‘Who is it?’ called Jenny.
‘The last person I want to see just now,’ said Nightingale.
9
N ightingale pulled open the front door. Superintendent Chalmers was standing in the driveway, his hands in the pockets of his cashmere overcoat. He looked more like a Conservative politician than a policeman in his dark pinstriped suit and perfectly knotted blue and cream striped tie. Behind him was a hard-faced woman in a beige belted raincoat, her hair cut short and dyed blonde. She was in her early thirties, probably a detective sergeant, with dark patches under her eyes as if she hadn’t slept well the previous night.
‘What are you doing working so late?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Superintendents don’t get paid overtime.’
‘Thought I’d check out the new Nightingale residence,’ said the superintendent. ‘Nice. Very nice. Bit off the beaten trail, though.’ He looked around, nodding slowly. ‘Missed you at the office, couldn’t find you at the flat in Bayswater, so thought I’d check out your inheritance.’
‘How can I help you?’ asked Nightingale. He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to get back to London.’
The superintendent ignored the question. ‘What are you going to do when they take away your licence for drunk-driving? Not very well served by public transport, are you, and a minicab’s going to set you back about a hundred quid from London.’
‘That’s why you’re here, is it? To check up on my drink-driving case? Haven’t you got better things to do with your time?’
‘I’m just saying. You were over the limit so you’ll get a twelve-month ban at least, plus a fine. Of up to five grand and maybe even a few months behind bars.’ Chalmers looked up at the roof. ‘Must be a ton of lead up there. What’s security like out here in the sticks? Surrey Police keep an eye on the place, do they?’
‘What do you want?’ asked Nightingale. He took out his pack of Marlboro and lit one.
‘A bit of respect for a start,’ said Chalmers.
Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’m not in the Job now, and even when I was I had precious little respect for you. You’re on private property and unless you’ve got some sort of warrant then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’ He blew smoke up at the sky.
‘I’m told you inherited this place,’ said Chalmers. Nightingale shrugged but didn’t reply. ‘And the guy who left it to you blew his head off with a shotgun. Is that true?’
‘You know it’s true,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s my property now and I want you off it.’
‘This Ainsley Gosling was your long-lost father, right?’
‘My biological father,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was adopted at birth.’
‘I wish I had a rich father to leave me a big house,’ said Chalmers.
Nightingale looked pointedly at his watch. ‘I’ve got things to do,’ he said.
‘I had a call from my opposite number in Abersoch. Seems you were at another murder scene.’
‘It was a suicide,’ said Nightingale.
‘There seem to be a lot of deaths around you these days,’ said Chalmers. ‘Your uncle and aunt. Robbie Hoyle. Barry O’Brien, who was driving the cab that ran over Hoyle. And of course good old Simon Underwood, who took a flyer through his office window while you were talking to him.’
Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette but didn’t say anything.
‘Your mother killed herself, too, didn’t she?’
‘My parents died in a car crash years ago.’
‘You know what I mean, Nightingale. Your birth mother. Genetic mother. Rebecca Keeley. Whatever you want to call her. She slashed her wrists after you paid her a visit, didn’t she? Did you think I wouldn’t find out about that?’
‘She was a troubled woman,’ said Nightingale. ‘You can talk to the people at the home.’
‘Troubled why?’
‘She was on medication, Chalmers. She was a sick woman. Yes, I went to see her, twice, but she wasn’t able to say much. I don’t think she even knew I was there.’
‘Why did she put you up for adoption?’
Nightingale shrugged again. ‘I don’t know,’ he lied. There was no way that he was going to tell Chalmers that Keeley had been forced to give up her new-born baby to fulfil a deal that Ainsley Gosling had made with a demon from Hell.
The superintendent nodded at the hallway. ‘Are you alone in there?’
‘What do you want, Chalmers?’ said Nightingale.
‘I want you to tell me who else is in the house with you,’ said the superintendent. ‘I was wondering if maybe the lovely Miss McLean was there so that we could kill two birds with one stone.’
Nightingale frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Is Jenny McLean inside or not?’ said the superintendent. ‘I’m not pissing about here, Nightingale.’
‘Yes, she is. Why?’
‘Because we want to talk to her, and to you, about what happened in Battersea.’ He sneered at Nightingale with undisguised contempt. ‘How stupid do you think we are, Nightingale? Did you think we wouldn’t check the CCTV cameras and that we wouldn’t find out that you were in the flat when George Harrison took a flyer off his balcony?’
10
T he uniformed officer, who looked as if he was barely out of his teens, showed Nightingale into an interview room and asked him if he wanted a tea or a coffee. He asked for a coffee and sat down at the table. Chalmers and the female detective had taken Jenny along to another interview room. After ten minutes the constable reappeared with a cup of canteen coffee.
‘You didn’t spit in it, did you?’ joked Nightingale.
The constable stared at him blankly and sat down opposite him.
‘Is this going to take long because I’ll need a cigarette break soon,’ said Nightingale.
The constable shrugged but didn’t say anything. Nightingale looked at his watch but as he did so the door opened and Chalmers walked in holding a clipboard and two blank cassette tapes. Behind him was another detective, who Nightingale recognised. Dan Evans. Evans was a detective inspector in his late thirties, with prematurely greying hair and an expanding waistline that hinted at a fondness for beer.
‘It’s almost midnight,’ said Nightingale. ‘Can’t this wait until tomorrow?’
‘No it can’t,’ said Chalmers.
‘You don’t need Jenny here,’ said Nightingale.
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said the superintendent. He nodded at the constable. ‘Off you go, lad, we’ll take it from here.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the constable, and he hurried out.
Evans took the two tapes from Chalmers, sat down opposite Nightingale and slotted them into the recorder.
‘She’s just my assistant,’ said Nightingale.
‘She was at a crime scene,’ said Chalmers.
‘It wasn’t a crime; he jumped,’ said Nightingale, but the superintendent held up a hand to silence him.
‘Wait for the tape, please.’
Evans pressed ‘record’ and nodded at the superintendent. Chalmers looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘It is now twenty-five minutes past eleven on the evening of December the first. I am Superintendent Ronald Chalmers, interviewing Jack Nightingale.’ He looked at Nightingale. ‘Please say your name for the tape.’
‘Jack Nightingale.’
‘And with me is…’ Chalmers nodded at Evans.
‘Detective Inspector Dan Evans,’ he said.
‘For the tape, can you confirm that I have not been charged or cautioned,’ said Nightingale.
‘You are here to help us with our enquiries,’ said the superintendent. ‘But I will now ask Detective Inspector Evans to read the caution to you.’
The inspector went through the caution, even though they all knew that Nightingale knew it by heart.
‘But I am free to leave whenever I want?’ said Nightingale when the inspector had finished.
The superintendent stared at Nightingale with cold eyes. ‘At the moment you’re helping us with our enquiries. If that changes then charges might be forthcoming and in that case we will of course follow PACE to the letter.’