Nightmare (25 page)

Nightingale gave him a thumbs up then threaded his way to the door and up a flight of stairs leading to a small decked terrace that overlooked the alley at the rear of the building. There was a brick wall around the edge of the terrace and at each corner there was a large propane patio heater with orange flames flickering under black metal canopies.

In the middle of the terrace were a dozen or so smokers huddled around two waist-high tables. The smokers had split into sexes with four women standing around one table and the men at the other. Nightingale lit a cigarette. A blonde waitress dressed all in black came up the stairs carrying a tray and she began collecting empty glasses and bottles.

‘Busy night?’ he asked.

‘Busy every night,’ she said. She had an East European accent.

They both looked up as they heard a helicopter fly overhead, playing a searchlight over the rooftops.

‘Are you Polish?’ he asked the waitress.

‘Hungarian,’ she said.

‘Sorry.’

‘Sorry I’m Hungarian? Why? You don’t like Hungarians?’

‘No, I meant I’m sorry I was wrong.’

Her face broke into a grin, showing uneven greyish teeth. ‘I was joking with you.’

‘Okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘You got me. How long have you been working here?’

‘A year,’ she said. ‘Daytime I study computers.’ She finished loading her tray and was about to head downstairs when he pulled out the photograph of Robinson and Smith and showed it to her.

He tapped Robinson’s face. ‘This guy here, he was at the salsa night last July. He was shot outside.’

She bit down on her lower lip as she studied the photograph. ‘I remember, yes.’

A siren burst into life in the distance. An ambulance.

‘You remember him? Or you remember him being shot?’

‘Both,’ said the waitress. ‘Salsa night.’

‘Was he dancing?’

She shook her head. ‘He was up here.’

‘Smoking?’

She shook her head again. ‘That’s why I remember. He was standing over there,’ she said and gestured at the far corner of the terrace where two middle-aged men in matching camouflage shirts and cargo pants were French kissing. ‘He asked for a bottle of champagne, Cristal, which is why I remember. And he gave me a big tip.’

Nightingale put the picture away. ‘You told the police this?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, they spoke to all the staff. They wanted to know if he’d been with someone but he was here on his own.’

‘He didn’t talk to anyone?’

‘He chatted to two men for a while but they weren’t with him. I saw them shaking hands and then they left.’

‘And you told the police that?’

She nodded again. ‘They showed me some photographs but I didn’t know their names. They do drink here sometimes, though.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I think they sell drugs, you know.’

‘But they left first, right?’

‘I’m not sure if they left or if they were just up here to smoke and then went downstairs.’

‘But after they went downstairs, Dwayne stayed here?’

‘For a while. He kept looking at his watch.’

‘So he was waiting for someone?’

‘I think so. That’s what it looked like.’

‘And then he left and that’s when he got shot?’

She shrugged. ‘I guess so. I was down in the main bar when he left. The bottle was still half-full. I remember leaving it there for an hour just in case he came back, but he didn’t.’

Nightingale thanked her and gave her a twenty-pound note. He finished his lager and cigarette and then left the nightclub and headed back to his car.

There was a young couple lying in sleeping bags in a shop doorway, their arms wrapped around each other. By their feet was a paper cup with loose change in it and a hand-written cardboard sign. Nightingale jumped as he saw what was written on the cardboard in capital letters: ‘PLEASE HELP ME, JACK.’ He took a step back and slipped off the pavement. A black cab missed him by inches, the slipstream tugging at his raincoat. Nightingale stepped back onto the pavement, his heart racing. He looked again at the piece of cardboard. It said: ‘HOMELESS – PLEASE HELP’ and there was a smiley face.

The girl opened her eyes and sneered at him. ‘What are you looking at, pervert?’

‘What?’ said Nightingale. ‘Nothing.’ He put his hand into his pocket, pulled out a handful of change and dropped it into the paper cup. The girl closed her eyes and snuggled up to her boyfriend.

As Nightingale walked away he phoned Perry Smith and asked him for Dwayne Robinson’s mobile phone number.

‘What, that’s your plan?’ said Smith. ‘Phone up the dead guy and ask him who shot him? It’s no wonder you stopped being a cop.’

‘Very funny,’ said Nightingale. ‘He made a call just before he was shot. I want to find out who he spoke to.’

‘You can do that?’

‘Yeah, Perry, I can do that. Now give me the number and stop wasting my seventy-two hours.’

‘No can do,’ said Perry. ‘He used throwaways, and he made a big thing about it. He didn’t just toss the Sim card; he’d dump the phone as well. He said that these days they can track a phone no matter what Sim card’s in it.’

‘So you don’t know the number of the phone he had that night?’

‘That’s what I just said, innit?’

‘Shit,’ said Nightingale. The line went dead.

Nightingale waited until he was back in his Bayswater flat before phoning Dan Evans.

‘Hell’s bells, it’s after midnight,’ groaned Evans.

‘Were you asleep?’

‘I’m on the school run tomorrow because the missus isn’t feeling well. So yes, I was asleep.’

‘Sorry, mate, but I didn’t want to call you in the office, me being persona non grata and all.’

Evans sighed. ‘What do you want?’

‘Dwayne Robinson had a mobile phone on him when he was killed.’

‘So?’

‘It was a throwaway, a pay-as-you-go. I need the number.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t ask and I won’t tell,’ said Nightingale.

‘Please don’t tell me you’re going to be playing fast and loose with the Data Protection Act.’

‘That’s why I said not to ask. Have you got the number?’

‘Not with me, no. I’ll give you a bell tomorrow.’

‘You’re a star, Dan. Sweet dreams.’

35

Dan Evans was as good as his word and first thing on Friday morning he called Nightingale’s office and gave him the number of the mobile phone that had been found on Dwayne Robinson’s body. Nightingale had contacts at most of the large mobile phone companies. The first guy he called was able to tell him which firm handled Robinson’s number and the second guy agreed to get a list of calls made to and from the phone for his normal fee of £250. Nightingale made coffee for himself and Jenny, read the
Sun
and
Private Eye
, smoked three cigarettes and then decided that he would go and see Anna Hoyle.

‘If anything needs doing, give me a call,’ he told Jenny.

‘Will you be back today or are you away for the weekend?’

‘I probably won’t be back today,’ said Nightingale. ‘You might as well knock off early yourself.’

‘Is everything okay, Jack?’

‘Sure, why?’

‘I don’t know. You just seem . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Unenthusiastic. Like you’re bored with the business.’

‘I’m fine. I’m not sleeping well, that’s all.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. Really.’

‘It’s Sophie, isn’t it? Are you still having dreams about her?’

‘Nightmares, more like. It’s okay. It’ll pass.’

‘Can I help?’

He shook his head.

‘I still think you should talk this through with someone.’

‘Like Barbara, you mean?’

‘Barbara’s a psychologist, though I’m sure she could help. But I was thinking of a therapist, maybe.’

Nightingale laughed. ‘You are joking, right?’

‘You’re not sleeping. You keep talking about this Sophie. And you’ve had a very stressful few weeks.’

‘I’m a big boy, Jenny.’

‘That’s the problem, right there. You’ve got this macho man thing going on. Like nothing affects you. But look what you’ve been through. You find out that your mum and dad weren’t your real parents. Your biological father blows his head off with a shotgun. Then your uncle kills your aunt and then kills himself. Then your biological mother kills herself. And—’

Nightingale held up his hand to silence her. ‘I get it, I get it,’ he said.

‘There you go again,’ she said. ‘You just don’t want to talk about it. But that simply means you’re burying it. If you don’t talk about stuff like that it’ll fester in your subconscious and come out in some other way.’

‘Where are you getting this from? The Discovery Channel?’

‘And then you make a joke about it. But it’s not funny.’

‘I know it’s not funny.’

‘At some point you’re going to have to deal with what happened.’

‘You think I’ve got PTSD, is that it? Post-traumatic stress disorder?’

‘I’m not saying that, Jack. I’m just saying that maybe you should think about talking it through with someone. Someone who knows about stress.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

‘No you won’t,’ she said. ‘You’ll just go on your own sweet way.’

36

Nightingale walked around to the multi-storey car park where he’d left his MGB and drove south of the river. There were no spaces in the street outside Anna Hoyle’s neat semi-detached house in Raynes Park and he had to park a good five-minute walk away. It started to rain as he walked up to the front door and he jogged the last few yards and pressed the doorbell.

Anna opened the door. Her blonde hair was clipped back and there were dark patches under her eyes as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. She wasn’t wearing make-up and he could see that she’d been biting her nails.

‘Jack, lovely to see you,’ she said. ‘Come on in, out of the rain.’ She closed the door behind him and pecked him on the cheek. ‘It seems like ages since I’ve seen you.’

Nightingale felt his cheeks redden. The last time he’d seen her had been at Robbie’s funeral. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been worked off my feet,’ he said, but he grimaced as he realised how lame that sounded. He took off his raincoat. ‘Are the kids around?’ he asked.

‘Sarah’s at a sleepover with a couple of her friends and the twins are napping.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘Come on into the kitchen. Do you want coffee? Or wine? I was going to open a bottle of wine.’

‘Bit early for me, love, but coffee would be great,’ he said, hanging his coat on the back of the door. He did a double take as he saw Robbie’s coat hanging there.

‘I know,’ she said, catching his look. ‘I can’t bring myself to throw it away. It’s funny: when I come in and see it my heart always skips a beat, like he’s back, then my stomach lurches as I remember . . .’ She put a hand up to her face. ‘I’m sorry, Jack, you’re only just in the door and look at me, the grieving widow.’

She took him through to the kitchen and ushered him over to a chair. The washing machine was on, just about to go into the spin cycle. Anna switched on the kettle.

‘How is everything?’ asked Nightingale.

‘There’re good days and bad days,’ said Anna, spooning coffee into a cafetière. She forced a smile. ‘Mainly bad, actually.’

‘And the girls?’

‘Sarah’s just shut down. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t do anything really. It’s as if a part of her died along with Robbie. I had to practically drag her into the car to get her to the sleepover.’

Nightingale felt tears prick his eyes. He felt totally helpless knowing that there was nothing he could say or do that would come close to easing the pain she was going through.

‘The twins are okay, but they just don’t understand. They keep asking when Daddy’s coming back and I tell them that Daddy’s up in heaven, so then they say that they want to go to see him there.’ She put her hands up to her face as if she was wiping away tears, but her eyes were dry.

Nightingale stood up and put his arms around her. She buried her face in his chest.

‘I don’t know how I can get through this, Jack. It’s too much for me.’

‘One day at a time, love. That’s all you can do.’

‘I don’t want to live without him. I know that sounds selfish but I keep thinking we’d be better off if . . .’ She tailed off and held him tightly.

‘That’s crazy talk, love,’ said Nightingale. ‘Robbie would be as mad as hell if he heard you talking like that.’

‘I miss him, Jack.’

‘We all do. But you know that Robbie would want you and the children to move on with your lives. You know that, don’t you?’ Anna nodded, and sniffed. Nightingale stroked the back of her head. ‘My parents died when I was a teenager,’ he said. ‘They died suddenly, too, and I never got the chance to say goodbye. One day they were there, the next they were gone. I thought I’d never get over it. But you do. Bit by bit. You never forget, you never stop missing them, but day by day it hurts a little less. Then one day you wake up and it doesn’t hurt at all. It takes time. It takes a long time. But eventually . . .’

Anna shook her head. ‘This hurt is never going to go away, Jack,’ she said. She put her hands on his chest and gently pushed him back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I still get weepy.’ She forced a smile and wiped her eyes with a tea towel. ‘Go and sit down in the front room. I’ll bring in your coffee.’

Nightingale sat down and waited for her. There was a wedding photograph on the mantelpiece, and next to it a family photograph. Robbie, Anna and the three girls. Nightingale stared at the photograph and shook his head. ‘You stupid, stupid bastard,’ he whispered.

Anna came in with two mugs of coffee. She put them on the table in front of Nightingale then sat down next to him. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said.

‘Anna, you don’t have to apologise to me for anything.’ He picked up the mug and sipped his coffee. ‘How is everything? Money’s come through all right?’

She nodded. ‘The Federation has been a great help, and Superintendent Chalmers has been around twice since the funeral.’ She smiled at the frown that flashed across Nightingale’s face. ‘I know you and Chalmers have a history, but he’s been really helpful and supportive. A real rock.’

‘I didn’t think he had much time for Robbie. To be honest, I don’t think Chalmers cares about anyone other than himself.’