‘So the killer, if there is one, is a stranger.’
‘Which, statistically, means a white middle-aged male in a low-paid job who wet his bed and set fires and tortured small animals when he was a kid.’
‘That’s probably half the male population of Wales, right?’ Nightingale grinned. ‘Joke.’
The superintendent blew smoke. ‘What about you? Were you a bed-wetter?’
‘I didn’t kill Connie Miller,’ said Nightingale. ‘I live in London; why would I come all the way to Wales to kill? It’d be a hell of a lot easier to do it on my home turf. And a lot easier to hide what I was doing.’
‘You might have a reason.’
‘Like what? I hate the Welsh, is that it?’
‘Who knows?’ said Thomas. ‘The Yorkshire Ripper went after prostitutes. Harold Shipman murdered pensioners. Maybe you’ve got a thing about Welsh women. Maybe you were once snubbed by Charlotte Church or Catherine Zeta-Jones. I’m not a profiler, I’m a cop. And at the moment you’re the only suspect I’ve got.’
‘Assuming you have a serial killer and not just a statistical variation,’ said Nightingale.
‘Killer or not, it doesn’t explain why you keep breaking into houses in Abersoch.’
‘I didn’t break in anywhere,’ said Nightingale, though he instantly realised that he’d lied. The previous night he’d done exactly that, forcing the French windows of Connie Miller’s house. He took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘Look, here’s what I’d be thinking if it was my case-’
‘Which it isn’t,’ interrupted the superintendent.
‘Which it isn’t,’ agreed Nightingale. ‘But if it was, I’d be looking for someone local. Not Abersoch local maybe, but north Wales local. And not someone in her close circle but someone she knew. Possibly through the internet. Someone she trusted enough to let him get close to her.’
‘Are you on the internet much?’
Nightingale grinned. ‘Me? I’m a Luddite. I’ve barely mastered my TV remote. Anything I need off the internet, my assistant does it for me.’
‘The woman I phoned who backed up your alibi?’
‘That’s right, Jenny. She’s up on all the hi-tech stuff. Me, I don’t trust any technology that I can’t fix myself. Have you looked under the bonnet of a car recently? You wouldn’t know where to start if you had a problem. Most mechanics are lost, too. They need a computer to tell them what’s wrong and then they just replace whatever the computer tells them to.’
‘Yeah, it’s a brave new world, all right,’ said the superintendent. ‘Policing is going the same way. These days it’s all CCTV and forensics and DNA; no one bothers going around asking questions any more.’
‘You seem to be doing all right on the question front,’ said Nightingale, flicking ash.
‘Because with Connie Miller there’re no forensics, no CCTV, just a dead body and you crouched over her with a knife.’ The superintendent took a long pull on his cigarette and narrowed his eyes as he stared at Nightingale. ‘You ever worked a serial-killer case?’ he asked after he’d blown smoke at the ground.
Nightingale shook his head. ‘Not a case. But I talked to one once. He was holed up in his house with armed cops outside. I was sent to talk to him. Nasty piece of work. Liked butchering women. Raped them with knives.’ Nightingale grimaced. ‘Negotiators are trained to empathise but he was impossible to get close to. He was a true sociopath; killing to him was the same as eating and drinking. I spent the best part of three hours talking to him. He only wanted to tell me what he’d done.’
‘Like a confession?’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘It was more like boasting. He knew what was going to happen and he wanted to share what he’d done with someone. Anyone.’
‘And what did happen?’
‘He died,’ said Nightingale flatly.
‘Killed himself?’
‘Sort of,’ said Nightingale. ‘Charged the armed cops with a knife in his hand.’
‘Death by cop,’ said Thomas. ‘Probably best, if he was as evil as you say.’
‘He was evil, all right.’ Nightingale dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and stamped on it. ‘I can go, right?’
‘I guess so,’ said Thomas. ‘Just do me one favour?’
‘What’s that?’
Thomas flicked his cigarette away. ‘Don’t come back to Abersoch.’
‘I wasn’t planning to.’
‘And I’ll be talking to Superintendent Chalmers again.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ said Nightingale.
‘And I still think you killed Connie Miller.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘I did pick up on that,’ he said.
19
W hen he woke up early on Saturday morning Nightingale thought about going for a run in Hyde Park, but then decided against it in favour of a bacon sandwich, a black coffee, and two cigarettes while he read the Daily Express. The main story was about three bank bosses who between them were set to receive bonuses of more than?200 million. Nightingale shook his head in disbelief as he read the story. ‘Who the hell did you sell your souls to for a deal like that?’ he muttered. Inside the paper was a story about declining attendances in the nation’s churches while worship at mosques was up thirty per cent. The Archbishop of Canterbury said that the internet was to blame and that the Church of England would be revamping its website in a bid to win back worshippers. Nightingale put down the paper as he finished his coffee. He couldn’t think of any of his close friends who went to church regularly. For marriages and funerals, certainly, but not to worship.
He went through to the hall and took his tatty address book from his raincoat. He flicked through it, looking for Alfie Tyler’s number. Nightingale didn’t trust phones and rarely stored numbers in his mobile. Phones broke down and SIM cards mysteriously lost their data for no apparent reason, but, in Nightingale’s experience, once a number was written down in an address book it tended to stay there.
Tyler answered, his voice thick from sleep. ‘Who the hell is this?’
‘Jack Nightingale, Alfie. Wakey, wakey, rise and shine.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Just after nine-thirty.’
Tyler groaned. ‘What do you want, Nightingale?’
‘Had a late one last night, did you? Out hustling pool?’
‘Snooker. And I’ve got to do something for cash now that I’m no longer gainfully employed.’ He groaned and coughed. ‘Call me back later, I’m sleeping.’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need a chat. Can I come round?’
‘I’m all chatted out,’ said Tyler.
‘Why don’t I come round to your place with a wad of notes and I’ll play you for a monkey a game?’ said Nightingale. ‘We can talk while you beat me.’
Tyler chuckled. ‘You’re a persistent bastard,’ he said. ‘Okay, there’s a Starbucks on the way. Bring me a large Mocha and two chocolate croissants.’
‘You got a sweet tooth, Alfie?’
‘Just bring my breakfast and your money and we’ll talk,’ said Tyler, and he ended the call.
Tyler lived on the outskirts of Bromley in south London. The Saturday morning traffic was light and Nightingale got there just after eleven o’clock. The large black wrought-iron gates that fronted the driveway leading to the six-bedroom, mock-Tudor house, complete with tall chimneys, were locked. Chained and locked with a massive brass padlock. Nightingale frowned as he held the padlock. The last time he’d visited Tyler the gates hadn’t been locked. He looked around for a bell or an intercom but there was no way of announcing his presence. He leaned against his car and lit a cigarette, then took out his mobile phone and called Tyler’s number. It rang out, unanswered.
Nightingale cursed and put the phone away, then went back to the gates, wondering whether or not to try climbing over them. They were a good nine feet tall and topped with fleur-de-lys points. He peered through the bars. Tyler’s black Bentley was parked in front of the double garage. As Nightingale blew a tight plume of smoke through the gate, the front door opened and Tyler appeared, wearing blue and white striped pyjamas.