‘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.
‘Hardly,’ said Fairchild.
Nightingale leaned forward, both hands around his bottle of lager. ‘Let me ask you something, Marcus. Okay?’
‘Go ahead,’ said the lawyer.
‘Are you a member of the Order of Nine Angles?’
Nightingale resisted the urge to smile when he saw the look of surprise that flashed across the lawyer’s face. Fairchild adjusted his cufflinks as he tried to regain his composure. ‘That’s a strange question to ask,’ he said.
‘And that’s you being evasive,’ said Nightingale.
Fairchild’s face had hardened and there was a coldness in his eyes. Not annoyance, not contempt, but something in between. Nightingale could imagine the lawyer using the baleful stare to good effect on opposing counsel in court, but it made no impression at all on Nightingale. As a cop he’d faced down some of the hardest criminals in London and it had been years since he’d been fazed by a nasty look. He stared back at the lawyer, determined not to be the first to blink.
‘One of the things I picked up during thirty years of cross-examination in court is never to ask a question to which you don’t know the answer,’ said Fairchild.
‘That’s pretty much how it works with cops too,’ said Nightingale.
‘So you know already. Yes, I am a member of the Order. Have been for years. So let me ask you a question in
