‘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.
