‘Perfect,’ said Nightingale. He ended the call as Jenny came back down the steps. ‘Wainwright’s going to come and look at the books for himself. Save us from doing the inventory.’
Jenny shuddered and looked back at the house.
‘Are you okay, kid?’
‘The house is beautiful,’ she said, looking up at the massive chimneys. ‘Like a picture from a box of chocolates. But down in the basement, on your own.?.?.’ She shuddered again. ‘It feels a bit.?.?.’
‘Spooky?’ He laughed. ‘There’s some pretty weird stuff down there, Jenny. The books. The artefacts. God knows what my father was involved with, or what he did down there.’ He put an arm around her. ‘But there’s nothing down there that can hurt you. Or me.’
She shivered. ‘Let’s go.’ She handed him the door keys.
‘I’ll buy you dinner.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ she said as she walked with him to the Audi. ‘I promised I’d go to the gym with Barbara.’
‘Pilates?’
She pointed a finger at him. ‘Don’t take the piss or you’ll be walking home.’
Nightingale mimed zipping his lips closed as she got into the car. He climbed in next to her. ‘You know, you’re right. I should sell the house. The builder says he might have a buyer. I’ll get him to put out some feelers.’
Jenny started the engine. ‘Probably best,’ she said.
‘Maybe I’ll move to Chelsea,’ he said. ‘I could be your neighbour.’
She flashed him a tight smile. ‘Please don’t,’ she said. ‘We’re having enough trouble with falling property prices as it is.’
15
Two days later Nightingale’s mobile rang while he was sitting down with a plate of chicken tikka masala and pilau rice that he’d picked up from an Indian restaurant in Queensway. The caller had blocked their number so Nightingale hesitated before taking the call.
‘Nightingale?’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s me.’
Nightingale recognised the voice. Dan Evans. ‘Yeah?’
‘Where are you?’
‘In front of the TV.’
‘Can you meet me in the park, by the water?’
‘It’s Saturday. Since when did they start paying inspectors overtime?’
‘Haven’t you heard? The powers that be have stopped all overtime and they’re making us work until we’re sixty. It’s a brave new world for us public servants. I tell you, if we could strike we would but as always we just have to bend over and take it up the arse.’
‘I hear your pain, Dan.’
‘Anyway, I figured it best that I do this on my day off. So can you meet or not?’
‘When?’
‘Twenty minutes. I’m on the other side of the park.’
‘No problem. I’ll be wearing a red rose and carrying a copy of the Financial Times.’
‘Nobody likes a smart arse, Nightingale,’ said Evans, and he ended the call.
Nightingale got off the sofa, put his meal in the microwave, then picked up his raincoat and hurried out of his flat. He walked down Inverness Terrace towards Hyde Park, his breath feathering in the evening air. He lit a cigarette as he waited to cross Bayswater Road. He spotted a gap in the traffic and jogged across. Evans was standing by the Serpentine, watching two swans gliding across the water.
‘Property of the Queen,’ said Nightingale, nodding at the birds.
‘That’s a myth,’ said Evans. ‘She only owns the unmarked mute swans on open water. Dates back to the twelfth century. It was to make sure the royals had enough swans for their banquets.’
‘Yeah? I’m told they taste like chicken.’ He flicked what was left of his cigarette into the water.
‘That’s littering,’ said Evans.
‘You’re not going to arrest me, are you?’
‘Not if you give me one,’ said Evans. ‘A cigarette, I mean.’ Nightingale grinned, took out his pack of Marlboro and lit one for the detective, then another for himself. Evans inhaled deeply then let the smoke out slowly. He smiled as he looked at the cigarette in his hand. ‘Just don’t tell the wife,’ he said.
‘I hope she’s worth it.’
‘She is,’ said Evans. ‘But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss it.’ He reached inside his coat and took out a manila envelope. ‘That Range Rover was registered in the name of a Lydia Brown. She lives in Brixton.’
‘I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a woman driving,’ said Nightingale, opening the envelope.
‘Yeah, me too. But she’s got three kids by a Jamaican called Perry Smith, and Smith is Dwayne Robinson’s right-hand man.’ He nodded at the envelope. ‘Smith’s picture is in there, along with mugshots of the rest of his crew.’
Nightingale slid out a dozen photographs. Most of them were shots taken in custody suites but a few were surveillance photos taken with a long lens. All of the men were black, most of them with shaved heads and heavy gold chains around their necks. The ones who’d had their pictures taken in custody all had the same arrogant tilt to the chin and contempt-filled eyes, as if being arrested was no big thing. And of course, in the grand scheme of things, getting arrested was no big thing. Men like Robinson ruled by terror and witnesses to their crimes either refused to give evidence or were killed. The police, overstretched, under-financed, with the upper echelons more concerned about box-ticking and press conferences than they were about putting away villains, were just an occupational hazard.
Nightingale recognised one of the men immediately. He’d caught a glimpse of him sitting in the back of the Range Rover. He handed the photograph to Evans. ‘This is one of the shooters. I’m pretty sure that he was in the back when they cruised by me in Inverness Terrace.’
‘You didn’t say anything about them cruising by.’
‘I was on my way to a surveillance job. The car went by, windows half down. Then I saw the car again in Queensway. The two guys got out wearing ski masks and started shooting. Then they ran off and got onto two motorbikes.’
Evans looked at the photograph. ‘Reggie Gayle. He’s one of Robinson’s foot soldiers. Trident reckon he’s behind half a dozen killings in south London over the past two years.’ He narrowed his eyes as he looked at Nightingale. ‘You’ll give evidence, right?’
‘Sure, and I’ll pop down to the station and wash and wax Chalmers’s car while I’m at it. One, I didn’t actually see the faces of the guys who were shooting at me, and two, how long do you think I’d last if they thought I was a witness?’
‘You’re already in the firing line, Nightingale.’
‘They won’t try again,’ said Nightingale. ‘Not after you’ve explained to them that what happened to Robinson is nothing to do with me.’
‘What?’
‘They came after me because they think I shot Robinson. You need to go and turn Smith and Gayle over. If you’re lucky you’ll find forensics in the car, maybe a gun. But even if you don’t you can put them right about Robinson.’
‘You think they’ll believe me?’
‘I think either way they’ll be warned off. If anyone else takes a potshot at me they’ll know that their names are in the frame.’ He handed a second photograph to the detective, another custody picture. ‘This is Smith, right?’ Evans nodded. ‘He was in the front passenger seat of the Range Rover.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Not a hundred per cent. But it was a big guy, thick neck like he was on steroids, lots of rings on his fingers.’
‘We can look for CCTV of the car, and we’ll pay him a visit.’
‘The guns are what you need,’ said Nightingale. ‘You know how it works; they’ll have passed them onto junior members of the gang, kids who can’t be prosecuted for possession.’
‘I know the drill,’ said Evans, taking the remaining photographs back from Nightingale and putting them into the envelope.
‘Sorry,’ said Nightingale. ‘Didn’t mean to teach you how to suck eggs. What about the guy that got hit?’
‘He’s okay. Turns out he’s hooked up with a gang in north London so the shooting’s being looked at as a turf war. Which is good news for you.’