Nightfall jn-1

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Thank you,’ said Nightingale. Mrs Fraser let herself out and he sat on the bed, the flowers beside him, facing the woman. She continued to gaze out of the window, across the road to the discount carpet warehouse opposite. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked quietly.

  The woman showed no sign that she had heard him.

  ‘My name’s Jack – Jack Nightingale.’ He smiled. ‘Though my name probably won’t mean anything to you.’

  She continued to stare outside, as if she was alone.

  ‘Rebecca, did you have a baby thirty-three years ago? Because if you did, I’m your son. I’m the baby you gave away.’ Nightingale smiled again, but this time it was more of a grimace. ‘Or sold. Did you sell me, Rebecca? Did you sell me for twenty thousand pounds?

  The woman’s hands moved. She scratched her left wrist with the yellowed fingernail of her right index finger. Nightingale could hear the sound, a dry rasp like two sticks being rubbed together.

  Nightingale tried to see in her some sort of resemblance to himself. She had a tight, pinched face and a sharp, almost pointed nose. She was nothing like him.

  ‘Are you my mother?’ he asked. ‘Just answer me that. Did you give birth to me thirty-three years ago?’ He smiled. ‘It’s Friday,’ he said. ‘Friday the thirteenth. That’s funny, isn’t it? Of all the days I should come to see you, it’s Friday the thirteenth. And two weeks today I’ll be thirty-three years old. Do you know what’s supposed to happen to me on my thirty-third birthday, Rebecca? Do you?’

  He couldn’t tell if she’d heard a single word he’d said to her. He stood up and walked to the door. He grabbed the handle, but before he pulled it open he turned to look at her.

  ‘Can’t you even say goodbye to me?’ he said.

  The woman didn’t move.

  ‘Mum?’ The word felt strange on his lips. ‘If you are my mum, can’t you even say goodbye? This will be the last time you see me.’ He thought he detected a slight movement of her head, but then she was perfectly still again. He went to her chair and squatted so that his head was level with hers. He noticed she was wearing a small gold crucifix around her neck on a fine gold chain. ‘Mum, can you hear me?’

  Her eyes were glistening with tears but her cheeks were dry, as dry and wrinkled as old parchment.

  ‘Why did you do it? Why did you sell me to Ainsley Gosling? I know he gave you twenty thousand pounds. Did he buy me from you?’

  The woman’s right hand twitched and her eyes widened. It was the first reaction she’d shown since he’d walked into the room. Her mouth opened and he saw she had no teeth, just ulcerated gums.

  ‘Ainsley Gosling, you know that name, don’t you?’

  The woman’s mouth opened wider. Her tongue was coated with white fur and he could smell her breath, sour and vinegary, like stale vomit.

  ‘Ainsley Gosling,’ repeated Nightingale. ‘He was the man you sold me to, wasn’t he? Tell me.’

  The woman’s hands bunched into arthritic fists and she stared at Nightingale, seeing him for the first time. She took a deep breath, opened her mouth and began to scream as if she was being burned at the stake.

  32

  Robbie Hoyle sipped his coffee and flicked through the file he had taken from the basement at Gosling Manor. Ainsley Gosling seemed never to have thrown away a single receipt or invoice. There were travel inventories that showed he had travelled the world, invoices from antiques shops and auction houses that showed he had been an avid collector, and one with a Harley Street address, written in an almost illegible scrawl. Hoyle screwed up his eyes and made out some of the words but not all. It related to treatment at a private clinic, and one word was quite clear – ‘ultrasound’.

  He looked at the heading again. ‘Dr Geoffrey Griffith, paediatrician’. It was dated twenty months after Nightingale had been born. ‘Got you,’ he whispered. He couldn’t see the name of the patient but he was fairly sure it involved Nightingale’s missing sister. He took out his mobile phone and scrolled through the address book until he found his friend’s number. The call connected but after half a dozen rings it went to voicemail. Hoyle looked at his watch. His shift was due to start in fifteen minutes so he drained his cup, paid his bill and headed out of the coffee shop. The Starbucks was across the road from the police station. He looked left and right. A double-decker bus drove past, then an Evening Standard delivery van. Cars rushed by on both sides of the road. He pressed redial but the call went to Nightingale’s voicemail again. A Tesco truck drove past, a motorcycle courier, then a line of cars, bumper to bumper. ‘Jack, it’s Robbie. I’m just heading into work but I’ve found something in Gosling’s file about your sister.’ There was a gap in the traffic and Hoyle stepped off the pavement. ‘I’ll give you a call when my shift’s over…’

  A girl in Goth clothes was standing in the doorway of a florist’s. Her Border collie was sitting next to her, its ears pricked. She ran a hand through her spiky jet black hair as she watched Hoyle step off the pavement.

  ‘Hey, Robbie!’ she shouted. Her voice cut through the hum of the traffic and Hoyle stopped in his tracks. ‘Hey, Robbie, have you got a light?’ she called.

  Hoyle turned, frowning, the phone still at his ear. The girl waved and blew him a kiss. He took a step towards her and the black cab hit him full on at thirty-five miles an hour, breaking his legs, hip and spine, bursting his spleen and splintering his ribs, which punctured his lungs. The driver said later that he’d been distracted by something in the back of his cab, which was empty at the time. Something had been fluttering around like a trapped bird, he told police, but when he’d turned there was nothing. He hadn’t had time to brake before the impact.

  Hoyle bled out quickly as he lay on the Tarmac and he was dead before the paramedics arrived. The contents of the file were scattered across the road. The wind picked them up and blew them in all directions. The invoice from the paediatrician was caught in an updraught, spun into the air, then slapped against a lamppost. The wind snatched it again and it swirled back into the road. It blew under a parked car and settled in a puddle of oily water.

  The girl and the dog watched as Hoyle’s life ebbed away, then disappeared into the crowds pouring out of nearby shops, some staring in horror, others reaching for their mobile phones to photograph and video Hoyle as he lay dying in the road.

  33

  The male nurse straightened the quilt over Rebecca Keeley and took the thermometer from her mouth. ‘I’m not sure you should still be here,’ he said to Nightingale. He put the thermometer into the top pocket of his tunic. ‘I think it’d be better if you left now.’

  ‘It wasn’t anything I did,’ said Nightingale. The woman had only screamed once, but the mournful wail had gone on for more than a minute and it was only when she ran out of breath that she had stopped. Her hands had tensed into fists and she had grabbed her crucifix and held it in front of her as if she was warding off a vampire.

  The nurse had burst into the room expecting the worst, but the woman had remained in her chair even when she was screaming. When she quietened he had helped her onto the bed and draped the quilt over her. Nightingale tried to help but the nurse pushed him away. His mobile phone had rung while the nurse was comforting Rebecca Keeley, but he had reached into his pocket and switched it off.

  The nurse took his stethoscope from around his neck and listened to her chest, then took her pulse. ‘I really think you should go,’ he said to Nightingale.

  ‘We were just talking and she started to scream,’ said Nightingale. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Miss Keeley doesn’t talk,’ said the nurse. ‘I’ve been here eighteen months and she’s not said one word to me.’ He stood up and faced Nightingale with his hands on his hips. ‘It would be best if you left now.’

  ‘She’s never done that before? Screamed like that?’

  The nurse shook his head. ‘She’s normally as good as gold. What did you say to her?’

  ‘Nothing,’ lied Nightingale. ‘I just told
her who I was and showed her the flowers. Are you sure she isn’t in pain or something?’

  ‘No, she’s fine.’

  ‘Look, I’d really like to sit with her for a while,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘She needs rest,’ said the nurse. ‘She’d be better off sleeping.’

  ‘If it’s a question of money…’ said Nightingale, taking out his wallet.

  The nurse held up a hand. ‘It isn’t,’ he said. ‘It’s a question of my patient’s wellbeing. She needs her rest, Mr Nightingale. You can come and see her tomorrow.’

  He was adamant, so Nightingale thanked the man for his help and left. As he went out of the room he picked up a hairbrush from the dressing-table and slipped it into his pocket.

  34

  Jenny smiled as Nightingale walked into the office. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

  ‘Difficult to say.’

  ‘Was she pleased to see you?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Nightingale. He went over and made himself a coffee. ‘Want one?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she said. ‘Come on, Jack, tell me what happened. Is she your mother or not? What did she say?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Nightingale. ‘She’s been on all sorts of anti-depressants for years. She’s in a hell of a state.’

  ‘But she’s your mother. There’s no doubt?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘She screamed like a banshee when I mentioned Gosling but all in all I couldn’t get much sense out of her.’ He pulled a Ziploc bag from the pocket of his coat. Inside was the hairbrush. ‘But I did get a DNA sample.’

  ‘You stole her brush?’

  ‘I borrowed it,’ said Nightingale. ‘She can have it back when I’m done with it. You remember that private forensics laboratory we used on the paternity case? The one out by the airport?’

  ‘Applied Forensics,’ she said, taking the bag from him.

  ‘Courier the brush over. I’ll give you a few of my hairs, too. Get them to run a comparison on the DNA to see if we’re related. Ask them to do a rush job.’

  ‘You have to pay double for their forty-eight hour service,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Then let’s do it,’ he said. ‘The sooner I know, the better.’

  ‘Okay, but remember that it’s Friday. Even if I get it to them today, it’ll be Tuesday at the earliest before we have the results.’

  ‘I need to know quickly,’ said Nightingale. He perched on the corner of her desk. ‘If she really is my mother then I have to go back to her.’

  ‘Was she pleased to see you?’

  ‘Horrified, more like.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘Screamed the place down, actually. They threw me out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, they were quite nice about it, but I had to leave.’ The door opened. Two men in raincoats came in and even before they opened their mouths Nightingale knew they were cops.

  ‘Jack Nightingale?’ said the older of the two.

  ‘That’s what it says on the door.’

  The one who had spoken produced his warrant card. ‘I’m Inspector Dan Evans. This is DC Neil Derbyshire.’

  ‘Is this about my aunt and uncle?’ asked Nightingale, putting down his coffee and getting up.

  Evans frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Tommy Nightingale. And Linda. Up in Altrincham.’

  ‘It’s a Jack Nightingale we’re here to see,’ said Evans.

  ‘That’s me,’ said Nightingale. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Do you know Inspector Robert Hoyle?’ asked Evans.

  ‘Robbie? Sure.’

  ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘He’s a friend and a former colleague. What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Nightingale. Inspector Hoyle died this morning.’

  The news hit Nightingale like a punch to the solar plexus. ‘He what?’

  ‘RTA, just after eleven o’clock. He was crossing the road, got hit by a taxi.’

  Nightingale sat down heavily. ‘My God. Oh, my God.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ said Derbyshire. ‘He stepped off the pavement and the taxi ploughed into him.’

  ‘We got your name and number off his mobile,’ said Evans, frowning at the detective constable. ‘Yours was the last number he called.’

  ‘Had the driver been drinking?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Stone-cold sober. Says he was distracted by something in the cab but that Inspector Hoyle had just stopped in the middle of the road.’

  Nightingale fumbled for a cigarette.

  ‘Can I get you coffee or tea?’ Jenny asked the detectives. She moved across the room to Nightingale and put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘We’re fine, thank you,’ said Evans.

  ‘What’s happening about Anna? Who’s telling her?’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Superintendent Chalmers is with her now,’ said Evans.

  ‘Chalmers?’ said Nightingale. ‘She hates him.’

  ‘You used to work in hostage negotiation, right?’ asked Derbyshire.

  ‘In another life.’

  ‘You’re the one who killed the paedophile, right? The banker who was molesting his daughter?’

  ‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘They said you threw him out of a ten-storey window,’ said Derbyshire.

  ‘They?’ echoed Nightingale.

  ‘I’d have done the same in your place,’ said Derbyshire.

  ‘Most of us would,’ agreed Evans. ‘If we had the balls. I’m a dad myself. Two girls. If anyone touched them…’

  Nightingale straightened. ‘Is there anything else, guys? Anything you need from me?’

  ‘We’re just clearing up loose ends,’ said Evans.

  ‘But there’s nothing untoward, right? It was an accident, pure and simple?’

  ‘Is there something else we should know about?’ asked Evans.

  Nightingale shrugged but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Was he doing something on the side for you?’ asked Evans.

  ‘Robbie was a straight arrow,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘We all do favours for friends, especially those who used to be in the job,’ said Derbyshire.

  ‘I never asked him for favours like that. I didn’t have to.’

  ‘No offence,’ said Evans.

  ‘None taken,’ said Nightingale. ‘Thanks for…’ He left the sentence unfinished. There was no reason to thank them: they were just doing their job.

  When the two detectives had left Nightingale went into his office and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. He kept a bottle of brandy there for clients who needed a stiff drink after hearing bad news. He took it out now. ‘Do you want one?’ he asked Jenny.

  Jenny nodded. ‘I don’t believe this,’ she said.

  Nightingale sloshed brandy into two glasses and gave one to her. ‘I’ve got to go and see Anna,’ he said.

  ‘She must be in pieces. Three children. Oh, those poor kids.’ She gulped some brandy, her hand shaking. ‘This doesn’t feel real.’

  It never did, Nightingale knew. As a police officer he’d broken news of fatalities to families more than a dozen times, and rarely was it greeted with anything but disbelief. Mothers, fathers, children, the first reaction was always complete denial. Their loved one couldn’t be dead: they’d only just seen them, talked to them, they were on their way home, they had just left for work. Then, once they had acknowledged the death, came the questions – how, why, when – as if understanding would lead to acceptance. More often than not it didn’t. Acceptance came only with time.

  Two young policemen had broken the news to Nightingale that his parents had died. They had turned up at his university hall of residence with one of his lecturers, asked him to sit down and told him they had bad news about his parents. Even when they had explained what had happened, Nightingale had still called home to check because he hadn’t wanted to believe that his mum and dad were dead. Then when he had gone home and stood in the empty house,
he had still half thought that they would be back at any moment, that he’d hear their car in the drive and they would rush in, laughing and saying it had all been a terrible mistake and they weren’t the ones who had died in the accident. Even at the funeral it hadn’t seemed real: the coffins were closed and part of him clung to the hope that someone else was inside them and that his parents were still alive.

  ‘Why, Jack?’ she asked. ‘Why Robbie?’

  ‘There’s no reason,’ said Nightingale. ‘Wrong place, wrong time. A stupid accident. And accidents happen.’ He smiled thinly. ‘It’s Friday the thirteenth, remember. Shit happens on Friday the thirteenth.’

  ‘But why to Robbie?’

  It wasn’t a question he could answer. Bad things happened to good people. That was the way of the world. He stood up, went to his raincoat and took out his mobile phone, then sat down at his desk and switched it on. ‘I was the last number he called, but my phone was off while I was with my mother,’ he said. He looked at the little screen. He had a voicemail message. He pressed the button to pick it up and put the phone to his ear. ‘Jack, it’s Robbie. I’m just heading into work but I’ve found something in Gosling’s file about your sister.’ Nightingale could hear traffic in the background. ‘I’ll give you a call when my shift’s over…’ There was more traffic noise, then a girl’s voice in the distance. ‘Hey, Robbie!’ And a second or two later, ‘Hey, Robbie, have you got a light?’ Then there was a sickening thud and silence.

  Nightingale took the phone away from his ear and stared at it in horror.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘I just heard Robbie being run over,’ he said.

  ‘No way,’ said Jenny.

  ‘He’d rung to say he had information for me. Some girl called his name and then…’

  Jenny held out her hand. ‘Can I?’