Nightmare (19 page)

‘What’s the problem with the other place?’ asked the detective. ‘Their duck noodles are the best in London you always say.’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘Slept with a waitress?’

Nightingale laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he said. ‘No, it’s more complicated than that.’ He sipped his tea. Actually, what had happened in the restaurant had a direct bearing on the favour he was about to ask, but there was no way that he could tell Duggan that. ‘Colin, you trust me, right?’

‘That’s an open-ended question, isn’t it?’

‘But I’ve never lied to you. Never let you down. Always had your back when we worked together.’

‘You were a good cop, Jack. Right up to the moment that you chucked that banker through the window of his office.’ He winked. ‘Allegedly.’ He nodded at the menu. ‘Can we order? I might as well get my food ordered before you put your hooks in.’

Nightingale waved over a waiter. Duggan ordered duck with thin noodles and extra wontons and Nightingale had his regular thick noodles. ‘What are you drinking?’ asked Duggan, pointing at Nightingale’s teapot.

‘Jasmine tea.’

‘Jasmine’s a bloody flower, isn’t it?’ Duggan looked up at the waiter. ‘Have you got Diet Coke?’

‘Just regular Coke,’ replied the waiter, stony-faced.

‘Have you any idea how much sugar there is in Coke?’ He sighed. ‘I hate this diet thing. Why is it that everything that tastes good is always bad for you?’

Nightingale figured the question was rhetorical so he didn’t say anything.

Duggan sighed again. ‘I’ll have water. From the tap.’

The waiter nodded and shuffled away.

‘The staff are a lot friendlier at the other place,’ said Duggan.

‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ said Nightingale.

‘Can you tell me why bottled water is so damn expensive? It’s water, right? How can it cost the same as beer?’

‘I don’t think it does, does it? Mind you, I can’t remember the last time I drank water.’

Duggan sat back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. ‘Yeah, well, keep on eating and drinking the way you do and you’ll soon find out. Practically everyone I know has diabetes these days.’

‘Smoking helps,’ said Nightingale. ‘Keeps the weight off.’

Duggan leaned forward. ‘That’s true, is it? Smoking suppresses your appetite?’

‘I don’t see many fat smokers,’ said Nightingale.

‘And I don’t see many fat heroin addicts,’ said Duggan. ‘Not sure that either is a cure for diabetes.’ The waiter returned with Duggan’s glass of water. He sipped it and grimaced. ‘I really want a beer,’ he said.

‘Bloody hell, Colin, have one, then. One beer’s not going to kill you.’

Duggan crossed his index fingers and held them up in front of Nightingale. ‘Get thee behind me, Satan.’

‘One beer, Colin. If it makes you feel better I’ll have one too.’

‘You bastard.’

Nightingale grinned and waved at the nearest waiter. ‘Two beers,’ he mouthed. ‘Coronas.’

‘I don’t want that Mexican shit,’ said Duggan. ‘I’ll have a Tsingtao. Chinese restaurant, Chinese beer.’ The waiter scribbled in his notepad and hurried away. ‘So what can I do for you?’ Duggan asked. ‘I’m assuming that the “do you trust me” question means it’s something heavy.’

‘You made a crack about the banker. Underwood.’

‘Yeah, that bastard deserved what he got. That day, when the little girl died . . .’ Duggan shuddered. ‘You never said anything, after you came down. If you had, if you’d told me what that bastard had done to her, I’d have gone with you, Jack. No question. I’d have thrown him through that window myself.’

‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. ‘You remember the doll she had with her when she fell?’

Duggan nodded. ‘The Barbie doll.’

Nightingale took a deep breath. ‘Can you get it for me?’

‘The doll?’

‘Yeah. The doll.’

‘What the hell are you playing at?’

The waiter returned with two bottles of beer and two glasses. He put them down on the table and walked away.

‘Jack?’

‘I just need to borrow the doll for a day or two. Then I’ll return it.’

‘There’s no live case, so what’s your interest?’

Nightingale sighed. ‘It’s just a thing I’ve got to do.’

‘Someone’s paying you?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘It’s personal. Look, her death was a suicide, no doubt about that. Her father died that day, and her mother killed herself two weeks after they buried the little girl. So I’m pretty sure that her belongings are still going to be in the evidence room.’

‘That’s what you want me to do? Get into the evidence room and steal the doll?’

‘Borrow. You’ll get it back.’

‘And you want me to do this without telling me why?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You really are full of yourself, aren’t you?’

‘I know I’m asking a lot. And I’ll owe you one.’

‘Since when did a cop need a favour from a private eye? Shit always rolls downhill, remember?’

‘You never know what’s going to happen down the line,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need this, Colin. I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.’

A waiter brought over two bowls of noodles. Duggan waited until he’d walked away before speaking but even then he kept his voice low. ‘Just promise that this won’t come back and bite me in the arse,’ he said.

Nightingale made the sign of the cross on his chest. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ he said. He was joking but the second the words had passed his lips he shuddered.

‘What?’ said Duggan.

Nightingale waved away the question. ‘Just someone walking over my grave,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, mate, I won’t let you down.’ He picked up a fork and grinned. ‘Go on, dig in.’

They ate in silence for a while. ‘What’s the story with you and Dwayne Robinson?’ asked Duggan eventually.

‘What have you heard?’

‘That you shot him in the head and he made a deathbed statement naming you.’

Nightingale swore and put down the fork ‘That’s not what happened,’ he said. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Word on the grapevine,’ said Duggan.

‘Specifically?’

The detective shook his head. ‘Like all the best chefs I’m reluctant to identify my source,’ he said.

‘Yeah, well, Jamie Oliver you’re not. Was it Dan Evans?’

‘Haven’t seen him for months,’ said Duggan. ‘Chalmers is using him as his runner these days, I heard.’

‘I thought everyone understood that I wasn’t involved in the Robinson thing. I was nowhere near Brixton when it happened.’

‘Well, on the street your name’s very much in the frame, Jack.’

Nightingale swore again.

‘Problem?’ asked Duggan.

‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ said Nightingale, wishing that he felt as confident as he sounded.

They finished their noodles and Nightingale paid the bill, then they shook hands outside the restaurant and Duggan climbed into a black cab.

Nightingale phoned Evans on his mobile as soon as he got home. ‘What the hell’s going on, Dan?’ asked Nightingale the moment that the detective answered the call.

‘Yeah, and good evening to you too, Nightingale.’

‘Don’t screw me around, Dan. You said you’d put the word out that the Robinson shooting was nothing to do with me.’

‘I said I’d see what I could do.’

‘Yeah, well it looks now like every man and his dog believes that I pulled the trigger.’

‘Shit,’ said Evans.

‘Yeah, shit,’ said Nightingale. ‘Why have I just been told that the cops think I’m the one who shot Dwayne Robinson?’

‘That’s down to Chalmers. He’s still got your name in the frame.’

‘So you didn’t let Robinson’s gang know that it wasn’t me who shot their boss? That’s what we agreed, right? You were going to get them off my back.’

‘Jack, how could I do that? Chalmers watches me like a hawk. And if he found out that I was sabotaging his investigation he’d have my guts for garters.’

‘Sabotage? Since when has telling the truth been sabotage?’

‘Jack, don’t get on your high horse with me. I did you a favour giving you the details of the Range Rover, and there’s the matter of you not reporting a major crime.’

Nightingale bit down on his lower lip. He wanted to shout and swear at Evans but he knew that wouldn’t get him anywhere. Evans was a cog in the machine, and a small cog at that.

‘I’m sorry, Jack. Really. But my hands were tied,’ said Evans.

Nightingale took a deep breath, calming himself down. ‘Dan, I am in so much shit. You can see that, right? They’ve already tried to shoot me once; if they think I killed Robinson then what’s to stop them trying again?’

‘They know we’re on the case. I don’t think they’ll be stupid enough to have another go.’

‘They’re drug dealers, Dan, that’s not generally a sign of a high IQ.’ He took another deep breath. ‘You checked the Range Rover, right?’

‘Yes, and there were no guns.’

‘And Reggie Gayle’s house?’

‘No guns there either.’

‘And Perry Smith? The face I recognised?’

‘That I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean, you don’t know? He’s one of the guys who shot at me.’

‘Yeah, well, I couldn’t tell Chalmers that without dropping you in it, could I? If I’d told him that Smith was one of the shooters he’d want to know how I knew. It was hard enough getting him to give Gayle a pull. But it’s not all bad news; we interviewed Gayle about the shootings in Queensway so he knows he’s on our radar and he’ll tell Smith.’

‘CCTV footage?’

‘There’s plenty of the car but we can’t ID the driver or any of the passengers. Gayle’s saying it was his missus out shopping. There were no cameras covering the area where the shooters got out of the car, which was probably luck rather than deliberate. And there’s nothing usable of the shooting itself, which is good news for you because if Chalmers knew you were there your feet wouldn’t touch the ground.’

‘And what about GSR? Was Gayle checked? Or his car?’

‘Chalmers didn’t think it was worth looking for gunshot residue,’ said Evans. ‘Jack, I’m sorry. I did what I could.’

‘Okay, I know what a bastard Chalmers can be. But I need one more favour, Dan.’

‘Why does my heart always sink when I hear that?’

‘Perry Smith. I want his address.’

‘Bloody hell, Nightingale, have you got a death wish?’

28

Wednesday was a quiet day for Jack Nightingale Investigations. Nightingale gave Jenny two reports to write up but when midday came and the phone hadn’t rung he suggested that they go to Camden and pay Mrs Steadman a visit.

‘You’re asking me because your car is playing up again, aren’t you?’ said Jenny suspiciously.

‘My car is just fine,’ he said. ‘I’m asking you because you’ve never met her and she’s a sweetheart. And you never know when you might need the services of a white witch.’

‘I take it she doesn’t have a pointed hat and a broomstick?’

‘You’ve read too much
Harry Potter
,’ he said. ‘She’s a lovely lady. Trust me.’ He picked up his coat. ‘Come on, we’ll go by cab and I’ll buy you lunch before we go.’

They locked up the office and went down to the street to hail a black cab. It dropped them off close to Camden Lock market. It was a cold, blustery day and there were very few shoppers around. They ate Caribbean food in the Mango Room restaurant – goat curry, rice, peas and fried sweet-potato fritters – before walking round to the Wicca Woman store.

Mrs Steadman was standing by the till and she looked up from a receipt when the tiny bell attached to the door tinkled. Her bird-like face broke into a smile when she saw Nightingale. ‘This is a nice surprise,’ she said. She beamed at Jenny. ‘And who is this delightful young lady?’

‘This is Jenny. She works with me,’ said Nightingale. ‘I keep talking about you so I thought I’d bring her in to say hello.’

Mrs Steadman extended a child-sized hand and Jenny shook it. ‘So nice to meet you, my dear,’ she said. She was wearing a black shirt over black jodhpurs and knee-length black boots. Around her tiny waist was a silver filigree belt with a butterfly design.

‘I love your shop,’ said Jenny, looking around.

An incense stick was burning in a pewter holder next to the old-fashioned cash register but there were other smells too, including lemon grass, lavender and jasmine. There were shelves filled with bottles of herbs and spices, open baskets of mushrooms, twigs and leaves, displays of amulets and bangles, pyramids made of every conceivable material, and crystals of every imaginable hue. Jenny picked up a pale pink crystal and held it up to the light.

‘Place that under your pillow and you will dream about your future husband,’ said Mrs Steadman.

‘Really?’ asked Jenny.

‘We have a money-back guarantee,’ said Mrs Steadman.

‘Then I have to have it,’ said Jenny, pulling her wallet from her Gucci shoulder bag.

‘Don’t be silly, my dear,’ said Mrs Steadman, holding up her hands. ‘Take it as a gift from me. Mr Nightingale has been more than generous to me over the past few weeks.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jenny. She rubbed the crystal against her cheek. ‘It feels so cold.’

‘It can help with aches and pains too, but a sapphire crystal is better for pain relief,’ said Mrs Steadman. She put a hand on Jenny’s arm. ‘I always suggest that the day before you use a crystal you should bury it in the ground so that it is fully recharged. Wrapped in silk or cotton, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Jenny.

‘But if you can’t do that then soaking it in sea salt also helps revitalise the crystal.’ She nodded at the multicoloured beaded curtain behind the counter. ‘Now would you both like a nice cup of tea?’

‘That would be lovely,’ said Jenny.

Mrs Steadman pulled back the curtain and showed them into the small back room where the gas fire was flickering and hissing. There was a flight of stairs to the left and Mrs Steadman called upstairs, ‘Sweetie, can you take care of the shop? I’m entertaining guests.’

‘Yes, Mrs Steadman,’ shouted a girl from upstairs, and a few seconds later a punk girl clattered downstairs in boots with four-inch-thick soles, a tartan skirt and a studded motorcycle jacket. She was wearing leather fingerless gloves and she wagged her fingers at Mrs Steadman before disappearing through the beaded curtain.