mothers with toddlers in pushchairs, teenagers chewing gum and sniggering, a girl in Goth clothing with a collie that grinned at Nightingale as he walked by, workmen in overalls, and a group of waitresses from a nearby pizza restaurant.
‘Why aren’t you up there, getting her down?’ shouted a bald man, holding a metal tool box. He pointed at Nightingale and the young constable. ‘You should do something instead of pissing about down here.’
‘Can’t you Taser him?’ asked Nightingale.
‘We’re not issued with Tasers, sir,’ said the constable.
‘Use your truncheon, then.’
‘We’re not…’ He grimaced as he realised that Nightingale was joking.
They reached the au pair, who was blowing her nose into a large white handkerchief. Nightingale acknowledged the WPC. ‘I’m the negotiator,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ she said.
Nightingale smiled at the au pair. ‘Hi, what’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Inga.’ The girl sniffed, dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief. ‘Are you a policeman?’
‘I’m Jack Nightingale,’ he said, showing her his warrant card. ‘I’m the one who’s going to talk to Sophie.’
‘Am I in trouble?’
‘No, of course you’re not,’ said Nightingale. ‘You did the right thing, calling the police.’
‘Her parents will kill me,’ said the au pair.
‘They won’t,’ said Nightingale.
‘They’ll send me back to Poland.’
‘They can’t do that – Poland’s in the EU. You have every right to be here.’
‘They’ll send me to prison, I know they will.’
Nightingale’s heart hardened. The au pair seemed more concerned about her own future than about what was happening thirteen storeys up. ‘They won’t,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Inga, why isn’t Sophie at school today?’
‘She said she had a stomach-ache. She didn’t feel well. Her mother said she could stay at home.’
‘Her mother’s shopping?’
The au pair nodded. ‘I phoned her and she’s coming back now. Her father’s mobile phone is switched off so I left a message on his voicemail.’
‘Where does he work?’
‘In Canary Wharf.’ Still sniffing, she took a wallet out of the back pocket of her jeans and fished out a business card. She gave it to Nightingale. ‘This is him.’
Nightingale looked at it. Simon Underwood was a vice president at a large American bank. ‘Inga, has Sophie done anything like this before?’
The au pair shook her head fiercely. ‘Never. She’s a quiet child. As good as gold.’
‘Tell me what happened. How did she come to be on the balcony?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the au pair. ‘I was ironing. She was watching a Hannah Montana DVD but when I looked up she was on the balcony and she’d locked the door.’
‘You can lock it from the outside?’
‘There’s only one key and she had it. I shouted at her to open the door but it was like she couldn’t hear me. I banged on the window but she didn’t look at me. That was when I called the police.’
‘And she wasn’t sad this morning? Or angry? Upset by something or somebody?’
‘She was quiet,’ said the au pair, ‘but she’s always quiet.’
‘You didn’t argue with her about anything?’
The au pair’s eyes flashed. ‘You’re going to blame me, aren’t you? You’re going to send me to prison?’ she wailed.
‘No one’s blaming you, Inga.’
The au pair buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbed.
‘Let’s go,’ Nightingale said to the constable.
‘What will you do?’ the officer asked, as they walked past the crowd of onlookers.
‘Talk to her. See if I can find out what’s troubling her, see what it is she wants.’
‘She wants something?’
‘They always want something. If they didn’t they’d just go ahead and do it. The key is to find out what it is they want.’
‘Wankers!’ shouted the bald man with the tool box.
Nightingale stopped and glared at him. ‘What’s your problem, pal?’
‘My problem is that there’s a little girl up there and you tossers aren’t doing anything about it.’
‘And what exactly are you doing? Gawping in case she takes a dive off the balcony? Is that what you want? You want to see her slap into the ground, do you? You want to hear her bones break and her skull smash and see her blood splatter over the concrete? Because that’s the only reason you could have for standing there. You’re sure as hell not helping by shouting abuse and making a tit of yourself. I’m here to help, you’re here on the off-chance that you might see a child die so I’d say that makes you the tosser. I’m going up there now to see how I can help her, and if you’re still here when I get down I’ll shove your tools so far up your arse that you’ll be coughing up spanners for months. Are we clear, tosser?’
The bald man’s face reddened. Nightingale sneered at him and made for the entrance. The constable hurried after him.
The reception area was plush with overstuffed sofas and a large coffee-table covered with glossy magazines. A doorman in a green uniform was talking to two PCs. ‘Where are the stairs?’ asked Nightingale.
The doorman pointed to three lift doors. ‘The lifts are there, sir,’ he said.
‘I need the stairs,’ said Nightingale.
‘It’s thirteen floors, sir,’ said the constable at his side.
‘I know it’s thirteen floors, Macduff,’ said Nightingale. He jerked his chin at the doorman. ‘Stairs?’
The doorman pointed to the left. ‘Around the side there, sir,’ he said.
Nightingale hurried towards them, followed by the constable. He pushed through the doors and started up, taking the steps two at a time. The number of each floor was painted on the white wall in green, and by the time they’d reached the tenth floor both men were panting like dogs. ‘Why can’t we use the lift, sir?’ gasped the constable. ‘Is it procedure with jumpers?’
‘It’s because I hate lifts,’ said Nightingale.
‘Claustrophobia?’
‘Nothing to do with confined spaces,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just don’t like dangling over nothing.’
‘So it’s fear of heights?’
‘It’s fear of lifts,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m fine with heights. As you’re about to find out.’
They reached the twelfth floor. The policeman had taken off his helmet and unbuttoned his tunic. Nightingale’s overcoat was draped over his shoulder.
They reached the thirteenth floor, though the number stencilled on the wall was ‘14’. Nightingale pulled open the door and went into the corridor. ‘What number is her flat?’ he asked.
‘Fourteen C,’ said the constable. ‘We can get into Fourteen D. A Mr and Mrs Wilson live there and they’ve agreed to give us access.’
‘Okay, when we get in there, keep the Wilsons away from the balcony. The girl mustn’t see them and she sure as hell mustn’t see you. Nothing personal, but the uniform could spook her.’
‘Got you,’ said the policeman.
‘You’ll be just fine, Macduff,’ said Nightingale. He knocked on the door of Fourteen D. It was opened by a man in his early sixties, grey-haired and slightly stooped. Nightingale flashed his warrant card. ‘Mr Wilson, I’m Jack Nightingale. I gather you’re happy for me to go out on your balcony.’
‘I wouldn’t exactly say that I was happy, but we need to get that little girl back inside.’
He opened the door wide and Nightingale walked in with the constable. The man’s wife was sitting on a flower-print sofa, her hands in her lap. She was also grey-haired, and when she stood up to greet Nightingale he saw that she had the same curved spine. ‘Please don’t get up, Mrs Wilson,’ he said.
‘What’s going to happen?’ she said anxiously. Like her husband she was well-spoken, with an accent that would have done credit to a Radio 4 announcer. They were good, middle-class people, the sort who would rarely
