‘You can do that?’
‘Yeah, Perry, I can do that. Now give me the number and stop wasting my seventy-two hours.’
‘No can do,’ said Perry. ‘He used throwaways, and he made a big thing about it. He didn’t just toss the Sim card; he’d dump the phone as well. He said that these days they can track a phone no matter what Sim card’s in it.’
‘So you don’t know the number of the phone he had that night?’
‘That’s what I just said, innit?’
‘Shit,’ said Nightingale. The line went dead.
Nightingale waited until he was back in his Bayswater flat before phoning Dan Evans.
‘Hell’s bells, it’s after midnight,’ groaned Evans.
‘Were you asleep?’
‘I’m on the school run tomorrow because the missus isn’t feeling well. So yes, I was asleep.’
‘Sorry, mate, but I didn’t want to call you in the office, me being persona non grata and all.’
Evans sighed. ‘What do you want?’
‘Dwayne Robinson had a mobile phone on him when he was killed.’
‘So?’
‘It was a throwaway, a pay-as-you-go. I need the number.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t ask and I won’t tell,’ said Nightingale.
‘Please don’t tell me you’re going to be playing fast and loose with the Data Protection Act.’
‘That’s why I said not to ask. Have you got the number?’
‘Not with me, no. I’ll give you a bell tomorrow.’
‘You’re a star, Dan. Sweet dreams.’
35
Dan Evans was as good as his word and first thing on Friday morning he called Nightingale’s office and gave him the number of the mobile phone that had been found on Dwayne Robinson’s body. Nightingale had contacts at most of the large mobile phone companies. The first guy he called was able to tell him which firm handled Robinson’s number and the second guy agreed to get a list of calls made to and from the phone for his normal fee of?250. Nightingale made coffee for himself and Jenny, read the
‘If anything needs doing, give me a call,’ he told Jenny.
‘Will you be back today or are you away for the weekend?’
‘I probably won’t be back today,’ said Nightingale. ‘You might as well knock off early yourself.’
‘Is everything okay, Jack?’
‘Sure, why?’
‘I don’t know. You just seem.?.?.’ She shrugged. ‘Unenthusiastic. Like you’re bored with the business.’
‘I’m fine. I’m not sleeping well, that’s all.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Really.’
‘It’s Sophie, isn’t it? Are you still having dreams about her?’
‘Nightmares, more like. It’s okay. It’ll pass.’
‘Can I help?’
He shook his head.
‘I still think you should talk this through with someone.’
‘Like Barbara, you mean?’
‘Barbara’s a psychologist, though I’m sure she could help. But I was thinking of a therapist, maybe.’
Nightingale laughed. ‘You are joking, right?’
‘You’re not sleeping. You keep talking about this Sophie. And you’ve had a very stressful few weeks.’
‘I’m a big boy, Jenny.’
‘That’s the problem, right there. You’ve got this macho man thing going on. Like nothing affects you. But look what you’ve been through. You find out that your mum and dad weren’t your real parents. Your biological father blows his head off with a shotgun. Then your uncle kills your aunt and then kills himself. Then your biological mother kills herself. And-’
Nightingale held up his hand to silence her. ‘I get it, I get it,’ he said.
‘There you go again,’ she said. ‘You just don’t want to talk about it. But that simply means you’re burying it. If you don’t talk about stuff like that it’ll fester in your subconscious and come out in some other way.’
‘Where are you getting this from? The Discovery Channel?’
‘And then you make a joke about it. But it’s not funny.’
‘I know it’s not funny.’
‘At some point you’re going to have to deal with what happened.’
‘You think I’ve got PTSD, is that it? Post-traumatic stress disorder?’
‘I’m not saying that, Jack. I’m just saying that maybe you should think about talking it through with someone. Someone who knows about stress.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.
‘No you won’t,’ she said. ‘You’ll just go on your own sweet way.’
36
Nightingale walked around to the multi-storey car park where he’d left his MGB and drove south of the river. There were no spaces in the street outside Anna Hoyle’s neat semi-detached house in Raynes Park and he had to park a good five-minute walk away. It started to rain as he walked up to the front door and he jogged the last few yards and pressed the doorbell.
Anna opened the door. Her blonde hair was clipped back and there were dark patches under her eyes as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. She wasn’t wearing make-up and he could see that she’d been biting her nails.
‘Jack, lovely to see you,’ she said. ‘Come on in, out of the rain.’ She closed the door behind him and pecked him on the cheek. ‘It seems like ages since I’ve seen you.’
Nightingale felt his cheeks redden. The last time he’d seen her had been at Robbie’s funeral. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been worked off my feet,’ he said, but he grimaced as he realised how lame that sounded. He took off his raincoat. ‘Are the kids around?’ he asked.
‘Sarah’s at a sleepover with a couple of her friends and the twins are napping.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘Come on into the kitchen. Do you want coffee? Or wine? I was going to open a bottle of wine.’
‘Bit early for me, love, but coffee would be great,’ he said, hanging his coat on the back of the door. He did a double take as he saw Robbie’s coat hanging there.
‘I know,’ she said, catching his look. ‘I can’t bring myself to throw it away. It’s funny: when I come in and see it my heart always skips a beat, like he’s back, then my stomach lurches as I remember.?.?.’ She put a hand up to her face. ‘I’m sorry, Jack, you’re only just in the door and look at me, the grieving widow.’
She took him through to the kitchen and ushered him over to a chair. The washing machine was on, just about to go into the spin cycle. Anna switched on the kettle.
‘How is everything?’ asked Nightingale.
‘There’re good days and bad days,’ said Anna, spooning coffee into a cafetiere. She forced a smile. ‘Mainly bad, actually.’
‘And the girls?’
