Nightingale held Robinson’s left hand. It was warm and dry. ‘Sophie, is that you?’ he said.
‘Who the hell’s Sophie?’ said Chalmers.
Nightingale ignored Chalmers. He gently squeezed Robinson’s hand. ‘It’s me, Sophie. Jack.’
‘Jack?’ said Robinson, his voice a dry rasp.
‘I’m here, Sophie.’
‘I want to go home,’ said Robinson. ‘Please help me, Jack.’
‘I don’t know what to do, Sophie. I don’t know how to help you.’
Robinson’s chest stopped moving. Nightingale looked over at the vital signs monitor. Nothing had changed.
‘Sophie?’
Nightingale flinched as Chalmers grabbed his shoulder. ‘What are you playing at, Nightingale?’
Nightingale shook the superintendent’s hand away. ‘Sophie?’
Robinson was lying perfectly still.
Chalmers gestured with his chin at the policeman at the end of the bed. ‘Get the doc back here now,’ he said. The cop hurried out of the room. ‘All right, Nightingale, that’s enough of that. Get away from him.’
Nightingale let go of Robinson’s hand. Just as his fingers fell onto the mattress, Robinson sat bolt upright. He opened his uncovered eye wide and then screamed. Chalmers took a step backwards and tripped over a power cord, his arms flailing as he tried to regain his balance. He stumbled against a chair and fell to the floor, cursing.
Nightingale didn’t flinch. He looked straight at Robinson, who continued to scream at the top of his voice as he stared ahead. Then, just as suddenly as it started, the scream stopped and Robinson fell back on the bed. The monitors started buzzing and an alarm sounded in the corridor. The doctor burst into the ICU followed by two nurses. ‘Get out of here now,’ he shouted at Chalmers. ‘Where the hell’s the crash trolley?’
3
Nightingale stretched out his legs and groaned. He was sitting in an interview room in Charing Cross Police Station. There were fluorescent lights set behind protective glass in the ceiling and high up in one wall there was a window made of glass blocks. Around the middle of the wall at waist height ran a metal alarm strip which, if pressed, would summon assistance within seconds. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’ asked Nightingale.
‘About as much chance as there is of hell freezing over,’ said Superintendent Chalmers. He looked across at his colleague, who was unwrapping two brand-new cassette tapes. ‘Sometime today, Inspector Evans,’ he said.
‘Sorry, sir, the wrapping’s a pain to get off.’
Nightingale had worked with Dan Evans a few times when he’d been with CO19, the Met’s firearms unit. In the two years that Nightingale had been out of the job, Evans had put on several pounds and his hair was now streaked with grey. He was in his late thirties but he looked a good ten years older.
Evans managed to get the plastic wrapping off the cassettes and slotted them into the recorder, which was on a metal shelf fixed to the wall above the table. Chalmers nodded at him and Evans pressed ‘record’. Chalmers looked up at the clock on the wall by the door and checked his wristwatch. ‘It is now seven forty-five on Tuesday January the fourth. I am Superintendent Ronald Chalmers, interviewing Jack Nightingale.’ He looked at Nightingale, expectantly. Nightingale smiled but didn’t say anything. Chalmers glared at him. ‘Come on, you know the procedure by now,’ he said. ‘Say your name for the tape.’
‘I think I’ll exercise my right to silence,’ said Nightingale. ‘Other than to point out that as yet I haven’t been read my rights.’
‘You haven’t been read your rights because you haven’t been charged yet,’ said Chalmers. ‘Now give your name for the tape.’
‘Say please.’
‘You’re trying my patience,’ said Chalmers, leaning across the table towards Nightingale.
‘I’ve not been charged, I’m not under arrest, so I can walk out of here whenever I want,’ said Nightingale. ‘So if you want me to stay, you’re going to have to get me a coffee and if you want me to say my name for the recording then you’re going to have to ask me nicely.’
Chalmers nodded at Evans and the inspector switched off the recorder. ‘Do you mind?’ Chalmers asked Evans.
The inspector stood up.
‘Milk, no sugar,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I need a cigarette.’
‘You can’t smoke in here,’ said Chalmers.
Nightingale smiled sarcastically. ‘You dragged me out of my flat before I had time to pick up my smokes,’ he said. ‘I need a pack of Marlboro and a lighter.’
‘We’re not buying you cigarettes, Nightingale.’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘Then I’m out of here.’ He started to stand up but Chalmers waved him back down.
‘Okay, we’ll get you cigarettes.’
‘And a bacon sandwich,’ said Nightingale. ‘PACE says you have to keep me well fed.’
‘The Police and Criminal Evidence Act says nothing about bacon sandwiches. We’ll see what’s going in the canteen.’ He looked over at Evans. ‘Three coffees, and a pack of cigarettes for Mr Nightingale. And a sandwich — bacon, if it’s available.’
‘Marlboro,’ said Nightingale brightly. ‘The red pack.’
‘I’ll have to go out for them,’ Evans said to the superintendent.
Chalmers waved his hand dismissively. ‘Just get them,’ he said. Evans flashed the superintendent a tight smile as he let himself out.
Nightingale folded his arms and settled back in his chair. ‘Fancy a game of charades while we wait?’ he asked.
‘You think this is a game, do you?’
‘I think you’re wasting your time and mine,’ said Nightingale.
The superintendent stood up and pointed a finger at Nightingale. ‘We’ll see who has the last laugh,’ he said.
Nightingale yawned and stretched.
‘I’ll tell you something you don’t know, Nightingale. Just after we left the hospital Dwayne Robinson died. This is now a murder enquiry.’ He grinned when he saw Nightingale’s reaction. ‘I thought that would wipe the smile off your face.’
4
Nightingale finished his bacon roll, took a sip of coffee and smiled at Chalmers. ‘Right, ready when you are,’ he said.
Chalmers scowled at him. ‘If you piss me around one more time I’ll have you charged and processed and make sure that all your clothes are taken away for forensic analysis,’ he said. ‘You can sit in a cell for twenty-four hours in a paper suit and you can whistle for your cigarettes.’
Nightingale stared stonily at the superintendent but said nothing.
Chalmers nodded at Evans and the inspector pressed ‘record’. ‘It is now eight fifty-two on Tuesday January the fourth and I am Superintendent Ronald Chalmers. The tape has been switched off while we fetched Mr Nightingale food and a beverage. Say your name for the recording, please.’
‘Jack Nightingale. And can I just say for the record that the bacon was a tad fatty.’
Evans smirked and looked down at his notebook and Chalmers glared at Nightingale. ‘And with me is.?.?.’ Chalmers looked over at Evans.
‘Detective Inspector Dan Evans.’
‘Mr Nightingale has been informed that Dwayne Robinson has succumbed to his injuries and that this is now a murder enquiry,’ continued Chalmers, taking a slim gold Cross pen from his pocket.
‘And can I point out that I am here helping you with your enquiries,’ said Nightingale. ‘I haven’t been charged and I haven’t requested legal representation.’
‘Duly noted,’ said Chalmers. ‘Earlier this morning we took you to see Mr Robinson in the intensive care unit at Lambeth Hospital.’
‘After dragging me out of bed at gunpoint,’ said Nightingale.
Chalmers ignored the interruption but his fingers tightened on his pen. ‘Mr Robinson was shot on July the twentieth last year. Can you tell me where you were on that date?’
‘No,’ said Nightingale.
‘No?’
‘That was almost six months ago. How am I supposed to know what I was doing? Can you tell me what you did on the twentieth of that month? What did you have for breakfast? What time did you get home? What position did you use to satisfy your wife sexually-’