‘Don’t bother sweet-talking me, Nightingale. Just tell me what it is you want.’
‘I need a vehicle registration checked. And then a name put to the vehicle.’
‘And this vehicle was involved in this morning’s shooting?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Black Range Rover, tinted windows. MAC-10s. Two shooters wearing Puffa jackets and ski masks. Drove off on Kawasaki trail bikes, one red, one black.’
‘And they were definitely shooting at you?’
‘The black teenager was standing outside a shop. Wrong place, wrong time.’
‘And you got the registration number?’
‘Of the Range Rover, yeah. But not the bikes. I was head down by the time they turned up.’ Nightingale took a piece of paper from his pocket and slipped it to the detective.
Evans put it away without looking at it. ‘Why didn’t you just tell the cops at the scene?’
‘Because I think I know who it was. Dwayne Robinson’s gang. Someone must have told them what happened at the hospital.’
Evans frowned. ‘Chalmers?’
‘I’m not saying that he’s got a direct line to Robinson’s gang, but someone must have put the word out. That’s what I want you to check, see if that car is connected to Robinson’s people.’
‘And you saw the shooters?’
‘I got a glimpse of the guy in the back and a pretty good look at the one in the front passenger seat. Show me pictures and I should be able to make an ID. But I can’t say for sure who the shooters were because of the ski masks.’
‘I’ve got to ask you again, why didn’t you just wait at the crime scene and talk to the responding officers?’
‘What? Deal with a couple of box-ticking woodentops? Have you taken a look at the average beat cop these days?’
Evans chuckled. ‘Standards aren’t what they were, that’s for sure.’
‘Even when I was in the job they’d dropped the height and weight restrictions and now it seems they’ve dropped the requirement to have a brain.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, but you could have spoken to the detectives on the case.’
‘And the first thing they’d have done is put my name into the PNC and I’m pretty damn sure that Chalmers has had me red-flagged.’
Evans shrugged. ‘All roads lead to Rome,’ he said.
‘At least this way I get to stay under the radar,’ said Nightingale. ‘If it was Robinson’s men then I can ID them for you; if it wasn’t, well, I don’t want them knowing that I’m a witness because I’m in enough trouble as it is.’ He drank from his bottle, then moved closer to the detective and lowered his voice. ‘And we both know that the powers-that-be monitor all PNC checks these days. If I ask anyone else to run the number and it’s been flagged then I’ll be dropping them in the shit. But you’re on the Dwayne Robinson investigation so you can just say that you saw the vehicle near the hospital or close to Robinson’s place.’
‘You mean that in addition to breaching the Data Protection Act, I lie to my bosses and put my job on the line? Thanks, pal.’
‘It’s a white lie. In the grand scheme of things, anyway.’
Evans drained his glass and handed it to Nightingale. ‘Get me another lager while I think about it,’ he said. ‘And some crisps. Smoky bacon, if they’ve got them.’
13
Jenny was already at her desk when Nightingale arrived. He held out a brown paper bag. ‘Croissants and banana chocolate-chip muffins,’ he said. ‘The breakfast of champions.’
Jenny’s eyes narrowed as she looked up from her computer monitor. ‘What do you want?’
‘You’re so suspicious,’ he said, putting the bag down on her desk. ‘What makes you think I want anything?’ He nodded over at the coffee-maker. ‘Want a coffee?’
‘Now my spidey-sense is definitely tingling, but I’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so yes, please. Milky with one sugar.’
Nightingale busied himself at the coffee-maker. ‘Did you drive in today?’ he asked.
Jenny sighed. ‘Your car’s stopped working again, hasn’t it?’
‘Battery’s dead,’ said Nightingale. ‘Must be a short somewhere.’
‘And you want a lift?’
‘Your Audi is a lovely car,’ said Nightingale, stirring in a spoonful of sugar. ‘If I didn’t like classic cars so much I’d probably go for an A4 myself.’
‘There’s a world of difference between a classic car and an old banger,’ said Jenny, opening the brown paper bag. She smiled as she took out a muffin. ‘These are my favourites,’ she said.
‘I know that,’ said Nightingale, taking two coffees over to her desk. He gave her one of the mugs and sipped from the other.
‘Where do you need to go, Jack?’
‘Gosling Manor. I promised to meet a building guy. He’s going to give me an estimate for the repairs.’
‘How much damage did the fire do?’
‘The upstairs hall is gutted but the fire brigade were there before the structure was damaged.’
‘It was insured, wasn’t it? I mean, it was arson so it wasn’t as if it was your fault or anything.’
‘I haven’t checked. I hope so.’
‘Jack! Are you serious? How can you not have checked already?’
‘I’ve had a lot on my plate. Anyway, there’s a huge mortgage on the place and they usually come with insurance.’
‘You should check, and soon.’
‘To be honest, I’m more worried about water damage. The firemen used a hell of a lot of water and I haven’t looked down in the basement yet. Water and books aren’t a good mix.’
‘When do you want to go?’
Nightingale looked at his watch. ‘You’ve got time for your breakfast and I’ve got time for a fag and a quick read of the Sun.’ He grinned. ‘Now that is the breakfast of champions.’
14
Jenny brought her Audi to a stop in front of Gosling Manor. It was a sunny day but bitterly cold and Nightingale turned up the collar of his raincoat after he climbed out of the car to open the gates. Jenny drove through and he pulled them closed, then realised that the builder would be arriving shortly so he left them open and got back into the passenger seat.
‘You still haven’t done anything about a gardener, have you?’ said Jenny as she drove slowly along the driveway to the house.
‘It’s winter. You don’t cut grass in the winter,’ said Nightingale.
‘There’re always things need doing in a garden, and you’ve got acres here.’
‘I’ll get it sorted once the builders are out,’ said Nightingale.
Jenny parked next to a massive stone fountain where a tousle-haired stone mermaid was surrounded by leaping fish and dolphins. They got out of the car and looked up at the two-storey mansion. The lower floor was built of stone, the upper floor of weathered bricks, and the roof was tiled, with four massive chimney stacks that gave it the look of an ocean-going liner. ‘Every time I look at this house, it seems to cry out for a family. You know what I mean?’ said Jenny. ‘It just seems so wrong that your father lived here alone. And now it’s yours and.?.?.’ She shrugged.
‘And I’m a sad lonely bastard too — is that what you were going to say?’
Jenny laughed. ‘That’s not what I meant at all,’ she said. ‘But this is a family home, Jack. No offence, but it’s wasted on you.’
They walked together towards the ivy-covered entrance. Nightingale had been the owner of Gosling Manor for almost three months but it didn’t feel like it was his house. He’d inherited it from his father, Ainsley Gosling. Gosling was Nightingale’s biological father, who’d given him away at birth, and Nightingale felt as little attachment to the man as he did to the house. He pulled his keys from his pocket. The oak door was massive but it moved easily on well-oiled hinges and opened onto the wood-panelled hall.
Jenny wrinkled her nose at the smell of smoke and then groaned when she saw the state of the hall. The marble floor was half an inch deep in mud and the wooden staircase was scorched. The massive multi-layered chandelier that looked like an upside-down crystal wedding cake was now caked in a thick layer of ash. ‘Oh Jack,’ she said.