‘I let him in and then left you to it. He was a big guy, balding, had a sovereign ring and a big gold chain on his wrist. Called me “darling”, which I didn’t care for much. When did the drug dealer get shot?’
‘Evening. I didn’t ask when exactly. Do you have any idea what I did after the meeting with Winters?’
Jenny grinned. ‘United were playing Liverpool,’ she said.
Nightingale laughed out loud. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ he said. ‘I was in the pub with Robbie, watching the game. United won two-nil and I won twenty quid off Robbie.’ His smile slowly faded as the memory flooded back: Robbie handing over the money but insisting that Nightingale spend the cash on a decent bottle of red wine that they drank there and then. Four months later Robbie had died, run over by a black cab as he crossed the road. A stupid, senseless accident. ‘They’ll remember me in the pub,’ said Nightingale. ‘The landlord knows me. Do me a favour and call Winters sometime, just ask him if he recalls being here and what time he left. I’ll talk to the landlord. I’m pretty sure there won’t be a window of opportunity for me to have gone south of the river to shoot anyone.’
‘Do you know the guy? The guy that was shot?’
‘Drugs was never my brief when I was a cop,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I rarely went south of the river.’
Jenny sat down on the edge of his desk. ‘What happened, Jack?’ She took the newspaper from him and dropped it on the desk. ‘The police generally don’t arrest people for shooting drug dealers unless they have reasonable grounds for believing it.’
‘First, it was Chalmers, so reasonable doesn’t enter into the equation,’ said Nightingale. ‘And second of all.?.?.’ He shrugged but didn’t finish the sentence.
‘What? What aren’t you telling me?’
‘You’ll think I’m crazy.’
‘I think that horse has already bolted,’ she said.
Nightingale looked up at her. She was smiling but he could see from the look on her face that she was genuinely concerned. He explained to her what had happened in the ICU. Her expression gradually changed from concern to dismay. ‘See, I knew you’d think that I was crazy,’ he said.
‘It was her voice?’
‘No. It sounded like a twenty-something gangbanger from Brixton. But there’s no way that it could have been him talking. The bullet blew away a big chunk of his brain. He was brain dead according to the doctor.’
‘So you think Sophie’s talking to you from beyond the grave? That makes more sense, does it?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘When I told Chalmers he suggested that I was on some sort of guilt trip. That I was imagining it because I feel responsible.’
‘And do you?’
‘Feel responsible? Come on, Jenny, what do you think? I was there when she jumped. If I’d handled things differently maybe.?.?.’ He shook his head. ‘Who knows, yeah? Maybe I should have tried to grab her, maybe there was something I could have said that would have got her down off the balcony, maybe if someone else had gone up to talk to her.?.?. Could have, would have, should have, right?’
‘You were there to help. That was your job.’
‘Yeah, I was there to help but I didn’t, did I? Not unless the dictionary definition of “help” has changed recently. She jumped and she died and the answer to your question is yes, I do feel responsible. But that doesn’t mean I was hearing things.’
‘But it wasn’t her voice, was it? You said it was the man’s voice. So why do you think it was her?’
‘Why would a drug dealer be asking me for help?’
‘The better question is why would Sophie? She’s dead, Jack. So what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to read the
‘And that’s it?’
‘That’s my plan.’ He picked up his coffee mug.
‘And what about Sophie?’
Nightingale grinned. ‘If it’s important, she’ll call back.’
Jenny stared at him for several seconds, then sighed exasperatedly and went back to her desk. Nightingale sipped his coffee, wishing that he felt half as relaxed as he’d pretended to be. It had been Sophie trying to talk to him in the ICU, he was sure of that. And he was equally certain that whatever she wanted, she’d try to contact him again.
8
Mrs Chan was the lady who owned and ran the small Chinese restaurant on the ground floor of the building where Nightingale lived. She waved at him as he walked by her window and he waited for her on the pavement as she bustled out of the door. She was barely five feet tall with a round face and thick-lensed spectacles that gave her the look of a mole that had just emerged from its lair. ‘Mr Jack, is everything okay?’ she asked. She had arrived from Hong Kong with her husband thirty years earlier but she still spoke English as if she had just stepped off the plane. Her husband had died five years earlier and now she ran the restaurant with her two daughters while her son was back in Hong Kong running a very successful property company.
‘Everything’s fine, Mrs Chan.’
‘The neighbours said police take you away.’
‘It was a misunderstanding.’
‘You look terrible.’
‘Thank you for your honesty,’ he said, but Mrs Chan had no sense of humour and she nodded seriously.
‘You not shave. And you smell bad.’
‘I’ve just come home to shower,’ he said.
She waved at her restaurant. ‘Come in, sit down, I will make duck noodles for you.’ Nightingale hesitated but Mrs Chan grabbed him by the arm. She had a child’s hands but her grip was like a steel vice. ‘I make for you special, Mr Jack.’
Nightingale allowed himself to be led into the restaurant and over to a corner table. He actually didn’t need much persuading because Mrs Chan served the best duck noodles in London. There was a line of ten roast ducks hanging by their necks from a stainless-steel bar in the window. Mrs Chan selected one and then disappeared into the kitchen. A few seconds later he heard the dull thud of a cleaver chopping through meat.
One of Mrs Chan’s daughters came over wearing her usual bright red cheongsam. The bottle of Corona she was carrying on a tray was already opened, with a slice of lemon in the neck. ‘When are you going to start drinking Chinese beer, Jack?’ she said as she put down the bottle in front of him. ‘Tsingtao is better than Corona.’
‘I’m a creature of habit, Sue-lee,’ he said, pushing the lemon down into the bottle. ‘I’ve been drinking the same beer and smoking the same cigarettes for as long as I can remember.’ He raised the bottle in salute and then drank. Mrs Chan returned from the kitchen with a big bowl of flat white noodles in a broth that she made herself, with half a dozen thick slices of roast duck on top.
‘On the house, Mr Jack,’ she said.
‘You spoil me, Mrs Chan,’ said Nightingale, picking up a fork and a spoon. Despite being a big fan of Chinese food he’d never managed to master chopsticks.
‘When they tell me the police take you away this morning, I think I lose good customer,’ she said.
‘Like I said, it was just a misunderstanding.’
Mrs Chan reached over and grabbed his wrist, her nails biting into his flesh so hard that he winced. He tried to pull his hand away but her grip was unbreakable. She stared at him, her face a blank mask. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ she said, though her thin lips barely moved.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Please help me, Jack,’ she repeated, her voice robotic, her eyes staring through him.
‘Mrs Chan, what’s wrong?’ Her grip tightened and the nail of her index finger pierced his skin. Blood dribbled down his wrist.
Mrs Chan’s jaw was clamped shut and she was breathing through her nose so hard that her nostrils flared
