Nightmare (27 page)

‘Anything you want to say to me you can say in front of T-Bone,’ said Smith.

Nightingale shook his head. ‘You’ve no idea what I’m going to say. I might be here to tell you that I know that you’ve been screwing T-Bone’s wife and you wouldn’t want him to know that.’

The heavy stared impassively at Nightingale.

‘T-Bone ain’t married,’ said Smith.

‘That was an example. Trust me, what I’ve got to tell you is for your ears only. You won’t want it generally known.’ Smith looked around the coffee shop, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘You’re not scared, are you?’

‘I’m not scared of nothing,’ said Smith.

Nightingale held up his hands. ‘No offence,’ he said. ‘You just seem nervous. Do you want a coffee? Or a muffin?’

‘No I don’t want a fucking coffee or muffin and I don’t want tea and fucking crumpets. Just tell me what you want.’

‘Okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘You know why I wanted to meet you here?’

Smith snarled at him. ‘You like coffee?’

‘Nah, I like CCTV.’ He nodded at the camera in the ceiling that was covering the seating area. ‘With the eye in the sky looking at us you’re not going to do anything crazy.’

‘I hear you.’

‘And if this doesn’t go well and something bad happens to me down the line, the cops will come knocking on your door.’

‘I ain’t scared of no cops, and I ain’t scared of no CCTV. Now tell me what the fuck you want or I’m out of here.’

Nightingale leaned forward. ‘I know what happened to Dwayne. The thing is, do you?’

Smith’s forehead creased into a frown. ‘What the fuck do you mean?’

‘Have you been blowing smoke all this time, making it look like you give a shit who shot Dwayne? Because if you have it’s all going to backfire on you.’

Smith’s lips pressed together tightly and his hands clenched as if he was about to attack Nightingale, but then he relaxed and nodded slowly. ‘Tell me what you found out and we’ll take it from there.’

Nightingale took a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his raincoat and slid it across the table. ‘The first number there is the throwaway mobile that Dwayne was using the night he was shot. Obviously he couldn’t throw it away, him being dead and all. I was able to get the records for the phone the night he died. The second number is the number that he called about three minutes before he was shot.’

Smith unfolded the sheet and looked at the numbers. ‘Who did he call?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘The number’s dead now. I’m guessing it was a throwaway too. But I was able to get a list of calls that were made from the second phone. The bottom two numbers are the calls made from the second phone after Dwayne phoned.’

Smith looked at the last two numbers and his eyebrows went skywards. ‘That last number is mine, innit?’

‘That’s right. I thought you always used throwaways.’

‘That phone’s not for business.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out an iPhone. He put it on the table. ‘Friends and family,’ he said.

Nightingale sat back in his chair. ‘You can see why I’d be worried, then.’

‘I don’t see what the problem is,’ said Smith.

‘The problem is that third number, the one that the second phone called before it called you. It’s not a throwaway either. It belongs to a gangster down Bromley way, did a ten-stretch for armed robbery when he was in his twenties but hasn’t been in trouble with the law since. But word on the street is that he’s a hitman.’

‘Hitman?’

‘I had his name run through the Police National Computer and there’s plenty of intel on him but no hard evidence. Name of Ben Marshal. Reckoned to carry out murder for hire at fifty grand a pop. About ten minutes after Marshal gets the call, he sends back a text message. A smiley face.’

‘Say what?’

‘A smiley face. A colon, a dash and a bracket.’ He drew the symbol on the table with his finger. ‘A smiley face.’

‘So what are you saying, Nightingale? Spell it out.’

‘Okay, here’s what I think happened. Dwayne went to the Flamingo to meet someone. I don’t know who and I don’t know what the meeting was about. Might have been a girl, might have been a dealer. But whoever it was, they didn’t turn up. But the who isn’t the point. The point was to get him in Brixton, out of his comfort zone. When he came out of the club he was looking for someone but they weren’t there. I’m thinking he was expecting a car to be there waiting for him. A black four-wheel drive, maybe. Anyway Dwayne calls the driver and the driver tells him to meet him around the corner. Then the driver phones Marshal and tells him that Dwayne is outside the club and heading to the side road. Marshal is close by and he goes up behind Dwayne and shoots him. The gun jams and he legs it. He gets picked up on a bike and off he goes. He sends a text to the driver. A smiley face. That means the job’s done. Half an hour after that the driver phones you.’

Smith cursed under his breath.

‘So who phoned you on the night that Dwayne was shot? About an hour after it happened?’

‘Bastard,’ said Smith under his breath.

‘You know who it was?’

Smith nodded. ‘Reggie.’

‘Reggie Gayle? Dwayne’s number two?’

Smith nodded again.

‘There you go, then. That’s why I’m getting a bit nervous because how do I know that you and Reggie aren’t in this together?’

‘Because of what I’m going to do to Reggie. And to this bastard Marshal. That’s how you’ll know.’ He shook his head. ‘Reggie bastard Gayle. I’ll have his balls—’

‘I don’t want to know,’ interrupted Nightingale. ‘I just want to know that we’re good.’

Smith stared at him but said nothing.

‘So we’re good?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Good as gold,’ said Smith quietly.

Nightingale stood up. ‘Can I ask you a question, Perry?’

‘You can ask, that don’t mean I’ll answer.’

‘Proserpine. Do you know her?’

Smith frowned. ‘Proserpine?’

‘When you came after me, it was all about Dwayne?’

Smith’s frown deepened. ‘What are you talking about, Birdy?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Nightingale.

‘You need to chill,’ said Smith.

‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ Nightingale headed for the door.

39

Graham Lord lived in an innocuous semi-detached house in Highgate, north London. Nightingale parked his MGB close to the driveway of the house and walked past a five-year-old Honda before pressing the doorbell. Lord opened the door and smiled. He was wearing a baggy denim shirt over brown corduroy trousers. He wore reading glasses and his hair was flecked with dandruff. He shook hands with Nightingale. Lord’s hand was limp and lifeless, warm and slightly damp. ‘You’re early,’ said Lord.

‘But you knew I would be, right?’ said Nightingale. ‘Being psychic and all.’

Lord smiled without warmth. ‘That’s an old joke, Mr Nightingale. Or can I call you Jack?’

‘Jack’s fine,’ said Nightingale, taking off his raincoat.

‘First names it is, then,’ he said, adding, ‘I’m Lordy to my friends.’ Lord hung the coat on a wooden rack, then led Nightingale down a woodchip-papered hall and into the front room. The curtains, made of thick dark-blue velvet, were drawn and a small Tiffany lamp cast red, green and yellow blocks of light across the ceiling. There was a bookcase on the wall opposite the window; it was full of books on the supernatural, although, unlike Nightingale’s own collection, they were mainly newish paperbacks.

The flooring was bare boards that had been sanded and polished and they gleamed in the multicoloured light. In the centre of the room was a circular rosewood table with four high-backed chairs around it. There was a small hi-fi on a table under the window, with a flickering candle on either side. New-age music was playing, soft strings with the tinkling of wind chimes.

‘Have you come far?’ asked Lord, waving Nightingale to the chair that had its back to the window.

‘Don’t you know?’ said Nightingale, sitting down.

‘You really are a cynic, aren’t you?’ said Lord. ‘I’m not a psychic; I’m a spiritualist.’

‘Actually, I’ve got an open mind,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here.’

Lord held out his hand. ‘That’s why I ask for the fee up front,’ he said. ‘It shows your commitment better than words ever can.’

Nightingale took an envelope from his jacket pocket and gave it to Lord. Lord left the room, presumably to count the cash and possibly hide the money. Nightingale wanted a cigarette but there was no ashtray around so he took out his pack of Marlboro and placed it on the table in front of him.

Lord spotted the cigarettes as soon as came back into the room. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t allow smoking in the house,’ he said. ‘It interferes with the process.’

‘Smoke’s an impurity, is that it?’ said Nightingale, putting the pack away.

Lord sat down. ‘I have asthma,’ he said. He placed his palms on the table and smiled at Nightingale. ‘Now, I need you to relax, and to open your mind. I don’t work the way the spiritualists do at the centre you went to. I’m not doing a show and I’m not playing to the crowd. I’m acting as a conduit to the person you want to talk to.’

‘Will I see her?’

Lord shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that. I’m not summoning her spirit so I won’t see her and you certainly won’t. It will talk through me. The spirit will pass into my body and talk with my voice.’

‘So I won’t hear her either?’

Lord’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Yes, you’ll hear her. But it’ll be my voice. She will use my voice to talk to you. Assuming that she comes through.’

‘Sometimes they can’t communicate?’

‘There are no guarantees. How could there be? We’re communicating with the spirit world, not making a Skype call. Is it the money you’re worried about? Is that it?’

‘Well, I have just given you two hundred quid up front.’

‘If we’re not lucky this time, you can come back. And you can keep coming back until you’re satisfied.’

‘So now you’re telling me that luck plays a part in all this?’

Lord put his hands together and interlinked his fingers. He looked at Nightingale over the top of his reading glasses. ‘Can you imagine how many spirits there are out there, Jack? Many of them have unfinished business in this world. There are people they want to contact, things they want to say. People like me are in demand in this world, but we’re also in demand in the spirit world. Once I make myself available there’s often a rush as spirits pour into the room and I can’t always choose who speaks through me.’ He nodded, as if encouraging Nightingale to agree with him. ‘But I do know what I’m doing, Jack. You simply have to have faith in me. Okay?’

Nightingale could feel that he was being manipulated but he couldn’t stop himself nodding in agreement.

‘Great,’ said Lord. ‘Let’s get started.’ He put his palms back on the table.

‘I have a question,’ said Nightingale. ‘How will I know if I’m talking to a spirit or you?’

‘You’ll be able to tell,’ said Lord. ‘Trust me.’

‘And can I ask questions?’

‘Of course,’ said Lord. ‘That’s the point of the exercise.’ He scratched the side of his nose. ‘Are you ready?’

Nightingale nodded again. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said.

Lord took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back. He shuddered, then splayed out his fingers on the table. He exhaled slowly, the breath whistling between his teeth, then inhaled again. Nightingale sat and watched him, trying to ignore the nicotine craving that was back with a vengeance. Lord spent several minutes breathing in and out with his head tilted back, then he slowly lowered his chin until it was pressed against his chest. His hands began to tremble and then the fingertips started to beat a tattoo on the table. Nightingale folded his arms and waited. Lord froze, the heels of his hands pressed against the table, then he slowly raised his head and his eyes opened. He seemed to be staring over Nightingale’s right shoulder. Lord’s lips began to move, but there was no sound. Nightingale tried in vain to read the man’s lips but then Lord took another deep breath and closed his eyes again.

‘Jack?’

Nightingale jumped as if he’d been stung. The sound seemed to have come from deep in Lord’s chest. He stared at the man’s mouth.

‘Jack?’

Lord’s lips hadn’t moved.

‘Yes?’ said Nightingale hesitantly.

‘Jack Nightingale?’

‘It’s me,’ said Nightingale.

Lord took several more deep breaths, his eyes tightly closed. Then he began breathing shallowly and quickly.

‘This is Jack,’ said Nightingale.

Lord’s eyelids began to flutter. ‘Jack?’

‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘You know who it is, Jack. It’s me. Sophie.’

Nightingale leaned forward and stared intently at Lord’s face. It was a blank mask. ‘How old are you, Sophie?’

‘I’m nine. Did you forget already, Jack?’

Nightingale frowned. Sophie Underwood was nine years old when she died, but she had been born eleven years ago. If it was Sophie, did that mean that she had no sense that two years had passed since she fell from the balcony in Chelsea Harbour?

‘Jack, can you hear me?’

‘I can hear you,’ said Nightingale. ‘Where are you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s dark here.’

‘Can you see me?’

‘I can now. Sometimes I can, but sometimes I can’t. I saw you at that place where you went before but the man who was talking couldn’t see me.’

‘The spiritualist association, you mean?’

Lord nodded, his eyes still closed. ‘I wanted to talk to you there but I couldn’t.’

‘You could see me?’

‘Yes. You were with a blonde lady. Jenny.’

‘That’s right.’

‘The man who was talking to you said that he could see us but really he couldn’t.’

‘Us? What do you mean?’

‘There are lots of us. We can’t talk to each other but we can see each other a bit.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s like we’re reflections in something. It feels strange, Jack. I don’t like it.’

‘What do you want, Sophie?’ asked Nightingale.

‘I want you to understand that it wasn’t your fault.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It wasn’t your fault what happened. I don’t want you to feel guilty.’