‘I do,’ said Jenny.
Mrs McBride looked at Nightingale. ‘When he told me he knew, I was glad in a way. I’d been feeling as guilty as sin for weeks and wanted to tell him myself. But when he showed me the video you’d given him, I couldn’t face him. I went to stay with my friend Lynn to give him time to cool down, but then I was going to explain everything and tell him I still loved him, but now I can’t because he’s dead and that’s your fault.’
‘Did he tell you about my investigation?’
‘He showed me the video you gave him. And the phone records. But it wasn’t until I found your name in his cheque book that I knew who’d done it.’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘How can you live with yourself, doing what you do?’
‘It’s my job, Mrs McBride.’
‘You could have talked to me and I could have explained. I’d have ended it with Ronnie – he’s married anyway. You knew that, didn’t you? His wife makes him sleep in the spare room and he just wanted to touch someone, to share a bed with them. Ronnie was never going to leave her and I was never going to leave Joel.’
‘There’s nothing more I can say, Mrs McBride, other than that I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Sorry doesn’t cut it,’ said Mrs McBride. ‘You killed my husband, and you’re going to hell.’
‘Your husband killed himself, Mrs McBride. You know that and so do
I.’
‘I don’t know how you can live with yourself. You’re scum – you make money from the suffering of others. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
She burst into tears and Jenny gave her a box of tissues. Mrs McBride threw it at Nightingale. ‘I don’t want your bloody tissues! I want my husband!’ she shouted.
Nightingale looked helplessly at Jenny. ‘Go away and I’ll handle her,’ she mouthed. Nightingale did as he was told. He went outside and lit a cigarette. A lot of what the angry woman had said was just plain wrong, he knew, but one thing she had said was definitely true: he was ashamed of himself.
40
Six uniformed constables carried Robbie Hoyle’s coffin to the grave, followed by Anna and Sarah. They were both dressed in black and held single red roses. The twins had stayed at home with Anna’s sister. More than three hundred people had crowded into the church, most of them police officers. Superintendent Chalmers gave one of the eulogies. He talked about Hoyle’s career, his family and his life outside work, and told a couple of anecdotes about Hoyle’s early days on the beat that had the congregation smiling and nodding. Chalmers clearly spoke from the heart, and his voice cracked a couple of times. The cynic in Nightingale wanted to think that he was faking it but he came to realise that Hoyle’s death had hit the man hard.
Anna gave one of the readings, holding her head up, projecting her voice and smiling across at her daughter. Several tough CID detectives had tears in their eyes.
Nightingale was wearing a dark blue suit and a black tie and Jenny a black cashmere coat over a black dress, her hair held back with a black Alice band. They were standing on a gravel path, about fifty feet from the grave. The six officers lowered the coffin into the ground as the vicar read from the Bible.
‘When I die, I don’t want to be buried,’ whispered Nightingale.
‘You should say that in your will,’ said Jenny.
‘I haven’t got one.’
‘Well, draw one up,’ she said. ‘You’ve got your flat in Bayswater and you’ve got Gosling Manor. You have to leave it all to somebody.’
‘I don’t care who gets it,’ he said. ‘My parents are gone and I’ve no kids.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll leave it all to you.’
‘You will not,’ she said.
‘There’s nobody else close to me,’ he said.
‘Find a charity, then,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to profit from your death, Jack. It’s bad enough my parents always telling me that I’ll be set up for life when they go. I don’t want that from you as well.’
‘I don’t need a will, then.’
‘Yes, you do,’ she said. ‘Otherwise your assets get divided up according to some legal formula. If you’re married, the surviving spouse gets it. If you have kids, they get a share. And if there’s no wife and kids it goes to the parents, and if they’re not around any other relatives get it. Trust me, you need a will.’
‘Anyway, the will isn’t the point. The point is that I don’t want to be buried, okay?’
‘Message received,’ she said. ‘Do you want to donate your body to medical science instead? I’m sure your liver would be worth looking at.’
Nightingale flashed her a tight smile. ‘I’m not having bloody medical students poking around with my innards,’ he said. ‘Cremation will do just fine.’
‘Cremation it is,’ said Jenny. ‘What shall I do with the ashes?’
‘Whatever you like,’ said Nightingale. ‘Speaking of which, do you think it’s okay to smoke in a churchyard?’
‘I think legally you’d be okay but it’s pretty bad form. How about an egg-timer?’
‘A what?’
‘I’ll have your ashes put in an egg-timer. Then you’ll be one of the few men in the country who’s actually useful in the kitchen.’
The policemen finished lowering the coffin. The three on the left dropped their end of the slings and the three on the right pulled them out. Anna let her rose fall onto the coffin and encouraged Sarah to do the same.
‘Scatter them over the pitch at Old Trafford,’ said Nightingale.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yeah. I don’t want to be in the ground – I don’t want to rot slowly, and I don’t want a gravestone for people to look at.’
‘Jack, you’re thirty-two, you’ve got years ahead of you. Provided you stop smoking and drinking.’
‘Unless Gosling was telling the truth. In two weeks’ time I’ll be thirty-three. Two weeks today, in fact.’
‘Today’s Thursday,’ said Jenny. ‘Your birthday’s Friday the twenty-seventh.’
‘Yeah, but I figure that means my soul’s up for grabs just after midnight on the twenty-sixth, right?’
‘I don’t know how prompt devils are,’ said Jenny. ‘Anyway, it’s all nonsense and you know it. Come on, we have to go to the reception.’
‘I can’t face that,’ said Nightingale.
‘Well, at least let’s say goodbye to Anna. You can’t just leave without saying anything.’
Anna was being comforted by Robbie’s mother. ‘She’s got enough on her plate,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll call around tomorrow.’
As Nightingale turned to go he spotted Derbyshire and Evans, the two detectives who had called into his office. He went over to them. ‘Did you guys know Robbie?’ he asked.
‘Met him once on an interview course at Hendon,’ said Evans. ‘Never worked with him, though.’
‘Bloody nightmare,’ said Nightingale. ‘I still can’t believe it. Anything happening with the taxi driver?’
The inspector shook his head. ‘The way things stand at the moment, we can’t even do him for careless driving. He wasn’t on his mobile, he hadn’t been drinking, he wasn’t speeding. It really was an accident, plain and simple.’
‘What’s his name?’
Evans narrowed his eyes. ‘Why?’
Nightingale faked a smile. ‘The Federation rep asked if I’d give Anna a hand filling out the insurance forms and they need details of the accident.’
