‘Barbara, please stop trying to psychoanalyse me. I didn’t want closure, I wanted facts. Cold, hard facts.’
‘And did you get them?’
‘Not really.’
‘And how do you feel now that she’s dead?’
‘That’s such a psychiatrist’s question.’
Barbara laughed and sipped her coffee.
‘And that’s an interrogator’s trick,’ said Nightingale. ‘Leaving a silence and hoping the subject will fill it.’
‘You’re not a subject, Jack, or a patient. You’re just a friend of a friend. We can talk about the weather if you’d prefer. Or sport. You’re a Manchester United fan, aren’t you?’
Nightingale smiled. She was good, all right. She had barely glanced at the photographs on his sideboard but had obviously spotted the one of him with his father and uncle outside the Old Trafford stadium, all wearing team scarves. ‘I am indeed.’
‘I’ve always followed Liverpool. That’s where I was born.’
‘You’ve lost the accent,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’d have placed you as home counties.’
‘Well, an expensive private education does that for you,’ said Barbara. ‘Can I ask you about your memory loss?’
‘My what?’
‘Jenny said you were having problems remembering things from your past.’
Nightingale flashed Jenny a warning look. ‘And what else did she tell you?’
‘Just that,’ said Jenny, and licked her lips anxiously. ‘That’s all I said, Jack. I thought maybe Barbara might have some thoughts.’
‘Memory is a delicate thing,’ said Barbara. ‘You were a policeman, so you must have come across that. You can have a dozen eyewitnesses to the same event and they’ll all see it differently, even down to giving completely different descriptions of people and things.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Witnesses are the least reliable of all evidence,’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ said Barbara. ‘And, as the years pass, memories fade.’
‘I’m not going senile,’ said Nightingale. ‘Crazy maybe, but not senile.’
‘You don’t seem in the least bit crazy,’ said Barbara. ‘Stressed, maybe, but that’s hardly surprising.’
‘Considering what I’ve been through?’
‘Jenny didn’t tell me everything, I’m sure, but what she did tell me left me in no doubt that you could be suffering from PTSD.’
‘Post-traumatic stress disorder? I don’t think so.’
‘It would account for the memory loss, Jack. Sometimes people under stress blot out the memories that would cause them more anxiety. It’s the subconscious protecting the conscious.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Nightingale. ‘To be honest, I’m probably best not remembering.’
Barbara leaned forward. ‘That’s a very significant thing to say, Jack.’
‘I was joking.’
‘Jokes can often be a window into our psyche. We often use them to make light of our real fears.’
Nightingale threw up his hands and laughed. ‘I can’t win with you, can I? You’re determined to psychoanalyse me, no matter what I say.’
‘Jenny’s worried about you, and sometimes a third party can offer a view that might not occur to those close to the situation. I think you’re blotting something out, Jack. Subconsciously or consciously.’
‘And?’
‘And if you wanted, I could perhaps help you remember. There are various relaxation techniques we can use that will open up your subconscious and allow you to get to the memories you’re repressing.’
‘You mean hypnotise me?’
‘Not necessarily. I’d help you reach a relaxed frame of mind in which you’re less anxious about remembering.’
‘Honestly, Barbara, if I need someone to talk to, I’ll find someone.’
‘Like who, Jack?’ asked Jenny.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort that out. Really.’
Jenny looked at her watch. ‘We should be going.’ She and Barbara stood up. ‘If you need me over the weekend, call me.’
‘I will, I promise,’ said Nightingale.
‘And think about what Barbara said. Maybe she can help you remember. And if you do remember, then maybe things’ll become a bit clearer.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘I’m serious, Jack. I’m worried about you.’
Nightingale hugged her. He winked at Barbara over Jenny’s shoulder. ‘I bring out her mothering instincts,’ he said.
‘She was always rescuing stray dogs when she was a student,’ said Barbara. ‘I can see that nothing’s changed.’
49
Nightingale walked slowly through the cemetery – there was a full moon and the sky was cloudless so there was plenty of light to see by. A soft wind blew through the conifers that bordered it. He was smoking a Marlboro and holding a Threshers carrier-bag. The earth had been shovelled back into Robbie Hoyle’s grave and pounded down but there was still a slight curve. Soil settled over time, Nightingale knew. He’d once been on a search team in the New Forest, looking for the body of a woman who’d been strangled by her husband seven years earlier. The guy had turned up at a local police station claiming that his wife had come back to haunt him and wouldn’t leave him alone until he confessed and arranged for a proper Christian burial. The detectives who had interviewed him didn’t believe in ghosts, and neither did Nightingale, but they did believe in grief and guilt, and because the man was vague about where he’d buried his wife, more than fifty officers in overalls and wellington boots had been dispatched to the forest.
Nightingale was with the group who had found the remains, and two clues had pinpointed its location. There was a deep depression where the soil had settled, and the grass above the body was greener and lusher than the surrounding vegetation. Two hours before they’d found the murdered wife, another group had found the body of a child that had been in the ground for more than a decade. There was little more than a skeleton left, wrapped in a bloodstained rug, and the child was never identified. Again, the depression in the ground and lush grass had given it away.
There was no headstone on Hoyle’s grave, but marble edging had already been put around the perimeter, white with dark brown veins. Nightingale flicked away his cigarette butt, spread his raincoat on the grass and sat down on it. ‘How’s it going, Robbie?’ he asked. It was a stupid question. Hoyle wasn’t going anywhere. He was in a wooden box six feet underground, his veins pumped full of formaldehyde, his best suit on and his tie neatly knotted, the way it had never been when he was alive.
He opened the carrier-bag and took out a bottle of red wine. ‘I know you’re a wine drinker, so I brought this,’ he said. He grinned as he held up the bottle. ‘I couldn’t be bothered with a corkscrew so I got one with a screw top. The girl who sold it to me said it was a respectable red from Chile. Mind you, she was Romanian so I don’t think she knew much about wine.’ He poured a splash of wine over the grave. ‘Cheers, Robbie,’ he said, then took a long drink. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Respectable wine, long on the palate with a blackcurrant and raspberry aftertaste.’ He chuckled. ‘Yeah, you got me – that’s what it says on the label. Perfect for red meat and pasta. What the hell do I know? I’m a beer drinker, right? Or whisky when there’s serious drinking to be done.’
Nightingale had another swig, then poured more on to the soil. ‘I know this is a bloody cliche, talking to your mate’s grave and sharing a drink with him, but I couldn’t think what else to do. Actually, I did think of doing the glass-and-letters trick but I’d feel a right twat if you told me to go and shag Jenny again.’ He shook his head. ‘And,
