‘Nine,’ she said.
‘Well my car’s twenty-six years old. How about that?’
‘That’s old,’ she said. ‘Very old.’
‘There’s another thing birds can’t do,’ said Nightingale. ‘When was the last time you saw a bird driving a car? They can’t do it. No hands.’
Sophie pressed the doll to her ear as if she was listening to it, then took it away and looked at Nightingale. ‘Am I in trouble?’ she said.
‘No, Sophie. We just want to be sure you’re okay.’
Sophie shuddered, as if icy water had trickled down her spine.
‘The girl who looks after you, what’s her name?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Inga. She’s from Poland.’
‘She’s worried about you.’
‘She’s stupid.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She can’t even use the microwave properly.’
‘I have trouble getting my video recorder to work,’ Nightingale told her.
‘Videoplus,’ said Sophie.
‘What?’
‘Videoplus. You just put in the number from the newspaper. The machine does it for you. Everyone knows that.’
‘I didn’t.’ A gust blew across from the river and Sophie put a hand on her skirt to stop it billowing up. Nightingale caught a glimpse of a dark bruise above her knee. ‘What happened to your leg?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said quickly.
Too quickly, Nightingale noticed. He blew smoke and avoided looking at her. ‘Why didn’t you go to school today?’
‘Mummy said I didn’t have to.’
‘Are you poorly?’
‘Not really.’ She bit her lower lip and cuddled her doll. ‘I am in trouble, aren’t I?’
‘No, you’re not,’ said Nightingale. He made the sign of the cross over his heart. ‘Cross my heart you’re not.’
Sophie forced a smile. ‘Do you have children?’
Nightingale dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground it with his heel. ‘I’m not married.’
‘You don’t have to be married to have children.’ Tears ran down her cheeks.
‘What’s wrong, Sophie?’
‘Nothing.’ She sniffed and wiped her eyes on her doll.
‘Sophie, let’s go inside. It’s cold out here.’
She sniffed again but didn’t look at him. Nightingale started to pull himself up onto the wall but his foot scraped against the concrete and she flinched. ‘Don’t come near me,’ she said.
‘I just wanted to sit like you,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m tired of standing.’
She glared at him. ‘You were going to jump over,’ she said. ‘You were going to try to grab me.’
‘I wasn’t, I swear,’ lied Nightingale. He sat down, swinging his legs as if he didn’t have a care in the world but his heart was pounding. ‘Sophie, whatever’s wrong, maybe I can help you.’
‘No one can help me.’
‘I can try.’
‘He said I mustn’t tell anyone.’
‘Why? Why can’t you tell anyone?’
‘He said they’d take me away. Put me in a home.’
‘Your father?’
Sophie pressed her doll to her face. ‘He said they’d blame me. He said they’d take me away and make me live in a home and that everyone would say it was my fault.’
The wind whipped up her skirt again. The bruise was a good six inches long. ‘Did he do that?’ said Nightingale.
Sophie pushed her skirt down and nodded.
‘Let’s go inside, Sophie – we can talk to your mummy.’
Sophie closed her eyes. ‘She already knows.’
Nightingale’s stomach lurched. His hands were palm down on the wall, his fingers gripping the concrete, but he felt as if something was pushing the small of his back. ‘I can help you, Sophie. Just come inside and we’ll talk about it. I can help you, honestly I can. Cross my heart.’
‘You can’t help me,’ she said, her voice a monotone. ‘No one can.’ She lifted her doll, kissed the top of its head, and slid off the balcony without a sound.
Horrified, Nightingale thrust himself forward and reached out with his right hand even though he knew there was nothing he could do. ‘Sophie!’ he screamed. Her golden hair was whipping in the wind as she dropped straight down, still hugging the doll. ‘Sophie!’ He closed his eyes at the last second but he couldn’t blot out the sound she made as she hit the ground, a dull, wet thud as if a wall had been slapped with a wet blanket.
Nightingale slid down the wall. He lit a cigarette with trembling hands and smoked it as he crouched on there, his back against the concrete, his legs drawn up against his stomach.
The uniformed constable who had escorted him up the stairs appeared at the balcony door. ‘Are you okay, sir?’
Nightingale ignored him.
‘Sir, are you okay?’ The constable’s radio crackled and a female voice asked him for a situation report.
Nightingale stood up and pushed him out of the way.
‘Sir, your coat!’ the constable called after him.
The elderly couple were standing in the middle of the living room, holding each other. They looked at Nightingale expectantly but he said nothing as he rushed past them. He took the stairs three at a time, his fingers brushing the handrail as he hurtled down, his footsteps echoing off the concrete walls.
There were two paramedics and half a dozen uniformed officers in the reception area, all talking into their radios. Duggan was there and opened his mouth to speak, but Nightingale silenced him with a pointed finger and walked past.
Two female paramedics were crouched over the little girl’s body. The younger of them was crying. Four firemen in bulky fluorescent jackets were standing behind the paramedics. One was wiping tears from his eyes with the back of a glove. Nightingale knew there was nothing anyone could do. No one survived a fall from thirteen floors. As he turned away he saw blood glistening around the body.
Hoyle was standing next to a PC, frowning as he spoke into his mobile. He put it away as Nightingale came up to him. ‘Superintendent Chalmers wants you in his office, Jack,’ he said. ‘Now.’
Nightingale said nothing. He brushed past Hoyle and headed for his
MGB.
‘Now, Jack. He wants to see you now.’
‘I’m busy,’ said Nightingale.
‘He’ll want you to see the shrink, too,’ said Hoyle, hurrying after him. It was standard procedure after a death.
‘I don’t need to see the shrink,’ said Nightingale.
Hoyle put a hand on Nightingale’s shoulder. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Jack. It’s natural to feel guilty, to feel that you’ve failed.’
Nightingale glared at him. ‘Don’t try to empathise with me and don’t sympathise. I don’t need it, Robbie.’
