Nightingale blew a smoke ring over the water. It lasted less than a second before the wind ripped it apart. ‘Do you believe in God?’ asked Nightingale quietly.
‘Do I what?’ said Evans, turning to face him.
‘God,’ repeated Nightingale. ‘Do you believe in God?’
Evans laughed softly but his eyes were hard as he looked Nightingale up and down. ‘That depends on who’s asking,’ he said.
Nightingale flicked ash into the water. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve got two daughters, twelve and fourteen. Where we live, you wouldn’t send a dog to the local State school. There’s a knifing every other month, half the kids don’t speak English as even a second language and the teachers are all on antidepressants.’ Evans took a drag on his cigarette. ‘We went to see the school before the older girl was due to go and it scared me shitless. There was no way I was going to send my kids there, but on an inspector’s salary private schools weren’t an option. So my wife and I started looking around and we found a Church of England school about two miles away. Great exam results, motivated teaching staff, small classes. Just one drawback — the kids had to come from Christian families and me and the wife hadn’t been inside a church since the day we were married.’ The detective turned back to look over the water. ‘So, we put her name down and started going to church, every Sunday.’ He chuckled. ‘Pretty much the entire congregation was made up of parents wanting to get their kids into the school. We all had to sign in and I swear they even checked to see that we were singing along with the hymns.’
‘And it worked?’
Evans nodded. ‘Both girls are in and doing really well. Best thing we ever did, becoming Christians.’
‘But you don’t believe, right? You don’t believe in God and Heaven and Hell?’
‘Like I said, it depends on who’s asking.’ He took a long pull on his cigarette and then dropped the butt onto the grass and trod on it. ‘If there was a God, Jack, and if he cared about us, why would he allow scum like Dwayne Robinson and his gang to run riot? Wouldn’t he step in and do something? You were a cop, you know the score. Some people are just plain evil and that’s got nothing to do with God or the Devil.’
‘Maybe it’s the Devil working through men like Robinson. Maybe the earth is the battleground where Good and Evil battle it out.’
Evans looked at Nightingale, his brow furrowed. ‘Are you on something, Jack?’
Nightingale raised an eyebrow. ‘Drugs? Do me a favour, Dan. Nicotine and alcohol are all the stimulants I need.’
‘Are you seeing someone?’
‘Romantically, you mean? Or professionally?’
‘You know what I mean. Post-traumatic stress disorder. You negotiators, you get to see a lot of shit that the average copper never gets near.’
Nightingale snorted softly. ‘The average copper these days spends his whole shift sitting on his arse filling out forms,’ he said.
‘But you were at the sharp end,’ said Evans. ‘A negotiator and a shooter. Either one of those roles comes with enough stress to push anyone over the edge.’
‘Over the edge?’ repeated Nightingale. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘Just the way you’re talking, that’s all. The battle between Good and Evil. Heaven and Hell. Don’t tell me you’ve gone and got religion.’
‘Okay, I won’t.’ He flicked his cigarette butt into the water and turned to leave.
‘Jack, I’m serious. Tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.’
Nightingale shook his head, then pulled up his collar against the wind that was blowing across the Serpentine. ‘Truth be told, mate, I don’t think anyone can help me,’ he said, and walked away without a backwards look.
16
Nightingale woke up early on Sunday morning and went out to buy a couple of newspapers, a pint of milk, a loaf of bread and a pack of bacon. He was back in his flat making himself a bacon sandwich when his mobile rang. It was a landline calling and he didn’t recognise the number. He took the call and tucked the phone between his chin and shoulder as he used a spatula to flick over the sizzling bacon slices.
‘Mr Nightingale?’ said a female voice.
‘Yes?’ said Nightingale hesitantly.
‘I’m so sorry to bother you on a Sunday, Mr Nightingale. This is Elizabeth Fraser.’
Nightingale frowned as he struggled to recall the name.
‘Hillingdon Home,’ she said and Nightingale remembered immediately who she was. Mrs Fraser was the administrator at the nursing home where his mother had lived the last years of her life. His biological mother. Rebecca Keeley.
‘Yes, Mrs Fraser. How can I help you?’
Mrs Fraser hesitated, then appeared to cover the receiver with her hand and talk to someone else before continuing. ‘Well, it’s a little awkward, actually. I wondered if there was any way that you could come here today?’
‘Is it about my mother?’ he asked, turning off the cooker.
‘Sort of,’ she said. ‘It would be a lot easier to explain if you were here.’
Nightingale wondered why she was being so evasive, but it was a Sunday and his plan for the day consisted of a bacon sandwich followed by an afternoon in the pub reading the papers so he agreed to go around as soon as he’d finished his breakfast.
He’d had the MGB repaired on Saturday morning and the mechanic had given the car a clean bill of health but he still held his breath when he put the key in the ignition. The engine turned over immediately and he smiled. ‘Good girl,’ he said, patting the wooden steering wheel. ‘Who says you’re not a classic?’
It was a cold day but he had the top down. He was regretting the decision by the time he pulled up in front of the nursing home. He’d driven fifty miles to the outskirts of Basingstoke and his hands were numb and his eyes were watering from the wind. He climbed out of the car and checked the sky. It didn’t look like rain so he decided to risk leaving the top down while he went inside.
The building was a sixties-built concrete block with rusted metal-framed windows and doors covered with spray-painted graffiti. As he looked up he saw the smudges of faces staring out of some of the windows. They didn’t seem to be looking down at him, just staring blankly off into the distance.
He pushed his way through the double doors to the reception area where a plump woman with tightly permed hair and spectacles on a chain around her neck flashed him a smile and held up her hand as she dealt with someone on the phone. As soon as she put the phone down she smiled again and asked him how she could help. After she’d checked with Mrs Fraser she pointed down the corridor that led to the administrator’s office.
He knocked on the door and was told to go in. Mrs Fraser was in her early fifties, stick-thin with hair dyed the colour of a shiny conker. She had a pair of thick-lensed spectacles on the end of her nose but she took them off as she stood up and extended a bony hand. Nightingale shook it carefully. ‘I think it would be best if we talk as we walk,’ she said, guiding him out of the office and along the corridor. ‘Do you know a Mrs McFee? Mrs Fiona McFee?’
‘I don’t think so. Is she a resident?’
Mrs Fraser nodded. ‘Yes, she has been for almost ten years. She’s one of our oldest residents.’
‘I don’t know anyone here,’ said Nightingale. ‘I didn’t even know that my mother was here until last year.’
‘It’s all very strange,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘So far as we know your mother never actually met Mrs McFee. In fact your mother didn’t interact with anyone during her time here.’
She pushed through a pair of fire doors and took him up a flight of stairs and along another corridor. Ahead of them was another set of doors with a sign that said ‘Hospital Ward’. At the end of the corridor was a nurse in a white uniform and Mrs Fraser smiled and waved. ‘We’re just checking on Mrs McFee,’ she said and the nurse
