‘He’s the one who threw the paedophile banker out of the window in Canary Wharf,’ said the sergeant.
‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale.
‘Are you serious?’ said the officer, suddenly interested.
‘The banker was fiddling with his daughter,’ said the sergeant.
‘More than fiddling,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’d been raping her for years.’
‘Bastard,’ said the officer.
‘The mother knew what was going on, didn’t she?’ asked the sergeant.
‘I think so,’ said Nightingale.
‘How could she let that happen to her kid?’ asked the sergeant.
Nightingale shook his head. ‘It’s beyond me.’
‘What happened to the little girl?’ asked the officer.
‘She died,’ said Nightingale, flatly.
‘Topped herself,’ said the sergeant. ‘Poor little thing.’ He pushed Nightingale’s cigarettes and lighter across the counter. ‘I’ve a lot of respect for what you did, Jack,’ he said. ‘That bastard deserved it.’
Nightingale pocketed the Marlboro and slid the lighter into his trouser pocket. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘I’ll get you a coffee sent in and we’ll have you out of here as soon as possible.’
‘Thanks, Sergeant.’
True to his word, the custody sergeant brought Nightingale a cup of coffee about half an hour after he’d been placed in a cell. ‘I sent one of the lads out to Starbucks,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d save you the canteen rubbish.’
‘I appreciate it,’ said Nightingale, taking the cup from him.
‘Probably your first time on this side of a cell door,’ observed the sergeant.
‘That’s true enough.’ Nightingale was sitting on the bed, a concrete block on which lay a blue plastic mattress. To the right of the door there was a toilet without a seat.
‘Do you want a blanket or something?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Nightingale.
The sergeant started to leave, then stopped. Nightingale could see that he wanted to say something. ‘After the guy went through the window…’ said the sergeant.
‘Yes?’
‘There were no… ramifications?’
‘I left the force,’ said Nightingale.
‘But you weren’t charged?’
‘There was no evidence. No witnesses, no CCTV. And I said nothing.’
The sergeant smiled. ‘Always the best way,’ he said, ‘especially when dealing with the Rubber Heels.’ Rubber Heels was the nickname of the Professional Standards Department, the cops who investigated other cops. ‘And now you’re a private investigator. Pays well, does it?’
‘Pays okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘But there’s no pension and not much in the way of perks.’
‘You miss the job?’
Nightingale sipped his coffee. ‘I miss the job, but I don’t miss all the crap I had to wade through to do it.’
‘A lot of the guys, they’re saying they wish they had the balls to do what you did.’
Nightingale didn’t respond.
The sergeant looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead he nodded and left.
It was just after half past five in the morning when the custody sergeant unlocked the cell door. He gave Nightingale a printed sheet informing him of his court date and told him he was free to leave. ‘Are you going home?’ he asked.
‘I thought I’d get my car,’ said Nightingale.
‘Why don’t you have another puff in the breathalyser first?’ said the sergeant. ‘I wouldn’t want you picked up again. They’d probably blame me for letting you out too soon.’
Nightingale gave another breath sample, and this time he was below the limit. ‘Is there a minicab firm I can use?’ he asked.
The sergeant nodded at a row of orange plastic seats. ‘Sit yourself down. I’ll see if I can arrange something,’ he said. He went to his counter and spent a few minutes on the phone, then called Nightingale over. ‘Two of our guys will run you out,’ he said. Nightingale thanked him. ‘All part of the service, Jack,’ he said.
21
Nightingale got home at just after eight o’clock. He let himself into the house, made himself a cup of coffee and phoned Robbie Hoyle. ‘What’s wrong?’ said Hoyle.
‘Maybe I just wanted a chat.’
‘It’s Saturday morning – early Saturday morning. My day of rest. Yours too. So I’m guessing there’s something wrong.’
‘You should be a detective,’ said Nightingale.
‘Yeah, so should you,’ said Hoyle. ‘Now what’s wrong?’
‘I was pulled in for drink-driving last night.’
‘Oh, shit,’ said Hoyle. ‘Did you hit anyone?’
‘No, nothing like that. I’d had a few beers and they breathalysed me.’
‘You stupid bastard.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘You’ll lose your licence, you know that?’
‘That’s why I’m calling, Robbie.’
‘Come on, Jack, you know there’s nothing I can do if you’re in the system. Not these days.’
‘I wasn’t asking you to pull strings,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need a brief, a good one. Who’s hot on drink-driving right now? There’s got to be something that could sway the court. Former officer of the law, under a lot of stress, father just committed suicide – I’m thinking mitigating circumstances.’
‘I’ll ask around,’ said Hoyle. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, just kicking myself.’
‘Do you want to come to the house tomorrow? Anna’s doing a roast.’
‘Maybe, mate. Let me see how my hangover shapes up.’
‘If you need anything, let me know,’ said Hoyle.
‘Just get me that lawyer, mate,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I lose my licence I’ll be well screwed.’
22
Nightingale spent most of Saturday asleep. He woke up at six o’clock that evening, cooked himself eggs and bacon and made himself a coffee, then watched Sky News as he ate. A large computer company had sacked two thousand workers, two high-street retailers had gone into receivership, and unemployment was heading towards three million. The pound was continuing to slump, the stock market was in the doldrums, and the tame economist that Sky had wheeled out said things would get worse before they improved.
When he’d finished eating he sat with his feet on the coffee-table, flicking through a hundred or so cable channels, unable to find anything that held his attention. He switched off the television and stared at the sideboard. A dozen photographs in various-sized frames stood on it. There was his graduation picture, in which he was wearing a robe and mortar board, his passing-out at Hendon Police College, a photograph of Robbie and Anna Hoyle on their wedding day and, to the right in a small group, three of his parents. He stared at the family portraits. The middle one was a wedding photograph, his mother in white holding a spray of flowers, his father in a grey suit, his arm around her waist. He was thirty-two when he married, and Nightingale’s mother had just turned twenty-five.
