cross paths with a policeman – Nightingale sensed their unease at having him and the constable in their home.
‘I’m just going to talk to her, Mrs Wilson, that’s all.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.
Nightingale smiled. More often than not as a member of CO19 he was treated with contempt, if not open hostility, and the Wilsons were a breath of fresh air. ‘You could certainly put the kettle on, Wilson’ he said. ‘Now, do you know Sophie?’
‘We say hello to her, but she’s a shy little thing, wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’
‘A happy girl?’
‘I wouldn’t say so,’ said Mrs Wilson.
‘She cries sometimes,’ said her husband quietly. ‘At night.’
‘What sort of crying?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Screaming?’
‘Sobbing,’ said Mr Wilson. ‘Her bedroom’s next to our bathroom, and sometimes when I’m getting ready for bed I can hear her.’
‘We’ve both heard her,’ added Mrs Wilson. Her husband walked over to her and put his arm around her.
For a brief moment Nightingale flashed back to his own parents. His father had been equally protective of his mother, never scared to hold her hand in public or to demonstrate his affection in other ways. In his last memory of them they were standing at the door of their house in Manchester, his arm around her shoulders, as they waved him off to start his second year at university. His mother had looked up at Nightingale’s father with the same adoration he saw now in Mrs Wilson’s eyes.
‘Any idea why she’d be unhappy?’ Nightingale asked. ‘Did you see her with her parents?’
‘Rarely,’ said Mr Wilson. ‘They’ve been here – what, five years?’ he asked his wife.
‘Six,’ she said.
‘Six years, and I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’ve seen Sophie with her mother or father. It’s always an au pair, and they seem to change them every six months or so.’ He looked at his wife and she nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘One doesn’t like to talk out of school but they don’t seem the most attentive of parents.’
‘I understand,’ Nightingale said. He took his lighter and cigarettes from the pocket of his overcoat and gave it to the constable. ‘Why don’t you take a seat while I go out and talk to her?’ he said to the Wilsons.
Mr Wilson helped his wife onto the sofa while Nightingale went to the glass door that led on to the balcony. It was actually a terrace, with terracotta tiles and space for a small circular white metal table, four chairs and several pots of flowering shrubs, and was surrounded by a waist-high wall.
The door slid to the side and Nightingale could hear traffic in the distance and the crackle of police radios. He stepped out slowly, then looked to the right.
The little girl was sitting on the wall of the balcony next door. She was holding a Barbie doll and seemed to be whispering to it. She was wearing a white sweatshirt with a blue cotton skirt and silver trainers with blue stars on them. She had porcelain-white skin and shoulder-length blonde hair that she’d tucked behind her ears.
There was a gap of about six feet between the terrace where he was and the one where she was sitting. Nightingale figured that he could just about jump across but only as a last resort. He walked slowly to the side of the terrace and stood next to a tall, thin conifer in a concrete pot. In the distance he could see the river Thames and far off to his left the London Eye. The child didn’t seem to have noticed him, but Nightingale knew she must have heard the door slide open. ‘Hi,’ he said.
Sophie looked at him but didn’t say anything. Nightingale stared out over the Thames as he slid a cigar-ette between his lips and flicked his lighter.
‘Cigarettes are bad for you,’ said Sophie.
‘I know,’ said Nightingale. He lit it and inhaled deeply.
‘You can get cancer,’ said Sophie.
Nightingale tilted his head back and blew two perfect smoke-rings. ‘I know that too,’ he said.
‘How do you do that?’ she asked.
‘Do what?’
‘Blow those rings.’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘You just blow and stick your tongue out a bit,’ he said. He grinned amiably and held out the cigarette. ‘Do you want to try?’
She shook her head solemnly. ‘I’m a child and children can’t smoke, and even if I could smoke I wouldn’t because it gives you cancer.’
Nightingale took another drag on the cigarette. ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’ he said, his eyes on the river again.
‘Who are you?’ Sophie asked.
‘My name’s Jack.’
‘Like Jack and the Beanstalk?’
‘Yeah, but I don’t have my beanstalk with me today. I had to use the stairs.’
‘Why didn’t you use the lift?’
‘I don’t like lifts.’
Sophie put the doll to her ear and frowned as if she was listening intently. Then she nodded. ‘Jessica doesn’t like lifts, either.’
‘Nice name – Jessica.’
‘Jessica Lovely – that’s her full name. What’s your full name?’
‘Nightingale. Jack Nightingale.’
‘Like the bird?’
‘That’s right. Like the bird.’
‘I wish I was a bird.’ She cuddled the doll as she stared across the river with unseeing eyes.
‘I wish I could fly.’
Nightingale blew two more smoke-rings. This time they held together for less than a second before the wind whipped them apart. ‘It’s not so much fun, being a bird. They can’t watch TV, they can’t play video games or play with dolls, and they have to eat off the floor.’
Below a siren kicked into life, and Sophie flinched as if she’d been struck. ‘It’s okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s a fire engine.’
‘I thought it was the police.’
‘The police siren sounds different.’ Nightingale made the woo-woo-woo sound, and Sophie giggled. He leaned against the terrace wall. He had set his phone to vibrate and felt it judder in his inside pocket. He took it out and peered at the screen. It was Robbie Hoyle, one of his negotiator colleagues. He’d known Hoyle for more than a decade. He was an inspector with the Territorial Support Group, the force’s heavy mob who went in with riot shields, truncheons and Tasers when necessary. Hoyle was a big man, well over six feet tall with the build of a rugby player, but he had a soft voice and was one of the Met’s most able negotiators. ‘Sorry, Sophie, I’m going to have to take this,’ he said. He pressed the green button. ‘Hi, Robbie.’
‘I’ve just arrived, do you want me up there?’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ said Nightingale. Whenever possible the negotiators preferred to act in teams of three, one doing the talking, another listening and the third gathering intelligence, but Nightingale figured that too many men on the balcony would only spook the little girl.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Hoyle.
‘Calm,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll get back to you, okay? Try to get rid of the onlookers, but softly-softly.’ He ended the call and put the phone away.
‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you?’ said Sophie.
Nightingale smiled. ‘How did you know?’
Sophie pointed down at Colin Duggan, who was staring up at them, shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand. Robbie Hoyle was standing next to him. ‘That policeman there spoke to you when you got out of your car.’
‘You saw me arrive, yeah?’
‘I like sports cars,’ she said. ‘It’s an MGB.’
‘That’s right,’ said Nightingale, ‘an old one. How old are you?’
