Smith took another long drag on his joint, held the smoke and then exhaled through clenched teeth so that his face was shrouded in smoke. ‘See right there is the problem,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t trust you.’
‘Yeah, I figured that’s what you’d say. So I’ve got a deal for you.’
‘A deal?’
‘Yeah. Let me do what I do best. Let me play detective.’
Nightingale stubbed out the last of his cigarette in a glass ashtray.
‘Here’s what I don’t get,’ said Smith. ‘Why do you think you can find the man who shot Dwayne when Scotland Yard’s finest can’t?’
‘Because Scotland Yard’s finest aren’t on the case,’ said Nightingale. ‘Operation Trident aren’t interested because the shooter wasn’t black, and they’re the experts when it comes to gang shootings. But they can’t touch it because the witnesses all say that the man who shot him was white. That means that a superintendent by the name of Chalmers is running the case and he’s a moron.’
Smith grinned. ‘A moron who thinks you pulled the trigger?’
‘Chalmers would do me for littering if he found a cigarette butt in the street,’ said Nightingale. ‘He doesn’t care whether or not I did it, so long as I go down for it. That means he’s not looking for anyone else. Or if he is, he’s just going through the motions.’
Smith managed to get one more drag from his joint then he stubbed it out in the ashtray that Nightingale had used.
‘And why do I let you do your Sherlock Holmes bit?’ asked Smith.
‘Because you want to know who killed Dwayne. And I think that deep down you know it wasn’t me. And if it wasn’t me, which it wasn’t, then maybe whoever it was that put the bullet in Dwayne’s head has another bullet with your name on it.’ He stared at Smith with unblinking eyes and Smith stared back.
‘You play poker, Jack-Shit?’
‘I’ve been known to,’ said Nightingale.
‘Are you good, because that’s one hell of a poker face, innit?’
‘It’s a genuine offer, Perry. Let me ask around, see if I can get you a name.’
‘And then what?’
‘Up to you. I’m not going to go running to the cops. I don’t have a dog in this fight. I just want to be able to go on with my life without looking over my shoulder every time a car with tinted windows goes by.’
Smith nodded slowly. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Got any Corona?’
‘That Mexican shit?’
‘Yeah. That Mexican shit.’
‘I’ve got Budweiser.’
‘That American shit?’
Smith laughed and looked over at his heavies, giving them a thumbs up. ‘Hear that?’ he said. ‘That’s banter, innit? This here Jack-Shit’s a funny man. A funny, funny man.’ He looked back at Nightingale and the smile vanished. ‘He’s going to be laughing all the way to the grave.’
‘Okay, forget the beer,’ said Nightingale. ‘But shooting me here isn’t really an option because my pretty young assistant knows where I am and that I came to see you, so if anything happens to me she’ll tell the cops everything.’
Smith chuckled and scratched his ear with the barrel of his gun. ‘Do you know how many eyewitnesses get amnesia after we pay them a visit?’ he said.
‘It’s not about amnesia; it’s about the letter I wrote for her.’ He looked at his watch. ‘If I don’t see her by nine o’clock she’ll be dialling three nines.’
‘You didn’t bring no mobile with you.’
‘Yeah, I figured you’d be wary of phones, what with you having a thing about microphones up people’s arses.’
‘Plus, I’m guessing that you figured I’d be checking your phone once you told me about your back-up plan,’ said Smith.
‘You can read me like a book,’ said Nightingale. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. ‘Look, Perry, you know who I am and you’ve already tried to kill me once. There’s nothing much to stop you trying again and next time I might not be so lucky. Now I could tell you that I’ve got some pretty heavy friends that owe me a favour or two but I don’t think you’re the type that reacts well to threats, so why don’t you just let me have a go at finding out who really did shoot Dwayne? If I can do that we can call it quits. If I don’t, well, I’m no worse off, am I?’
‘Seventy-two hours,’ said Smith. ‘And the clock has just started ticking.’
Nightingale looked at his watch. ‘Deal,’ he said. ‘Sex, money, rage,’ he said.
‘Say what?’
‘The three most common motives for murder,’ said Nightingale, sitting back in his seat. ‘That’s what it all comes down to more often than not. One, he was killed by a former lover or by someone who was connected to a former lover. Jealous boyfriend or husband. Two, he was killed for money or by a business rival. Three, someone was really pissed off at him, which might or might not be connected with one or two. Let’s work backwards. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted Dwayne dead?’
‘You sell drugs, you tread on toes.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
Smith shrugged. ‘Two crews locally but they wouldn’t have the balls to attack us.’
‘White?’
Smith threw back his head and laughed. ‘White?’ He shook his head, still laughing. ‘A white crew in south London? They wouldn’t last five minutes.’
‘What about Colombians?’
Smith frowned. ‘Colombians?’
‘In the heat of the moment no one’s going to be able to tell the difference between a Brit and a South American.’
‘That’s right; your lot had trouble telling the difference between a Brazilian electrician and an Arab terrorist.’
‘I told you, they’re not my lot.’
‘But you were a cop back then, right?’ He reached for the pack of cigarette papers.
‘It was my day off.’
‘What sort of cop were you? Drugs?’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘I was with CO19.’
‘An armed cop?’
‘For my sins. And I was a negotiator. Hostage situations, people in crisis.’
‘But you’ve shot people, right?’
‘I was armed but I never shot anyone, no. Most CO19 officers never get to fire their weapon in anger, never mind hit someone. Shooting someone is a last resort.’
Smith chuckled. ‘Yeah, well, in my line of work it’s the method of choice for sorting out disputes.’
‘That’s why I’m asking about business rivals,’ said Nightingale.
‘Like I said, we don’t have no white rivals. And definitely no Colombians.’
‘What about a black gang who want to outsource their anger?’
Smith was rolling his second joint but he stopped and frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Anyone who wanted Dwayne dead enough to pay for someone to shoot him? You were quick enough to assume that I was a hired gun. Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe it was a professional hit.’
Smith jutted out his chin. ‘That’s worth thinking about.’
‘Did it look like a professional hit?’
‘You don’t know what happened?’
‘I keep telling you, Perry, I’m nothing to do with the cops any more. I’m more of a suspect than an investigator so far as they’re concerned. Where did it happen? All I know was that it was in Brixton.’
‘He was coming out of a nightclub. The Flamingo. It’s a salsa place.’
