Jack Nightingale 03 - Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  ‘There were no screams? No shouting?’

  ‘Down this way nobody bothers screaming when someone gets shot. You just go on your way. You don’t want to be a witness because witnesses have a way of ending up as casualties.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Okay. And he was shot around the corner? See, if he was shot in the back of the head, doesn’t that mean whoever shot Dwayne must have followed him around the corner?’

  ‘We didn’t see nothing,’ said the first doorman.

  ‘Yeah, but you wouldn’t know, would you? You wouldn’t have seen the shot fired but you might have seen the killer walking down the street after him or at the crossroads there.’ He pointed at the corner with his cigarette. ‘Guy follows Dwayne around the corner so if you’d been looking you’d have seen him.’

  ‘Wasn’t looking,’ said the first doorman. ‘We’re here to watch who’s coming in. Don’t much care about what goes on down the road.’

  ‘What about when he arrived? Was he here on his own?’

  The first doorman frowned and put his head on one side. ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  ‘How did he get here? Car? Cab? Walk?’

  The two doormen looked at each other and then they both shrugged. ‘It was six months ago,’ said the first doorman.

  ‘Car, I think,’ said the second doorman. ‘Big and black. Tinted windows.’

  ‘That sums up the wheels of pretty much every dealer in London,’ said the first doorman.

  ‘I’m just saying that I thought he came in a black four-wheel drive, that’s all.’

  ‘You don’t remember who was driving?’ asked Nightingale.

  The doorman shook his head. ‘I might not even be right about the car. It was six months ago.’

  ‘What about when he left? He was on his own, right?’

  The first doorman nodded. ‘Yeah, he came out talking on his mobile. He was looking for a car.’

  ‘A cab?’

  ‘No, he was carrying on because the car wasn’t there. Then he walked off.’

  ‘So someone was supposed to have picked him up?’

  ‘That’s the gist, yeah,’ said the first doorman.

  ‘And do you have any idea who he saw while he was inside?’

  The second doorman stamped his feet to keep warm. ‘We work the doors. You need to talk to the guys inside.’

  A minicab pulled up and four young men piled out and rushed up the stairs, giggling. One of them blew the doormen a kiss as he went by.

  Nightingale dropped his cigarette butt onto the ground. ‘Oh well,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’d better go in.’

  ‘It’s a tenner,’ said the first doorman. ‘That gets you in and two drinks. You pay at the top of the stairs.’

  ‘Thanks, guys,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I still think you’d have more fun on disco night,’ said the second doorman.

  ‘I’m not here for fun; I’m here to work,’ said Nightingale as he headed up the stairs.

  ‘Good luck with that,’ said the first doorman, and the two men laughed.

  34

  The upstairs bar was hot and airless and the music was loud enough to be almost painful. There was a dance floor at the far end of the room above which a giant mirrored ball was slowly turning. There were several dozen men dancing together and Nightingale couldn’t help but notice that they were all younger, better-looking and fitter than he was. Sweat was already beading on his forehead so he took off his raincoat and slung it over his shoulder. He pushed his way to the bar, which ran the full length of the room. Two young black men in tight white Tshirts and even tighter denim shorts were mixing cocktails as they swivelled their hips to the music and another was pulling glasses out of a dishwasher. Nightingale managed to catch the eye of an Asian barmaid with waist-length pigtails and mouthed ‘Corona’. He took his drink and managed to find a space close to a fire exit. To the left of the dance floor was a female DJ, a young black girl with a shaved head and giant hooped earrings, who looked as if she was in the grip of a perpetual epileptic fit. Any idea of showing Robinson’s photograph to the customers had gone out of the window. It was far too noisy to start asking questions and he doubted that they were the same crowd that would turn up for salsa night.

  As he sipped his lager a middle-aged man with receding hair and a ponytail appeared at his shoulder. He was wearing a pale blue V-neck sweater with damp stains under the arms and leather jeans. He was also holding a bottle of Corona and he held it up and smiled at Nightingale. ‘Snap,’ he said.

  Nightingale nodded and raised his bottle. ‘Breakfast of champions,’ he said.

  He looked across at the dance floor. In the middle was a young punk girl in black leather, her head lowered but her black eyes staring straight at him. Proserpine. Her black and white collie was sitting next to her, its tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. Nightingale frowned. There was no way that a dog would have been allowed into the bar. Two men moved together to hug in front of her, and when they moved apart Proserpine and the dog had gone. Nightingale blinked, not sure if he’d really seen her or if he’d imagined it.

  ‘Do you want to dance?’ asked the man, moving his hips suggestively.

  ‘Not really my thing,’ said Nightingale. The music seemed to increase in volume so he put his head closer to the man’s ear. He caught a whiff of expensive aftershave. ‘Any idea where I can smoke?’ he asked.

  The man winked and slipped his arm around Nightingale’s waist. ‘You don’t waste any time, do you?’ He nodded at the sign to the Gents. ‘We can do it in there,’ he said.

  Nightingale frowned, then he laughed when he realised what the man meant. He fished out his pack of Marlboro and showed it to him and the man laughed too.

  ‘Ah, wrong end of the stick,’ he said, releasing his grip on Nightingale. He pointed to a doorway on the other side of the bar. ‘There’s a terrace upstairs.’

  Nightingale gave him a thumbs up then threaded his way to the door and up a flight of stairs leading to a small decked terrace that overlooked the alley at the rear of the building. There was a brick wall around the edge of the terrace and at each corner there was a large propane patio heater with orange flames flickering under black metal canopies.

  In the middle of the terrace were a dozen or so smokers huddled around two waist-high tables. The smokers had split into sexes with four women standing around one table and the men at the other. Nightingale lit a cigarette. A blonde waitress dressed all in black came up the stairs carrying a tray and she began collecting empty glasses and bottles.

  ‘Busy night?’ he asked.

  ‘Busy every night,’ she said. She had an East European accent.

  They both looked up as they heard a helicopter fly overhead, playing a searchlight over the rooftops.

  ‘Are you Polish?’ he asked the waitress.

  ‘Hungarian,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sorry I’m Hungarian? Why? You don’t like Hungarians?’

  ‘No, I meant I’m sorry I was wrong.’

  Her face broke into a grin, showing uneven greyish teeth. ‘I was joking with you.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘You got me. How long have you been working here?’

  ‘A year,’ she said. ‘Daytime I study computers.’ She finished loading her tray and was about to head downstairs when he pulled out the photograph of Robinson and Smith and showed it to her.

  He tapped Robinson’s face. ‘This guy here, he was at the salsa night last July. He was shot outside.’

  She bit down on her lower lip as she studied the photograph. ‘I remember, yes.’

  A siren burst into life in the distance. An ambulance.

  ‘You remember him? Or you remember him being shot?’

  ‘Both,’ said the waitress. ‘Salsa night.’

  ‘Was he dancing?’

  She shook her head. ‘He was up here.’

  ‘Smoking?’

  She shook her head again. ‘That’s why I remember. He w
as standing over there,’ she said and gestured at the far corner of the terrace where two middle-aged men in matching camouflage shirts and cargo pants were French kissing. ‘He asked for a bottle of champagne, Cristal, which is why I remember. And he gave me a big tip.’

  Nightingale put the picture away. ‘You told the police this?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, they spoke to all the staff. They wanted to know if he’d been with someone but he was here on his own.’

  ‘He didn’t talk to anyone?’

  ‘He chatted to two men for a while but they weren’t with him. I saw them shaking hands and then they left.’

  ‘And you told the police that?’

  She nodded again. ‘They showed me some photographs but I didn’t know their names. They do drink here sometimes, though.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I think they sell drugs, you know.’

  ‘But they left first, right?’

  ‘I’m not sure if they left or if they were just up here to smoke and then went downstairs.’

  ‘But after they went downstairs, Dwayne stayed here?’

  ‘For a while. He kept looking at his watch.’

  ‘So he was waiting for someone?’

  ‘I think so. That’s what it looked like.’

  ‘And then he left and that’s when he got shot?’

  She shrugged. ‘I guess so. I was down in the main bar when he left. The bottle was still half-full. I remember leaving it there for an hour just in case he came back, but he didn’t.’

  Nightingale thanked her and gave her a twenty-pound note. He finished his lager and cigarette and then left the nightclub and headed back to his car.

  There was a young couple lying in sleeping bags in a shop doorway, their arms wrapped around each other. By their feet was a paper cup with loose change in it and a handwritten cardboard sign. Nightingale jumped as he saw what was written on the cardboard in capital letters: ‘PLEASE HELP ME, JACK.’ He took a step back and slipped off the pavement. A black cab missed him by inches, the slipstream tugging at his raincoat. Nightingale stepped back onto the pavement, his heart racing. He looked again at the piece of cardboard. It said: ‘HOMELESS – PLEASE HELP’ and there was a smiley face.

  The girl opened her eyes and sneered at him. ‘What are you looking at, pervert?’

  ‘What?’ said Nightingale. ‘Nothing.’ He put his hand into his pocket, pulled out a handful of change and dropped it into the paper cup. The girl closed her eyes and snuggled up to her boyfriend.

  As Nightingale walked away he phoned Perry Smith and asked him for Dwayne Robinson’s mobile phone number.

  ‘What, that’s your plan?’ said Smith. ‘Phone up the dead guy and ask him who shot him? It’s no wonder you stopped being a cop.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Nightingale. ‘He made a call just before he was shot. I want to find out who he spoke to.’

  ‘You can do that?’

  ‘Yeah, Perry, I can do that. Now give me the number and stop wasting my seventy-two hours.’

  ‘No can do,’ said Perry. ‘He used throwaways, and he made a big thing about it. He didn’t just toss the Sim card; he’d dump the phone as well. He said that these days they can track a phone no matter what Sim card’s in it.’

  ‘So you don’t know the number of the phone he had that night?’

  ‘That’s what I just said, innit?’

  ‘Shit,’ said Nightingale. The line went dead.

  Nightingale waited until he was back in his Bayswater flat before phoning Dan Evans.

  ‘Hell’s bells, it’s after midnight,’ groaned Evans.

  ‘Were you asleep?’

  ‘I’m on the school run tomorrow because the missus isn’t feeling well. So yes, I was asleep.’

  ‘Sorry, mate, but I didn’t want to call you in the office, me being persona non grata and all.’

  Evans sighed. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Dwayne Robinson had a mobile phone on him when he was killed.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It was a throwaway, a pay-as-you-go. I need the number.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t ask and I won’t tell,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Please don’t tell me you’re going to be playing fast and loose with the Data Protection Act.’

  ‘That’s why I said not to ask. Have you got the number?’

  ‘Not with me, no. I’ll give you a bell tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re a star, Dan. Sweet dreams.’

  35

  Dan Evans was as good as his word and first thing on Friday morning he called Nightingale’s office and gave him the number of the mobile phone that had been found on Dwayne Robinson’s body. Nightingale had contacts at most of the large mobile phone companies. The first guy he called was able to tell him which firm handled Robinson’s number and the second guy agreed to get a list of calls made to and from the phone for his normal fee of £250. Nightingale made coffee for himself and Jenny, read the Sun and Private Eye, smoked three cigarettes and then decided that he would go and see Anna Hoyle.

  ‘If anything needs doing, give me a call,’ he told Jenny.

  ‘Will you be back today or are you away for the weekend?’

  ‘I probably won’t be back today,’ said Nightingale. ‘You might as well knock off early yourself.’

  ‘Is everything okay, Jack?’

  ‘Sure, why?’

  ‘I don’t know. You just seem . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Unenthusiastic. Like you’re bored with the business.’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m not sleeping well, that’s all.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Really.’

  ‘It’s Sophie, isn’t it? Are you still having dreams about her?’

  ‘Nightmares, more like. It’s okay. It’ll pass.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I still think you should talk this through with someone.’

  ‘Like Barbara, you mean?’

  ‘Barbara’s a psychologist, though I’m sure she could help. But I was thinking of a therapist, maybe.’

  Nightingale laughed. ‘You are joking, right?’

  ‘You’re not sleeping. You keep talking about this Sophie. And you’ve had a very stressful few weeks.’

  ‘I’m a big boy, Jenny.’

  ‘That’s the problem, right there. You’ve got this macho man thing going on. Like nothing affects you. But look what you’ve been through. You find out that your mum and dad weren’t your real parents. Your biological father blows his head off with a shotgun. Then your uncle kills your aunt and then kills himself. Then your biological mother kills herself. And—’

  Nightingale held up his hand to silence her. ‘I get it, I get it,’ he said.

  ‘There you go again,’ she said. ‘You just don’t want to talk about it. But that simply means you’re burying it. If you don’t talk about stuff like that it’ll fester in your subconscious and come out in some other way.’

  ‘Where are you getting this from? The Discovery Channel?’

  ‘And then you make a joke about it. But it’s not funny.’

  ‘I know it’s not funny.’

  ‘At some point you’re going to have to deal with what happened.’

  ‘You think I’ve got PTSD, is that it? Post-traumatic stress disorder?’

  ‘I’m not saying that, Jack. I’m just saying that maybe you should think about talking it through with someone. Someone who knows about stress.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

  ‘No you won’t,’ she said. ‘You’ll just go on your own sweet way.’

  36

  Nightingale walked around to the multi-storey car park where he’d left his MGB and drove south of the river. There were no spaces in the street outside Anna Hoyle’s neat semi-detached house in Raynes Park and he had to park a good five-minute walk away. It started to rain as he walked up to the front door and he jogged the last few yards and pressed the doorbell.

  Anna opened
the door. Her blonde hair was clipped back and there were dark patches under her eyes as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. She wasn’t wearing make-up and he could see that she’d been biting her nails.

  ‘Jack, lovely to see you,’ she said. ‘Come on in, out of the rain.’ She closed the door behind him and pecked him on the cheek. ‘It seems like ages since I’ve seen you.’

  Nightingale felt his cheeks redden. The last time he’d seen her had been at Robbie’s funeral. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been worked off my feet,’ he said, but he grimaced as he realised how lame that sounded. He took off his raincoat. ‘Are the kids around?’ he asked.

  ‘Sarah’s at a sleepover with a couple of her friends and the twins are napping.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘Come on into the kitchen. Do you want coffee? Or wine? I was going to open a bottle of wine.’

  ‘Bit early for me, love, but coffee would be great,’ he said, hanging his coat on the back of the door. He did a double take as he saw Robbie’s coat hanging there.

  ‘I know,’ she said, catching his look. ‘I can’t bring myself to throw it away. It’s funny: when I come in and see it my heart always skips a beat, like he’s back, then my stomach lurches as I remember . . .’ She put a hand up to her face. ‘I’m sorry, Jack, you’re only just in the door and look at me, the grieving widow.’

  She took him through to the kitchen and ushered him over to a chair. The washing machine was on, just about to go into the spin cycle. Anna switched on the kettle.

  ‘How is everything?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘There’re good days and bad days,’ said Anna, spooning coffee into a cafetière. She forced a smile. ‘Mainly bad, actually.’

  ‘And the girls?’

  ‘Sarah’s just shut down. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t do anything really. It’s as if a part of her died along with Robbie. I had to practically drag her into the car to get her to the sleepover.’

  Nightingale felt tears prick his eyes. He felt totally helpless knowing that there was nothing he could say or do that would come close to easing the pain she was going through.

  ‘The twins are okay, but they just don’t understand. They keep asking when Daddy’s coming back and I tell them that Daddy’s up in heaven, so then they say that they want to go to see him there.’ She put her hands up to her face as if she was wiping away tears, but her eyes were dry.