Tyler chuckled. ‘You’re a persistent bastard,’ he said. ‘Okay, there’s a Starbucks on the way. Bring me a large Mocha and two chocolate croissants.’
‘You got a sweet tooth, Alfie?’
‘Just bring my breakfast and your money and we’ll talk,’ said Tyler, and he ended the call.
Tyler lived on the outskirts of Bromley in south London. The Saturday morning traffic was light and Nightingale got there just after eleven o’clock. The large black wrought-iron gates that fronted the driveway leading to the six-bedroom, mock-Tudor house, complete with tall chimneys, were locked. Chained and locked with a massive brass padlock. Nightingale frowned as he held the padlock. The last time he’d visited Tyler the gates hadn’t been locked. He looked around for a bell or an intercom but there was no way of announcing his presence. He leaned against his car and lit a cigarette, then took out his mobile phone and called Tyler’s number. It rang out, unanswered.
Nightingale cursed and put the phone away, then went back to the gates, wondering whether or not to try climbing over them. They were a good nine feet tall and topped with fleur-de-lys points. He peered through the bars. Tyler’s black Bentley was parked in front of the double garage. As Nightingale blew a tight plume of smoke through the gate, the front door opened and Tyler appeared, wearing blue and white striped pyjamas.
Nightingale waved at him. ‘Alfie, over here!’ he shouted. ‘The gates are locked.’
Tyler ran a hand through his hair, walked out of the house and headed towards the garage.
‘I’ve got your Mocha and your croissants!’
Tyler ambled into the garage and reappeared a few seconds later holding a coil of rope.
‘Hey, come on! Stop pissing about.’
Tyler showed no signs of having heard Nightingale. He went over to the front door and tied one end of the rope to the door knocker, a large brass lion’s head with a thick metal ring gripped in its jaws.
‘Alfie! What are you playing at?’
Tyler walked slowly to the Bentley, playing out the length of rope. Nightingale dropped what was left of his cigarette onto the tarmac and ground it with the heel of his shoe. He grabbed the metal gates and shook them. They rattled but the chain held firm.
‘Alfie, come on, this isn’t funny!’
Tyler stood next to the driver’s door of the Bentley and began to fashion the rope into a noose.
Nightingale cursed under his breath. He jammed his right foot against one of the bars and pulled himself up. He managed to get halfway up the gate before he lost his grip and slid down. He took off his raincoat, tossed it onto the bonnet of his MGB and threw himself at the gate. He hauled himself up, gritting his teeth at the pain, his feet scrabbling against the bars, but he didn’t have the strength and he slipped back down, tearing his palms. He yelled in frustration as he stared through the bars. Tyler had finished making the noose and he slid it over his head. For a couple of seconds he looked towards the gates but he didn’t seem to notice Nightingale standing there.
‘Alfie, for God’s sake, will you open these bloody gates!’ shouted Nightingale.
Tyler opened the door of the Bentley and climbed in. He pulled the door shut but the rope prevented it from closing completely. The engine started and white exhaust billowed around the rear of the car.
‘Oh no, please, no…’ whispered Nightingale.
The engine roared and the car leaped forward. The rope went taut almost immediately but the two-ton Bentley didn’t even jerk as it accelerated down the driveway. Nightingale threw himself to the side a second before the car crashed into the gates, Tyler’s headless corpse slumped over the wheel, blood still pumping over the walnut dashboard.
20
S uperintendent Chalmers sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling of the interview room. ‘Right, Nightingale, I’m sure you know your rights as well as any ex-copper does, but I have to tell you that you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘Are you going to charge me?’ asked Nightingale.
‘That remains to be seen,’ said Chalmers. There was a manila envelope on the table in front of him.
‘So why the caution?’
‘You know why,’ said Chalmers. ‘You’ve only been off the Force for two years. This questioning might well result in charges being laid, in which case you have to be cautioned prior to the questioning. I’m assuming you haven’t completely forgotten the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.’
‘I said I’d come here to help you with your enquiries.’
‘And we’re grateful for that. But we don’t know where those enquiries will lead so I have to caution you before we begin. Now, tell me again how Alfie Tyler comes to be sitting behind the wheel of his car minus his head.’
‘It was suicide,’ said Nightingale. ‘I told you. I’ve told you three times already.’ He nodded at the digital tape recorder on the desk. ‘It’s not my fault you didn’t have the machine switched on.’
‘Just answer the question, please,’ said the superintendent.
Detective Inspector Dan Evans, who was sitting next to Chalmers, sighed, folded his arms and stared at Nightingale with undisguised contempt.
‘He tied a rope around his neck, tied the other end to his door knocker and then he drove his car at the gates.’
‘Where were you while all this was happening?’
‘The other side of the gates. I couldn’t get in.’
‘And you just stood there and watched, did you?’
‘No, I shouted myself hoarse and tried to get over the gates, but they were too high. I was still outside when the cops arrived.’
‘So you just let him kill himself, did you?’
‘There wasn’t time for me to do anything.’
‘You were trained as a hostage negotiator. You’re used to dealing with suicides. Remember? That was part of your job, talking to people in crisis.’
‘I remember,’ said Nightingale. ‘But he wouldn’t talk. He didn’t say anything. In fact he didn’t seem to notice I was there — he looked like he was in a trance. He just tied the rope around his neck and got into the car.’
‘Did you say something to him, something that set him off?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe you insulted his mother. Maybe you threatened to expose some dirty dark secret. People don’t usually decapitate themselves for no reason.’
Nightingale took his pack of Marlboro out of the pocket of his raincoat.
‘You can’t smoke in here,’ said Chalmers.
‘I’m not smoking, I just like feeling the pack,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s a tactile thing.’ He tapped the pack on the table. ‘Look, Tyler was expecting me. I called him before I went round and he said he’d see me. We were going to play snooker.’
‘Snooker?’
‘We’d played before.’
‘So it was a social call but rather than play snooker with you he chose to take off his head?’
‘I’m as surprised as you, Superintendent.’
‘There’s no record of Mr Tyler having any mental problems in the past. Though he does have a conviction for GBH.’
‘He can handle himself,’ said Nightingale. ‘I mean, he could. He could handle himself.’
‘Broke a few limbs in his time, did Mr Tyler. Did you know that?’
‘I’d heard.’
‘He was an enforcer for a heavy mob in north London. Broke a few arms and slashed a few faces. Not the sort of guy you’d want to meet in a dark alley. Or any sort of alley, for that matter.’
