Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (21 page)

43

T
hey left him in the interview room for the best part of an hour, with just a cup of canteen coffee. Nightingale had asked if it was okay to smoke and a sullen uniformed constable had said no. He hadn’t been arrested so he was free to leave whenever he wanted, but there were questions that had to be answered and Nightingale decided it would be best to get it over with. They hadn’t searched him or taken his mobile phone so he rang Jenny and said he’d be later than expected. She wanted to know where he was. ‘It’s complicated,’ he said. ‘I’ll explain when I get back.’ Jenny pressed him for more details but Nightingale heard footsteps in the corridor. The door opened and Superintendent Chalmers, in full uniform and holding a clipboard, walked in. Nightingale hung up.

‘Calling your brief?’ asked Chalmers. Dan Evans and Neil Derbyshire, both holding notebooks and ballpoint pens, were behind him.

‘I didn’t think I needed a lawyer,’ said Nightingale. ‘They told me they just wanted a chat.’

‘A chat it is, then,’ said Chalmers. He sat down opposite Nightingale. Evans took the chair next to him while Derbyshire moved the one that was beside Nightingale and placed it by the door so that all three policemen were facing him around a metal table that had been bolted to the floor. On a shelf on the wall above the table there was a digital voice recorder and in the far upper corner of the room a small CCTV camera.

Chalmers nodded at Evans, who switched on the recorder. ‘Superintendent Ronald Chalmers, interviewing Jack Nightingale.’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘It is now a quarter past two in the afternoon on Friday the twentieth of November and with me are . . .’ He nodded at Evans.

‘Detective Inspector Dan Evans.’

‘Detective Constable Neil Derbyshire.’

‘If this is just a chat, why the recording?’ asked Nightingale.

‘It’s procedure,’ said Chalmers.

‘Can I smoke?’

‘No, you can’t,’ said the superintendent.

‘But I’m not under arrest?’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘I’m free to go whenever I want?’

‘You’re helping us with our enquiries into the death of Barry O’Brien.’

‘Just so we’re all clear on that,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m here to help.’

‘Date of birth,’ said Chalmers.

‘What?’

‘Your date of birth, for the record.’

‘I’m thirty-two, thirty three on Friday the twenty-seventh. That’s a week from today.’

Evans and Derbyshire scribbled in their notebooks.

‘Don’t feel you have to get me a present,’ said Nightingale.

‘What were you doing in Barry O’Brien’s house this morning?’

‘I wanted to talk to him.’

‘So you broke in?’

‘The front door was open.’

‘You invited yourself in? Is that it?’

‘The door was open. I pushed it and it opened. I went upstairs and found the body.’

‘Why did you go upstairs?’

‘To see if he was there.’

‘But you’d already called his phone so you knew he wasn’t in the house.’

‘I thought he might be asleep.’

Chalmers sat back. ‘So why didn’t you just go away and come back another time?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just thought . . .’

‘Yes? You thought what?’

‘I thought that maybe something was wrong.’

‘So why didn’t you call the police? Why did you break into his house?’

‘I didn’t break in,’ said Nightingale. ‘I already told you, the front door was open. Then I heard the flies.’

‘The flies?’

‘He’d been dead for a while. He was covered with flies. I heard the buzzing from the hallway.’

‘And what did you want to talk to Mr O’Brien about?’

Nightingale sighed. It was a difficult question to answer.

‘You do understand the question, Mr Nightingale?’

‘Yes. I just wanted to talk to him.’

‘About what?’

‘About what happened to Robbie.’

‘You’re referring to Inspector Robert Hoyle?’

‘Robbie Hoyle,’ corrected Nightingale. ‘Nobody called him Robert.’

‘You wanted to talk to Mr O’Brien because he was responsible for the death of your friend, Inspector Hoyle?’

‘I guess so.’

‘You guess so?’

Nightingale threw up his hands. ‘You make it sound like there was something sinister going on. I just wanted to talk to him.’

‘About what, specifically?’

‘About what happened. How Robbie died.’

‘But there’s no mystery as to what happened. It was a road-traffic accident. What did you expect Mr O’Brien to say? Did you want him to apologise? Did you want him to express remorse?’

‘No,’ said Nightingale, flatly.

‘And when he wasn’t remorseful, did that make you angry?’

‘He was dead when I got there,’ said Nightingale.

‘You’re making a habit of walking in on dead people, aren’t you?’ said Chalmers.

Nightingale didn’t reply.

‘Come on, Jack, don’t get all coy with me. You found your aunt and uncle dead, didn’t you? Just a few days ago. Up in Manchester.’

‘My uncle killed my aunt and then he hanged himself. I was supposed to be having Sunday lunch with them.’

‘According to the Manchester cops, you smashed a window to get in. With a spade.’

‘There was blood on the cat,’ said Nightingale.

Chalmers looked confused. ‘What?’

‘There was blood on the cat and on the cat flap. So I knew there was something wrong. Then I saw my aunt through the window, lying on the kitchen floor.’

‘And again you didn’t wait for the police.’

‘What do you expect?’ snapped Nightingale. ‘I call 999 and when and if I get through some civilian arsehole asks me a series of questions on his check list before telling me that someone will be with me at some unspecified time and then I sit on my arse and wait until they bother to show up? You know how piss poor the police response times are these days. I saw blood on the door and my aunt on the floor so I did what I had to do and I’m damn well not going to apologise to you or anyone else for that.’

‘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

T
he 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

N
ightingale 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 what 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.’