The older man told Nightingale he was being arrested but Nightingale wasn’t listening. It was his own fault, no one had forced him to drink and drive, and now he was going to have to pay the penalty for his stupidity.

‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said the younger policeman, putting a hand on his shoulder. His voice was cold and flat, devoid of emotion.

‘What?’ said Nightingale.

‘I said we’ll secure your car and drive you to the station, sir. Please give me the keys.’ His voice had returned to normal.

Nightingale shook his head. ‘What did you say just then?’

The younger constable looked at his colleague. ‘Drunk as a skunk,’ he said.

‘I’m not drunk,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve been drinking but I’m not drunk. What did you say about me going to hell?’

‘There’s no need for offensive language, sir,’ said the older policeman, taking hold of Nightingale’s left arm.

‘I wasn’t being offensive,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just want to know what he said.’

‘He said we’re going to have to secure your vehicle. You can come back and get it once we’ve done the paperwork at the station and you’re fit to drive. Now, please don’t give us any more trouble.’ He tightened his grip.

Nightingale said nothing. He handed over his keys and let them lead him to their car.

20

A bored custody sergeant made Nightingale empty his pockets, checked his driving licence, and asked him if he suffered from any medical problems. ‘I’m fine,’ said Nightingale. The sergeant went through a list of diseases and illnesses, methodically ticking them off as Nightingale shook his head. ‘Do you think you might self-harm?’ asked the sergeant, who was in his late forties, with thick greying hair and a wide jaw.

‘Do I what?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Do you think you might hurt yourself?’ He prodded the form. ‘I have to ask.’

‘What if I said yes?’

‘Then we’d have to leave the cell door open and I’d have to get a constable to sit outside and watch you.’

‘All night?’

‘For as long as you’re in custody.’

‘That’s crazy, isn’t it?’

‘It’s the rule,’ said the sergeant. ‘We’ve only got CCTV in two cells and they’re both occupied.’

‘I don’t see why you need to keep me here in the first place. Can’t you just bail me and send me on my way?’

‘We have to be sure that you won’t go back and drive your vehicle while still intoxicated.’

‘What if I crossed my heart and swore to God that I’ll go straight home?’

‘You’ll be here for a few hours,’ the sergeant said. ‘It’s procedure. You were showing seventy micrograms, which is twice the legal limit.’

‘I tell you what,’ said Nightingale, ‘if you let me keep my cigarettes and get me a cup of coffee, I’ll promise not to self-harm.’

‘No cigarettes in the cell, but I can let you have a smoke in the yard when you want one,’ said the sergeant. ‘The coffee isn’t a problem, but I warn you, it tastes like dishwater.’

‘So long as it’s got caffeine in it, I’ll be happy. And so long as I’m happy, I won’t be self-harming.’

Both men turned as they heard a commotion at the entrance to the custody suite. Three uniformed officers were half dragging, half carrying a man who was cursing and shouting. He was in his twenties, wearing faded jeans and trainers, and a torn T-shirt that was spattered with blood. He was struggling with the three policemen, and although they were all much bigger than he was they were clearly having trouble keeping him under control. ‘The devil made me do it!’ shouted the man, spittle spraying from his lips. ‘Don’t you see? Don’t you understand?’

‘What’s the story, lads?’ asked the custody sergeant.

‘Assault with a deadly weapon, Sarge,’ said one of the constables. ‘He was charging down the high street with a samurai sword, swiping it at anyone he saw. Cut three women and almost took the arm off a pub doorman.’

‘Where’s the sword now?’ asked the sergeant.

‘In the van,’ said the oldest of the three constables. He was wearing a stab-proof vest and black gloves but there was a cut across his cheek.

‘Did he do that to you?’ asked the sergeant.

The constable nodded. ‘With his nails, after we took the sword off him.’

The man struggled and swore and the three officers wrestled him to the floor. Two held him by the arms while the third lay across his legs.

‘Has he been drinking?’ asked the custody sergeant.

‘Can’t smell it on his breath,’ said the constable who was holding down the captive’s legs.

‘Must be drugs, then,’ said the sergeant. ‘Either that or he’s just plain crazy.’ He walked over and stood looking down at the man. ‘What have you taken?’ he asked. ‘Amphetamines? Cocaine? Tell us and we can help you.’

‘Fuck you!’ The man spat at the sergeant and phlegm landed on his tunic. The sergeant took a step back. ‘Put him in number three,’ he said, ‘and use restraints until he’s calmed down.’

Two of the officers lifted the man, holding an arm each, while the third kept a tight grip on his belt. ‘Just calm down and you walk under your own steam, right?’ said the officer holding the man’s belt. ‘But you keep struggling and we’ll have to Taser you, okay? For your own safety. You keep fighting us and you’re the only one who’ll get hurt.’

The man ignored the officer. He stared at Nightingale and grinned manically. ‘You understand, don’t you?’ His eyes were red and watering. They burned with a fierce intensity. ‘You believe in the devil, don’t you? You know what he can do! Tell them! Tell them the devils are here, making us do their work for them!’

Nightingale looked away.

‘Tell them!’ screamed the man, lunging at Nightingale. ‘Tell them, you bastard!’

The three constables grappled the man, lifted him off his feet and carried him, still screaming, towards the cells.

‘It’s a full moon in a few days,’ said the custody sergeant, using a tissue to clean his tunic. ‘It always brings out the nutters. They might not sprout claws and fangs but the moon sure does something to them.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Nightingale. ‘When I was a negotiator we always had a higher workload when the moon was full. More assaults, more rapes, more suicides, more everything.’

The sergeant picked up Nightingale’s driving licence and frowned at it. ‘You’re not the Jack Nightingale, are you?’ he said.

‘I’m a Jack Nightingale.’

‘Inspector, right?’

‘In another life, yeah,’ said Nightingale. ‘Have we met?’

‘You came out to a wannabe jumper when I was on the beat in Kilburn,’ said the sergeant, handing back the licence. ‘Asylum-seeker who said he’d kill himself if he wasn’t given leave to remain. You spent the best part of five hours talking him down. You were a big smoker then – I was sent out to buy you some Marlboro.’

‘Thanks for that,’ said Nightingale.

The older of the two policemen who had arrested Nightingale walked in. The custody sergeant waved him over. ‘Hey, Bill, did you know that Mr Nightingale here was a celebrity?’

The officer shrugged carelessly. ‘He said he used to be in the job, yeah.’

‘He was a negotiator, one of the best,’ said the sergeant. ‘And CO19 – right?’

‘For my sins, yeah.’

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