‘I’m going to talk to the detective who ran her case,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll take it from there. He’s already said he’ll see me tomorrow.’
‘That’s not much of a plan, is it?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘Honey, right now it’s all I’ve got.’
When they’d finished, the elderly waitress brought over a white plate with two Chinese cookies and the bill. Jenny slid the bill out from under the cookies and pushed the plate towards Nightingale.
‘I’ll pass,’ he said.
‘Chicken,’ said Jenny, taking one of the cookies and crushing it with her fingers. She fished out a small slip of paper, read it, smiled, and held it out to him. ‘He who knows he has enough is rich.’
‘Bit sexist,’ said Nightingale. ‘There’s an even-money chance that a woman’s going to be reading it.’
‘You’re such a spoilsport.’ She held out the plate for him.
Nightingale shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘Tempting fate.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been getting enough shitty messages from beyond the grave recently. I can do without one in my fortune cookie.’ He nodded at the plate. ‘You open it for me. As part of your secretarial duties.’
‘I think it’s bad luck to open someone else’s fortune,’ she said.
‘Jenny, bad luck is the only sort of luck I’ve been having lately,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you opening my cookie is going to make it any worse.’
‘Suit yourself,’ she said. She cracked open the cookie and looked at the fortune inside. Her eyes widened and she sat back in her chair. ‘Oh my God,’ she gasped, putting a hand up to her mouth.
‘What?’ said Nightingale, leaning forward. ‘What does it say?’
‘It’s horrible,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It’s so, so horrible…’
‘Jenny, show me,’ said Nightingale, holding out his hand.
Jenny’s face broke into a grin. ‘You’re so bloody gullible sometimes,’ she said, waving the fortune in his face. ‘You need to relax.’ She held it with both hands and read it to him. ‘Your life will be happy and peaceful.’ She laughed. ‘I think this one’s mine.’ She gave it to Nightingale and he shook his head as he read it.
‘I’d settle for happy and peaceful,’ he said. ‘Who writes these things?’
Jenny shrugged. ‘They’re supposed to make you feel good,’ she said. ‘If you feel good you’ll come back to the restaurant. Positive reinforcement.’ She put three twenty-pound notes onto the plate.
‘At least let’s split it,’ said Nightingale, reaching for his wallet.
‘I said I’d buy you dinner,’ said Jenny. The old waitress came over and Jenny told her that she should keep the change. As they headed for the door, a young Chinese man with gelled hair and a single diamond earring handed Jenny her coat and helped her on with it.
A small Chinese girl, who barely reached Nightingale’s shoulder, gave him his raincoat. He smiled at her but she stared stonily at him, her eyes as dark as polished coal. ‘Your sister is going to Hell, Jack Nightingale,’ she said, her voice flat and robotic.
‘What?’ said Nightingale. ‘What did you say?’
The girl’s face creased into a smile showing grey teeth and receding gums. ‘I say hope see you again,’ she said.
Jenny put a hand on his arm. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I’m not hopeful about that happy and peaceful forecast.’
42
B ernie Maplethorpe laughed and slapped the bar with the palm of his hand. ‘That’s funny, Chance, that’s a bloody hoot,’ he said. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘On the internet,’ said Chance. He nodded at the beer pumps. ‘Do you want another pint?’
‘Why don’t we toss for it?’ said Maplethorpe. ‘You can use your magic fifty-pence piece.’
‘It’s not magic, Bernie,’ said Chance.
‘You said it made decisions for you.’
‘It chooses,’ said Chance. ‘There’s a difference. I give it two choices, and fate decides the outcome.’ He clapped Bernie on the back. ‘Anyway, I’m done for the night. Do you want a lift home?’
‘You’re driving?’
‘You’re starting to sound like my wife,’ said Chance. ‘What have I had, three pints? That’s nothing.’
‘It puts you over the limit,’ said Bernie.
‘Now you’re definitely starting to sound like the missus,’ laughed Chance. ‘I’ll take it easy and I’ll stick to the back roads.’ He slid off the bar stool. ‘Now do you want a lift or not?’
‘Yeah, go on.’
Bernie headed out of the pub with his new-found friend. Chance took his keys from his pocket and clicked the fob. The lights of a black Range Rover flashed.
‘Bloody hell, mate, that’s a flash motor,’ said Bernie. ‘What did you say you do for a living?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Chance, opening the car door and climbing in. ‘I wheel and deal, duck and dive, anything that makes a quick buck.’
‘How much would a car like this cost?’ asked Bernie, getting in and settling into the buttery-soft leather seat.
‘A lot,’ said Chance. He grinned across at Bernie. ‘But I nicked it.’
‘You did not.’
‘Won it in a poker game,’ said Chance, starting the engine.
Bernie laughed. ‘I’m never sure when you’re joking and when you’re not,’ he said.
‘You can’t take life too seriously, Bernie, that’s what I always say.’
Ten minutes later Chance brought the car to a stop outside Bernie’s neat three-bedroom semi.
‘Do you want to come and meet the wife?’ asked Bernie. ‘I’ve beer in the fridge.’
Chance took his fifty-pence coin from his pocket and tossed it. It came up heads. ‘Yeah, why not?’ he said.
‘You’re serious? You let the coin decide whether or not to come in for a beer?’
Chance nodded. ‘You should try it, Bernie. It’s liberating.’ He climbed out of the Range Rover.
The two men walked together up the path to the house. Bernie unlocked the door. ‘Honey, it’s me,’ he called. ‘I’ve brought a friend with me.’
A young woman with permed hair and square-framed glasses appeared from the sitting room. She was overweight and wearing a denim dress that was at least two sizes too small for her. She had a face that was almost square, with several double chins, and flabby forearms that wobbled as she walked down the hallway.
‘This is Maggie, my better half,’ said Bernie, hugging her. ‘Maggie, this is Chance.’
‘Have you been getting my husband drunk?’ asked Maggie in a strident Belfast accent.
Chance flashed her a disarming smile. ‘I don’t think he needed any help,’ he said. His smile widened. ‘He’s not drunk, Maggie. Two beers, that’s all we had.’
‘But now we’re home and dry I’ll crack open a couple of cans,’ said Bernie, heading for the kitchen. ‘Take a seat, Chance.’
‘Bernie, your dinner’s in the oven,’ whined his wife. She sighed theatrically. ‘He always does this to me. Says he’ll be home and then stays in the pub.’
‘It was my fault, Maggie,’ said Chance. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll just head off.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ said Bernie, returning with two cans of Harp lager. He tossed one to Chance. ‘You’ve got time for a beer. You can tell Maggie the joke about the two Arabs and the camel.’ He put his arm around Chance’s shoulders and ushered him into the sitting room.
There were two grubby sofas either side of a cheap wooden coffee table piled high with celebrity magazines and mail-order catalogues. Bernie pushed Chance down onto one sofa and dropped onto the other.
Maggie pushed her husband to the side and sat down next to him. ‘What sort of name is Chance, anyway?’ she said, squinting at him through her glasses.
