‘Sort out what? Your books? Your sister? Me?’
‘All of the above,’ said Nightingale. ‘Yes, I want to know what he’s done with my books. But I need to know what he did to you and why. And you need to know too.’
‘And then what?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When you know everything, what will you do then?’
‘We’ll see.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘You can’t tell me not to worry, not when I don’t know what you’re planning to do.’
‘I’ll be back this evening, okay? I’ll fill you in then. I promise.’
She grinned. ‘Fill me in?’
‘You know what I mean.’ He leaned forward and kissed her. She slipped her hand around his neck and tried to pull him back into bed but he slipped out of her grasp.
‘Stay here, Jack,’ she said. ‘Let’s just hang out here, have lunch, fool around.’
‘I need to get this done first, kid,’ he said, standing up. ‘Don’t go into the office today. Stay here. Okay?’
Jenny nodded. ‘You’ll come back? Today?’
‘Of course.’ He bent down and kissed her. ‘I promise.’
‘Be careful, Jack.’
‘Always. I just need one thing from you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Fairchild’s address.’
59
Nightingale put his mobile on hands-free as he drove over Lambeth Bridge and into south London. He called Eddie Morris.
‘What do you want, Nightingale?’ asked Morris as soon as he took the call.
‘What makes you think I want anything, Eddie?’
Eddie Morris was an old-school villain who had put a lot of work Nightingale’s way during the two years he’d been a private detective, mainly standing up alibis to keep him out of prison. His speciality was breaking into country houses but he wasn’t averse to burgling city centre apartments if the pickings were right. He was the ultimate gamekeeper turned poacher as he’d once worked for one of London’s top security companies, and there was nothing he didn’t know about burglar alarms and safes.
‘Because I only hear from you when you want something.’
‘I’ve been hearing that a lot lately,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need to update my Christmas card list.’
‘No, you need to start thinking about other people and not just yourself,’ said Morris. ‘It’s time you started sharing.’
‘Bloody hell, Eddie, since when did you go all touchy-feely?’
‘I’ve been watching a lot of daytime television,’ said Morris. ‘Jeremy Kyle, Oprah, all that crap. So what do you want?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Now? Betting shop.’
‘Can I persuade you to come to Epping with me? I’ve a job needs doing. Near the forest.’
‘What sort of job?’
‘The sort you’re good at. Country house. I assume with all the whistles and bells.’
Morris sighed. ‘Jack, one of these days you’re going to drop me in it, you really are.’
‘I just need you to get me inside. I’ll do the rest. If you get caught you can just say you’re a squatter. The way the world is, squatters have more rights than owners these days.’
‘I’ll need a monkey.’
‘To help with the locks?’
‘Tosser. Five hundred quid. To help with my expenses.’
‘How about we take five hundred quid off my next bill?’
‘How do you know there’ll be a next bill?’
‘Because I know you, Eddie. You’ll be needing my services again. Look, I’m south of the river, can you meet me there? In Epping?’
‘Hang on, you just said you wanted me to go with you.’
‘I meant to the house. I want you to get me in and then leave me to it. If you’ve got your own transport then you can drive yourself back to London.’
‘You’ll pay for the petrol?’
‘Yes, I’ll pay for the bloody petrol. Just make sure you’ve got your tools with you.’
‘You’re a hard taskmaster, Jack.’
‘I’ll text you the address.’ Nightingale ended the call. So far so good.
60
Nightingale didn’t recognise the two heavies standing at the door to Smith’s house but he knew the type: big men who spent a lot of time in the gym and who’d probably been behind bars at least once. They were both wearing Oakley shades and heavy leather coats, and their hands were festooned with chunky gold rings. They stared at him as he parked the MGB and climbed out. Nightingale lit a cigarette before walking over to them. From a distance he hadn’t realised just how massive the two men were; up close he had to crane his neck to look at them. ‘I’m here to see Perry,’ he said.
‘He expecting you?’ growled the bigger of the two heavies, who was a good six inches taller than Nightingale. He had a gold canine.
‘No, but I’m an old friend.’
‘You don’t look like no friend of Perry’s,’ said the other. He had a thick scar across his left cheek that missed his eye by millimetres.
‘Yeah, well, we used to be lovers,’ said Nightingale, flicking ash from his cigarette. ‘Just tell him Jack Nightingale’s here.’
‘Wait there,’ said the one with the gold tooth and he walked inside, turning sideways so that his massive shoulders could fit through the door frame. Nightingale had smoked the cigarette halfway down by the time the heavy returned. ‘I’m gonna have to pat you down,’ he said.
‘Be gentle with me,’ said Nightingale. He dropped his cigarette onto the pavement, stubbed it out with his shoe, and raised his hands.
‘You know they give you cancer,’ said the heavy as he began to pat Nightingale down. He worked his way along both his arms, then ran his hands over Nightingale’s back and chest.
‘What do?’
‘Cigarettes,’ said the heavy. His probing fingers found Nightingale’s mobile phone in his jacket pocket. He took it out and examined it. ‘They still make these?’ he said, holding up the Nokia to show his colleague. The other man chuckled.
‘It’s a classic,’ said Nightingale, taking the phone from him and putting it back in his pocket. ‘Like the car. Quality never dates.’
‘Can’t take video, can it?’
‘It’s a phone,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I want a video I use a camera. Did Perry ask you to search me or grill me on my use of technology?’
The heavy knelt down and patted Nightingale around the groin and between his legs.
‘While you’re down there.?.?.’ said Nightingale.
‘Don’t even think about finishing that sentence,’ growled the heavy, starting on Nightingale’s legs. He checked both legs all the way down to Nightingale’s Hush Puppies then straightened up with a grunt.
‘Happy?’ asked Nightingale, lowering his arms.
‘You a cop?’
‘Used to be,’ said Nightingale.
‘Yeah, you’ve got that cocky thing going, haven’t you?’
‘That’s more my natural exuberance,’ said Nightingale.
‘Yeah, well, you wanna watch that your natural exuberance doesn’t get you your legs broken,’ said the heavy. He turned and knocked on the door and it was opened by another heavy. ‘T-Bone will look after you. You can try your natural exuberance on him.’
T-Bone was the heavy who had accompanied Smith to the coffee shop, but he showed no signs of recognising Nightingale. He was wearing a dark blue tracksuit and had a fist-sized gold medallion hanging on a thick gold chain around his neck. He turned and walked down the hallway. Loud rap music was blaring out of the back room, something about shooting a cop in the face and stealing a car.
Smith was sprawled on his sofa, his feet up on the coffee table. He was playing a video game, shooting at soldiers with a sub-machine gun. Sprawled on either side of Smith were pretty blonde girls in short skirts and low halter-neck tops. They were staring with vacant eyes at the screen and rubbing Smith’s thighs. ‘Give me a minute, Nightingale,’ said Smith, before shooting a soldier in the face and then blasting a group of four soldiers with a single hand grenade. He ducked behind a crate, reloaded, popped up again and let loose a burst that cut down three soldiers; then he tossed a grenade into a Jeep, killing another four men. Smith grinned, paused the game and put the controller on the coffee table. ‘You an X-box man or a PlayStation man?’