‘It’s complicated,’ said Nightingale.
‘According to your personnel file, you were an only child.’
‘You’ve been looking at my file?’
‘You’re a suspect in several possible murders,’ said Chalmers. ‘I’m entitled to look at whatever files I want to.’
‘I haven’t killed anybody,’ said Nightingale. ‘I want a cigarette.’
‘You can smoke when we’ve finished.’
Nightingale stood up. ‘I’m finished now.’
Chalmers got to his feet and glared at Nightingale. ‘Sit the hell down, Nightingale. Sit the hell down and answer the questions I put to you.’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’m out of here.’
‘If you don’t sit down I will arrest you for destroying evidence at George Harrison’s apartment. Then I get to hold you in a cell for twenty-four hours. And if I can find a superintendent to sign off on you then I can add another twelve hours to that.’ He smiled cruelly. ‘Wait a minute… I’m a superintendent, aren’t I? So it’s an automatic thirty-six hours in a police cell. Is that what you want, Nightingale? All PACE requires is that I give you one main meal and two snacks a day; it doesn’t say anything about cigarettes. So are you going to stop being an arsehole and sit down or do I arrest you?’
Nightingale looked at Chalmers for several seconds, then he shrugged carelessly and sat down.
‘Thank you,’ said the superintendent. He dropped down onto his chair and linked his fingers. ‘Now, this is what I want from you, Nightingale. I want you to agree to give us a DNA sample and your fingerprints. We will cross-check them against the crime scenes we have.’
‘You already know I was at George Harrison’s apartment. And Connie Miller’s house. And I’ve been inside Alfie Tyler’s house.’
Chalmers sighed. ‘Please don’t start telling me how to do my job,’ he said. ‘We’ll check your samples against Tyler’s car and the rope he used to kill himself. And I’ll be talking to my opposite number in north Wales. And we’ll be going over the Harrison crime scene with a fine toothcomb.’
‘You’ll be wasting your time.’
‘It’s my time to waste.’ Chalmers slid a sheet of paper across the table to Nightingale. ‘Sign this and we’ll do what has to be done.’
‘Then can I have a cigarette?’
Chalmers gave him a pen. ‘Yes, then you can have a bloody cigarette.’
22
N ightingale blew smoke up at the sky. Inspector Evans stared at the ground glumly. ‘What’s your problem?’ asked Nightingale. They were standing outside the police station. A uniformed constable and a community service officer were also on the pavement, smoking with serious faces.
‘I had tickets for the Arsenal match today,’ he said. ‘A bloody box.’
‘No way,’ said Nightingale.
‘I’ve got a mate who works for Emirates, the airline. He gets seats as a perk, and gave me two for the game today. I was going to take my boy.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Nightingale. ‘Really.’
Evans pulled a face. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said. ‘Chalmers is a prick. There are others he could have brought in today. But I’m an inspector so he brings me in because inspectors don’t get overtime. Plus, he knew I had the tickets.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s no big deal; my brother-in-law’s taking my boy.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m sorry.’
‘No problem.’ He jutted his chin out. ‘What you did to that paedo, that took guts.’
‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. He dropped his cigarette butt onto the ground and stamped on it.
‘That’s why you left, right?’
‘I wasn’t given much of a choice.’
‘But they couldn’t prove anything, right? You were in the office when he went out through the window?’
‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s not something I talk about.’
‘I can understand that,’ said the detective. ‘But guys I’ve spoken to all say the same thing. You did what they’d have wanted to do. He was screwing his daughter, right? Nine years old.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Yeah.’
Two years had passed since little Sophie Underwood had died but he could remember every second as clearly as if it had just happened. He remembered how her voice had changed to a dull monotone and the way she hadn’t looked at him as she’d spoken. ‘You can’t help me,’ she’d said. ‘No one can help me.’ Then she’d kissed her doll on the top of its head and, without making a sound, she’d slid off the balcony and fallen thirteen floors to her death. He shuddered at the memory of the sickening thud her little body had made as it slapped into the tarmac.
‘My daughter’s eleven,’ said Evans. ‘If anyone touched her, I’d do them, without even thinking about it.’
‘You’d think about it,’ said Nightingale, ‘but you’re right — anyone who touches kids, they deserve anything they get.’
‘And the mother knew, right? She knew what the bastard was doing?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘She said not but there was no way she couldn’t have not known, not with the marks he’d left on her. Anyway, she killed herself, not long after they buried the girl.’
Evans stamped on the ground, trying to keep the circulation moving in his feet. ‘Damn it’s cold,’ he said. ‘They reckon snow’s on the way.’
‘White Christmas,’ said Nightingale. ‘God rest ye merry gentlemen.’ He took out a second cigarette.
Evans pointed at the pack. ‘Have you got a spare one?’
Nightingale raised an eyebrow. ‘You smoke?’
‘Used to,’ said Evans. ‘Wife made me give up when our boy was born.’
Nightingale tapped out a cigarette and gave it to the detective.
Evans shrugged ‘I figure that if I don’t actually buy them, I’m not really a smoker.’
‘Nice philosophy,’ said Nightingale. He lit the man’s cigarette and Evans inhaled gratefully. ‘Chalmers doesn’t really think I’m going around killing people, does he?’
Evans blew a cloud of smoke, and coughed. He patted his chest and grinned shamefacedly. ‘He thinks you killed Simon Underwood and that you got away with murder,’ he said.
‘He’s not alone in that,’ said Nightingale.
‘Yeah, but Chalmers has taken it personally,’ said Evans. ‘He reckons you’ve got friends in high places, which is why you weren’t charged with Underwood’s death.’
Nightingale’s eyes narrowed as he pulled on his cigarette. He tried to blow a smoke ring but the wind whipped it away as soon as it left his mouth. ‘He does, does he?’
‘He has a point, right? You’re alone in the office with Underwood and he exits through the window. How many floors up?’
‘Twenty,’ said Nightingale.
‘And the next day you resigned. Chalmers thinks you should have been charged with murder.’
‘There was no proof, no CCTV, no evidence.’ Nightingale shrugged. ‘And no witnesses.’
‘Me, I couldn’t care less,’ said Evans. ‘One less paedophile in the world and you won’t find me shedding any tears. But Chalmers is gunning for you.’
‘He’s wasting his time,’ said Nightingale. He dropped what was left of his cigarette onto the ground and stood on it. He gestured at the door to the station. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with. And when we’ve finished I’m going to need a lift back to Tyler’s house to pick up my car.’
‘Still driving that MGB? When are you going to get yourself a decent motor?’
‘It’s a classic.’
‘It’s an old banger. But yeah, I’ll arrange a car to run you back. Just don’t tell Chalmers.’
23
J enny was sitting at her desk reading the Daily Mail when Nightingale arrived at the office first thing on Monday morning. ‘The wanderer returns,’ she said. ‘How did it go?’
‘Good news, bad news.’ Nightingale swung his attache case onto her desk and clicked the locks. He opened the case and handed her a DVD. ‘Here’s what I took from Connie’s computer. Let me know if there’s anything interesting.’ He took out two Ziploc bags and put them down in front of her. ‘A hairbrush and a toothbrush,’ he said. ‘Should be DNA there somewhere.’
‘Please tell me the back door was open,’ she said.