Nightingale went through first, followed by the cop he was handcuffed to. The man lying on the hospital bed in front of him was Afro-Caribbean and in his late twenties. There were wires leading from his chest to a heart monitor that was beeping softly at the side of the bed. His head was bandaged, covering his skull and one eye. The uncovered eye was shut.
‘You know him?’ asked Chalmers.
Nightingale shrugged. ‘Hard to say, looking like that.’
‘Dwayne Robinson,’ said Chalmers. ‘Gangbanger from Brixton. Someone shot him in the back of the head six months ago; he’s been in a coma ever since.’
‘And this concerns me how?’
‘Where were you on July the twentieth?’
Nightingale laughed. ‘Are you serious? How would I know? Who knows what they were doing six months ago?’
‘So it could have been you who blew his brains across the pavement?’
Nightingale sneered at the superintendent. ‘This is what passes for interrogation these days, is it? Look, Chalmers, I know you’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer but what makes you think I had anything to do with this? I’m not generally the first person that Trident calls on to help with their investigations.’
‘We don’t think this was black on black. There was a white male seen running from the scene.’
‘I’m not a great runner, for one,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I don’t often go south of the river, for two. And for three, I don’t go around shooting people.’
‘But a lot of people around you have been dying lately, haven’t they?’ said Chalmers. ‘Starting with your father.’
‘My biological father. And he killed himself, remember?’ Nightingale pointed at the man in the bed. ‘What’s this about? I’ve never seen him before and I certainly didn’t shoot him.’
The door opened and an Indian doctor walked in. He nodded at Chalmers. ‘I hope this isn’t going to take long, Superintendent. I’m not happy about having this many people in the ICU.’
‘A few minutes, Dr Patel. Has there been any change since last night?’
The doctor picked up a clipboard from the bottom of the bed, looked at it, then shook his head.
‘Robinson has been in a coma since he was shot,’ Chalmers said to Nightingale. ‘There’s minimal brain activity. He’s never going to wake up. That’s what they thought, anyway. Until yesterday.’ Chalmers stared at the beeping monitor and folded his arms.
‘All right, Chalmers, I’ll bite,’ said Nightingale testily. ‘What happened yesterday?’
‘You’ll see,’ said Chalmers. He looked at the doctor. ‘How often?’ he asked.
‘Still every half hour or so,’ said the doctor. ‘Any moment now.’ He put the chart back on the end of the bed and stood next to Chalmers, his hands deep in the pockets of his white coat.
‘Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?’ said Nightingale. Just as he finished speaking, Robinson’s whole body shuddered as if he was having an epileptic fit. His arms trembled, his heels drummed against the mattress, his back arched and the heart monitor began to beep rapidly.
‘You’re sure he’s okay like this?’ Chalmers asked the doctor.
‘Nothing we do has any effect. We’ve tried anti-convulsion drugs, all the epilepsy treatments, painkillers, muscle relaxants. Nothing works. And it’s a purely physical reaction; his brain activity isn’t affected at all.’
Robinson went suddenly still. Then he took a long, slow, deep breath. ‘Jack,’ he said as he exhaled. Then he took another deep breath. ‘Jack Nightingale.’
Nightingale froze.
Chalmers grinned at him. ‘So you never met the man, huh? Why’s he saying your name?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘He’s identifying the man who shot him, that’s what he’s doing. What we’ve got here is a deathbed statement and that carries a lot of weight in court.’
‘He’s not dead, he’s in a coma,’ said Nightingale.
‘Same thing,’ said Chalmers.
‘How’s it the same thing?’ asked Nightingale. ‘If he knew he was dying and named me as his attacker then that would be a deathbed statement. But he’s in a coma and hasn’t accused me of anything.’
‘I wouldn’t categorise it as a coma,’ said the doctor. ‘With the sort of damage he has experienced, I wouldn’t expect there to be any hope of recovering any brain function. Frankly, under more normal circumstances, we’d have already started looking into the possibility of harvesting his organs. Other than the head wound, Mr Robinson is actually in very good physical condition. He’s breathing without assistance, his heart is strong, all his metabolic signs are positive. He could live for ten or twenty years like this. But it’s not as if he’s in a coma that he might one day recover from.’
Chalmers put up a hand to silence the doctor. ‘I’m talking legally rather than medically,’ he said. ‘Mr Robinson is clearly identifying Nightingale as his attacker.’
‘He’s saying my name, that’s all,’ said Nightingale.
‘And you said that you don’t know him,’ said Chalmers. ‘If that’s true, why is he saying your name?’
Nightingale took a step towards the bed but the cop he was handcuffed to didn’t move.
‘Take the cuffs off,’ said Chalmers.
The cop took a key from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs. Nightingale moved closer to the bed, massaging his right wrist.
‘Jack,’ mumbled the man again. ‘Jack Nightingale.’
Nightingale looked over at the doctor. ‘No brain activity, is that what you said?’
The doctor nodded and pointed at a green monitor. ‘See the flat lines there? That’s the neural activity. There’s some movement occasionally and we can get a reaction with loud noise or light but that’s almost certainly at the autonomic level. He’s lost a big chunk of his brain.’
‘So what’s happening?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Why’s he talking now?’
‘Because he’s telling us who shot him,’ said Chalmers. He leaned over the bed. ‘Mr Robinson, can you hear me? My name is Superintendent Chalmers. Can you tell me what happened the night you were shot?’
‘You’re wasting your time, Superintendent,’ said the doctor. ‘He’s totally non-communicative.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that, if you don’t mind,’ said Chalmers. He wagged his finger at Nightingale. ‘Say something to him,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It might get a reaction. Coma patients sometimes come out of their comas when they hear a voice they recognise.’
‘Superintendent, he isn’t in a-’ began the doctor, but Chalmers silenced him with an icy stare.
‘Fine, have it your own way,’ said the doctor, and he walked out of the room muttering to himself.
‘Say something to him,’ Chalmers said to Nightingale, nodding at the man in the bed.
‘Like what?’
‘Say you’re here. Tell him your name.’
‘This is ridiculous. Didn’t you hear what the doctor said?’
‘Just do it, Nightingale. Unless you’ve got something to hide.’
Nightingale stared at the superintendent with contempt, then turned back to the bed. He bent down over Robinson, close enough to see a rash of small spots across his cheeks and the tufts of hair protruding from his nostrils. ‘I’m Jack Nightingale,’ he whispered.
‘Louder,’ said Chalmers.
Nightingale sighed. ‘This is Jack Nightingale. I’m here.’
Robinson took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Nightingale’s stomach lurched at the fetid stench and he backed away.
‘This is a waste of time,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve never seen him before and I certainly had nothing to do with shooting him.’
‘Jack?’ murmured Robinson. ‘Are you there?’
Chalmers waved for Nightingale to get closer to the bed. ‘I’m here,’ said Nightingale. He frowned. He was sure he didn’t know Robinson, and equally sure that Robinson didn’t know him.
‘Why won’t you help me, Jack?’ His voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible.
