‘I understand,’ Nightingale said. He took his lighter and cigarettes from the pocket of his overcoat and gave it to the constable. ‘Why don’t you take a seat while I go out and talk to her?’ he said to the Wilsons.
Mr Wilson helped his wife onto the sofa while Nightingale went to the glass door that led on to the balcony. It was actually a terrace, with terracotta tiles and space for a small circular white metal table, four chairs and several pots of flowering shrubs, and was surrounded by a waist-high wall.
The door slid to the side and Nightingale could hear traffic in the distance and the crackle of police radios. He stepped out slowly, then looked to the right.
The little girl was sitting on the wall of the balcony next door. She was holding a Barbie doll and seemed to be whispering to it. She was wearing a white sweatshirt with a blue cotton skirt and silver trainers with blue stars on them. She had porcelain-white skin and shoulder-length blonde hair that she’d tucked behind her ears.
There was a gap of about six feet between the terrace where he was and the one where she was sitting. Nightingale figured that he could just about jump across but only as a last resort. He walked slowly to the side of the terrace and stood next to a tall, thin conifer in a concrete pot. In the distance he could see the river Thames and far off to his left the London Eye. The child didn’t seem to have noticed him, but Nightingale knew she must have heard the door slide open. ‘Hi,’ he said.
Sophie looked at him but didn’t say anything. Nightingale stared out over the Thames as he slid a cigar-ette between his lips and flicked his lighter.
‘Cigarettes are bad for you,’ said Sophie.
‘I know,’ said Nightingale. He lit it and inhaled deeply.
‘You can get cancer,’ said Sophie.
Nightingale tilted his head back and blew two perfect smoke-rings. ‘I know that too,’ he said.
‘How do you do that?’ she asked.
‘Do what?’
‘Blow those rings.’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘You just blow and stick your tongue out a bit,’ he said. He grinned amiably and held out the cigarette. ‘Do you want to try?’
She shook her head solemnly. ‘I’m a child and children can’t smoke, and even if I could smoke I wouldn’t because it gives you cancer.’
Nightingale took another drag on the cigarette. ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’ he said, his eyes on the river again.
‘Who are you?’ Sophie asked.
‘My name’s Jack.’
‘Like Jack and the Beanstalk?’
‘Yeah, but I don’t have my beanstalk with me today. I had to use the stairs.’
‘Why didn’t you use the lift?’
‘I don’t like lifts.’
Sophie put the doll to her ear and frowned as if she was listening intently. Then she nodded. ‘Jessica doesn’t like lifts, either.’
‘Nice name – Jessica.’
‘Jessica Lovely – that’s her full name. What’s your full name?’
‘Nightingale. Jack Nightingale.’
‘Like the bird?’
‘That’s right. Like the bird.’
‘I wish I was a bird.’ She cuddled the doll as she stared across the river with unseeing eyes.
‘I wish I could fly.’
Nightingale blew two more smoke-rings. This time they held together for less than a second before the wind whipped them apart. ‘It’s not so much fun, being a bird. They can’t watch TV, they can’t play video games or play with dolls, and they have to eat off the floor.’
Below a siren kicked into life, and Sophie flinched as if she’d been struck. ‘It’s okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s a fire engine.’
‘I thought it was the police.’
‘The police siren sounds different.’ Nightingale made the woo-woo-woo sound, and Sophie giggled. He leaned against the terrace wall. He had set his phone to vibrate and felt it judder in his inside pocket. He took it out and peered at the screen. It was Robbie Hoyle, one of his negotiator colleagues. He’d known Hoyle for more than a decade. He was an inspector with the Territorial Support Group, the force’s heavy mob who went in with riot shields, truncheons and Tasers when necessary. Hoyle was a big man, well over six feet tall with the build of a rugby player, but he had a soft voice and was one of the Met’s most able negotiators. ‘Sorry, Sophie, I’m going to have to take this,’ he said. He pressed the green button. ‘Hi, Robbie.’
‘I’ve just arrived, do you want me up there?’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ said Nightingale. Whenever possible the negotiators preferred to act in teams of three, one doing the talking, another listening and the third gathering intelligence, but Nightingale figured that too many men on the balcony would only spook the little girl.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Hoyle.
‘Calm,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll get back to you, okay? Try to get rid of the onlookers, but softly-softly.’ He ended the call and put the phone away.
‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you?’ said Sophie.
Nightingale smiled. ‘How did you know?’
Sophie pointed down at Colin Duggan, who was staring up at them, shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand. Robbie Hoyle was standing next to him. ‘That policeman there spoke to you when you got out of your car.’
‘You saw me arrive, yeah?’
‘I like sports cars,’ she said. ‘It’s an MGB.’
‘That’s right,’ said Nightingale, ‘an old one. How old are you?’
‘Nine,’ she said.
‘Well my car’s twenty-six years old. How about that?’
‘That’s old,’ she said. ‘Very old.’
‘There’s another thing birds can’t do,’ said Nightingale. ‘When was the last time you saw a bird driving a car? They can’t do it. No hands.’
Sophie pressed the doll to her ear as if she was listening to it, then took it away and looked at Nightingale. ‘Am I in trouble?’ she said.
‘No, Sophie. We just want to be sure you’re okay.’
Sophie shuddered, as if icy water had trickled down her spine.
‘The girl who looks after you, what’s her name?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Inga. She’s from Poland.’
‘She’s worried about you.’
‘She’s stupid.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She can’t even use the microwave properly.’
‘I have trouble getting my video recorder to work,’ Nightingale told her.
‘Videoplus,’ said Sophie.
‘What?’
‘Videoplus. You just put in the number from the newspaper. The machine does it for you. Everyone knows that.’
‘I didn’t.’ A gust blew across from the river and Sophie put a hand on her skirt to stop it billowing up. Nightingale caught a glimpse of a dark bruise above her knee. ‘What happened to your leg?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said quickly.
Too quickly, Nightingale noticed. He blew smoke and avoided looking at her. ‘Why didn’t you go to school today?’
‘Mummy said I didn’t have to.’
‘Are you poorly?’
‘Not really.’ She bit her lower lip and cuddled her doll. ‘I am in trouble, aren’t I?’
‘No, you’re not,’ said Nightingale. He made the sign of the cross over his heart. ‘Cross my heart you’re not.’
Sophie forced a smile. ‘Do you have children?’
Nightingale dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground it with his heel. ‘I’m not married.’
‘You don’t have to be married to have children.’ Tears ran down her cheeks.
‘What’s wrong, Sophie?’
‘Nothing.’ She sniffed and wiped her eyes on her doll.
‘Sophie, let’s go inside. It’s cold out here.’
She sniffed again but didn’t look at him. Nightingale started to pull himself up onto the wall but his foot scraped against the concrete and she fli
nched. ‘Don’t come near me,’ she said.
‘I just wanted to sit like you,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m tired of standing.’
She glared at him. ‘You were going to jump over,’ she said. ‘You were going to try to grab me.’
‘I wasn’t, I swear,’ lied Nightingale. He sat down, swinging his legs as if he didn’t have a care in the world but his heart was pounding. ‘Sophie, whatever’s wrong, maybe I can help you.’
‘No one can help me.’
‘I can try.’
‘He said I mustn’t tell anyone.’
‘Why? Why can’t you tell anyone?’
‘He said they’d take me away. Put me in a home.’
‘Your father?’
Sophie pressed her doll to her face. ‘He said they’d blame me. He said they’d take me away and make me live in a home and that everyone would say it was my fault.’
The wind whipped up her skirt again. The bruise was a good six inches long. ‘Did he do that?’ said Nightingale.
Sophie pushed her skirt down and nodded.
‘Let’s go inside, Sophie – we can talk to your mummy.’
Sophie closed her eyes. ‘She already knows.’
Nightingale’s stomach lurched. His hands were palm down on the wall, his fingers gripping the concrete, but he felt as if something was pushing the small of his back. ‘I can help you, Sophie. Just come inside and we’ll talk about it. I can help you, honestly I can. Cross my heart.’
‘You can’t help me,’ she said, her voice a monotone. ‘No one can.’ She lifted her doll, kissed the top of its head, and slid off the balcony without a sound.
Horrified, Nightingale thrust himself forward and reached out with his right hand even though he knew there was nothing he could do. ‘Sophie!’ he screamed. Her golden hair was whipping in the wind as she dropped straight down, still hugging the doll. ‘Sophie!’ He closed his eyes at the last second but he couldn’t blot out the sound she made as she hit the ground, a dull, wet thud as if a wall had been slapped with a wet blanket.
Nightingale slid down the wall. He lit a cigarette with trembling hands and smoked it as he crouched on there, his back against the concrete, his legs drawn up against his stomach.
The uniformed constable who had escorted him up the stairs appeared at the balcony door. ‘Are you okay, sir?’
Nightingale ignored him.
‘Sir, are you okay?’ The constable’s radio crackled and a female voice asked him for a situation report.
Nightingale stood up and pushed him out of the way.
‘Sir, your coat!’ the constable called after him.
The elderly couple were standing in the middle of the living room, holding each other. They looked at Nightingale expectantly but he said nothing as he rushed past them. He took the stairs three at a time, his fingers brushing the handrail as he hurtled down, his footsteps echoing off the concrete walls.
There were two paramedics and half a dozen uniformed officers in the reception area, all talking into their radios. Duggan was there and opened his mouth to speak, but Nightingale silenced him with a pointed finger and walked past.
Two female paramedics were crouched over the little girl’s body. The younger of them was crying. Four firemen in bulky fluorescent jackets were standing behind the paramedics. One was wiping tears from his eyes with the back of a glove. Nightingale knew there was nothing anyone could do. No one survived a fall from thirteen floors. As he turned away he saw blood glistening around the body.
Hoyle was standing next to a PC, frowning as he spoke into his mobile. He put it away as Nightingale came up to him. ‘Superintendent Chalmers wants you in his office, Jack,’ he said. ‘Now.’
Nightingale said nothing. He brushed past Hoyle and headed for his
MGB.
‘Now, Jack. He wants to see you now.’
‘I’m busy,’ said Nightingale.
‘He’ll want you to see the shrink, too,’ said Hoyle, hurrying after him. It was standard procedure after a death.
‘I don’t need to see the shrink,’ said Nightingale.
Hoyle put a hand on Nightingale’s shoulder. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Jack. It’s natural to feel guilty, to feel that you’ve failed.’
Nightingale glared at him. ‘Don’t try to empathise with me and don’t sympathise. I don’t need it, Robbie.’
‘And what do I tell Chalmers?’
‘Tell him whatever you want,’ said Nightingale, twisting out of Hoyle’s grip. He climbed into the MGB and drove off.
2
What happened later that chilly November morning really depends on whom you talk to. Jack Nightingale never spoke about it and refused to answer any questions put to him by the two investigators assigned to the case. They were from the Metropolitan Police’s Professional Standards Department, and they questioned him for more than eighteen hours over three days. During that time he said not one word to them about what had happened. If you’d asked the two detectives they’d have said they were pretty sure that Nightingale had thrown Simon Underwood through the window. If they’d been speaking off the record they would probably have said they had every sympathy with Nightingale and that, given the chance, they would probably have done the same. Like policemen the world over, they knew that paedophiles never stopped offending. You could put them in prison so that they couldn’t get near children or you could kill them but you could never change their nature.
The post-mortem on the little girl had shown signs of sexual activity and there were bruises and bite marks on her legs and stomach. A forensic dentistry expert was able to match two of the clearer ones to the father’s dental records. A swab of the child’s vagina showed up the father’s sperm. The evidence was conclusive. According to the coroner, he had been raping her for years. The investigating officers presented the evidence to the mother, but she denied all knowledge of any abuse. They didn’t believe her.
Underwood had been in a meeting with six employees from the bank’s marketing department when Nightingale walked out of the stairwell on the twentieth floor of the bank in Canary Wharf. He had shown his warrant card to a young receptionist and demanded to be told where Underwood was. The receptionist later told investigators that Nightingale had a strange look in his eyes. ‘Manic,’ she told them. She had pointed down the corridor to Underwood’s office and he had walked away. She had called security but by the time they had arrived it was all over.
Nightingale had burst into Underwood’s office but he wasn’t there. His terrified secretary told him that her boss was down the corridor. She later told the investigators that Nightingale had been icy cold and there had been no emotion in his voice. ‘It was like he was a robot, or on autopilot or something,’ she said.
There were differing descriptions from the six witnesses who were in the meeting room with Underwood. One said Nightingale looked crazed, two repeated the secretary’s assertion that he was icy cold, two women said he seemed confused, and the senior marketing manager said he reminded her of the Terminator in the second movie, the one Arnold Schwarzenegger was trying to kill. The investigators knew that personal recollections were the most unreliable form of evidence but the one thing that all the witnesses agreed on was that Nightingale had told everyone to leave, that he had closed the door behind them and a few seconds later there was an almighty crash as Simon Underwood exited through the window.
Was he pushed? Did he trip? Did Nightingale hit him and he fell accidentally? Was Underwood so stricken by guilt that he threw himself out of the window? The investigators put every possible scenario to Nightingale, with a few impossible ones for good measure, but Nightingale refused to say anything. He didn’t even say, ‘No comment.’ He just sat staring at the investigators with a look of bored indifference on his face. They asked him several times if he wanted the services of his Police Federation representative, but Nightingale shook his head. He spoke only to ask to go to the toilet or outside to smoke a cigarette.
For the first couple of
days the newspapers were after Nightingale’s blood, crying police brutality, but when a sympathetic clerk in the coroner’s office leaked the post-mortem details to a journalist on the Sunday Times and it became known that Underwood had been molesting his daughter, the tide turned and the tabloids called for Nightingale to be honoured rather than persecuted.
The Independent Police Complaints Commission sent two more investigators to talk to him but he was as uncommunicative with them as he had been with the PSD detectives. The IPCC officers offered Nightingale a deal: if he told them that Underwood had jumped there would be no charges. If he told them that Underwood had slipped and fallen through the window, there would be no charges. All they wanted was to close the file on the man’s death. Nightingale said nothing.
There were some in the Met who said Nightingale had his head screwed on right, that the IPCC and the PSD were lying sons of bitches and that, no matter what he said, they’d hang him out to dry. There were others who said that Nightingale was an honourable man, that he’d killed Underwood and wasn’t prepared to lie about what he’d done. Whatever the reason, whatever had happened to Underwood, Nightingale simply refused to talk about it, and after a week the investigators gave up.
Nightingale went to Sophie’s funeral but kept his distance, not wanting to intrude on the family’s grief. A photographer from one of the Sunday tabloids tried to take his picture but Nightingale grabbed his camera and smashed it against a gravestone. He left before Sophie’s coffin was lowered into the cold, damp soil.
There were two reports into the death, by the PSD and the IPCC. Both were inconclusive and criticised Nightingale for refusing to co-operate. Without his statement, there was no way anyone could know what had happened in the meeting room that day. Two eyewitnesses had seen the body fall to the Tarmac, close enough to hear Sophie’s father shout, ‘No!’ all the way down, but not close enough to see if he had jumped or if he had been pushed. There was CCTV footage of the reception area, which clearly showed Nightingale arriving and leaving, but there was no coverage of the room and no CCTV cameras covering the area where Underwood had hit the ground. Both reports went to the Crown Prosecution Service at Ludgate, and they decided there wasn’t enough evidence to prosecute Nightingale.
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