‘What, Dwayne was into salsa, was he?’
‘Dunno. He wasn’t much of a dancer.’
‘And he was there alone?’
‘Yeah.’ He picked up a lighter and lit the joint, puffing on it carefully.
‘Is that normal?’ He gestured at the heavies. ‘You’ve got muscle all around you; did he usually go out alone?’
‘Are you saying I’m chicken? Is that what you’re saying, Jack-Shit?’
Nightingale held up his hands. ‘No, I’m just asking a question, the sort of question that the cops should have been asking if they were serious about finding Dwayne’s killer.’
‘We won’t talk to no cops. Grasses we ain’t.’
‘Okay, I get it. But that night, he was out without you or your posse? Is that what you call them, a posse? What is the collective noun for a group of bodyguards?’
Smith’s eyes narrowed and he glared at Nightingale through a cloud of smoke. ‘You keep taking the piss and that collective noun is going to take you somewhere and put a collective bullet in your collective fucking head.’ He took another pull on the joint and blew smoke towards Nightingale. Nightingale tried holding his breath, not wanting to inhale the marijuana fumes.
‘Dwayne said he wanted to go out on his own.’
‘To the Flamingo?’
‘Didn’t know he knew that place. Not his thing. He just said he didn’t want anyone with him.’
‘And that was unusual?’
Smith shrugged. ‘Sometimes he wanted his space. But if it was business, I’d have been there, for sure.’
Nightingale rubbed his chin. ‘So he was, what, on a social visit? How was he fixed for women?’
‘Dwayne? Had all the women he wanted. Lived the life.’
‘Could he have been at the Flamingo to meet a woman?’
Smith took another drag on his joint. ‘It’s possible. Yeah. He went out wearing his Hugo Boss.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘And stinking of aftershave. You might have something there, Jack-Shit. What are you thinking? Boyfriend?’
‘Maybe. Or a honey trap. It wouldn’t be the first time that a pretty girl has set someone up for a killing.’
‘So what next? What’s your plan?’
‘I’m going to ask around. See what I can find out.’
‘This doesn’t let you off the hook, Jack-Shit.’ Smith picked up the gun and lazily pointed it at Nightingale. ‘You try to screw me over and you’ll be squealing like new tyres in a car park.’
‘I love the simile,’ said Nightingale.
‘Simile, analogy, so long as you get my drift, okay?’
‘I get it. But I’ve got seventy-two hours, right?’
‘You’ve got it, Jack-Shit. But that’s all you’ve got.’
30
Jenny put Nightingale’s coffee down on the desk by his Hush Puppies. He was sitting back in his chair with his feet up on the desk and the keyboard to his computer on his lap. There was a photograph leaning against the monitor and Jenny picked it up. The two men in the photograph were standing in what looked like a nightclub, their arms around each other, grinning at the camera.
‘Good-looking guys,’ said Jenny.
‘Yeah, under other circumstances we’d all go out for dinner, but as it is the one on the left is dead and the one on the right still wants to kill me.’
‘Who are they?’ she asked.
‘Guy on the left is the guy I shot,’ he said. ‘Allegedly. Dwayne Robinson.’
‘The one who talked to you while he was brain dead?’
‘Yeah. And the guy next to him is the guy who tried to shoot me in Queensway. Perry Smith.’
‘You’re calling the police, right?’ She put the picture back against the monitor.
‘I’m Googling and then I’ll put in a call,’ he said.
‘Googling what?’
‘Just seeing what’s out there about Robinson.’ He sighed. ‘Not much, as it happens.’ He sat up and put the keyboard back on the desk.
‘They’ll arrest this Smith guy, will they?’
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ said Nightingale.
‘What’s going on, Jack?’ said Jenny, sitting on the edge of his desk and folding her arms.
‘He’s sort of a client.’
‘Sort of?’
‘Yeah, but it’s an unusual fee structure. Basically, if I can find out who shot Robinson, Smith will leave me alone.’
‘You have to go to the police. You know that.’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘The cops can’t help me. There’s no evidence and even if there was, putting Smith away still leaves his gang. I’ll be a target for the rest of my life.’ He grinned. ‘It’ll be okay. All I have to do is find out who shot Robinson and then I’m free and clear.’
‘Can I help?’
‘We’ll see. I’ve got a few ideas.’
‘If you need a place to stay, you can have my spare room. As long as you want.’
‘Nothing’s going to happen for the next two days. Let’s see how it goes.’ He could see the look of concern on her face and he felt suddenly guilty for worrying her. He reached for his phone.
As Jenny went back to her desk, Nightingale tapped out the number for Andrew Britton, a chief inspector that he’d worked alongside in CO19. They’d both joined on the Met’s graduate entry scheme and two months before Nightingale left the force Britton had been promoted and transferred to the Operation Trident team.
Britton answered with a cautious ‘Yeah?’
‘Andy? Jack. Can you talk?’
‘Bloody hell, a blast from the past. Hang on, give me a minute.’ Nightingale heard muffled voices and then traffic. Britton had obviously taken his phone outside. ‘Where are you?’ asked Britton.
‘The office, why?’
‘Thought you might be banged up and this was your one phone call,’ said Britton. ‘What’s this I hear about you knocking off south London drug dealers? You haven’t gone all vigilante on us now that you’re in the private sector?’
‘That’s not funny,’ said Nightingale. ‘But, yeah, that’s why I’m phoning.’
‘If you’re calling me to confess let me switch on the recorder,’ said Britton.
‘Have you looked at the case?’ asked Nightingale, ignoring Britton’s attempt at humour.
‘It’s not black on black,’ said Britton. ‘And your old mate Chalmers has grabbed the case.’
‘Yeah, tell me something I don’t know. Had you been looking at Robinson’s crew?’
‘Sure, they’re on our radar. They’ve been responsible for a dozen or so shootings across the capital but they’ve not killed anyone yet, not that we know of anyway. Drive-bys mainly, and they favour the MAC-10 so not much in the way of accuracy.’
‘And when you heard that Robinson had been hit did you have any thoughts, before you knew it was a white shooter?’
‘Nothing sprang to mind. There was the usual rough and tumble but nothing that should have led to an execution.’
‘That’s what it was, yeah? No gunfight at the OK Corral?’
‘Guy in a hoodie walked up behind him and put a bullet in the back of his head. Nine mill. They got the casing.’
