Nightmare (12 page)

‘They don’t call them patients. They’re residents.’

‘Her name was Fiona McFee?’

‘Apparently. Yes. That was the first time I had laid eyes on her.’

‘So you don’t know who she is?’

‘At the risk of repeating myself, Sunday was the first time I had ever seen the lady.’

‘And she was in a coma.’

‘Apparently, yes.’

‘But despite being in a coma, she said your name.’

Nightingale nodded again.

‘For the tape, please,’ Chalmers repeated.

‘Yes,’ said Nightingale.

‘Do you have any explanation for that?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘No.’

‘What time did you leave Hillingdon Home?’

‘Just after eleven thirty.’

‘Are you aware that at seven o’clock on Sunday evening Mrs McFee went up to the roof and threw herself off ?’

‘I wasn’t until you told me, no.’

‘Can you think of any reason why Mrs McFee would have wanted to kill herself after you went to see her?’

‘You make it sound as if the two events are connected.’

‘Aren’t they?’ said Chalmers.

‘I spent less than a minute in her room.’

‘During which time she said your name several times.’

Nightingale sat back, yawned and stretched out his arms.

‘Mr Nightingale is refusing to answer the question,’ said Chalmers.

‘You didn’t ask a question,’ said Nightingale. ‘You stated a fact.’

‘And isn’t it also a fact that last year you visited your mother at Hillingdon Home and that shortly afterwards she took her own life?’

‘My mother was disturbed,’ said Nightingale.

‘But she hadn’t shown any suicidal impulses until you visited her,’ said Chalmers. He tapped his slim gold pen on his notepad. ‘And while we’re on the subject of suicides, isn’t it the case that on November the thirtieth last year you were in the home of one Constance Miller in Abersoch minutes after she took her own life by hanging?’

‘That was a coincidence,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’s one hell of a coincidence, isn’t it? Three visits, three suicides. And it doesn’t stop there, does it? There seem to be a lot of deaths around you these days. Your uncle and aunt. Robbie Hoyle. Barry O’Brien who was driving the cab that ran over Hoyle. And of course good old Simon Underwood, who took a flyer through his office window while you were talking to him.’

Nightingale said nothing. Chalmers flashed Evans a quick smile, playing to the crowd. ‘Then there’s Christmas Day. You were in the country. Shooting.’

‘Shooting pheasant,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I wasn’t. I was watching. Never seen the fun in killing things.’

Chalmers raised an eyebrow, opened his mouth to say something but then seemed to think better of it. He settled back in his seat. ‘One of the gamekeepers blew his head off with a shotgun.’

‘Yeah, pretty much.’

‘Lachie Kennedy. He’d been with the family for years.’

‘So I gather.’

‘And he was standing next to you when he decided to kill himself.’

Nightingale folded his arms but didn’t say anything.

‘Bit strange that, don’t you think?’ pressed the superintendent.

Nightingale said nothing.

‘Did you know that game shooting is illegal in England and Wales on Christmas Day?’

‘I didn’t, no.’

‘Well, it is. Across most of the country. But that house is one of the few places where it’s allowed. Seems that Edward the Seventh went shooting there and so did George the Fifth. Because of the royal connection they got special dispensation and they’re allowed to shoot on Sundays and Christmas Day, unlike the rest of the country.’

‘Like I said, I’m not a fan of shooting.’

‘That’s a strange thing for a former member of CO19 to say.’

‘Just because I was in CO19 didn’t mean that I went around shooting people. If a CO19 officer fires his weapon then he’s failed to do his job. The job is about containing situations, not escalating them.’

‘I’ll take your word for that,’ said Chalmers.

‘I resent the implication of what you’re saying. You’re implying that I was somehow involved in the shooting of Lachie Kennedy, but it was clearly self-inflicted. There were plenty of witnesses.’

‘Now you’re sounding defensive, Mr Nightingale. Why is that?’

‘I was there when Lachie blew his head off. It’s a touchy subject.’

‘And what about Dwayne Robinson? Were you there when he was shot in the head?’

Nightingale leaned forward and clasped his hands together so tightly that his knuckles whitened. ‘That was nothing to do with me. I wasn’t in Brixton. You were in my office today. You saw my assistant. She would have confirmed that.’

‘Miss McLean? Yes, we did ask her about your where-abouts and she said that you were in a pub. With Robbie Hoyle, who sadly is no longer with us.’

Nightingale’s eyes hardened. ‘Tread very carefully, Chalmers,’ he said.

‘Are you threatening me, Mr Nightingale?’ asked Chalmers, glancing at the recorder.

‘I was with Robbie Hoyle, but I’ve spoken with the landlord and he remembers us being in the pub at the time that Robinson was shot.’

‘That could be classed as interfering with a witness,’ said the superintendent.

‘I was doing your job,’ said Nightingale. ‘Establishing my alibi.’ He sat back in his chair.

Chalmers said nothing for several seconds. ‘Why do you think she works for you?’

‘Who?’

‘You know who. Jenny McLean.’

‘I guess she likes the work.’

‘Her family’s very well off.’

‘Are you asking me or telling me?’

Chalmers smiled thinly. ‘How did James McLean make his money? Out in Hong Kong, wasn’t he? Must have done something right to afford a house like that. I hear that Prince Philip used to shoot there.’

Nightingale nodded. ‘I heard that.’

‘The father’s very close to an awful lot of movers and shakers.’

‘I only met him the once.’

‘Really? How unlucky is that? The first time you get to meet him and his gamekeeper kills himself ? I bet that took the gloss off the Christmas celebrations.’

‘I’m glad you think it’s funny,’ said Nightingale.

‘Oh I’m not laughing, Nightingale.’ The superintendent looked at Evans. ‘Do I look as if I’m laughing, Inspector?’

‘No, sir,’ said Evans.

‘See, Nightingale, I’m definitely not laughing. I’d hate you to think that murder was a laughing matter.’

‘Lachie wasn’t murdered,’ said Nightingale. ‘He killed himself.’

‘Well, we’ll wait for the inquest, shall we? But we can put it down as yet another suicide, if you want.’ He looked down at his notepad. ‘Tell me again why you were at the McLeans’ house?’

‘Jenny asked me down for Christmas.’

‘That was nice of her,’ said Chalmers, his voice loaded with sarcasm. ‘And was it a coincidence that Marcus Fairchild was there?’

‘In what way?’

‘In the way that he was part of your sister’s legal team. Don’t play the innocent, Nightingale. You spend Christmas with your sister’s lawyer and a few days later she escapes from Rampton Mental Hospital. That seems suspicious to me.’

‘That was the first time I’d met Marcus.’

‘And what did you do? Plan your sister’s escape? Is that why you were there?’

Nightingale sat back in his chair but didn’t reply.

‘I’d like an answer to my question, Mr Nightingale.’

‘I was there for Christmas. Marcus Fairchild was also a guest.’

‘Did you discuss your sister?’

‘She was mentioned in passing. That’s all.’

The door opened and a uniformed policewoman stepped aside so that a man in his late fifties could walk into the interview room. The paunch that stretched the waistcoat of his pinstriped suit and the pug nose flecked with broken blood vessels suggested a fondness for good food and drink, and the mane of grey hair combed back hinted that he might have had an eye for the ladies when he was younger.

Chalmers put down his gold pen. ‘Well, now, speak of the devil,’ he said.

Fairchild smiled, but it was a cold baring of the teeth without a shred of warmth in it.

‘Has my client been charged?’ he asked.

‘Mr Nightingale is assisting us with our enquiries,’ said Chalmers.

‘Not any more he isn’t,’ said Fairchild. ‘My client has done all the assisting he’s going to do.’

Nightingale raised a hand. ‘Marcus, I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but when did I become a client of yours?’

‘Jenny called me,’ said the lawyer. ‘She asked me to put a stop to this.’ He adjusted his shirt cuffs and gold links glinted under the fluorescent lights. ‘Of course, if you want to stay here all day answering their questions then that’s up to you, but it’s clear that Superintendent Chalmers here has his own agenda and he won’t be happy until you’re behind bars.’

‘Mr Nightingale is here of his own accord,’ said Chalmers frostily.

‘No, he’s here because you are in the process of carrying out a vendetta against my client, a vendetta which began when he was a serving officer with the Metropolitan Police. And if this carries on much longer you run the risk of a civil action and a claim for substantial damages.’

Chalmers stood up, his cheeks reddening. ‘Mr Nightingale is the prime suspect in the murder of a south London drug dealer,’ he said.

‘According to the information I have you don’t have a shred of evidence against my client,’ said Fairchild.

‘We have a deathbed statement,’ said Chalmers. ‘The victim named Nightingale as his attacker.’

‘That’s crap,’ said Nightingale.

‘Then charge him,’ said Fairchild. ‘But be aware that we will have no hesitation in suing you for wrongful arrest, and in view of comments you have made about my client we shall also be considering an action for slander.’ He looked at his watch and then flashed the superintendent a sarcastic smile. ‘Do you need a minute to think about it?’

Chalmers put his pen into his jacket pocket, picked up his notepad and walked out of the interview room. Dan Evans tried not to smile as he leaned over and switched off the recorder. ‘Looks like you’re free to go,’ he said to Nightingale.

Nightingale grinned. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’

20

‘We could crack open a bottle of champagne, if you want,’ said Fairchild, waving a fifty-pound note at a barmaid who was busy polishing glasses. They were in a wine bar a short walk from the police station. It had just opened and they were the only customers. There were terracotta tiles on the floor, vineyard scenes on the walls and the gantry behind the bar was filled with bottles of Italian wine. As Nightingale stood with his back to the glass doors overlooking the London traffic and dismal English winter weather he could almost imagine that he was in Tuscany.

‘You don’t have to buy me a drink, Marcus,’ said Nightingale.

‘Nonsense. I told Jenny I’d look after you until she gets here and look after you I will,’ said Fairchild. The barmaid was steadfastly refusing to make eye contact with him. He waved his banknote again. ‘When you’re ready, darling,’ he said.

‘I should go,’ said Nightingale.

Fairchild put a hand on his arm. ‘I insist,’ he said. His fingers bit into Nightingale’s flesh through the material of the raincoat, gripping like steel claws. Fairchild released his grip as the barmaid walked over, drying her hands on a towel. ‘A double Hennessy with ice,’ he said. ‘Jack?’

Nightingale sighed. He didn’t want to drink with the lawyer but he couldn’t see how he could continue to refuse without being deliberately rude. ‘Corona, please.’ The barmaid went off to get their drinks. ‘Why did Jenny call you?’ asked Nightingale.

‘She felt that the police were overstepping their authority and frankly I think she’s right.’

‘I could have handled it.’

‘How? By sitting there and answering questions until the cows come home? You mustn’t encourage them, Jack, my boy. The police are like any other bureaucrats; they’ll always take the path of least resistance. If you don’t stand up to them, they’ll walk all over you.’

The barmaid returned with their drinks and Fairchild gave her the fifty-pound note. ‘Keep the change, my love,’ he said. ‘Come on, Jack, there’s a table over there.’

Nightingale picked up his Corona and smiled at the barmaid, who was staring after Fairchild with a look of astonishment on her face. ‘He prints them himself,’ said Nightingale, and he winked at her before following Fairchild to the corner table. The seats were white-painted wrought iron with overstuffed cushions, and the table had a glass top allowing Nightingale to compare his scuffed Hush Puppies with the lawyer’s gleaming black brogues.

‘So the last time we spoke you were telling me about your sister,’ said Fairchild, swirling his brandy around the balloon glass.

‘That’s right,’ said Nightingale.

‘And very shortly afterwards she escaped. Vanished, by all accounts.’

Nightingale sipped his lager.

‘Did you have anything to do with that, Jack?’ asked Fairchild. ‘And before you answer, remember that everything you tell me is covered by lawyer–client privilege.’

Nightingale stared at Fairchild, trying to work out whether or not he was serious.

Fairchild laughed and raised his glass. ‘I can see from the look on your face that you did,’ he said. He clinked his glass against Nightingale’s Corona bottle. ‘Here’s to crime.’

‘Crime?’

‘Look, Jack, I’m a lawyer and you’re a police officer turned private detective – where would either of us be without the lawbreakers?’

‘I hadn’t thought about that.’

‘Well, you should,’ said Fairchild. ‘If there were no criminals we’d both be out of a job.’ Fairchild sipped his brandy and then put the glass down. ‘Seriously, Jack, what do you think happened to your sister?’

‘In what way?’

‘You know exactly in what way,’ said Fairchild, and he chuckled dryly. ‘By all accounts she vanished from a locked room leaving behind Satanic symbols and paraphernalia. You know as well as I do that you don’t just walk out of a place like Rampton. It’s the most secure hospital in the country.’

Nightingale stared at the lawyer but didn’t say anything.

‘Of course, if you’d rather not say . . .’

‘Looks like I’ve gone from one interrogation to another,’ said Nightingale.