Nightmare (7 page)

Nightingale pushed open the door to the pub, stepped inside and looked around. Evans was standing at the corner of the bar from where he could watch the door and the flatscreen television that was showing a Chelsea–Liverpool game. Evans nodded when he saw Nightingale, then raised his glass to his lips as he watched the football. It was stiflingly hot in the pub and Nightingale took off his raincoat and slipped it over his arm on his way to the bar.

‘If Chalmers finds out that I’m drinking with you, he’ll blow a fuse,’ said Evans as Nightingale joined him.

‘That ship has already sailed, I think.’ He waved over at the barmaid, a redhead with shoulder-length hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her upturned nose. ‘What are you on, lager?’ he asked.

Evans nodded and Nightingale ordered a pint of Fosters and a bottle of Corona.

‘So what do you want, Jack?’ asked Evans, putting down his glass. ‘I’m assuming you’re not going to confess to shooting Dwayne Robinson.’

‘You know full well that what happened to Dwayne Robinson has got nothing to do with me. Chalmers is clutching at straws.’

‘He’s got you in his sights, that’s for sure,’ said Evans. ‘He’s trying to get funding to put together a full Tango team and really put you under the microscope.’

‘Great,’ said Nightingale. The drinks arrived and Nightingale paid for them. There was a group of Chelsea fans within earshot so Nightingale nodded at the fruit machine and the two of them went over to stand by it. ‘I need a favour,’ said Nightingale.

Evans chuckled. ‘And in the whole of the Metropolitan Police I’m the only cop you can ask? You really don’t have any friends, do you?’ He sipped his lager.

‘You’re the only one that can help me, Dan.’

‘You mean everyone else has told you to go screw yourself ? I’m your last resort?’

‘It’s more complicated than that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Did you hear about a shooting in Bayswater this morning?’

‘Sure. Trident are on the case. Black on black. Black teenager took a bullet in the shoulder but it’s not life-threatening. Looks like a turf war.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s not what happened.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says the guy they were shooting at.’ He raised his bottle in salute. ‘Here’s to dodging bullets,’ he said.

‘Please don’t tell me that you’re withholding information,’ scowled the detective. ‘A teenager got shot.’

‘I’m talking to you now, aren’t I? And let’s look on the bright side, shall we? At least it wasn’t coppers doing the shooting.’

Evans sipped his lager and then his eyes widened as a Chelsea player took a shot at goal that was tipped over the crossbar by the keeper.

‘You a Chelsea fan, Dan?’

‘Liverpool,’ said Evans. ‘My grandfather worked on the docks and my dad was a cop.’

‘So how did you end up in London?’

‘We’re never going to be bosom buddies, Jack, so you don’t need my family history.’ He took another drink and then looked at Nightingale like an undertaker measuring him up for a coffin. ‘Look, what you did to the father of that little girl – you know, a lot of guys in the job think you did the right thing. She killed herself, you threw him out of his office window, and there’re plenty out there would have done the same. But that was two years ago. Water under the bridge. Now you’re a civilian, and a civilian who seems to be the catalyst for a hell of a lot of corpses.’

‘It’s been an unlucky few weeks, that’s certainly true.’

‘Unlucky? It’s like you’ve got the plague, Jack. Everyone you talk to turns up dead.’

‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration and you know it.’

‘Yeah? Well, a month ago you were a former cop scraping a living as a private eye and you weren’t even on our radar. Now every time a body turns up Chalmers wants to know where you were.’

‘Chalmers has always had the hots for me,’ said Nightingale.

‘I don’t understand why you keep making a joke about it.’

‘What do you want me to do, Dan? Confess?’

‘You see, you’re doing it now. Your uncle and aunt are dead. He killed her and then topped himself.’

‘Murder-suicide,’ said Nightingale.

‘And then you go and see the guy who killed Robbie.’

‘It was an RTA.’

‘It was a traffic accident when he died, but the guy took a flyer off his balcony while you were talking to him.’

‘He jumped, Dan.’

‘And then you go to Wales claiming that some woman was your sister and she hangs herself.’

Nightingale shrugged and said nothing.

‘You go to see the guy who used to drive Gosling around and he decapitates himself in front of you. Oh, and let’s not forget the gamekeeper who blew his head off with a shotgun while he was talking to you.’

‘You’re starting to sound like Chalmers.’

‘I’ve got to be honest, he’s got a point. All this is going on around you and you’re acting like it’s no big thing.’

‘It’s a huge bloody thing, but what can I do?’

‘You can tell me what you think is going on.’

Chelsea scored and the fans went wild, hugging each other and punching the air in triumph.

Nightingale sipped his drink while his mind raced. He liked Evans and he was a good detective, but there was no way he was ever going to believe what was really happening to Nightingale and the people around him. Evans lived in the real world, a world of criminals and victims, where crimes were solved by examining physical evidence and questioning suspects. Nightingale had come to realise that there was a separate world beyond the physical, a world where demons held the power and where magic and witchcraft were tools as effective as any DNA analysis or fingerprint records. In the car park of the police station he had opened the door to the truth but Evans hadn’t even listened. Nightingale knew that if he really tried to explain what was going on, Evans would think that Nightingale was crazy. And he might well be right. ‘Dan, if I knew, I’d tell you.’

‘It’s a series of coincidences, is that it?’

‘What’s the alternative? Someone’s going around killing everyone close to me? Because if they are, you’re going to have to watch yourself.’ Nightingale realised what he’d said and he closed his eyes. ‘Shit,’ he said.

‘Yeah, like Robbie, you mean?’

Nightingale opened his eyes. The Chelsea fans were still celebrating even though the game had restarted and the Chelsea defence was under pressure. ‘Stupid thing to say, sorry.’

‘Forget it,’ said Evans. ‘You have a habit of firing from the hip; it’s part of your charm.’

‘What happened to Robbie was so bloody stupid. Stepping in front of a cab the way he did.’ Nightingale shuddered. ‘Makes you realise just how precarious life is.’

‘Not getting all philosophical on me, are you?’

Nightingale sipped his Corona. ‘You know what I mean. You’ve seen how easily life can be snatched away. That’s a big part of the job. Dealing with death.’

‘Amen to that.’

‘And the line between dead and not dead is such a fine one. If Robbie had just turned his head and seen the cab he’d be with us now.’

‘Nah,’ said Evans. ‘If Robbie was here it’d be him you’d be asking for help and not me.’

Nightingale grinned. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ He clinked his bottle against Evans’s glass. ‘That makes you my fallback position, I suppose.’

‘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.’