Lastnight (8 page)

Nightingale leaned forward. ‘Zoe, is there anyone who can come and stay with you?’

‘Victim Support, you mean? They sent someone around but I sent them packing. Some stupid woman who just wanted to talk about house prices. I don’t need support from a stranger. I need Abbie back, that’s what I need.’

‘I meant family. What about your parents?’

‘They’re in the Bahamas.’

‘Do they know what’s happened?’

‘I don’t think they care.’ She sniffed and blew her nose. ‘I’m an only child and they were, let’s say, a bit disappointed when I turned out to be gay. All their plans to get me married off to minor royalty fell to bits and they’ve never forgiven me.’ She waved her hand around the apartment. ‘I think they’d have taken this back if they could but the money came from my grandfather and the trust fund he set up is pretty much impregnable. So no, Mummy and Daddy won’t be around anytime soon.’

‘No family at all?’

‘My uncle. Uncle Murray.’

‘Is he in London?’

She nodded. ‘He works in the City. But he’s always busy, I haven’t seen him in months.’

‘You fell out with him?’

‘No, I always got on really well with him. He’s my godfather, too. But he’s never out of the office.’

‘You need to call him,’ said Nightingale flatly.

‘He won’t come.’

‘Then I’ll call him,’ said Nightingale. He held out his hand. ‘Let me have your phone.’

She shook her head and wiped her eyes. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said.

‘No you won’t,’ he said.

‘What, you’re an expert on grief now, are you?’

Nightingale smiled but didn’t reply. More often than not, men lashed out when they were in crisis, women tended to strike inwards. Nightingale could see that Zoe wasn’t far off hurting herself. And the fact that she had articulated her desire to end her life didn’t make it less likely that it would happen. It was a fallacy that people who talked about suicide didn’t carry it out. Nightingale knew from experience that the opposite was true. Those serious about killing themselves often tried several times before they succeeded and they would often tell those around them what they intended to do.

‘I’m fine, Jack. Really.’ She held a tissue to her face and her hand trembled.

‘Just let me talk to your uncle,’ he said quietly.

Zoe sighed theatrically, then picked up her iPhone off the coffee table. She scrolled through her numbers and then passed the phone to Nightingale.

‘You know what, I could do with a cup of tea,’ he said. ‘Do you mind?’

She smiled and stood up. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I could do with tea myself. Milk? Sugar?’

‘Milk and one sugar,’ he said. He waited until she had disappeared into the kitchen before calling the uncle. He answered quickly. ‘Zoe, love, I’m up to my eyes,’ he snapped.

‘This isn’t Zoe, this is Jack Nightingale, I’m with the Metropolitan Police,’ said Nightingale, which wasn’t strictly speaking a lie because Superintendent Chalmers had authorised him to help with the investigation. Nightingale quickly explained where he was, and why, and that he needed Murray to come over immediately.

‘That’s not going to happen,’ said the man brusquely. ‘I’ve got back-to-back meetings, then I’m due at a marketing lunch, then I’m involved in a major presentation that is potentially worth eight figures to my firm. I could perhaps get there later tonight, but it would be late.’

Nightingale stood up and walked over to the window. The balcony ran the length of the apartment. There were sun-loungers and a barbecue and large ceramic pots filled with plants. There was a metal railing that ran above waist-high panels of tempered glass that surrounded the balcony, but other than that there was nothing to stop anyone going over. ‘Now listen to me, Murray. I’m with your niece in her flat, which I’m sure you know is on the ninth floor. She keeps looking out at the balcony and telling me that she wishes she was with Abbie. I’ve seen people like this before and I can tell you that it doesn’t end well. What she needs right now is for someone to hold her and to tell her that she’s loved, and with the best will in the world I can’t do that. You’re her uncle and her godfather. That has got to count for something. From what she tells me you’re the only person left that she cares about so you’re going to have to decide right now which is more important to you: your job or your niece. And I’d think long and hard about that if I were you because if I leave her on her own and something happens, it’ll be on your conscience for the rest of your life.’

Murray said nothing for several seconds and neither did Nightingale. Nightingale had said all that he had to say. There were times when it was best to stay quiet and wait for the other person to fill the silence.

‘I’ll leave now,’ Murray said eventually. ‘Can you stay with her until I get there?’

‘Sure,’ said Nightingale.

‘Thank you,’ said Murray, and it was clear from his voice that he meant it.

Nightingale ended the call and went through to the kitchen. It was about the same size as his entire flat, with a marble floor, a massive two-door stainless steel fridge and a range of equipment that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Michelin-starred restaurant. Zoe was sitting on a stool next to a square marble-topped island below which were wine racks holding hundreds of bottles. Above her head dozens of cast iron pots and pans were hanging from a metal rack. He slid on to a stool next to her and slid the phone across to her. ‘He’s on his way,’ he said.

‘That’s a first.’

‘He’s your godfather, that comes with responsibilities.’

‘Murray doesn’t believe in God, and neither do I. How could God, any God, have allowed that to happen to Abbie?’

Nightingale didn’t have an answer and he doubted that anyone did. She kept looking at him, waiting for him to say something, and he said a silent prayer of thanks when the kettle came to the boil, switched itself off and she went over to pour water into an old-fashioned brown earthenware teapot. She had already set out two cups and saucers. ‘One sugar?’ she said.

‘Terrific,’ he said. ‘You should have sugar, too.’

‘I don’t have a sweet tooth.’

‘It’s good for shock.’

She turned to look at him. ‘I’m not in shock.’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Yes, you are. Not the sharp, jolting kind. The numbing, pressing kind, the sort that makes your chest feel tight. Sugar can help. Seriously.’

Zoe sighed. ‘I’m too tired to argue with you,’ she said. She reached for a sugar bowl and put one teaspoonful in each of the mugs.

‘Two would be better,’ said Nightingale.

Zoe laughed. ‘Fine, I’ll have two if you do.’ She added another spoonful to each of the cups, and took them over to the island. ‘You’ve done this before,’ she said.

‘Suggested sugar? We’re taught to do that.’

Zoe opened the left hand side of the fridge and took out a blue and white striped milk jug. She put it down in front of Nightingale and then fetched the teapot. ‘Taught?’ she said as she sat down and poured tea into the two cups.

‘I used to be a police negotiator,’ he said.

She frowned. ‘What, talking to armed robbers with hostages and stuff?’

Nightingale laughed. In fact he had undergone hundreds of hours of training to deal with people in crisis. He’d spent two years as a police negotiator and while in the movies that meant talking armed robbers out of hostage situations, in the real world more often than not it involved talking to people who wanted to hurt themselves or their nearest and dearest. ‘More often than not the person in crisis doesn’t have a weapon,’ he said.

‘Is that what you think I am, a person in crisis?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘Well, if you threatened to kill yourself, then you are, yes.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Because of what I said, before? About not wanting to live without Abbie?’

‘You sounded as if you meant it.’

She sipped her tea before answering. ‘I think I probably did, yes. But it’s a big step between thinking that and killing myself. I’m not suicidal, Jack.’

‘No, but you’re in shock and you’re vulnerable. And I could see why you didn’t want Victim Support, but they do help a lot of people.’

‘There’s nothing anyone can do to help,’ she said. ‘No one can bring Abbie back.’ She took another sip of tea. ‘You don’t do it any more then? Negotiating?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘No. Not any more.’

‘I’m guessing it’s very stressful.’

‘Yeah, and it doesn’t get any easier. You have to empathise, and that takes its toll. Empathy is a two-way street. You have to open yourself up to the other person and their unhappiness can spill over.’ He forced a smile. ‘Sorry, that sounds a bit crazy.’

‘No, it makes perfect sense. I can see that you genuinely care about me. Unless you’re faking it.’

Nightingale laughed. ‘I’m not that good an actor. But I was a good negotiator because I could empathise. I could feel what they were going through so I was usually able to help them through it. But every time it was over, I felt a bit more … sad, I guess you’d call it. As if I’d taken some of their grief from them.’

‘A problem shared is a problem halved, they say.’

Nightingale nodded. ‘More often than not they just wanted someone to talk to. Or, more importantly, someone to listen to them.’

‘You’re good at that, listening.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No, I’m serious. Most men when they listen to a woman, they’re just waiting for a chance to speak. They nod and they pretend to be interested but really they just want to tell you what’s on their mind. But you really listen, don’t you?’

‘I try.’ He smiled. ‘But yes, I do want to hear what you have to say.’

‘You see, if they’d sent you instead of that silly Victim Support woman, you might have helped.’

‘Well, I hope I’ve helped now.’

She nodded and smiled over the top of her cup. ‘You have. And the sweet tea was a good idea.’

‘Now I was taught to always offer a person in crisis a cup of sweet tea and ideally a biscuit,’ he said.

‘Would you like a biscuit?’

Nightingale laughed. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

8

N
ightingale sat with Zoe for thirty minutes until her uncle arrived. Murray was in his fifties with greying hair and wire-rimmed spectacles and wearing a Savile Row suit that had almost certainly cost more than Nightingale’s entire wardrobe. He hugged Zoe and nodded at Nightingale over her shoulder. Zoe began to cry almost immediately and Nightingale slipped out, knowing that there was nothing left for him to do.

He took the stairs down to the ground floor, retrieved his MGB and drove back to South Kensington. Jenny was at her computer when he walked into the office and she smiled up at him. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

‘So far so good, I guess,’ he said, hanging his coat up by the door. ‘You?’

‘I’ve spent the day Facebooking and checking Twitter accounts but I don’t see any direct connections.’

‘That’s a pity.’

‘There are some indirect connections. Oh, I should say that Daryl Heaton didn’t have a Facebook account or a Twitter account.’

‘Maybe he had a real life,’ said Nightingale. ‘He was almost forty, he probably couldn’t be bothered. I don’t see the point in all that social media stuff.’

‘You know you have a Facebook page?’

‘I do not.’

‘I set it up for you. It’s linked to your blog.’

Nightingale’s jaw dropped. ‘My blog?’

Jenny grinned. ‘You’ve got just over two hundred likes.’

‘Likes?’

‘People who like your page.’

‘When did all this happen?’

‘Over the last couple of months. It’s all about bringing in new business, Jack, and social media and blogs can do that. I’ve just put you on LinkedIn, too.’

‘I’m not going to bother asking what that is.’

‘You don’t have to, I’ll handle it all for you.’ She nodded at her monitor. ‘There are some connections that I’ve found. For instance, Gabe and Luke followed each other on Twitter. But Gabe has fifteen thousand followers and pretty much follows anyone who follows him. I can’t find any conversations between the two of them.’

‘Fifteen thousand?’

‘That’s nothing in the Twitter world,’ said Jenny. ‘Justin Bieber has more than forty million.’

‘How does anyone have forty million friends?’

‘They’re not friends, Jack. They’re the people following his tweets. Gabe had fifteen thousand and I guess it’s because he tweeted a lot about music and video games.’ She sat back and stretched her arms above her head. ‘I’ve been working my way through their Twitter feeds and I can’t see them being at the same place at the same time. But I’ve only been back about a month. Luke was a compulsive tweeter and so was Stella. Fifteen or twenty times a day.’

‘Did they tweet on the days they died?’

Jenny nodded. ‘Stella tweeted from a pub called the Hobgoblin. It’s a Goth place in Camden. Six tweets in all, mainly saying how all the guys she saw were less than attractive.’ She grinned. ‘She said there were only two-baggers there.’

‘Two-baggers?’

‘I think the idea is that they’re so ugly that you have to put a bag over their head. And one for your own head so that no one recognises you.’ She shrugged. ‘She had just turned eighteen, Jack. A kid.’

‘But then nothing?’

‘The last tweet was at ten fifteen. She said she couldn’t decide between lemon Bacardi Breezer or orange. She was asking for advice.’

‘Anyone reply?’

Jenny shook her head. ‘Luke was also tweeting throughout the day that he disappeared. He was having some problems with his father. Half a dozen tweets about not being on the same wavelength, asking why don’t fathers listen instead of lecture, regular teenage angst. Then there was a tweet at just after eight o’clock saying that he was waiting for his date, then nothing.’

‘He didn’t say who the date was or where he was going?’

‘That was his last tweet.’

Nightingale wrinkled his nose. ‘All these tweets and nothing that’s any use.’

‘That’s the twitterverse for you,’ said Jenny. ‘Generally it’s just people shouting and no one listening. Anyway, I’m pretty sure the police will have gone through all the stuff on Twitter.’