Lastnight (12 page)

‘I suppose so,’ said Nightingale.

She lowered her head and fixed him with steel-grey eyes. ‘There’s no suppose so about it, Mr Nightingale. I just wish there was some way of undoing what’s been done.’ She smiled sadly. ‘And there was me saying that I’ve been trying not to play the “what if” game. But yes, I should have just kept my big mouth shut.’ She took a long drink of sherry and then licked her lips. ‘I told Gerald about the tattoo and he let rip with Luke, told him he was an idiot, then it escalated and Gerald started on about the Goth thing, and about him running away from university, before I knew what had happened Gerald was spouting this litany of accusations and Luke just stood there and took it. That was his way, he could soak up anger like a sponge. He just kept looking at Gerald until he ran out of steam and then he just smiled and asked him if he’d finished.’ She raised her eyes to the ceiling again. ‘Gerald hit the roof then.’ She sipped her sherry then stared at the glass as if surprised to see that it was almost empty. ‘He screamed at Luke to get out of the house. And that’s what Luke did.’ She stood up, walked stiffly over to the drinks cabinet and refilled her glass.

‘When was that?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Three days before Luke … died.’ She closed her eyes and sipped her sherry but the sip turned into a swallow and then she drained the glass. She refilled it and carried it carefully back to the sofa where she sat down and pressed her legs together. ‘Gerald never got the chance to apologise to Luke. He was working hard and Luke was either asleep or out. I talked to Luke and he was okay, he said he understood why his father was angry and that he’d sit down with Gerald and smooth things over. But he never got the chance. Gerald wasn’t even here when the police came around to tell me what happened. He was at work, I had to phone him.’ Her lower lip began to tremble and she bit down on it. Nightingale could see that she was fighting back tears.

‘The day that Luke died. He went to Soho, right?’

‘He said he was going to meet a friend.’

‘But he didn’t say who?’

She shook her head. ‘To be honest, we never really met any of his friends. Sometimes they would come to pick him up but they would just beep their horn and he would go out. He never invited them in.’

‘You think he was ashamed of his friends?’

She forced a smile. ‘Quite the reverse,’ she said. ‘I think he was ashamed of us.’

‘The car outside. The Mini. That was his?’

‘We bought it last year as a present to say well done for getting into university.’

‘But he didn’t drive to Soho?’

‘He was very good about not drinking and driving. Someone came to pick him up.’

‘And you don’t remember who?’

She shook her head. ‘I was in the kitchen. I heard a horn sound and Luke rushed out.’ She sighed. ‘He didn’t even say goodbye.’ She put a hand up to her face and took a deep breath. ‘He didn’t even say goodbye,’ she repeated to herself. She jerked as if she had only just realised Nightingale was there. ‘Is there anything else?’ she asked.

‘No, I think that’s enough,’ said Nightingale.

She fixed him with her tear-filled eyes. ‘You need to find them, Mr Nightingale. I can’t go on like this. I need to know who did this to my son and why.’

Nightingale stood up. He wanted to say something to reassure Mrs Aitken but he didn’t want to lie to her. There were no guarantees. He would do everything within his power to move the investigation forward and he knew Chalmers would give it one hundred per cent, but the police didn’t solve every case. So far the murderers of her son hadn’t made any slips that would lead to their early arrest, and dogged police work hadn’t produced results. What they needed now was a break – which was another way of saying that they needed luck. ‘As soon as we find anything, I’ll be sure to let you know,’ he said.

Her eyes narrowed, just a fraction, and then she smiled, letting him know she respected his honesty.

‘Thank you, Mr Nightingale,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re a good man.’ She lifted the sherry glass to her lips. ‘Do you think you could be a dear and show yourself out?’

‘Of course,’ said Nightingale. He headed for the door. He didn’t look back but he knew tears were running down her cheeks.

12

T
he Walsh family lived in a three-bedroom council flat on a tower block named Noll House on the sprawling Andover estate in North London, not far from Arsenal Tube station. It wasn’t the most salubrious of areas and the graffiti-covered walls and unswept streets suggested that Nightingale’s MGB would be better off in a car park some distance away. He lit a Marlboro as he walked to the estate. Parts of it had been built in the fifties, and it was added to in the sixties and seventies, but it had always had a bad reputation for crime and drug use. The three main triangular blocks were named after the local architects who had designed them but who would never in a million years have wanted to live there. Nightingale doubted that anyone would choose to live there, unless they were a particular sort of masochist.

A group of teenagers in hoodies were standing in front of the barred windows of an off-licence. One of them muttered something and they all laughed. Nightingale had an urge to cross the road away from them but knew that would be showing weakness so he just smiled brightly. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked as he walked by.

‘Give us a smoke, will ya?’ asked the tallest of the group. He was a few inches shorter than Nightingale and one on one Nightingale knew he wouldn’t have a problem but there were five of them and there was a good chance that most, if not all, were carrying knives. He could ignore them and carry on walking but then they’d be behind him. Images of a pack of hyenas bringing down a lion sprang to mind. He took out his pack of Marlboro and offered them around. Five hands sprang out and grabbed cigarettes like shoplifters on a deadline. One of the hoodies had a disposable lighter and he lit them one by one.

Nightingale could see they were weighing him up, probably wondering what sort of phone he had and how much cash there was in his wallet. ‘Can I ask you guys a question?’ he said, figuring that he ought to take their minds off mugging him and perhaps get him something in return for his smokes.

‘Not history, is it?’ said one of the hoodies. ‘I was always crap at history.’

‘You were crap at everything,’ said another hoodie and he punched the first hoodie on the shoulder.

‘About Goths,’ said Nightingale.

‘Goths?’ repeated the punching hoodie.

‘He means the vampires,’ said the tallest hoodie, the one who had asked for a cigarette.

‘There are some on the estate, aren’t there?’

‘A couple,’ said the punching hoodie.

‘Do they get a hard time?’

‘From us?’

‘From anyone?’

‘One of them got killed, a while back,’ said the tall hoodie.

‘You a cop?’ asked the punching hoodie.

‘Used to be,’ said Nightingale. ‘What I’m asking is, would you ever give them a hard time? The Goths?’

‘Like what?’ asked the tall hoodie.

‘He thinks we’re the ones that killed her,’ said the punching hoodie. ‘He’s probably wired.’

‘I’m not wired, I’m just interested,’ said Nightingale, trying to sound more relaxed than he felt. ‘Do they get much abuse?’

‘Sure, we take the piss,’ said the tall hoodie. ‘Why wouldn’t we? They walk around like vampires and shit, why wouldn’t you take the piss?’

‘Because they’re different?’

‘Come on, bro. You’ve seen the gear they wear and that stupid make-up. If you dress like a vampire you’ve gotta expect to have the piss taken, right?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘I was thinking maybe live and let live?’

‘They’re asking for it, bro,’ said the punching hoodie.

‘Asking for what?’ said Nightingale. He blew smoke up at the leaden sky.

‘For a bit of piss-taking,’ said punching hoodie.

‘Does it ever go further than that?’ said Nightingale. ‘Does it get physical?’

‘Of course not, bro. What’d be the point? They couldn’t fight their way out of a paper bag.’

‘They might scratch your eyes out,’ said tall hoodie. ‘Nails like claws, right.’ He laughed harshly and shook his head. ‘Nah, we take the piss, end of.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ said Nightingale.

‘You don’t beat someone for the fun of it, bro,’ said the tall hoodie. ‘You need a reason. And walking around like a vampire ain’t no good reason.’ He grinned. ‘Now beatin’ on a man to get his watch and his wallet and his phone, now there’d be a point in that.’ Nightingale couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Nightingale. He winked. ‘Be lucky.’ He walked away, taking a last drag on his cigarette and flicking the butt into the street. The laughter of the hoodies faded behind him but it was only when he turned the corner that his heart stopped pounding.

There was an intercom system at the main entrance to Noll House but it wasn’t working and the door wasn’t locked. There were lifts but Nightingale ignored them and headed up a flight of concrete stairs, wrinkling his nose at the stench of stale urine and vomit.

The Walshes lived on the fifth floor. It looked as if there had once been a fire in the flat next to theirs. There were soot streaks on the ceiling and the front door had been replaced. The door to the Walsh flat was older, the paintwork was chipped around the Yale lock and there were kick marks all along the bottom. There was a thick mat with
WELCOME
on it and a smiling puppy with a heart hanging from its collar.

There was a doorbell in the middle of the door and Nightingale pushed it. He heard a buzzing sound akin to a chain saw at full throttle and a few seconds later the door opened on a security chain. A woman peered from behind the door. She was in her late thirties, pale and with dark patches under her eyes. Her hair was dyed blonde and the dark roots were showing through. ‘Mrs Walsh?’

She nodded.

‘Who is it?’ shouted a man from inside the flat.

‘My name is Jack Nightingale, I’m with the police. I have some follow up questions for you?’

‘Who is it?’ shouted the man again.

‘It’s the police.’

‘Is it that woman from Victim Support? Tell her we need bread. And we’re out of cereal.’

‘It’s a man.’ Mrs Walsh closed the door, took off the security chain, and opened it again. She was wearing a Nike sweatshirt that was several sizes too big for her over a pair of black leggings. There were large hooped earrings dangling from her ears and a silver crucifix around her neck. ‘Down there,’ she said, nodding down the hallway.

Mr Walsh was sprawled on a sofa with his feet on a pine coffee table. He was playing football on an Xbox and his eyes stayed on the screen as Nightingale walked into the room. He was wearing an England football shirt and blue Adidas tracksuit bottom but the beer belly and jowls under his chin suggested that his sporting activity was confined to the flatscreen TV. There was a tattoo of a bulldog waving an English flag on one forearm and the words
ENGLISH AND PROUD
emblazoned on a shield on the other.

Mrs Walsh came up behind Nightingale and he turned to give her a reassuring smile. Her husband roared as he scored a goal and he punched a fist in the air. There was a can of lager by his feet.

‘Do you want tea, Mr Nightingale?’

‘I’m fine, Mrs Walsh,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’

Mrs Walsh shrugged as if she didn’t care either way.

There was a pizza box on the armchair by the door, and a black and white cat on a second armchair by the television. There was a dining table by the window with four wooden chairs around it so Nightingale pulled out one and sat down. He took out his notebook and pen, figuring that would make him look a bit more official. Mrs Walsh sat down next to her husband and folded her arms.

‘Can I just say that I’m so sorry for your loss,’ said Nightingale.

Mrs Walsh nodded but her husband kept his eyes on the TV. From his skill at passing the ball from player to player it was clear that he’d invested a lot of time in the game.

‘I’m trying to get a sense of who she hung around with, who her friends were.’

‘From school, mainly,’ said Mrs Walsh. ‘And she spent a lot of time on the Internet, like kids do. Facebook and Twitter and all those websites. I’ve never understood it, why don’t they talk to real friends? Why does it all have to be online these days?’

‘Waste of bloody time, the Internet,’ muttered Mr Walsh as his thumbs clicked away on the controller.

‘Did she go out much, to Goth pubs and the like?’ asked Nightingale.

The father’s eyes narrowed but he continued to stare at the TV. ‘She was still at school.’

‘I know, but she was eighteen.’

‘She was eighteen a month ago, and I told her, no pubs, no bars.’ An opposition player whisked the ball away from his player and headed towards the goal. Mr Walsh cursed.

Nightingale smiled at Mrs Walsh. ‘And she did as she was told?’

For the first time, Mr Walsh turned to look at Nightingale. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and his receding hair was lank and dull. ‘What are you saying? Are you saying that I didn’t take care of my little girl?’ There was a roar from the crowd as the opposition scored, but Mr Walsh didn’t notice. He was glaring at Nightingale and his hands had tensed on the controller.

‘Mr Walsh, of course not,’ said Nightingale hurriedly. ‘Absolutely not. I’m just trying to work out where Stella went and who she met. For instance, a lot of the Goths go to pubs in Soho. They hang out and listen to their music. That’s all I meant. Eighteen-year-olds can go into pubs, there’s nothing wrong with that.’

‘And stop saying she was a Goth,’ said Mr Walsh. ‘She wasn’t a Goth. She was a teenager, she wore black, she wasn’t one of those freaks.’

‘Goths aren’t freaks, Mr Walsh. They’re just kids having fun.’

‘You’re as bad as she is!” shouted Mr Walsh. ‘She wasn’t a Goth. She didn’t go to pubs. She was a good girl.’ He stood up and tossed the controller on to the sofa. ‘You know one of the papers said she was a hooker?’ The cat quietly slipped off the chair and crawled under it.

‘That was a mistake, they printed a correction,’ said Mrs Walsh.