Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  ‘If I was with the cops, I’d hardly have come in here on my own, would I?’

  Smith glared at Nightingale, his nostrils flaring as he breathed slowly. Nightingale could feel his heart pounding but he was pretty sure that the gangster wasn’t going to pull the trigger. Not one hundred per cent certain, but close enough that he managed to force a smile.

  ‘I just want to talk, Perry.’

  Smith scowled but released his grip on Nightingale’s coat and slowly took the gun away. He released the hammer with his thumb but kept the gun aimed at Nightingale’s face. He was wearing a silver tracksuit and gold Nikes, with several large gold chains on both wrists.

  ‘You do know who I am, then?’ said Nightingale.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ asked Smith

  ‘You do know me. Last time we met you were wearing a Puffa jacket and a ski mask and you had a MAC-10 in your hand,’ said Nightingale. ‘You couldn’t fire the thing to save your life but you did manage to hit an innocent bystander and scare the shit out of a lot of shoppers.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Smith. ‘I don’t know you.’

  ‘I came here to talk,’ said Nightingale. He gestured at one of the sofas. ‘Can I sit down?’

  Smith nodded. As Nightingale sat down a big man in an LA Lakers shirt and baggy jeans came down the stairs and into the hall, holding a Glock against the side of his leg. He joined the first heavy at the door and they both glared contemptuously at Nightingale, who smiled and raised his hands. ‘Please don’t rape me,’ he said.

  Smith grinned and so did the man with the Glock. ‘He’s funny, isn’t he?’ asked Smith, waving his gun at Nightingale.

  ‘Yeah, funny as fuck,’ said the man. He tucked the gun in the waistband of his trousers.

  Smith placed his weapon on the coffee table, then reached for the TV remote and muted the sound.

  ‘You remember me now?’ Nightingale said to Smith. The heavy in the Lakers shirt went to stand by the windows. They were covered with dark oak blinds and the heavy peered through the slats, checking the street outside.

  Smith wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘You used to be Five-O, didn’t you?’ he said.

  ‘In another life,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m self-employed now.’

  Smith laughed, showing several gold teeth at the back of his mouth. ‘Ain’t we all these days. What do you want, Birdman?’

  Nightingale heard a soft footfall on the stairs and another heavy appeared, a big man with a shaved head. He was wearing a Nike tracksuit and a gold chain around his neck that was as thick as Nightingale’s thumb. He dropped down on the third sofa, his head bobbing back and forth. He had earphones in and an iPod strapped to a bulging forearm.

  ‘I want to talk to you about Dwayne and about what happened in Queensway,’ said Nightingale.

  Smith’s eyes narrowed. ‘You wearing a wire?’

  ‘Why would I be wearing a wire?’

  Smith nodded at the heavy on the sofa. ‘Take his clothes off,’ he told him.

  ‘What?’ said the man. Smith mimed taking out the headphones. The man did as he was told. ‘What?’ he repeated.

  Smith gestured at Nightingale. ‘Strip him.’

  Nightingale held up his hands. ‘Whoa!’ he said. ‘I’ve already been patted down out there. You can pat me down again if you want. But it’s a waste of time, I’m not wired.’

  ‘Technology they’ve got these days, you could have the mike up your arse and picking up everything we say. Your choice, Jack-Shit. Get naked or the boys will take you for a ride.’ He reached for his gun.

  ‘Perry, I’m here to talk not to screw you over.’

  ‘If you want to talk I need to know that it’s safe,’ said Smith. He gestured with his gun at Nightingale’s trousers. ‘I’m not gonna bother counting to ten, just do it.’

  Nightingale sighed, then took off his raincoat. He held it out to the heavy with the iPod but the man just stared at him, stony-faced. Nightingale draped the coat over the back of the sofa, then unbuttoned his shirt. He turned to face Smith and held the shirt open.

  ‘Take it all off, Jack-Shit.’

  Nightingale did as he was told, putting the shirt on top of the coat and then removing his shoes, socks and trousers.

  Smith pointed his gun at Nightingale’s shoes. ‘What are they, suede?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Nightingale. ‘Hush Puppies.’

  ‘They comfortable?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘They’d have to be,’ laughed Smith. Nightingale held out his arms to the side. All he had left were his black Marks & Spencer boxer shorts. Smith waved his gun at the boxers. ‘The lot,’ he said. ‘Don’t be shy.’

  Nightingale cursed under his breath and slid off his boxers. Smith and his heavies burst out laughing and Nightingale hid his private parts with his hands. ‘Look, it’s bloody cold and I’m under a bit of pressure here.’

  ‘It’s true what they say about white men,’ sneered Smith.

  ‘What? That we can’t jump? Look, are you happy now?’

  ‘I’ll be happy when you’ve turned around and spread your cheeks,’ said Smith.

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ said Nightingale. ‘What do you think, that I’ve got a Nokia up my back passage?’

  ‘You’ve never been inside, have you?’ said Smith. ‘You’re lucky I don’t make you squat and tense. Now just show me your arse and we can start chatting.’

  Nightingale muttered under his breath, turned around and bent forward. The three men roared with laughter. Smith told Nightingale to get dressed, then he grabbed a pack of cigarette papers, reached over for a ceramic jar decorated with a Chinese dragon pattern, and opened it to reveal a large amount of cannabis resin.

  By the time Nightingale had put all his clothes back on, Smith was lighting his joint. He took a long drag on it, held the smoke deep in his lungs then blew it at the ceiling. He waved at the empty sofa. ‘Sit your lily-white arse back down, Jack-Shit,’ he said.

  Nightingale sat down and waited while Smith took another long drag on his joint. The room was already full of sweet-smelling smoke and Nightingale figured that if he stayed there for more than a few minutes he’d be as high as Smith.

  ‘Speak,’ said Smith.

  ‘I want you to know that I didn’t shoot Dwayne,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, that’s all right, then,’ said Smith. ‘Off you go. No hard feelings.’

  Nightingale narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m serious.’

  Smith pointed the gun at Nightingale’s groin and sighted along the barrel. ‘So am I, Jack-Shit.’

  ‘Well, I hope your aim’s better than it was in Queensway.’

  The heavy with the iPod reached for the cigarette papers and began to assemble a joint.

  Smith lowered the gun. ‘You know that was me, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So why aren’t I banged up? Why are you sitting there sweating like a turkey at Christmas?’

  ‘Because you were wearing a ski mask, remember?’ He nodded at the joint that Smith was holding. ‘That stuff plays havoc with your short-term memory, you know.’

  Smith looked at the joint as if seeing it for the first time, then he grinned and took another long drag on it. He blew the smoke straight at Nightingale’s face and Nightingale tried not to inhale.

  Deep frown lines furrowed Smith’s brow. ‘How do you know it was me, then?’

  ‘Because I saw you in the car.’

  ‘So again, same question. If you know it was me, why aren’t I banged up?’

  Nightingale sighed. ‘To be honest, nothing would make me happier, but when you shot at me your face was hidden. So a good brief, even an average brief, is just going to ask me whether or not I saw your face and I’ve got to tell the truth. I didn’t. I know it was you, you know it was you, but on oath and standing in the witness box I’d have to say that I couldn’t see your face.’

  ‘You could lie.’

  ‘Yeah, I could lie. But one, I don’t tell
lies, at least not when I’m on oath, and two, plenty of other people saw you and your mate wearing masks.’

  Smith grinned. ‘So you can’t tell a fib, can you?’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t lie under oath. It’s one of the few things that the criminal justice system really frowns on. They send peers of the realm to prison for perjury; with me they’d throw away the key.’

  Smith jutted his chin out and nodded. ‘Bit of a dilemma, innit?’

  ‘One I’ve been wrestling with,’ said Nightingale dryly.

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘I’m hoping to persuade you that I had nothing to do with Dwayne’s shooting.’

  Smith shrugged. ‘The cops seem to think you did it.’

  ‘I was nowhere near Brixton when it happened. And I don’t shoot people. Not any more.’

  Smith’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Can I smoke?’

  ‘You can burst into flames for all I care,’ said Smith, and he threw back his head and laughed at his own joke.

  Nightingale took out his pack of Marlboro.

  Smith stiffened. ‘Check them fags,’ he yelled at the heavy nearest Nightingale. ‘Why did no one check his pockets?’ He waved the gun around. ‘If there’s a bug in there someone’s gonna get their nuts shot off.’

  The girl from the stairs appeared in the doorway holding her bong. Her eyes were glassy and she was unsteady on her feet. Smith waved her away. ‘Upstairs, bitch,’ he said.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she said.

  ‘There’s food in the fridge.’

  ‘I want pizza.’

  ‘Later,’ said Smith. The girl pouted and walked carefully down the hallway.

  The heavy ripped the pack from Nightingale’s hands, tipped the cigarettes out onto the coffee table and crushed it. He tossed the pack into Nightingale’s lap.

  ‘Happy now?’ Nightingale asked Smith as he leaned forward and slotted the cigarettes back into the pack one by one.

  ‘Can never be too careful where Five-O are concerned,’ said Smith.

  ‘I told you, I’m not with the cops any more. Haven’t been for two years now.’

  ‘And that’s why I’m supposed to believe you? You were a cop and cops don’t lie?’

  ‘You’re supposed to believe me because I didn’t do it. I can prove that I was north of the river when Dwayne was shot.’

  ‘Prove how?’

  ‘I can get the phone company to show you my GPS position.’

  ‘That just shows where the phone was. Doesn’t mean you were with it.’

  ‘True, but I called my assistant so she can verify that I was with the phone.’ Nightingale lit a cigarette.

  ‘She can, can she?’ Smith sneered at him. ‘Do I look like I was born yesterday?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Then let’s leave your assistant out of the equation, shall we?’

  Nightingale drew on his cigarette and blew smoke. ‘I was watching the footie,’ he said. ‘With a mate. A cop.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’ll believe a cop, of course. How old do you think I am? Five?’ He shook his head in disgust.

  ‘The friend can’t back me up anyway. He’s dead.’

  ‘So no alibi there, then.’

  ‘The landlord of the pub remembers me being there.’

  Smith shook his head. ‘You think I care what he says? I’m guessing he’s white, right?’

  ‘It’s not about race, Perry.’

  ‘Everything’s about race. The long and the short of it is that he’ll say whatever it takes to get me off your back.’ He waved the gun at Nightingale. ‘Look, Jack-Shit, the way I hear it, Dwayne said you were the shooter.’

  ‘That’s not what happened.’

  ‘Deathbed confession, and that’s gold.’

  ‘He wasn’t naming me as his killer. And it wasn’t a confession.’

  ‘He’s lying in intensive care and starts calling out your name. That’s what I was told.’

  Smith smoked his joint while Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette. They both blew smoke, watching each other carefully.

  ‘You and Dwayne were tight, right?’ asked Nightingale eventually.

  ‘Tight as tight can be.’

  ‘As tight as he was with Reggie Gayle?’

  ‘Horses for courses.’

  ‘What, Reggie’s the brains and you’re the muscle?’ He held up his hands. ‘No offence. I just meant that on the day in Queensway he stayed in the car and you were at the sharp end with the MAC-10.’

  ‘I hear you. Let’s just say that when Dwayne needed a problem fixing, he came to me.’

  ‘And up to the shooting, he never mentioned a problem?’

  Smith shook his head and then took a long drag on his joint.

  ‘So did he ever mention me to you? Ever talk about me? Did he tell you one single thing about me?’

  Smith stared at Nightingale and blew a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke but didn’t say anything.

  ‘I’m guessing that means no. So why would someone he didn’t know put a bullet in his head?’

  ‘Maybe somebody paid you,’ said Smith.

  ‘So I’m a hired killer now?’

  ‘Poacher turned gamekeeper, maybe.’

  ‘Strictly speaking I’d be a gamekeeper turned poacher, but believe me, that’s not a line of work I’d be interested in.’

  Smith took another long drag on his joint, held the smoke and then exhaled through clenched teeth so that his face was shrouded in smoke. ‘See right there is the problem,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t trust you.’

  ‘Yeah, I figured that’s what you’d say. So I’ve got a deal for you.’

  ‘A deal?’

  ‘Yeah. Let me do what I do best. Let me play detective.’

  Nightingale stubbed out the last of his cigarette in a glass ashtray.

  ‘Here’s what I don’t get,’ said Smith. ‘Why do you think you can find the man who shot Dwayne when Scotland Yard’s finest can’t?’

  ‘Because Scotland Yard’s finest aren’t on the case,’ said Nightingale. ‘Operation Trident aren’t interested because the shooter wasn’t black, and they’re the experts when it comes to gang shootings. But they can’t touch it because the witnesses all say that the man who shot him was white. That means that a superintendent by the name of Chalmers is running the case and he’s a moron.’

  Smith grinned. ‘A moron who thinks you pulled the trigger?’

  ‘Chalmers would do me for littering if he found a cigarette butt in the street,’ said Nightingale. ‘He doesn’t care whether or not I did it, so long as I go down for it. That means he’s not looking for anyone else. Or if he is, he’s just going through the motions.’

  Smith managed to get one more drag from his joint then he stubbed it out in the ashtray that Nightingale had used.

  ‘And why do I let you do your Sherlock Holmes bit?’ asked Smith.

  ‘Because you want to know who killed Dwayne. And I think that deep down you know it wasn’t me. And if it wasn’t me, which it wasn’t, then maybe whoever it was that put the bullet in Dwayne’s head has another bullet with your name on it.’ He stared at Smith with unblinking eyes and Smith stared back.

  ‘You play poker, Jack-Shit?’

  ‘I’ve been known to,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Are you good, because that’s one hell of a poker face, innit?’

  ‘It’s a genuine offer, Perry. Let me ask around, see if I can get you a name.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Up to you. I’m not going to go running to the cops. I don’t have a dog in this fight. I just want to be able to go on with my life without looking over my shoulder every time a car with tinted windows goes by.’

  Smith nodded slowly. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Got any Corona?’

  ‘That Mexican shit?’

  ‘Yeah. That Mexican shit.’

  ‘I’ve got Budweiser.’

  ‘
That American shit?’

  Smith laughed and looked over at his heavies, giving them a thumbs up. ‘Hear that?’ he said. ‘That’s banter, innit? This here Jack-Shit’s a funny man. A funny, funny man.’ He looked back at Nightingale and the smile vanished. ‘He’s going to be laughing all the way to the grave.’

  ‘Okay, forget the beer,’ said Nightingale. ‘But shooting me here isn’t really an option because my pretty young assistant knows where I am and that I came to see you, so if anything happens to me she’ll tell the cops everything.’

  Smith chuckled and scratched his ear with the barrel of his gun. ‘Do you know how many eyewitnesses get amnesia after we pay them a visit?’ he said.

  ‘It’s not about amnesia; it’s about the letter I wrote for her.’ He looked at his watch. ‘If I don’t see her by nine o’clock she’ll be dialling three nines.’

  ‘You didn’t bring no mobile with you.’

  ‘Yeah, I figured you’d be wary of phones, what with you having a thing about microphones up people’s arses.’

  ‘Plus, I’m guessing that you figured I’d be checking your phone once you told me about your back-up plan,’ said Smith.

  ‘You can read me like a book,’ said Nightingale. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. ‘Look, Perry, you know who I am and you’ve already tried to kill me once. There’s nothing much to stop you trying again and next time I might not be so lucky. Now I could tell you that I’ve got some pretty heavy friends that owe me a favour or two but I don’t think you’re the type that reacts well to threats, so why don’t you just let me have a go at finding out who really did shoot Dwayne? If I can do that we can call it quits. If I don’t, well, I’m no worse off, am I?’

  ‘Seventy-two hours,’ said Smith. ‘And the clock has just started ticking.’

  Nightingale looked at his watch. ‘Deal,’ he said. ‘Sex, money, rage,’ he said.

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘The three most common motives for murder,’ said Nightingale, sitting back in his seat. ‘That’s what it all comes down to more often than not. One, he was killed by a former lover or by someone who was connected to a former lover. Jealous boyfriend or husband. Two, he was killed for money or by a business rival. Three, someone was really pissed off at him, which might or might not be connected with one or two. Let’s work backwards. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted Dwayne dead?’