Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (11 page)

20

A
bored custody sergeant made Nightingale empty his pockets, checked his driving licence, and asked him if he suffered from any medical problems. ‘I’m fine,’ said Nightingale. The sergeant went through a list of diseases and illnesses, methodically ticking them off as Nightingale shook his head. ‘Do you think you might self-harm?’ asked the sergeant, who was in his late forties, with thick greying hair and a wide jaw.

‘Do I what?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Do you think you might hurt yourself?’ He prodded the form. ‘I have to ask.’

‘What if I said yes?’

‘Then we’d have to leave the cell door open and I’d have to get a constable to sit outside and watch you.’

‘All night?’

‘For as long as you’re in custody.’

‘That’s crazy, isn’t it?’

‘It’s the rule,’ said the sergeant. ‘We’ve only got CCTV in two cells and they’re both occupied.’

‘I don’t see why you need to keep me here in the first place. Can’t you just bail me and send me on my way?’

‘We have to be sure that you won’t go back and drive your vehicle while still intoxicated.’

‘What if I crossed my heart and swore to God that I’ll go straight home?’

‘You’ll be here for a few hours,’ the sergeant said. ‘It’s procedure. You were showing seventy micrograms, which is twice the legal limit.’

‘I tell you what,’ said Nightingale, ‘if you let me keep my cigarettes and get me a cup of coffee, I’ll promise not to self-harm.’

‘No cigarettes in the cell, but I can let you have a smoke in the yard when you want one,’ said the sergeant. ‘The coffee isn’t a problem, but I warn you, it tastes like dishwater.’

‘So long as it’s got caffeine in it, I’ll be happy. And so long as I’m happy, I won’t be self-harming.’

Both men turned as they heard a commotion at the entrance to the custody suite. Three uniformed officers were half dragging, half carrying a man who was cursing and shouting. He was in his twenties, wearing faded jeans and trainers, and a torn T-shirt that was spattered with blood. He was struggling with the three policemen, and although they were all much bigger than he was they were clearly having trouble keeping him under control. ‘The devil made me do it!’ shouted the man, spittle spraying from his lips. ‘Don’t you see? Don’t you understand?’

‘What’s the story, lads?’ asked the custody sergeant.

‘Assault with a deadly weapon, Sarge,’ said one of the constables. ‘He was charging down the high street with a samurai sword, swiping it at anyone he saw. Cut three women and almost took the arm off a pub doorman.’

‘Where’s the sword now?’ asked the sergeant.

‘In the van,’ said the oldest of the three constables. He was wearing a stab-proof vest and black gloves but there was a cut across his cheek.

‘Did he do that to you?’ asked the sergeant.

The constable nodded. ‘With his nails, after we took the sword off him.’

The man struggled and swore and the three officers wrestled him to the floor. Two held him by the arms while the third lay across his legs.

‘Has he been drinking?’ asked the custody sergeant.

‘Can’t smell it on his breath,’ said the constable who was holding down the captive’s legs.

‘Must be drugs, then,’ said the sergeant. ‘Either that or he’s just plain crazy.’ He walked over and stood looking down at the man. ‘What have you taken?’ he asked. ‘Amphetamines? Cocaine? Tell us and we can help you.’

‘Fuck you!’ The man spat at the sergeant and phlegm landed on his tunic. The sergeant took a step back. ‘Put him in number three,’ he said, ‘and use restraints until he’s calmed down.’

Two of the officers lifted the man, holding an arm each, while the third kept a tight grip on his belt. ‘Just calm down and you walk under your own steam, right?’ said the officer holding the man’s belt. ‘But you keep struggling and we’ll have to Taser you, okay? For your own safety. You keep fighting us and you’re the only one who’ll get hurt.’

The man ignored the officer. He stared at Nightingale and grinned manically. ‘You understand, don’t you?’ His eyes were red and watering. They burned with a fierce intensity. ‘You believe in the devil, don’t you? You know what he can do! Tell them! Tell them the devils are here, making us do their work for them!’

Nightingale looked away.

‘Tell them!’ screamed the man, lunging at Nightingale. ‘Tell them, you bastard!’

The three constables grappled the man, lifted him off his feet and carried him, still screaming, towards the cells.

‘It’s a full moon in a few days,’ said the custody sergeant, using a tissue to clean his tunic. ‘It always brings out the nutters. They might not sprout claws and fangs but the moon sure does something to them.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Nightingale. ‘When I was a negotiator we always had a higher workload when the moon was full. More assaults, more rapes, more suicides, more everything.’

The sergeant picked up Nightingale’s driving licence and frowned at it. ‘You’re not
the
Jack Nightingale, are you?’ he said.

‘I’m
a
Jack Nightingale.’

‘Inspector, right?’

‘In another life, yeah,’ said Nightingale. ‘Have we met?’

‘You came out to a wannabe jumper when I was on the beat in Kilburn,’ said the sergeant, handing back the licence. ‘Asylum-seeker who said he’d kill himself if he wasn’t given leave to remain. You spent the best part of five hours talking him down. You were a big smoker then – I was sent out to buy you some Marlboro.’

‘Thanks for that,’ said Nightingale.

The older of the two policemen who had arrested Nightingale walked in. The custody sergeant waved him over. ‘Hey, Bill, did you know that Mr Nightingale here was a celebrity?’

The officer shrugged carelessly. ‘He said he used to be in the job, yeah.’

‘He was a negotiator, one of the best,’ said the sergeant. ‘And CO19 – right?’

‘For my sins, yeah.’

‘He’s the one who threw the paedophile banker out of the window in Canary Wharf,’ said the sergeant.

‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale.

‘Are you serious?’ said the officer, suddenly interested.

‘The banker was fiddling with his daughter,’ said the sergeant.

‘More than fiddling,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’d been raping her for years.’

‘Bastard,’ said the officer.

‘The mother knew what was going on, didn’t she?’ asked the sergeant.

‘I think so,’ said Nightingale.

‘How could she let that happen to her kid?’ asked the sergeant.

Nightingale shook his head. ‘It’s beyond me.’

‘What happened to the little girl?’ asked the officer.

‘She died,’ said Nightingale, flatly.

‘Topped herself,’ said the sergeant. ‘Poor little thing.’ He pushed Nightingale’s cigarettes and lighter across the counter. ‘I’ve a lot of respect for what you did, Jack,’ he said. ‘That bastard deserved it.’

Nightingale pocketed the Marlboro and slid the lighter into his trouser pocket. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘I’ll get you a coffee sent in and we’ll have you out of here as soon as possible.’

‘Thanks, Sergeant.’

True to his word, the custody sergeant brought Nightingale a cup of coffee about half an hour after he’d been placed in a cell. ‘I sent one of the lads out to Starbucks,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d save you the canteen rubbish.’

‘I appreciate it,’ said Nightingale, taking the cup from him.

‘Probably your first time on this side of a cell door,’ observed the sergeant.

‘That’s true enough.’ Nightingale was sitting on the bed, a concrete block on which lay a blue plastic mattress. To the right of the door there was a toilet without a seat.

‘Do you want a blanket or something?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Nightingale.

The sergeant started to leave, then stopped. Nightingale could see that he wanted to say something. ‘After the guy went through the window . . .’ said the sergeant.

‘Yes?’

‘There were no . . . ramifications?’

‘I left the force,’ said Nightingale.

‘But you weren’t charged?’

‘There was no evidence. No witnesses, no CCTV. And I said nothing.’

The sergeant smiled. ‘Always the best way,’ he said, ‘especially when dealing with the Rubber Heels.’ Rubber Heels was the nickname of the Professional Standards Department, the cops who investigated other cops. ‘And now you’re a private investigator. Pays well, does it?’

‘Pays okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘But there’s no pension and not much in the way of perks.’

‘You miss the job?’

Nightingale sipped his coffee. ‘I miss the job, but I don’t miss all the crap I had to wade through to do it.’

‘A lot of the guys, they’re saying they wish they had the balls to do what you did.’

Nightingale didn’t respond.

The sergeant looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead he nodded and left.

It was just after half past five in the morning when the custody sergeant unlocked the cell door. He gave Nightingale a printed sheet informing him of his court date and told him he was free to leave. ‘Are you going home?’ he asked.

‘I thought I’d get my car,’ said Nightingale.

‘Why don’t you have another puff in the breathalyser first?’ said the sergeant. ‘I wouldn’t want you picked up again. They’d probably blame me for letting you out too soon.’

Nightingale gave another breath sample, and this time he was below the limit. ‘Is there a minicab firm I can use?’ he asked.

The sergeant nodded at a row of orange plastic seats. ‘Sit yourself down. I’ll see if I can arrange something,’ he said. He went to his counter and spent a few minutes on the phone, then called Nightingale over. ‘Two of our guys will run you out,’ he said. Nightingale thanked him. ‘All part of the service, Jack,’ he said.

21

N
ightingale got home at just after eight o’clock. He let himself into the house, made himself a cup of coffee and phoned Robbie Hoyle. ‘What’s wrong?’ said Hoyle.

‘Maybe I just wanted a chat.’

‘It’s Saturday morning – early Saturday morning. My day of rest. Yours too. So I’m guessing there’s something wrong.’

‘You should be a detective,’ said Nightingale.

‘Yeah, so should you,’ said Hoyle. ‘Now what’s wrong?’

‘I was pulled in for drink-driving last night.’

‘Oh, shit,’ said Hoyle. ‘Did you hit anyone?’

‘No, nothing like that. I’d had a few beers and they breathalysed me.’

‘You stupid bastard.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘You’ll lose your licence, you know that?’

‘That’s why I’m calling, Robbie.’

‘Come on, Jack, you know there’s nothing I can do if you’re in the system. Not these days.’

‘I wasn’t asking you to pull strings,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need a brief, a good one. Who’s hot on drink-driving right now? There’s got to be something that could sway the court. Former officer of the law, under a lot of stress, father just committed suicide – I’m thinking mitigating circumstances.’

‘I’ll ask around,’ said Hoyle. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine, just kicking myself.’

‘Do you want to come to the house tomorrow? Anna’s doing a roast.’

‘Maybe, mate. Let me see how my hangover shapes up.’

‘If you need anything, let me know,’ said Hoyle.

‘Just get me that lawyer, mate,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I lose my licence I’ll be well screwed.’

22

N
ightingale spent most of Saturday asleep. He woke up at six o’clock that evening, cooked himself eggs and bacon and made himself a coffee, then watched Sky News as he ate. A large computer company had sacked two thousand workers, two high-street retailers had gone into receivership, and unemployment was heading towards three million. The pound was continuing to slump, the stock market was in the doldrums, and the tame economist that Sky had wheeled out said things would get worse before they improved.

When he’d finished eating he sat with his feet on the coffee-table, flicking through a hundred or so cable channels, unable to find anything that held his attention. He switched off the television and stared at the sideboard. A dozen photographs in various-sized frames stood on it. There was his graduation picture, in which he was wearing a robe and mortar board, his passing-out at Hendon Police College, a photograph of Robbie and Anna Hoyle on their wedding day and, to the right in a small group, three of his parents. He stared at the family portraits. The middle one was a wedding photograph, his mother in white holding a spray of flowers, his father in a grey suit, his arm around her waist. He was thirty-two when he married, and Nightingale’s mother had just turned twenty-five. She was pretty, with curly black hair and green eyes, which suggested Irish ancestry, and a sprinkling of freckles across her upturned nose. She was smiling at her husband in the same way that Nightingale had seen her look at him throughout his childhood. There had never been any doubt that she had loved him with all her heart. The photograph to the right of that one was smaller, in a silver frame. It was the first picture of Nightingale as a baby, wrapped in a soft white blanket, his cheeks red and his eyes closed, clasped by his mother who was held by his father, both gazing down at him with love and pride.

It was, Nightingale now realised, the start of the lie. He wasn’t their child: he had been given to them. On the day that photograph had been taken, they had been strangers with no connection to him, no family link, no DNA, just a man and a woman who had been given a baby. The child they were holding could have been anybody’s. Everything that had happened to Nightingale after that day, everything he had become, was based on a lie.

The third photograph had been taken outside Manchester United’s Old Trafford stadium. Nightingale was just twelve, flanked by his father and uncle, all three sporting red-and-white scarves. They were on their way to take their places in the stands. It was a few years before the stadium had been made all-seating and Nightingale’s father had always preferred to watch his football on his feet. A fellow supporter had taken the photograph with a camera that Nightingale’s father had given him the previous Christmas.

Nightingale stared at it. His uncle must have known. Good old Uncle Tommy. Laughing, joking Uncle Tommy, who always turned up with a present, a card and a bear-hug every birthday and Christmas, and had slipped him an envelope containing a thousand pounds the day Nightingale had headed off to university. Good old Uncle Tommy, who must have known about the lie right from the start. And Auntie Linda. They must have known because they’d have seen that his mother hadn’t been pregnant and that Nightingale had appeared from nowhere – and they had never let on, not even at the funeral. They had both been there, of course, standing either side of Nightingale as the two coffins were lowered into the ground. And neither of them had ever said anything about him being adopted, not then and not since.

He stared at the photograph of the three football fans. A father, his son, and the uncle. Except that Jack Nightingale wasn’t Bill Nightingale’s son and Tommy wasn’t his uncle. Until Nightingale found out the truth, he would never be able to look at them in the same way again.