Lastnight (4 page)

‘Are you serious?’

‘Chalmers is right, they won’t talk to cops, but they might talk to me.’

Jenny chuckled. ‘I’d love to be a fly on the wall when you start chatting to a teenage Goth,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask around. But I know the best place is on a Saturday, a club called The Crypt. It’s been running for almost thirty years. Every Saturday night from 10 p.m. until dawn. But you’re going to have a problem – I think there’s a dress code.’

‘I’ll manage,’ said Nightingale.

‘I don’t mean you need to wear a tie. There’s a Goth dress code.’

‘Yeah, well, maybe I’ll hang about outside and talk to them on the way in.’

Jenny laughed. ‘Yeah, and I can’t see that ending badly,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the details for you.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘So what’ll you be doing between now and Saturday?’

‘Thought I’d visit the relatives, flatmates, anyone who could shed some light on the sort of people they were and why anyone would single them out.’

‘The cops would have done that, surely?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Yeah, but again fresh eyes might come up with something. I figured I’d do the two South London victims today. That’s Abbie Greene, the last to be killed, and Gabriel Patterson, the second victim. The rest are North London and I’ll do them tomorrow.’

‘Sounds like a plan. But what about the rest of our cases?’

‘We’ve nothing urgent,’ said Nightingale. ‘Everything can certainly hold fire until Monday by which time we’ll have a better idea of what’s going on.’

‘Does Chalmers think that the killers will strike again?’

‘I guess so. There hasn’t been an attack for over a week, though. So maybe they’ve stopped. The five murders took place over ten days, so it was rush rush rush. It could be that the police activity has persuaded them to go to ground.’ He sipped his coffee.

‘You’re loving this, aren’t you?’ said Jenny.

‘What?’

‘Being a detective again. Come on, admit it. You’re as pleased as Punch that Chalmers has brought you in on this case.’

‘To be fair, Jenny, five people have been murdered. It’s not about me, it’s about them.’

‘I get that, of course I get that, but let’s not forget that we’ve got a business to run.’

Nightingale held up a hand. ‘Speaking as CEO and MD and VIP of Nightingale Investigations, I can assure you that I’m very well aware of that.’ He grinned. ‘Seriously, kid, just a few days and then we’ll see where we stand. And let’s not forget that if we do crack this case, the publicity will mean we’ll have clients lined up down the street.’

‘Assuming that Chalmers allows you to take the credit.’

Nightingale looked at her over the top of his coffee mug. ‘You think he won’t?’

‘I think you can trust him about as far as you can throw him,’ said Jenny. ‘And the state you’re in, that’s not too far.’

‘I’m offended,’ said Nightingale. He patted his stomach. ‘It might not be a six-pack but I’m not fat.’

‘It’s not about fat, Jack. You don’t eat enough to get fat. It’s about smoking and drinking and your complete lack of interest in sport.’

‘I watch football,’ said Nightingale. ‘And rugby. And I was cheering with everyone else at the Olympics.’

‘You know what I mean. The only exercise you get is a bit of walking.’

‘And you do what? Hunting, shooting and fishing on your parents’ estate?’

‘I could outrun you, any day of the week.’

He grinned. ‘Are you challenging me to a race?’

She laughed. ‘Any time, anywhere.’

Nightingale looked her up and down. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on Jenny McLean; she was as fit as the proverbial butcher’s dog. She stood waiting for his answer, her hands on her hips and an amused smile on her face. ‘There’d have to be some sort of handicap, you being younger,’ he said.

‘You’re taller. But okay, I’ll give you a ten per cent start over whatever distance you want.’

He stood up and swung his arms around. ‘Ten per cent?’ He jogged on the spot.

‘Sure.’

‘And the winner gets what?’

‘How about the loser agrees to get the coffee for the next six months?’

He jogged around his desk and stood in front of her. He held out his hand. ‘It’s a bet,’ he said.

She shook his hand. ‘It’s a bet,’ she repeated. ‘When do we do it?’

‘Now,’ he said, turning and running through to her office. ‘First one to your desk wins!’ He reached her desk, slapped his hands down on it and then raised his arms in a Usain Bolt victory pose.

Jenny glared at him in disgust. ‘What are you, twelve?’

‘Milk and one sugar, please,’ he laughed, in between gasping for breath. ‘Then I’ll go and talk to Mrs Patterson.’

4

L
isa Patterson was in her early twenties, her face pale and drawn, her hair dry and lifeless, frizzy at the ends and flecked with dandruff. She held a baby boy in her arms, less than a year old and oblivious to the fact that his father had been skinned alive. She sat on the sofa and did her best to stop the tears from trickling down her cheeks. Nightingale had refused her offer of a cup of tea but had accepted a glass of water and it sat untouched on the coffee table next to his armchair. ‘What did you say your name was?’ she said. She ran a hand through her hair and tried unsuccessfully to tuck it behind her ears.

‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Jack Nightingale.’

‘Have they found them? Have they found the animals who killed my Gabe?’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Patterson. Not yet. That’s why I’m here, just to add to the information we have on our files.’ He looked around the cramped flat. It was above an off-licence in Clapham on a busy street. Trucks and buses roared by at regular intervals and each time the windows rattled. There were half a dozen half-drunk cups of tea on the table, several with thick brown scum on the surface, and an open pack of Pampers. The television was on with the sound muted and there was a towelling dressing gown on the floor by the door. Mrs Patterson was wearing a long denim dress, the front of which was spotted with dried milk and spittle. ‘Is there anyone here to help you?’

‘My mum pops around but she has to take care of Dad, he had a stroke last year.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She forced a smile. ‘They say bad things come in threes. My dad had his stroke, my sister crashed her car and was in a coma for two weeks – and then Gabe …’ She put her hand up to her face and shuddered, then shook herself and took a deep breath. She looked down at the sleeping baby and bit her lower lip. Nightingale knew what she was thinking, that the baby was all she had left.

‘Should I call your mother, ask her to come back?’

Mrs Patterson shook her head. ‘She’ll be back once she’s checked up on my dad.’ She looked up at him and forced a smile. ‘I’ll be all right, Mr Nightingale. Is it mister? Or sergeant?’

‘Call me Jack,’ said Nightingale.

‘It comes and goes,’ she said. ‘I go to bed and cry myself to sleep and when I wake up I forget that he’s dead and then it’s worse. There was a woman here from Victim Support who said every day the pain will get a little less but that’s not happening.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Patterson, I can’t imagine what you’re going through.’

She looked up from her baby. ‘You know, you’re the first person who’s said that,’ she said. ‘Everyone else says they understand, they know how difficult it is, how they know how I must feel, but they don’t. No one does.’

Nightingale smiled sympathetically. His time as a police negotiator had taught him that sometimes when you were dealing with a person in crisis it was best to remain silent.

‘It’s not just that I miss him, Jack. It’s that I wasn’t there when he died. He must have been so frightened, so scared. They hurt him so much and I know he must have been thinking about me and I wasn’t there to help him.’ She looked up at the ceiling and blinked away tears. ‘Sometimes I can hear him screaming my name and it’s like a knife in my stomach.’

‘Mrs Patterson, I’ve seen the post-mortem report and I can tell you with my hand on my heart that Gabe was unconscious when it happened,’ Nightingale said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘He wouldn’t have known what was happening.’

She took a deep breath and then nodded slowly. ‘Sometimes I wish I was dead, too,’ she said. She moaned and the sound sent a shudder down Nightingale’s spine. He got up and sat down next to her. He knew he was breaking every rule in the book but he wasn’t a cop any more so he figured the rules no longer applied to him. He put his arm around her and she buried her head in his shoulder and cried, hugging the baby to her chest. She sobbed for several minutes and he felt his shirt grow damp with her tears. He said nothing, knowing that there was nothing he could say that would make her feel better.

Popular wisdom said that there were five stages of grief when a loved one died: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. But Nightingale knew the five stages didn’t always apply. Sometimes grief just hit you like a train and there were no stages to go through. There was just pain and loneliness and an empty black hole where the loved one had been. He held her and waited for her to stop crying. The tears would stop eventually, he knew, not because her sadness had gone, simply because her tear ducts would be empty.

It was only when the baby began to cry that she moved away from Nightingale. She fussed over the baby, making shushing sounds as she groped for his bottle. The baby sucked greedily and she smiled down at him, her cheeks glistening wet. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her eyes on her child, but the words were meant for him.

‘You’ve nothing to be sorry about,’ said Nightingale. His mouth had gone dry so he picked up his glass of water and sipped it.

‘What is it you need from me, Jack?’ she said. ‘I told the detectives everything I knew.’

‘I’m asking the same questions that you’ve been asking yourself,’ he said. ‘I want to know why anyone would want to hurt Gabe.’

‘Because they’re sick,’ she said. ‘There’s no logic to it.’

‘That’s what the police seem to think,’ said Nightingale. ‘Gabe was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘What’s the alternative?’ she said as she watched her baby feed. ‘Somebody hated him so much they’d do that to him?’ She shook her head. ‘Gabe would never hurt anybody. He was a kind soul.’ She looked up at Nightingale. ‘The police say it was a hate crime. They killed him because he was a Goth.’

‘Did he dress like a Goth at home?’

She chuckled to herself. ‘He never dressed like a Goth, Jack. He was a Goth. It wasn’t a costume that he put on whenever it suited him. That’s what he wore. He never went out without make-up. Even if he was just popping down to the shops he’d make sure his mascara and lipstick was right. And he did his nails every few days, they always had to be perfect.’

‘But you’re not a Goth?’

She looked down at her denim dress and smiled. ‘Not always,’ she said. ‘For me it was about dressing up. I’ve got black wigs and all the gear. But Gabe was a Goth twenty-four seven.’

‘They didn’t mind him dressing like that at the office?’

‘They were fine. They were good about his ink, too.’

‘His ink?’

‘His tattoos. Most of them were on his back but he had a few on his arms and a lot of places won’t hire you if you’ve got tattoos. But his firm were totally cool. They design video games so they’re all a bit … creative, I suppose you’d say. There’s a pool table and all sorts of games and stuff for them to play around with.’ She shrugged. ‘Gabe always said it was the only place he wanted to work.’

‘Had he always been a Goth? I mean, since you knew him?’

She nodded and forced a smile. ‘We met at college. He was studying computer programming and even in the first year he wore make-up to classes and his hair was all spiky and he had these amazing boots with high heels.’

‘Did he have any problems at college?’

‘Haters, you mean?’ She shook her head. ‘Students are cool, mostly. Live and let live, right? Outside the college it was hit and miss. If he was in a pub then maybe someone would want to have their picture taken with him or they’d want to thump him.’

‘Did he get hit a lot?’

She laughed and shook her head. ‘He was too smart for that. He had the knack of knowing who was trouble and who was just having a laugh. If he sensed trouble he’d either defuse it with a joke or he’d just move away. He never got into a fight, not all the time I knew him.’ She shrugged. ‘But then he was careful about where he went. If you’re a Goth there are places that you wouldn’t want to go at night. And other places where you’d have a great time.’ She ran a hand down her face. ‘That’s why I don’t understand what happened. I don’t see how he could have got himself into a situation where he would have been hurt.’ She pulled tissues from a box and dabbed at her eyes. ‘We’d be in a pub and everything would be cool and then he’d see a group at the bar and he’d know, he’d just know, that they were trouble and we’d leave. It was like a sixth sense. So how did he let those animals get so close to him that they could do that?’

‘I don’t know,’ whispered Nightingale.

‘And if he knew he was in trouble, why didn’t he fight back?’

‘Maybe they surprised him. Maybe they caught him while he was busy doing something else.’

‘Gabe always knew what was going on around him,’ she said. ‘You never saw Gabe playing with his phone or wearing headphones while he was out. He was always aware, you know what I mean? He always knew what was going on around him. He loved people-watching, and listening to what they were saying. He wanted to be a writer.’

‘Yeah?’

She nodded quickly, as if she feared that he didn’t believe her. ‘Oh yes, he was really talented. He was writing short stories. Horror, mainly. Like Dean Koontz, the American writer. But Gabe was better.’ She smiled. ‘That’s what I thought anyway. He painted pictures with his words. And a lot of what he wrote about came from what he saw and heard.’

‘So I’m guessing he was always happy to talk to strangers?’

‘All the time. He was so interested in people, you know? What made them tick, why they said the things that they did.’

‘Did you get out much, once the baby was born?’

She laughed, though there was a brittle quality to the sound as if she was close to crying again. ‘You don’t have children, do you, Jack?’