‘To the devil?’
Nightingale nodded.
‘Tough question,’ he said. ‘Tougher than geography.’
‘Is that your way of saying you don’t have an answer?’
‘I’ll have a stab at it,’ said the vicar, flicking ash on the path. He took a deep breath. ‘We talk of giving our lives to Christ, so there must also be misguided individuals who give themselves over to evil.’
‘And would such a deal be irrevocable?’
‘A person can always change his mind. The history of the Church is filled with conversions.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Looks like I’m a smoker again.’
‘Once a smoker, always a smoker,’ said Nightingale. ‘What if there was a contract with the devil?’
The vicar looked pained. ‘It’s more a case of coming to believe that Jesus Christ is our Lord and Saviour.’
‘I understand that, but I’m not talking about a contract with Christ. I’m talking about doing a deal with the other side. The dark side. What if your soul is promised to the devil?’
‘I think you’re being too literal, Jack,’ said the vicar. ‘One no more makes a contract with the devil than one does with Jesus. It’s not a matter of signing on the dotted line. It’s a matter of belief.’ He dropped his cigarette butt and squashed it with his foot.
‘And do you believe in hell?’
‘As a concept?’
‘As a place.’
The vicar laughed. ‘There! I told you not to go asking me about geography.’
‘You’ve very good at avoiding questions,’ said Nightingale. ‘You’d be a nightmare to interrogate.’
‘You’re a police officer?’ asked the vicar.
‘In a previous life,’ said Nightingale. ‘So, is there a hell, or not? And if there is, where is it?’
‘Scripture doesn’t give us an exact location,’ said the vicar. ‘It’s a place of real torment that may or may not have a physical location in this universe. A black hole, maybe. Or it might be in another dimension, a place we move to after death.’
‘You believe that?’
‘I believe in God, of course. It’d be difficult to do this job if I didn’t. And I believe that we go from this life to be with God.’
‘But where?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Where do we go?’
‘Heaven,’ said the vicar. ‘That’s what the Bible says.’
‘But where is heaven?’
The vicar smiled. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Geography again.’ He put a hand on Nightingale’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry I can’t answer all your questions. I know how frustrating that can be. So far as I’m concerned, as a Christian, it’s less important where heaven is than to know that one day I’ll be there.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Nightingale.
‘The Church doesn’t have all the answers,’ said the vicar. ‘There has to be faith. Belief is about faith.’
‘And that’s the problem,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m a bit short of both at the moment.’
19
Nightingale lit a cigarette as he steered the MGB with one hand. The vicar hadn’t been much help but, then, Nightingale hadn’t expected he would be. He hadn’t gone to the graveyard for spiritual guidance. Truth be told, he had no idea why he’d felt the need to be there. His questions could only be answered by his parents, and they were dead. Dead and buried.
He wound down his window and blew smoke as he drove. There was no proof that he was adopted. It might turn out to be some perverse mistake, that Ainsley Gosling had simply been wrong, or that he had chosen Nightingale as the victim of some beyond-the-grave hoax. Fathers didn’t sell the souls of their children to the devil, not in the twentieth or twenty-first century. Not in any century. But until Hoyle came back with the results of the DNA analysis, Nightingale had no way of knowing whether Gosling really had been his biological father.
A blue light flashed in his rear-view mirror and Nightingale swore. He hadn’t been speeding but the car had woven a little while he was lighting the cigarette. The siren blipped and Nightingale swore again. He indicated, pulled over and switched off the engine. The police car pulled up behind him and two constables got out. Nightingale gritted his teeth and stubbed out his cigarette. They’d smell the alcohol on his breath. He leaned over, flicked open the glove compartment and groped for the packet of Wrigley’s chewing gum he always kept there. He unwrapped two sticks and slotted them into his mouth, then opened the door and climbed out, keeping his hands where the officers could see them. ‘Sorry, guys, I wasn’t speeding, was I?’
The younger of the two was in his mid-twenties and holding a breathalyser machine. The older man did the talking. ‘Have you been drinking, sir?’ he asked.
‘A few beers, a few hours ago,’ said Nightingale. Even with the spearmint gum he knew he wouldn’t get away with a complete denial. He took out his wallet and showed them his private-investigator identification. ‘Guys, I know this won’t cut me any slack, but I used to be in the job.’
‘If you were in the job, you’d know there’s no slack to be cut,’ said the policeman. ‘We’re going to need a sample of your breath to ascertain if you’ve been drinking. If you’re unable or unwilling to provide such a sample we’ll take you to the station where you’ll have to give a blood or urine sample.’
Nightingale raised his hands in surrender. He knew there was no point in arguing. ‘No problem,’ he said.
The younger policeman handed him the breathalyser unit and showed him what to do. Nightingale took a deep breath, then blew slowly into the tube. A red light winked on accusingly and the officer grinned triumphantly.
The older man told Nightingale he was being arrested but Nightingale wasn’t listening. It was his own fault, no one had forced him to drink and drive, and now he was going to have to pay the penalty for his stupidity.
‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said the younger policeman, putting a hand on his shoulder. His voice was cold and flat, devoid of emotion.
‘What?’ said Nightingale.
‘I said we’ll secure your car and drive you to the station, sir. Please give me the keys.’ His voice had returned to normal.
Nightingale shook his head. ‘What did you say just then?’
The younger constable looked at his colleague. ‘Drunk as a skunk,’ he said.
‘I’m not drunk,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve been drinking but I’m not drunk. What did you say about me going to hell?’
‘There’s no need for offensive language, sir,’ said the older policeman, taking hold of Nightingale’s left arm.
‘I wasn’t being offensive,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just want to know what he said.’
‘He said we’re going to have to secure your vehicle. You can come back and get it once we’ve done the paperwork at the station and you’re fit to drive. Now, please don’t give us any more trouble.’ He tightened his grip.
Nightingale said nothing. He handed over his keys and let them lead him to their car.
20
A bored custody sergeant made Nightingale empty his pockets, checked his driving licence, and asked him if he suffered from any medical problems. ‘I’m fine,’ said Nightingale. The sergeant went through a list of diseases and illnesses, methodically ticking them off as Nightingale shook his head. ‘Do you think you might self-harm?’ asked the sergeant, who was in his late forties, with thick greying hair and a wide jaw.
‘Do I what?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Do you think you might hurt yourself?’ He prodded the form. ‘I have to ask.’
‘What if I said yes?’
‘Then we’d have to leave the cell door open and I’d have to get a constable to sit outside and watch you.’
‘All night?’
‘For as long as you’re in custody.’
‘That’s crazy, isn’t it?’
‘It’s the rule,’ said the sergeant. ‘We’ve only got CCTV in two cells and they’re both occupied.’
&nb
sp; ‘I don’t see why you need to keep me here in the first place. Can’t you just bail me and send me on my way?’
‘We have to be sure that you won’t go back and drive your vehicle while still intoxicated.’
‘What if I crossed my heart and swore to God that I’ll go straight home?’
‘You’ll be here for a few hours,’ the sergeant said. ‘It’s procedure. You were showing seventy micrograms, which is twice the legal limit.’
‘I tell you what,’ said Nightingale, ‘if you let me keep my cigarettes and get me a cup of coffee, I’ll promise not to self-harm.’
‘No cigarettes in the cell, but I can let you have a smoke in the yard when you want one,’ said the sergeant. ‘The coffee isn’t a problem, but I warn you, it tastes like dishwater.’
‘So long as it’s got caffeine in it, I’ll be happy. And so long as I’m happy, I won’t be self-harming.’
Both men turned as they heard a commotion at the entrance to the custody suite. Three uniformed officers were half dragging, half carrying a man who was cursing and shouting. He was in his twenties, wearing faded jeans and trainers, and a torn T-shirt that was spattered with blood. He was struggling with the three policemen, and although they were all much bigger than he was they were clearly having trouble keeping him under control. ‘The devil made me do it!’ shouted the man, spittle spraying from his lips. ‘Don’t you see? Don’t you understand?’
‘What’s the story, lads?’ asked the custody sergeant.
‘Assault with a deadly weapon, Sarge,’ said one of the constables. ‘He was charging down the high street with a samurai sword, swiping it at anyone he saw. Cut three women and almost took the arm off a pub doorman.’
‘Where’s the sword now?’ asked the sergeant.
‘In the van,’ said the oldest of the three constables. He was wearing a stab-proof vest and black gloves but there was a cut across his cheek.
‘Did he do that to you?’ asked the sergeant.
The constable nodded. ‘With his nails, after we took the sword off him.’
The man struggled and swore and the three officers wrestled him to the floor. Two held him by the arms while the third lay across his legs.
‘Has he been drinking?’ asked the custody sergeant.
‘Can’t smell it on his breath,’ said the constable who was holding down the captive’s legs.
‘Must be drugs, then,’ said the sergeant. ‘Either that or he’s just plain crazy.’ He walked over and stood looking down at the man. ‘What have you taken?’ he asked. ‘Amphetamines? Cocaine? Tell us and we can help you.’
‘Fuck you!’ The man spat at the sergeant and phlegm landed on his tunic. The sergeant took a step back. ‘Put him in number three,’ he said, ‘and use restraints until he’s calmed down.’
Two of the officers lifted the man, holding an arm each, while the third kept a tight grip on his belt. ‘Just calm down and you walk under your own steam, right?’ said the officer holding the man’s belt. ‘But you keep struggling and we’ll have to Taser you, okay? For your own safety. You keep fighting us and you’re the only one who’ll get hurt.’
The man ignored the officer. He stared at Nightingale and grinned manically. ‘You understand, don’t you?’ His eyes were red and watering. They burned with a fierce intensity. ‘You believe in the devil, don’t you? You know what he can do! Tell them! Tell them the devils are here, making us do their work for them!’
Nightingale looked away.
‘Tell them!’ screamed the man, lunging at Nightingale. ‘Tell them, you bastard!’
The three constables grappled the man, lifted him off his feet and carried him, still screaming, towards the cells.
‘It’s a full moon in a few days,’ said the custody sergeant, using a tissue to clean his tunic. ‘It always brings out the nutters. They might not sprout claws and fangs but the moon sure does something to them.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Nightingale. ‘When I was a negotiator we always had a higher workload when the moon was full. More assaults, more rapes, more suicides, more everything.’
The sergeant picked up Nightingale’s driving licence and frowned at it. ‘You’re not the Jack Nightingale, are you?’ he said.
‘I’m a Jack Nightingale.’
‘Inspector, right?’
‘In another life, yeah,’ said Nightingale. ‘Have we met?’
‘You came out to a wannabe jumper when I was on the beat in Kilburn,’ said the sergeant, handing back the licence. ‘Asylum-seeker who said he’d kill himself if he wasn’t given leave to remain. You spent the best part of five hours talking him down. You were a big smoker then – I was sent out to buy you some Marlboro.’
‘Thanks for that,’ said Nightingale.
The older of the two policemen who had arrested Nightingale walked in. The custody sergeant waved him over. ‘Hey, Bill, did you know that Mr Nightingale here was a celebrity?’
The officer shrugged carelessly. ‘He said he used to be in the job, yeah.’
‘He was a negotiator, one of the best,’ said the sergeant. ‘And CO19 – right?’
‘For my sins, yeah.’
‘He’s the one who threw the paedophile banker out of the window in Canary Wharf,’ said the sergeant.
‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale.
‘Are you serious?’ said the officer, suddenly interested.
‘The banker was fiddling with his daughter,’ said the sergeant.
‘More than fiddling,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’d been raping her for years.’
‘Bastard,’ said the officer.
‘The mother knew what was going on, didn’t she?’ asked the sergeant.
‘I think so,’ said Nightingale.
‘How could she let that happen to her kid?’ asked the sergeant.
Nightingale shook his head. ‘It’s beyond me.’
‘What happened to the little girl?’ asked the officer.
‘She died,’ said Nightingale, flatly.
‘Topped herself,’ said the sergeant. ‘Poor little thing.’ He pushed Nightingale’s cigarettes and lighter across the counter. ‘I’ve a lot of respect for what you did, Jack,’ he said. ‘That bastard deserved it.’
Nightingale pocketed the Marlboro and slid the lighter into his trouser pocket. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘I’ll get you a coffee sent in and we’ll have you out of here as soon as possible.’
‘Thanks, Sergeant.’
True to his word, the custody sergeant brought Nightingale a cup of coffee about half an hour after he’d been placed in a cell. ‘I sent one of the lads out to Starbucks,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d save you the canteen rubbish.’
‘I appreciate it,’ said Nightingale, taking the cup from him.
‘Probably your first time on this side of a cell door,’ observed the sergeant.
‘That’s true enough.’ Nightingale was sitting on the bed, a concrete block on which lay a blue plastic mattress. To the right of the door there was a toilet without a seat.
‘Do you want a blanket or something?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Nightingale.
The sergeant started to leave, then stopped. Nightingale could see that he wanted to say something. ‘After the guy went through the window…’ said the sergeant.
‘Yes?’
‘There were no… ramifications?’
‘I left the force,’ said Nightingale.
‘But you weren’t charged?’
‘There was no evidence. No witnesses, no CCTV. And I said nothing.’
The sergeant smiled. ‘Always the best way,’ he said, ‘especially when dealing with the Rubber Heels.’ Rubber Heels was the nickname of the Professional Standards Department, the cops who investigated other cops. ‘And now you’re a private investigator. Pays well, does it?’
‘Pays okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘But there’s no pension and not much in the way of perks.’
‘You miss the job?’
Nigh
tingale sipped his coffee. ‘I miss the job, but I don’t miss all the crap I had to wade through to do it.’
‘A lot of the guys, they’re saying they wish they had the balls to do what you did.’
Nightingale didn’t respond.
The sergeant looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead he nodded and left.
It was just after half past five in the morning when the custody sergeant unlocked the cell door. He gave Nightingale a printed sheet informing him of his court date and told him he was free to leave. ‘Are you going home?’ he asked.
‘I thought I’d get my car,’ said Nightingale.
‘Why don’t you have another puff in the breathalyser first?’ said the sergeant. ‘I wouldn’t want you picked up again. They’d probably blame me for letting you out too soon.’
Nightingale gave another breath sample, and this time he was below the limit. ‘Is there a minicab firm I can use?’ he asked.
The sergeant nodded at a row of orange plastic seats. ‘Sit yourself down. I’ll see if I can arrange something,’ he said. He went to his counter and spent a few minutes on the phone, then called Nightingale over. ‘Two of our guys will run you out,’ he said. Nightingale thanked him. ‘All part of the service, Jack,’ he said.
21
Nightingale got home at just after eight o’clock. He let himself into the house, made himself a cup of coffee and phoned Robbie Hoyle. ‘What’s wrong?’ said Hoyle.
‘Maybe I just wanted a chat.’
‘It’s Saturday morning – early Saturday morning. My day of rest. Yours too. So I’m guessing there’s something wrong.’
‘You should be a detective,’ said Nightingale.
‘Yeah, so should you,’ said Hoyle. ‘Now what’s wrong?’
‘I was pulled in for drink-driving last night.’
‘Oh, shit,’ said Hoyle. ‘Did you hit anyone?’
‘No, nothing like that. I’d had a few beers and they breathalysed me.’
‘You stupid bastard.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘You’ll lose your licence, you know that?’
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