‘Pretty much, yes. The only way I can think of to prove it to Jenny is to have her undergo hypnosis, hypnotic regression or something. But if I do that, it’ll destroy her. She loves the guy. Trusts him totally. I don’t think I can do that to her. But I can’t let him continue to do what he’s doing.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess I had this crazy idea that you could come up with something that would open the whole thing up.’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ said Robbie. ‘I’m sorry. But if you want me to look at the PNC, I can do that. But I’ll have to do it under someone else’s log-in because there’s a good chance it’ll be red-flagged.’
‘No, you’re right. There’s no point. If I’m going to do something, it’ll have to be more decisive.’
Robbie turned to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Best you don’t know. Or at least best I don’t say.’
‘Don’t do anything stupid, Jack.’
‘Since when have I ever done anything stupid?’ said Nightingale, straight-faced. He managed to hold it for a few seconds before both men burst into laughter.
Anna appeared at the back door. ‘What are you two laughing at?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ said Robbie.
‘Well, come and get your coffee.’
Robbie patted Nightingale on the back as they headed into the kitchen. ‘Whatever you decide to do, be careful,’ he said.
‘Careful is my middle name.’
‘I thought danger was your middle name.’
Nightingale grinned. ‘Changed it by deed poll.’
Anna appeared at the kitchen door. ‘Do you two guys want to stay out there all night or are you going to come in for coffee?’
‘Coffee sounds good,’ said Robbie. He patted Nightingale on the back. ‘Seriously, mate, you be careful.’ They walked back to the house together. Nightingale knew that his friend was right. He had to be careful. But he had to do something about Marcus Fairchild. Something drastic.
64
The telephone rang and Sandra Harper went to answer it. Bella was sitting next to her father on the sofa watching television. Will Harper was eating Kentucky Fried Chicken but Bella’s lay untouched on her plate.
Sandra picked up the phone, listened to whoever called and then said: ‘No, we’re not interested. And please don’t call again.’ She replaced the receiver and scowled at her husband. ‘Bloody journalists. That was the
‘I don’t know why you answer the phone,’ said her husband. ‘They’re just about the only people who call on the landline. I told you we should have gone ex-directory.’
‘We did go ex-directory, last week,’ said Sandra. She squeezed onto the sofa next to Bella. ‘Are you not hungry?’
Bella shook her head. ‘I had a big lunch at school.’
‘Yeah? What did you have?’
‘Pizza.’
‘Do you want pizza now? I can order one for you.’
‘Mum, I’m fine.’ Sandra leaned closer to her daughter and sniffed. Bella turned away. ‘Mum, don’t fuss.’
‘Are you cleaning your teeth?’
‘Of course.’
‘Your breath smells bad. Really bad.’
‘I’m cleaning my teeth, Mum.’
‘If your breath isn’t better in a day or two I’m going to take you to the dentist.’
‘Okay, okay.’
Sandra leaned over and took a drumstick off her husband’s plate and bit into it.
‘Mum, why don’t you want me to talk to the journalists?’
‘Because they want to talk about what happened to you and it’s best that we forget about it. We have to move on.’ She put her arm around her daughter and gave her a hug. ‘It’s in the past. You’re home now and we’re just going to enjoy that.’
‘But they said they’d pay, didn’t they?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I heard you and Dad yesterday. You said that one of the papers had offered you ten thousand pounds for an interview and more if you’d agree to a photograph.’
‘You heard me say that? I thought you were upstairs.’ She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She was tired and finding it hard to think. ‘Your dad and I just decided it was best not to say anything to anybody.’
‘Your mum’s right,’ said Will, reaching for a piece of chicken. ‘You can’t trust journalists, everybody knows that.’
‘And we don’t want everyone knowing our business,’ said Sandra. ‘We don’t need to tell the world what you went through, honey.’ She gave her daughter another squeeze. ‘We just need to put it behind us, like it never happened.’
‘But I could tell them that I saw Michael. And Jesus.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, honey,’ said Will. He bit into his chicken and chewed noisily.
‘But I could talk about that, and you and Mummy would get ten thousand pounds. Maybe more.’
‘We don’t need the money that badly, Bella,’ said Sandra.
‘You could put it towards my university fees,’ said Bella. ‘Put it in the bank to pay my tuition fees.’
‘University?’ said Sandra. ‘You want to go to university?” She exchanged a surprised look with her husband. He shrugged.
‘Of course,’ said Bella. ‘What harm could it do, Mum? I could tell them about Jesus and everything.’
‘What do you think?’ Sandra asked her husband.
Will swallowed and shrugged again. ‘She’s got a point. University’s expensive, we could put the money in an ISA or something. Save it for when she needs it. How many papers have asked for interviews?’
‘All of them,’ said Sandra. ‘And the magazines.’
‘Why don’t you talk to them, see how much they’d pay?’
‘You think?’
Will picked up another piece of chicken. ‘What harm could it do?’ he asked.
65
Nightingale took a black cab to Clapham and had it drop him a hundred yards or so from Smith’s house. It was late Saturday evening and the sky was threatening rain but he hadn’t wanted to risk driving in his MGB. Smith was a nasty piece of work and wouldn’t think twice about riddling the car – or Nightingale – with bullets if the conversation didn’t go well. Smith’s house was in a terrace, two storeys tall and fronted with black railings around steps that led down to the basement level. Most of the houses had been converted into flats and bedsitters but Perry had kept his house as a single unit. There were two large black men standing outside the front door, wearing matching Puffa jackets over tracksuits. Nightingale recognised one of the men. He lit a cigarette before walking over to talk to then.
There were deep booming vibrations coming from inside the house – rap music being played through an expensive sound system. Nightingale doubted that the neighbours would complain. Not more than once, anyway.
The heavy that Nightingale knew was big, close to seven feet tall. He had wraparound Oakley sunglasses pushed on to the top of his head. ‘Hi T-Bone, how’s it going?’
The heavy’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know you?’
‘In another life, maybe.’
