Nightmare

‘You’ve forgotten already, have you?’ Nightingale sneered.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know full well who she is.’ Nightingale took a deep breath. ‘Sophie Underwood.’

Chalmers frowned. ‘Sophie Underwood? Why do I know that name?’

Evans jutted his chin at the superintendent. ‘That was the little girl who died at Chelsea Harbour two years ago,’ he said. He nodded at Nightingale. ‘The one that.?.?.’ He left the sentence unfinished.

Chalmers looked back at Nightingale. ‘The girl whose father you threw out of the window?’

‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale.

‘And what made you start talking about her? Is she connected with Dwayne Robinson in some way?’

‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ said Nightingale. ‘It wasn’t Robinson talking. It was Sophie.’

Chalmers sneered. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

Nightingale clasped his hands together and leaned across the table towards the superintendent. ‘It was her. She was asking me to help her. You heard that, didn’t you? She wants my help.’

Chalmers looked across at Evans, then back to Nightingale. ‘Are you seriously telling me that a girl who died two years ago was talking to you through Dwayne Robinson?’ Chalmers sat back and tapped his pen on his notepad. ‘Are you planning some sort of insanity defence, Nightingale? Because I’ll tell you now that’s not going to wash.’

‘You heard what she said,’ said Nightingale. ‘You were there.’

‘I heard Dwayne Robinson say your name several times, and as far as I’m concerned that was because he was identifying you as his killer.’

‘It wasn’t him. How could it be? You heard what the doctor said. Dwayne Robinson was brain dead. It couldn’t have been him speaking.’

‘So what are you saying, Nightingale? That a dead girl has a message for you from beyond the grave?’

Nightingale ran a hand through his hair and then rubbed the back of his neck. He could feel the tendons there, as taut as steel wire.

‘Cat got your tongue again, Nightingale?’

‘I don’t know what was going on,’ said Nightingale. ‘But it was her.’

Chalmers nodded slowly. ‘I see what’s going on here,’ he said. ‘That was the day your life turned to shit, wasn’t it? You screwed up with the little girl; you threw her father out of his office window and your career with it. And don’t think we’ve forgotten about the father. That case is still open.’

Nightingale shrugged.

‘Just because he’d been fiddling with his daughter didn’t give you the right to kill him,’ said Chalmers.

Nightingale shrugged again.

‘No comment?’

‘It sounds like you’ve already made your mind up,’ said Nightingale.

‘This Sophie, how old was she?’

‘Nine when she died. She’d be eleven now.’ Nightingale picked up his pack of Marlboro and toyed with it.

‘And why do you think she’d want to talk to you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you think she blames you for her death?’

Nightingale’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that maybe this is just your guilty conscience at work. Maybe you feel that you’re responsible for her death and for the death of her father. That’s a lot of guilt for a man to bear, and in my experience sooner or later guilt manifests itself.’

‘You were there this morning, Chalmers. You heard her.’

‘I heard Dwayne Robinson say your name shortly before he died.’

‘Sophie was talking through him. She wants me to help her.’

‘She’s beyond help. She’s dead.’

Nightingale sighed and looked at his watch pointedly. ‘I’ve got a business to run,’ he said.

‘You’re a self-employed private detective,’ said Chalmers.

‘Look, Chalmers, I didn’t kill Dwayne Robinson, and you haven’t got any evidence that says I did. All you’ve got is Robinson saying my name and I’ve explained that.’

‘By telling me that a dead nine-year-old girl was using him as a ventriloquist’s dummy? You think I’m going to buy that?’

‘Buy, sell, steal, I don’t give a toss.’ Nightingale stood up. ‘I’m out of here. The only way you can keep me here is to charge me and if you do that I’ll sue you for false arrest faster than you can say “Colin Stagg”.’

Chalmers glared at Nightingale but didn’t say anything. Nightingale pulled open the door and walked out.

7

Jenny McLean was sitting at her desk sipping a mug of coffee and reading the Guardian when Nightingale walked in. She was wearing a dark blue dress that ended just above the knee and had her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She put down her mug and looked at him quizzically. ‘You haven’t shaved,’ she said.

‘Or showered. Or had breakfast. I was hauled in by the cops first thing this morning. I’ve come straight from the station.’

‘Now what have you done?’ asked Jenny.

‘Shot a drug dealer in Brixton,’ said Nightingale. ‘Allegedly.’ He hung his jacket on a rack by the side of the door and went through into his own office, which overlooked the street. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’ There were two old Starbucks cups next to his computer and he tossed them into the wastepaper bin.

Jenny got up from her desk and followed him into his office. ‘You shot a drug dealer?’

‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale again. He dropped down into his chair and swung his feet up onto the desk. ‘Of course I didn’t shoot a drug dealer,’ he said. ‘And when was the last time I was in Brixton?’ He rubbed his hand across his chin. ‘Do you think I need to shave? Have I got any meetings today?’

‘You’ve got a three o’clock and after that you’re supposed to be pitching your services to that solicitor in St John’s Wood, and you look like shit so, yes, you need a shave. And a shower.’

‘But coffee first, yeah?’

Jenny sighed and went over to the coffee-maker. ‘Why do they think it was you?’ she called as she poured coffee into a mug.

‘It’s complicated,’ said Nightingale, picking up a copy of the Sun. ‘But there’s no hard evidence. No evidence at all, as it happens.’ He looked up as she brought over his coffee. ‘I don’t suppose you can tell me what I was doing on July the twentieth last year, can you?’

‘Are you serious?’

Nightingale picked up his mug. ‘They might be asking for proof, down the line.’

Jenny walked behind his desk and clicked on the mouse of his computer. ‘You know how this works, right?’

Nightingale looked pained. ‘I can never find the diary,’ he said.

‘You click on this icon,’ she said. ‘The one that says “Diary”. Really, Jack, it’s time you joined the rest of us in the third millennium.’ She tapped on the computer keyboard and peered at a spreadsheet that filled the screen. ‘Tuesday?’ she said. ‘Tuesday the twentieth?’

‘Yeah, that’s what the cops said.’

‘You had a six o’clock meeting with a Mr Winters. Divorce case. He came after work, remember? Wanted you to follow his wife while she was at a conference in Brighton.’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ he said.

‘Jack, come on. You spent two days in the Metropole and ran up a ninety-quid bar bill.’

‘I remember Brighton and I remember Mrs Winters and the guy she was shagging but I don’t remember Mr Winters. Were you here?’