Nightfall jn-1

by Stephen Leather

  ‘And you don’t think it’s a bit coincidental, discovering three bodies in less than a week?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, you do, Jack. You know there’s something strange going on here. And I think you’re not telling us the whole story.’

  ‘There’s no story to tell.’

  ‘The thing is, you’ve always been a bit of a vigilante, haven’t you? That’s why you had to leave the force.’

  Nightingale sat back in his chair and folded his arms. He knew there was no point in rising to the bait – Chalmers was only trying to provoke him.

  ‘You threw Simon Underwood out of his office window, didn’t you? And got away without even a slap on the wrist. Is that what you think, Nightingale, that you’re some sort of masked avenger who can go around murdering at will?’

  ‘Barry O’Brien committed suicide.’

  ‘And I suppose Underwood threw himself out of his office window?’

  Nightingale said nothing.

  ‘Were you drinking before you went to see Mr O’Brien?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Nightingale. ‘It was first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Because you do have a drink problem, don’t you?’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘You’re due to appear in court on a drink-driving charge next month, aren’t you?’

  ‘I had a few beers and was stupid enough to drive,’ said Nightingale. ‘That doesn’t qualify as a drink problem.’

  Chalmers leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Look, Jack, I understand how you feel. I understand how you felt about Underwood, and I know there were no tears shed for him after what he did to his daughter. And I understand how you felt about Robbie’s death. He didn’t deserve to die. He was a husband and a dad and a good cop, and some bastard who wasn’t watching what he was doing ran him over. I understand that you’d be angry – hell, I’m angry. And I could see that you’d want revenge, because we both know the courts won’t do anything. I can understand why you’d want to hurt O’Brien. Anyone could.’

  ‘It was an accident, you said.’

  ‘And you’re okay with that?’

  ‘Accidents happen,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘They do around you, that’s for sure,’ said Chalmers.

  44

  The Australian nurse carefully cut the chicken breast into pieces so small that they couldn’t be choked on. The potatoes were mashed and the carrots had been boiled for so long that they had turned to mush, so the chicken was the only potential threat. The plate was on a tray over Rebecca Keeley’s lap. She sat with her hands by her sides, frowning as she watched him cut the meat.

  ‘That must have been nice, seeing your son after all these years,’ said the nurse.

  She didn’t reply. She hadn’t said a word since Nightingale had left. The nurse wasn’t even sure that she’d spoken to her son.

  ‘I hope he comes again – you could do with a regular visitor. He might bring you out of your shell.’

  The phone in the hallway started to ring and the nurse cursed. He looked apologetically at her. ‘Sorry about the language, Miss Keeley,’ he said. ‘It’s just that it never rings when I’m not busy. Sod’s law.’ He put the knife and fork on the tray and went to answer it.

  As the nurse closed the door, the woman reached for the knife. For the first time she smiled, showing her raw, ulcerated gums. She placed the blade against her left wrist, and splayed her fingers. She shuddered and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer as she hacked away, sawing through flesh, veins and tendons. Blood sprayed across the bed as she continued to work the knife.

  45

  Nightingale opened his office door and walked quickly to his desk. He pulled open the bottom drawer and took out the brandy he kept there.

  ‘Jack?’ asked Jenny, getting up from her computer.

  ‘I’ve had a hell of a day.’

  ‘And brandy’s going to make it better?’

  ‘It’ll make me feel better,’ said Nightingale. He unscrewed the top and raised the bottle to his lips, then stopped. ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Booze has got me into more than enough trouble already.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Great.’ He put the cap back on the bottle and the bottle back in the drawer.

  ‘Where were you today?’ asked Jenny, as she went to make the coffee.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Nightingale, dropping onto his chair and swinging his feet up onto the desk. ‘I went to see Barry O’Brien, the taxi driver.’

  ‘And what did he have to say?’

  ‘Nothing. He was dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’d killed himself. Sat in the bath and slit his wrists.’

  ‘My God,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Must have done it a day or two ago. Maybe yesterday, while we were at Robbie’s funeral.’

  Jenny brought over two mugs of coffee and gave him one. ‘You think he felt bad about what he’d done? Couldn’t live with himself?’

  ‘Chalmers thinks I did it.’

  ‘He what?’ She sat on the edge of his desk.

  ‘He had me in for questioning, along with the two cops who came to tell us about Robbie. Evans and Derbyshire. The three bloody musketeers. They were firing questions at me for hours.’

  ‘They can’t seriously think you did it, Jack. Anyway, you were at the funeral or you were with me.’

  ‘They do have a point, though,’ said Nightingale. ‘You know what’s been happening to me. My father, my real father, blows his head off with a shotgun. My uncle kills my aunt and hangs himself. Barry O’Brien cuts his wrists before I can talk to him. It doesn’t look good, does it? From their point of view. And that was before they mentioned Simon Underwood.’

  ‘They’re morons if they think you had anything to do with any of those deaths. Sometimes people can be so bloody stupid.’

  ‘Chalmers has always had it in for me,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t think he seriously believes I killed O’Brien – he just wants to make my life difficult. And he’s never forgiven me for the Underwood thing.’

  ‘They never charged you, did they, for what happened to Underwood?’

  ‘They couldn’t. There were no forensics, no witnesses, no CCTV. And I didn’t tell them anything.’ He shrugged. ‘What could I tell them? That I’d conveniently contracted a nasty case of amnesia?’ He flashed her his little-boy-lost smile. ‘I need you to do something for me, Jenny.’

  ‘I am here to serve, O master.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘So am I,’ said Jenny.

  ‘I need you to find someone for me. A guy by the name of George Harrison.’

  ‘The Beatle? He’s dead.’

  ‘George Arthur Harrison,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’d be in his early sixties now. He was a truck driver in the nineties. He lived in south London then, but he could be anywhere now.’

  ‘I’ll get on to it,’ said Jenny. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘He killed my parents,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Jack,’ said Jenny, ‘are you sure you want to do this? It was a long time ago.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Nightingale, ‘but it’s unfinished business.’

  ‘Unfinished in what way?’

  ‘I need to know what happened, Jenny. I need to know why my parents died.’

  ‘It was an accident. You should let sleeping dogs lie.’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘I should have spoken to him then, but I was too young, just a kid.’

  ‘What on earth do you stand to gain by confronting him now?’

  Nightingale ran his hands through his hair. ‘I just need to do it, Jenny. Can’t you leave it at that?’

  ‘It’s because of Robbie, isn’t it? And because of what happened to O’Brien.’

  ‘That’s part of it,’ admitted Nightingale. ‘Bad things are happening around me, Jenny, and it’s all to do with Ainsley Gosling being my father. If I can find out wha
t happened to my parents, maybe it’ll explain what’s happening now.’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘That was what everyone said. But Robbie’s death was an accident, too. Doesn’t that seem a bit coincidental?’

  ‘Coincidences happen.’

  ‘Sure they do. And people commit murder and kill themselves. It’s just that it seems to be happening to people I know a hell of a lot recently. Maybe I’m the key. Maybe Gosling had my parents killed – have you thought about that? Maybe he paid this guy Harrison to kill them.’

  ‘And he paid O’Brien to kill Robbie from beyond the grave, is that what you think?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘But if I talk to Harrison maybe I’ll find out.’

  ‘You’re starting to worry me, Jack.’ The phone rang and she picked it up. ‘Nightingale Investigations,’ she said. She listened, then placed her hand over the receiver. ‘It’s Mrs Fraser at the Hillingdon Home. It’s about Rebecca Keeley.’

  ‘Now what?’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Jack, she’s dead.’

  46

  Mrs Fraser was sitting behind her desk when an assistant showed Nightingale into her office. The Australian male nurse was also there, his arms folded across his chest, his face a blank mask. Mrs Fraser didn’t get up and waved Nightingale to a chair.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘What happened, Mr Nightingale, is that after you visited her for the second time, your mother took a knife and slashed her wrists,’ said the administrator.

  ‘What was she doing with a knife?’

  ‘She was eating her dinner. Your mother wasn’t considered a danger to herself or anyone else, so the use of cutlery wasn’t an issue.’

  ‘Did she leave a note?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Do you have any idea why she did it?’

  ‘She did it because you upset her,’ said the male nurse. ‘She was fine before you came along.’

  ‘She was practically psychotic,’ said Nightingale. ‘According to you she never spoke, but she spoke to me.’

  ‘And then she killed herself,’ said the nurse. ‘What did you say to her?’

  The administrator raised a hand to silence him. ‘Darren, please, let me handle this.’

  ‘What’s to be handled?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘The thing is, Mr Nightingale, as things stand we have no confirmation that you are in fact Miss Keeley’s son.’

  Nightingale reached into his jacket pocket and took out an envelope. ‘Here’s the result of the DNA test I told you about,’ he said. ‘It clearly shows she was my mother.’

  Mrs Fraser took the report out of the envelope and read it. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘How did you get a sample of her DNA?’

  ‘I borrowed a hairbrush,’ said Nightingale. ‘The cells on the root of the hair are all they need these days.’

  ‘You stole a hairbrush?’

  ‘I borrowed it,’ said Nightingale. ‘And, as you can see, I’m quite definitely her son so there’s no problem at all in my visiting her.’

  ‘Your mother killed herself, Mr Nightingale,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘Questions are being asked as to how that happened, and it might be that our level of care is called into question.’ She gave the report back to him.

  ‘My mother was upset. I don’t see that anyone can blame you,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘She died in our care, which means we’re responsible,’ said Mrs Fraser.

  ‘Have the police been informed?’ asked Nightingale.

  Mrs Fraser nodded. ‘Yes, but purely as a formality,’ she said.

  ‘She died in my arms,’ said the nurse. ‘I was holding her while she bled to death.’ There were tears in his eyes.

  ‘Did she say anything?’ asked Nightingale.

  The nurse shook his head.

  ‘The point, Mr Nightingale, is that it was clearly your visits that upset Miss Keeley,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘I think we’re all agreed that prior to your visits she was calm, albeit uncommunicative. And afterwards…’

  ‘I understand,’ said Nightingale. ‘I certainly wouldn’t be in disagreement with you on that.’

  ‘That’s good to hear, Mr Nightingale,’ she said.

  Nightingale leaned forward. ‘I’m not looking to blame anyone, Mrs Fraser, and I hope that’s your position. My mother was obviously very disturbed, and I know you were giving her the very best care possible.’ He looked at the male nurse. ‘Darren thought a lot of my mother, and I could see she really appreciated the way he took care of her. I agree that my suddenly turning up upset her, but I don’t think that anyone could have foreseen that she would harm herself.’

  They were more concerned about a possible legal suit or bad publicity than they were about why Rebecca Keeley had killed herself, Nightingale realised. The meeting was about avoiding blame, nothing else. ‘As to what I said to my mother, it was just family stuff. I showed her photographs of when I was a kid, and we talked about them. I don’t know why she got so upset in the garden, but as soon as Darren asked me to leave, I did.’

  Mrs Fraser nodded, and even managed a smile. ‘Thank you for your understanding, Mr Nightingale. You can imagine how upset we all are. One never likes to lose a resident, especially under such circumstances.’ She picked up a pen and toyed with it. ‘We have to make arrangements,’ she said, ‘for the funeral.’

  ‘What normally happens?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘It depends on whether the resident has family or not. If there’s no one, we arrange a service at the local crematorium.’

  ‘Can you do that for my mother?’ said Nightingale. ‘So far as I know I’m her only living relative, and it would be a big help.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Mrs Fraser.

  ‘I’ll pay. Whatever costs there are, just let me know.’

  ‘Mrs Keeley’s fees were paid by the local authority, and they’ll bear the cost of the funeral,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘Now, what would you like us to do with her belongings? Her clothes and such.’

  ‘What normally happens?’

  ‘If there are relatives we give them everything. Otherwise we clean any clothing and send it to charity shops, along with electrical equipment and other articles that people might want. The rest we throw away.’ She grimaced. ‘It’s sad, but most of our residents don’t have much left by the time they come here.’

  ‘Charity shops sound like a good idea,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘The crucifix,’ said the nurse. ‘Don’t forget the crucifix.’

  ‘Oh, yes, your mother always wore it,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘It was a great comfort to her.’

  Nightingale turned to the nurse. ‘Would you like it, Darren?’

  ‘Oh, that’s not possible,’ said Mrs Fraser, quickly. ‘It’s against company policy, I’m afraid. We’re not allowed to accept bequests from our residents. Under any circumstances. We had a bad experience a few years ago.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Nightingale. He took out one of his business cards and gave it to her. ‘You can send it to me here.’

  Mrs Fraser studied the card. ‘I didn’t know you were a private detective,’ she said.

  ‘For my sins,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘That can’t be a pleasant occupation.’

  ‘It has its moments,’ said Nightingale.

  47

  Nightingale was driving on auto-pilot, his mind more focused on the death of Rebecca Keeley than on the road ahead, which was why he didn’t see the fox until a second before he hit it. The car slammed into the animal and Nightingale hit the brakes. The rear started to spin and Nightingale pumped the brake as he fought to control it. The road curved to the right, and the sky was obscured by the drooping branches of the woodland he was driving through. He straightened the MGB but realised he was heading for a beech tree. He spun the wheel to the right. The car skidded to a halt and stalled.

  Nightingale sat where he was, his heart pounding, gripping the steering-wheel so tightly that his knuckles we
nt white. He had chosen to drive back to London along B-roads rather than take the motorway because he wanted time to think, but his decision had almost cost him his life. He started the engine and carefully drove the car off the road, climbed out and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. The MGB had stopped just a few feet from the tree. If he’d been going any faster or been a fraction slower in braking he would have slammed into it and he was sure the impact would have killed him. He inhaled deeply and blew a plume of smoke skywards. The line between life and death was a fine one at the best of times.

  He looked back down the road. There was no sign of the fox. He walked along to where he’d hit the animal. There was no blood on the Tarmac, no indication that there had ever been a fox. He checked the vegetation at the side of the road but found nothing. Had he imagined it? He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. There had been a fox in the middle of the road and he hadn’t imagined the thud as he’d hit it. So where was it? Had it crawled off to die? He walked into the woodland, treading softly through the brambles and nettles, listening for any sounds of an animal in pain, but all he could hear was the territorial chirping of birds high in the trees.

  He saw a church spire through the trees and headed towards it. It was surrounded by a dry-stone wall, moss-covered in places, and a sign at the entrance proclaimed it as St Mary’s. It was small, stone-built, with stained-glass windows and a metal cross atop the spire. Nightingale walked towards the oak door. It opened silently, despite its bulk – the hinges were well oiled – and the wood had been polished until it shone. There were fresh flowers in the vestibule and the cloying smell of lilies.

  There were a dozen rows of hard wooden benches with an aisle down the centre that led to a pulpit and behind it a stone font. Nightingale felt himself drawn towards the font and walked down the aisle, his hands in his pockets. The air was much cooler inside the church than it had been outside and he shivered.

  The stone flags had worn smooth with the thousands of feet that had gone back and forth over the years, making the journey from pew to priest. There were thick oak beams overhead, and statues set into the walls depicting the agony of Christ’s crucifixion. Candles flickered in alcoves, dripping wax onto the stone floor. Nightingale looked around but he appeared to be alone. To the left of the pulpit was a confessional box, the curtains on both sides closed. Nightingale stopped and listened but he couldn’t hear voices.