‘Just the one?’
‘There were civilians on the street. Looks like he didn’t want to hang around.’
‘Understood. But one nine mill, even in the head, is no guarantee of a kill, is it?’
‘You mean that a pro would have shot him twice?’
‘Once in the heart and once in the head. That’s how I’d do it. Anything on the gun?’
‘We got the round and the casing and nothing known on either.’
‘But he took the gun?’
‘We assume so. Either that or he dropped it and someone else took it but that doesn’t seem likely.’
‘Sounds like you’ve had a good look at the evidence.’
Britton chuckled. ‘Once I heard your name was in the frame I had a look-see,’ he said.
‘It’s all nonsense,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was north of the river. Watching the footie with Robbie.’
‘Damn shame about Robbie. I couldn’t get to the funeral; I was over in Jamaica on a case. How’s Anna?’
‘Bearing up,’ said Nightingale.
‘Life sucks sometimes,’ said Britton.
‘Yeah, no argument here,’ said Nightingale. He picked up the photograph and studied it. ‘What about someone in Robinson’s own gang?’
‘Last time I looked there weren’t any white faces in the Robinson posse.’
‘Very funny,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was wondering if Smith or Gayle might have brought in some outside help. Pay a pro to do the dirty.’
‘Yeah, but a pro wouldn’t have left him alive, would he?’
‘So what do you think?’
Britton laughed. ‘I’m a policeman; I’m not paid to think. I’m paid to tick boxes. Besides, your mate Chalmers has the reins. What’s your interest in this?’
‘Are you kidding? If I don’t find out who shot Robinson, no one else will.’
‘The thing is, if it had been another gang they wouldn’t have brought in an outsider. It has to be
‘A civilian with a grudge?’
‘That would be my bet.’
‘And you’ve no intel on that?’
Britton smiled thinly. ‘We don’t have any informers on their crew, if that’s what you mean. But I’ll keep my ear to the ground for you.’
‘Cheers, Andy.’
‘No sweat. And don’t be a stranger. Do you want to swing by for a pint and a curry tonight?’
‘I can’t. I’m having a drink with an old mate.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘Yeah, but it’s a private session,’ said Nightingale.
31
Nightingale climbed out of his MGB, locked the door and lit a cigarette as he walked down the street. He had to park some distance away from the off-licence because it was late evening and the roadsides were lined with cars. A police van drove slowly by and three officers in stab vests stared at him with expressionless faces through the side windows as if they were considering arresting him for smoking. When it reached the end of the street its siren kicked into life and its tyres squealed as it accelerated and turned right. Nightingale walked by a row of shops. Half of them were charity shops, two were boarded up, and a clothing shop was offering seventy per cent off.
A figure was sitting cross-legged in the doorway of an Oxfam shop, dressed in black and holding a cardboard sign. Scrawled in black felt-tip were the words ‘I am hungry. Please help. God bless.’ And below the words there was a pentagram. The figure looked up. Black hair, thick mascara and black lipstick. Nightingale stopped, his mouth open in surprise.
‘Proserpine?’
Something stirred next to her. The dog. A black and white collie. The dog sat up and stared at Nightingale with coal-black eyes, panting softly.
Proserpine smiled and ran a ring-encrusted hand through her spiky black hair. ‘How’s it going, Nightingale?’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Nightingale.
She smiled up at him. ‘Why do you think anything’s wrong?’ She was wearing a silver choker from which hung an upside-down crucifix.
‘Why are you here? What do you want?’
‘You think I’m here for you?’ She chuckled and stroked her dog’s neck. The dog’s tongue lolled out of the side of its mouth as it stared at Nightingale with dead eyes. ‘You’re not the centre of my universe, Nightingale,’ said Proserpine. ‘You’re not even the centre of your own universe.’
‘So it’s a coincidence? Is that it?’
‘A happystance,’ said Proserpine. ‘A pleasing serendipity. Two ships that pass in the night.’ She grinned. ‘Give my love to Robbie.’
Nightingale’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you know everything I’m doing?’
‘You’re an open book, Nightingale. And not a particularly well-written one.’
Nightingale blew smoke up at the night sky. The dog growled.
‘Be careful with your smoke, Nightingale,’ said Proserpine quietly.
‘I need to ask you something,’ said Nightingale.
‘I told you before that I’m not your phone-a-friend. Remember what happened the last time you asked me something?’
‘This is different,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s about Sophie.’
‘Ah. The little girl. That was sad, wasn’t it?’
Nightingale looked at her, wondering whether or not she was joking.
‘You wish you’d saved her, don’t you?’ said Proserpine.
‘Sure.’
‘Maybe you’ll get the chance.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
She shrugged. ‘You’ll find out. Eventually.’
Nightingale leaned towards her. ‘How can I save her? What do I have to do?’
The dog growled and she stroked the back of its head. ‘You’re on a journey, Nightingale. A voyage of discovery. Now how boring would that be if you had a map that showed you every step of the way?’
‘But you can see it? You know where I’m going and what’s going to happen?’
‘I see things differently to you,’ said Proserpine. ‘But trying to explain it to you would be like running quantum physics past a tapeworm.’
‘You don’t believe in building a man’s self-esteem, do you?’ He inhaled smoke and held it deep in his lungs.
‘You’re so far beneath me that even the tapeworm analogy is lacking.’
Nightingale blew out the smoke and smiled. ‘So why do you bother with me? And the rest of us?’
‘It’s your souls we want, Nightingale. It’s like when you want a steak. Do you care about the cow?’
‘I guess not,’ he said. ‘Where is Sophie?’
‘Beyond your reach,’ she said.
‘Heaven?’
‘She killed herself. That’s a mortal sin.’
‘She was a child being molested by her father. That has to count for something, right?’
