Chance sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his neck. ‘If I used different coins that would be just luck. What I do has nothing to do with luck, it’s all about fate.’ He winked. ‘So do you live near here, Mia?’

  ‘Just down the road,’ she said. ‘I always have a coffee here on the way back from Tesco.’ She pointed at the supermarket carrier bags at her feet.

  He removed his hands from behind his neck and fished the coin out of his pocket. He held it in the flat of his right hand and smiled at her.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  He flipped the coin, caught it deftly in his right hand and slapped it down onto the back of his left.

  ‘Heads,’ she said.

  Chance shook his head. ‘It’s not your call,’ he said. He removed his hand. The coin had landed heads side up.

  ‘I was right,’ she said, jiggling her shoulders from side to side like an excited child.

  Chance smiled and put away the coin. ‘Mia, why don’t I help you carry your bags home?’

  ‘You want to come home with me?’

  ‘Sure.’ He drained his coffee and got to his feet.

  ‘Is that why you tossed the coin? To see whether or not you wanted to go home with me?’

  Chance reached down and picked up her bags. ‘That’s right.’

  She laughed and again her hand flew up to cover her mouth. ‘You’re crazy,’ she said.

  He grinned. ‘Mia, you don’t know the half of it,’ he said.

  ‘What if it had landed tails?’

&n
bsp; ‘Then I’d have finished my coffee and left.’

  She stood up and linked her arm through his. ‘It’s my lucky day,’ she said.

  Mia lived in a mansion block in a quiet street ten minutes’ walk from the coffee shop. Chance carried her bags of shopping for her and made small talk as they walked, asking about her family, what she liked to watch on television, and where she liked to go of an evening. He listened intently and agreed with everything she said, which Mia took as a good sign. He was different from the type of men who generally tried to chat her up. He was good-looking and well dressed and he seemed genuinely interested in what she thought. It was only when she put the key into the lock of the door to the block that she realised she had spent the entire walk talking about herself. Other than that his name was Chance and he liked to toss a coin, she knew nothing about him. She looked over at him and he flashed her a movie-star smile.

  ‘Okay?’ he asked, as if sensing her momentary unease.

  She smiled back. ‘You’re not a serial killer, are you?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I am.’ His face broke into a grin. ‘Mia, you’re crazy.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ she said. ‘It’s just that you’re too good to be true. I don’t know when the last time was that a man offered to carry my bags.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ he said. ‘And you don’t have to invite me in. I can take a rain check.’

  She opened the door but kept her hand on the key. He was right. She wasn’t under any pressure. It was totally her choice and whatever happened was her decision. She didn’t usually take strange men back to her home. But then most of the men who approached her were pigs, out for only one thing. Chance was different; there was no doubt about that. He was better looking, better dressed, and was obviously way smarter than anyone she knew. She smiled at him again and he flashed his movie-star smile back at her. Something her mother always said sprang into her mind. Opportunity knocks only once. If she turned him down now, she might never see him again. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘I’ve got wine in the fridge. You can help me drink it.’