Lastnight (17 page)

‘Any idea how long this is going to take?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Why, you got something important to do?’ said DS Waterman.

‘A date, as it happens,’ said Nightingale.

‘Lucky you.’

‘So what do you think? Do you think we’ll be done by seven?’

‘How long’s a piece of string?’

‘See now, that’s not very helpful, is it?’ said Nightingale. The look that DC Shaw gave Nightingale left him in no doubt that the detective didn’t care one way or the other. Nightingale sighed and headed for the rear door.

18

T
he car headed south across the Thames. DC Shaw was driving and DS Waterman had climbed into the back with Nightingale. Nightingale asked the detectives if he could smoke and when they didn’t say anything he reached into the pocket of his raincoat and pulled out a pack of Marlboro. As he slid a cigarette between his lips DS Waterman put a hand on his knee and squeezed. ‘You light that and I’ll shove it so far up your arse that you’ll be farting smoke rings,’ he growled.

‘Not a smoker then?’ said Nightingale, putting the cigarette back into the pack. ‘You should have said.’

The car drove through Clapham and Nightingale tensed as they turned into a road that he recognised. There were terraced houses on both sides, two storeys high with railings around basement steps. Ahead of them were two police cars nose to nose, blocking the road, their blue lights flashing but sirens off. In front of the cars was an ambulance and a SOCO van. A Scene Of Crime Officer was walking away from the van wearing a white paper suit and carrying a large metal case.

They pulled up behind the ambulance. DS Waterman gestured at the pavement. ‘Out,’ he said.

Nightingale got out of the car, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The driver wound down his window. ‘The super wants him suited up,’ he said.

The detective nodded and gestured at Nightingale. ‘This way,’ he said.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Nightingale, but he said it for effect because he had a pretty good idea why they’d brought him to Clapham.

The detective ignored him. He walked between the two cars. There was another SOCO van parked in front of a house, which was being guarded by two burly policemen in fluorescent jackets.

A balding man in a white paper suit was rummaging around in a plastic trunk and he looked up as they approached. ‘We need suits and boots,’ said DS Waterman.

The SOCO grunted and leaned over a cardboard box. He pulled out two paper forensic suits in polythene bags and gave them to the detective. The detective handed one to Nightingale. ‘Are you serious?’ asked Nightingale.

‘The guv wants you inside and we can’t have you contaminating the crime scene,’ said the detective sergeant. He took off his coat, folded it up and placed it on the floor of the van before ripping open the plastic bag and climbing into the paper suit. Nightingale followed his example.

As they zipped up their suits, the SOCO gave them latex gloves and paper covers for their shoes. Nightingale’s mouth had gone dry – he had a pretty good idea that whatever had happened inside the house wouldn’t be pretty.

The detective sergeant looked Nightingale up and down and nodded. ‘You’ll do,’ he said.

‘Will you at least tell me what’s going on?’ asked Nightingale, though he wasn’t expecting an answer.

DS Waterman pointed at the front door. ‘Superintendent Chalmers is inside, he’ll fill you in.’

Nightingale nodded. He felt the nicotine craving kick in but he ignored it, knowing that there was no way that they would allow him to smoke. He leaned over and fished his mobile out of his pocket. ‘Give me a minute,’ he said. He tapped out a text message to Caitlin. ‘Sorry, have to cancel tonight. Will call later.’ He sent the message and put the phone back into his coat pocket, then followed the detective to the front door. The two fluorescent jackets moved apart to allow them in.

The hallway ran the full length of the house with purple doors leading off to the right and there was a flight of purple stairs leading up to the bedrooms. At the far end of the hallway was the kitchen. There was a SOCO with a camera photographing the body of a large black man in a blood-stained Puffa jacket, sprawled in front of the sink. Nightingale took a deep breath. His heart was pounding and he could feel sweat trickling down the small of his back.

DS Waterman walked along the hallway to the first door, his paper shoe covers swishing against the carpet. He pushed the door open wide to reveal a man in a forensic suit scribbling in a notebook. ‘Where’s the guv?’ the detective asked him.

‘Kitchen,’ said the man.

Nightingale stood behind the detective and looked over his shoulder into the room. There were two other men standing in the room, wearing forensic suits. They were looking down at the body of another big black man lying spread-eagled by the window. The man’s throat had been cut and blood had pooled around the body and soaked into the pale purple carpet.

There were three sofas around a coffee table that was littered with drug paraphernalia including several ornate bongs and a silver bowl filled with a white powder that could have been cocaine or heroin and a brass bowl piled high with yellowish crystals.

Lying across one of the sofas was a young black girl with waist-length dreadlocks. Her Bob Marley tank top was drenched in blood and her hands were covered in defensive wounds where she’d tried to fend off her killer. Her eyes were wide open, staring lifelessly up at the huge spherical white-paper lampshade hanging from the centre of the ceiling.

Nightingale shivered. DS Waterman turned on his heel and bumped into him. ‘Keep out of my way, will you,’ the detective growled. He walked along the hallway to the kitchen. Nightingale followed him.

Superintendent Chalmers was standing by a set of French windows that opened on to the lawn. He was staring out of the window and scowled when he saw Nightingale’s reflection in the glass. ‘Like the proverbial bad penny,’ he said.

‘To be fair, you did drag me here kicking and screaming,’ said Nightingale.

Like the rest of the police and SOCO technicians, Chalmers was wearing a paper forensics suit and shoe covers. He turned to glare at Nightingale. Nightingale looked away and realised there was another body on the kitchen floor, a big guy in an LA Lakers shirt and baggy jeans. He was lying on his side, curled around a pool of congealed blood. There was a chrome pistol a few inches from his right hand.

Chalmers caught Nightingale staring at the gun. ‘Makes you wonder why he didn’t pull the trigger,’ said the superintendent.

Nightingale shrugged. ‘Looks like his throat was cut from behind,’ he said. ‘He was probably heading for the hallway. Multiple attackers, obviously. Must have been at least two in the kitchen alone to take these two out.’

‘Obviously,’ said Chalmers, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

‘Why am I here?’ asked Nightingale.

‘You don’t know?’

Nightingale frowned. ‘I haven’t got time for games, Chalmers. I’m not in the job any more, remember?’

‘This is no game, Nightingale. There’s been a massacre here in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘I had noticed, yes,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just don’t see what it has to do with me. You wanted me to investigate dead Goths, not South London drug dealers.’

Chalmers frowned. ‘How do you know they were drug dealers?’

Nightingale sneered at the superintendent. ‘The clue was in the bowls in the sitting room,’ he said. ‘Industrial quantities of coke and crack.’

‘Have you been here before?’

Nightingale faked surprise. ‘Why would you think I’d been here before?’

‘I’m always suspicious of people who answer a question with a question,’ said Chalmers.

‘Why’s that?’

Chalmers pointed a warning finger at Nightingale’s face. ‘Don’t push me, Nightingale.’

Nightingale held up his hands in surrender. ‘Just tell me what you want and let me get the hell out of here,’ he said.

Chalmers exhaled through pursed lips, then nodded at the hallway. ‘Come with me,’ he said. He took Nightingale up the stairs and along the hallway to a bathroom. The door was ajar and as they approached it there was a bright flash from inside, then another. Chalmers tapped on the door. ‘Let the dog see the rabbit,’ said Chalmers.

The door opened and a female SOCO holding a camera nodded at the superintendent. ‘I’ll be a while yet,’ she said.

‘Just give me a minute, will you?’ said Chalmers, but his tone made it clear that it wasn’t a request.

The SOCO nodded and squeezed past the two men. Nightingale moved to go into the bathroom but Chalmers put a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘When was the last time you saw Perry Smith?’

‘What makes you think I know him?’

‘Are you denying that you are acquainted with Mr Perry, drug-dealer of this parish?’

‘Come on, Chalmers. Nicotine is my drug of choice, it always has been.’

‘So answer my question and stop pissing around. Do you know Perry Smith?’

Nightingale stared at the superintendent, his mind racing. He did know Perry Smith but he couldn’t see that anything good would come of admitting that to the superintendent. ‘No,’ he said.

‘You’re sure about that?’ The superintendent’s grip tightened on Nightingale’s shoulder.

Nightingale knew that having lied once, there was no going back. ‘I’m sure,’ he said. ‘Look, what’s this about, Chalmers? You can’t possibly think I have anything to do with what’s happened here.’

Chalmers raised one eyebrow. ‘I can’t? Perhaps you’d care to explain this then.’

He pushed the bathroom door open, giving Nightingale a clear view of the room. Perry Smith was sprawled in a whirlpool bath. His head had lolled back revealing a gaping wound in his throat. The blood had run down into his chest and turned the bathwater pink. And on the mirror, above the bath, were six words, written in blood.
WE’RE COMING FOR YOU, JACK NIGHTINGALE
.

19

N
ightingale tossed the paper forensics suit into the back of the SOCO van and retrieved his raincoat. ‘Can I smoke?’ he asked Chalmers.

‘You can burst into flames as far as I’m concerned,’ said the superintendent. He leaned against the van and pulled off his paper shoe protectors.

As Nightingale retrieved his cigarettes, a middle-aged SOCO with receding hair and a goatee scowled at him. ‘You can’t smoke here,’ he said.

‘I’m outside,’ said Nightingale, gesturing up at the overcast sky.

‘Inside, outside, makes no difference,’ said the technician. ‘This van is my place of work so you can’t smoke here.’ He looked over at the superintendent and the policeman nodded.

‘He’s right,’ said Chalmers.

Nightingale sighed and walked away from the van. Chalmers followed him. They stopped some twenty feet away from the SOCO van and Nightingale lit a cigarette.

‘Who called it in? A neighbour?’

‘There isn’t much of a neighbourhood watch in this part of town,’ said Chalmers. ‘But we got a call from a pay-as-you-go mobile. The caller didn’t leave a name.’ He sighed. ‘What aren’t you telling me, Nightingale?’

Nightingale blew smoke before replying. ‘You can’t think that’s anything to do with me,’ he said.

‘Your name’s written on the mirror,’ said Chalmers. ‘I’d say that means you’re involved. I’m going to ask you again, have you ever come across Perry Smith?’

‘Not that I remember,’ lied Nightingale.

‘You’re sure about that?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘I suppose our paths might have crossed when I was in the job, but nothing springs to mind. He’s a drug dealer, right? Probably a turf war, don’t you think?’

Chalmers smiled and shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think,’ he said. ‘Gang-bangers tend to use guns, not knives.’

Nightingale took a long pull on his cigarette and held the smoke deep in his lungs. Chalmers was right, of course. Drug dealers and gangsters didn’t bother with knives. Knives were messy and meant getting up close and personal.

‘That’s what’s so weird about this,’ said Chalmers. ‘Perry Smith and his crew aren’t exactly low profile. Lots of bling, fast cars and loose women, and anyone who knows them would know they’d be armed to the hilt.’

‘Including the cops,’ said Nightingale.

Chalmers frowned. ‘Your point being?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘Guns were banned years ago, but there are more than ever on the streets. If every man and his dog knew Smith’s crew were carrying, why didn’t the cops do something about it?’

‘Send in CO19 and have a war on the streets of Clapham? You think that would solve anything?’

‘It might get the guns off the street,’ said Nightingale. ‘I mean, how hard could it be? Owning a gun is a criminal offence punishable by up to ten years in prison. You know crews like Smith’s carry guns, so arrest them and put them away. If every gang-banger with a gun got sent down for ten years, they’d soon get the message.’

The superintendent’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re very good at that, aren’t you?’

‘Good at what?’

‘Changing the subject. I guess your negotiator training taught you that.’

Nightingale took another drag on his cigarette.

‘That time we talked about the Goths. My men picked you up at a funeral.’

Nightingale nodded.

‘Marcus Fairchild, right?’

‘Sure, he was godfather to my assistant.’

‘Ah yes, the lovely Miss McLean. How is she these days?’

Nightingale frowned, not sure what the superintendent was getting at. ‘She’s fine. She’s staying with her parents this weekend.’

‘How’s she dealing with the death of her godfather?’

‘It hit her pretty hard,’ said Nightingale.

‘Well, I say death, but of course I mean murder. Shot in the face and chest while sitting in the back of his limo.’

Nightingale blew smoke up at the sky and didn’t say anything.

‘I’m going to share some details of an ongoing investigation with you, Nightingale,’ said Chalmers. ‘It’s against the rules, but then you were never a stickler for rules, were you?’

Nightingale blew smoke and studiously avoided eye contact with Chalmers.

‘Here’s the thing, Nightingale. The investigation is ongoing but one of the names in the frame for the murder of Marcus Fairchild was none other than Perry Smith.’