Dead of Winter (3 page)

The pealing of church bells woke Nightingale. She lay in bed disorientated before remembering that her flat was close to the centre of old Harlden, on a street at the end of which was St Mark’s parish church. The bell-ringers must be practising. She had intended to spend the day doing some Christmas shopping but the memory of the girl lying unconscious in hospital was too much. As soon as she was dressed she drove to the hospital. The roads were white with a treacherous frost and she drove slowly, easing into corners.

At the hospital she realised it would have been wiser to call ahead. The girl was still out cold, though a second scan again showed no brain injury. The doctor on duty wasn’t concerned; the girl’s vital signs were stable and she was being hydrated and nourished intravenously. He advised patience and Nightingale tried her best to follow doctor’s orders.

She decided to drop into work and review her report from the previous night. That way she could make sure forensic evidence from the rape was being analysed quickly and uploaded to the national DNA database, just in case the rapist was not Flash Harry and already on file. She was at her desk just after nine, with a double-shot coffee and low-fat bran muffin for company. The CID
room was quiet; the few detectives there showed no inclination to chat, which suited Nightingale.

At twenty to ten her phone rang and she answered quickly, hoping it might be the hospital.

‘Nightingale?’ The familiar voice made her catch her breath.

‘Andrew.’ She hadn’t heard from him in months. The hand holding the receiver went clammy.

‘Of course, how are you?’

‘Fine. You?’

‘Great, never better.’

He sounded buoyant and Nightingale felt a stab of rejection that was as illogical as it was painful. Andrew Fenwick had never tried to develop a relationship with her while they had served together at Harlden despite an open invitation from her to do so. Since he had taken on his new role heading Major Crimes they had barely spoken. It hadn’t been a deliberate break but he had gone away on holiday and when he returned she had been away. Without realising it three months passed.

Meanwhile, her relationship with Clive, her then boyfriend, fell apart. He was increasingly needy and demanding, resorting to emotional blackmail in an attempt to strengthen his hold over her. Nightingale had witnessed a similar game up close and far too personal with her parents. With sickening clarity she realised that she had chosen in Clive a shadow of her father. She had declined his panicky offer of marriage and they separated. She could have called Fenwick then but she didn’t and waited instead for a call that never came.

She had sent him a card the previous Christmas but hadn’t received one in return. The oversight hurt disproportionately and for a year she had assumed he was finally out of her life. Why would he ring her now?

‘What can I do for you?’ She made herself sound relaxed.

‘A fingerprint from a recent assault you’re investigating matches one we have from an inquiry I’m about to open. The investigating officer is’ – there was a rustle of paper – ‘DS Jimmy MacDonald; do
you know him? Only I thought it would be easier to start with a call to you rather than someone I’d never met.’

‘Naturally.’ He missed her sarcasm. ‘Big Mac is a colleague. Are you referring to the series of sexual assaults?’

‘That’s right; all linked to a suspect you’re calling Flash Harry.’

‘I see.’ Her grip on the phone tightened; it was her case and she didn’t want to pass it to MCS. ‘May I ask why you are becoming involved?’

MCS didn’t just take on the odd case here and there. The Major Crimes Squad had been established to tackle serious and complicated investigations. Nasty as Flash Harry might be he did not warrant their attention.

‘What do you mean?’

Belatedly she remembered she was addressing a senior officer. Did he even remember they had once been friends?

‘Doesn’t sound like one for you, Andrew, that’s all.’

‘There are reasons we’re involved.’ A brush-off.

‘I see. Can I help at all?’

‘No need, but I’d appreciate it if one of my team could speak to this chap MacDonald.’

‘No problem; whom should he call?’

She jotted down the name while her mouth went into overdrive.

‘I might be able to help myself, Andrew. I know the case well, you see …’

‘That’s not necessary. I expect you’re busy. I don’t want to take your time.’

‘If it’s important enough for you to call personally I’m sure I can find the time to pop over to MCS and—’

‘The roads are terrible and I only called because I thought it would speed things up.’

She sensed defensiveness but ploughed on.

‘I’m still confused as to why such routine cases are consuming the head of Sussex Major Crime Squad’s time.’ She laughed unconvincingly in an attempt to mask her insistence. He didn’t join in.

‘Not that it’s of particular relevance to you, but I’m worried there might be an escalating pattern of violence.’

‘There definitely is, that’s why I’ve taken the lead on the latest incident; it was a rape this time. Perhaps we could discuss why we both feel there’s a growing risk here?’ He sighed loudly and without knowing she did so Nightingale winced. ‘Look, I was only offering to help, but if you don’t think it’s necessary …’

‘I don’t, at least not at this stage. Just have MacDonald call, all right?’

‘Sure, no problem; as soon as he gets in.’

‘Fine.’

There was an awkward pause. At one time the conversation would have been easy.

‘Ah, right, well we’re both busy …’

‘Quite.’

‘So, yes, well … oh, how’s Clive by the way? I saw his promotion to DI came through.’

‘Did it? I wouldn’t know.’

‘Oh, I thought you were … that is, I hadn’t realised. Well … back to the grind then. Good to talk to you, Nightingale. My number’s the same if anything new comes up. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

She replaced the receiver with extreme care.

‘Someone died, Nightingale? You look like you’re about to go to a funeral.’ Inspector Blite had chosen that moment to put in an appearance.

‘The only funeral I plan to go to is yours but you keep me waiting.’ Nightingale smiled, lemon-sweet.

‘Ooh, bitchy, bitchy. I always seem to catch you at the wrong time,’ he paused and added sotto voce, ‘
of the month
.’

Her hackles rose but she told herself she had asked for it. Better to ignore him. She busied herself writing a note for Big Mac but as she did so she was replaying the conversation with Fenwick over and again.

You idiot,
she told herself.
You practically begged to go over
there … And you were cocky. He’s a superintendent now; he’s not your pal any more. You’re lucky he didn’t put you firmly in your place!

She shook her head and rubbed her eyes. How could he still make her behave like a girl half her age? She took a drink of coffee but it was as bitter as her mood so she decided to go out for a fresh one. It was raining hard, a chill downpour that was almost sleet and penetrated to her bones as she ran the short distance to a Caffè Nero on the corner. She was served quickly, her loyalty card stamped twice by a Polish graduate she barely noticed. Despite the rain she walked through town afterwards, restless and resentful but at what she wouldn’t have been able to say. She wasn’t in the mood for shopping. Should she go home and enjoy the rest of her day off or trudge back to work? Without actually making a decision her feet found their way.

By the time she arrived back, the CID room was buzzing with the arrival of the second shift. Big Mac was booting up his PC and grunted a hello in her general direction.

‘Message for you, Mac; could be important.’ She passed him a yellow Post-it note.

‘Andrew Fenwick, the chief inspector who got that commendation a year or so back?’ His voice held a trace of admiration that really irritated her.

‘He’s a superintendent now, but yes, otherwise the same.’

‘Wow. You worked with him didn’t you?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Why would he bother to call himself? There must be more to it than he said.’

‘I don’t know but it looks like MCS is sniffing around Flash Harry and that’s not good news.’

‘Probably because we haven’t caught him yet.’

‘No, but we will … would have, anyway.’ She did not see why the investigation that had started because of her insistence should simply be handed over as it became interesting.

MacDonald shrugged and dialled the MCS number. Nightingale tried not to listen.

His casual remark that there had to be a reason for Fenwick’s call stayed with her as the afternoon passed. Just after four the hospital called to say that the victim of the assault had come round briefly, enough to say that her name was Jenni – with an ‘I’ she had insisted – before drifting into a sleep her doctor wanted to continue naturally.

Fenwick had a propensity to become over-involved. Of course that was why he had called. What other reason could there be? He wasn’t looking for an excuse to see her; that much was obvious. Maybe MCS wanted to check out Big Mac? That could be it. He was bright, hard-working and developing a bit of a reputation as a sorter-out of problem cases.

But he came through to me. He could as easily have had someone else leave a message for Mac.

Despite telling herself that she was behaving like an adolescent Nightingale found it hard to concentrate so decided to attempt an hour’s Christmas shopping after all. She was in her car when the hospital called to say that Jenni was awake and the doctor would allow a short interview. Easy to change direction. Minutes later Big Mac rang her mobile.

‘I thought this case was going to MCS, and why didn’t you tell me you were going to the hospital?’

‘They haven’t taken it yet and I couldn’t wait, Mac. She’s awake; you weren’t around.’

‘I’ll meet you there.’

He broke the connection before Nightingale could argue or ask why he was so interested. Maybe he had promised MCS to keep an eye on it … or perhaps it was that nurse.

Jenni was half sitting, propped up by pillows, with a female officer at her bedside. A look of fear crossed the girl’s face as Big Mac walked in behind Nightingale.

‘I’m not talking to him! No way.’ The girl’s voice was high-pitched, its toughness forced.

MacDonald backed out of the room. He was surprisingly gentle when interviewing victims of sexual attacks but he was too wise to try and persuade the girl to trust him so soon.

‘Who are you?’ Jenni demanded and then turned to the officer beside her. ‘Why’s she here?’

‘My name’s Louise Nightingale.’ Despite her best intentions Nightingale was touched by the girl’s bristling vulnerability. ‘I’m a detective inspector.’

‘When can I go?’

‘As soon as the doctors say that you’re fit enough. Have you asked them?’

‘They won’t talk to me.’

‘I’ll ask them, if you like, Jenni.’ Nightingale smiled, surprised at how unpractised the muscles felt.

‘I’m not a child, y’know.’ Her voice was hoarse and she sipped from a plastic cup.

‘I know. Can I sit down?’

Nightingale took the shrug of indifference as agreement.

‘I’d like to talk to you about last night. Can you tell me what happened?’

The girl’s cheeks reddened but she said nothing.

‘Will you do that for me?’

‘Nothing happened. Fell over and hit my head, that’s all.’

‘Is that so?’ Nightingale tried to look her in the eye but the girl turned away. ‘Can you remember how it happened?’

‘No.’

‘Or what you were doing immediately beforehand?’

‘Hangin’ out, like. Look, can I go now?’

‘As I said, that’s up to the doctors but I suspect they’ll want to keep an eye on you for a little while longer.’

‘Well maybe you can go and ask them for us.’

‘I will, as soon as we’ve had a proper conversation.’

‘Nothing happened. Got it?’

Jenni tugged the blanket up towards her chin.

‘I ran away from home when I was your age.’

Jenni looked at Nightingale in surprise but recovered quickly.

‘Rubbish!’

‘It’s true. I got as far as France once. Only problem was I didn’t
speak French and I only had English money on me. Not the best idea I ever had.’

‘Stupid, if you ask me.’

‘You’re right, I was but it didn’t stop me. I ran away four times in all.’ Out of the corner of her eye she could see Jenni trying to look disinterested. ‘First time I was ten; didn’t have a clue. Only had my pocket money on me, which I spent on a bus ticket to a town six miles away where I promptly drew attention to myself by stealing fruit very inexpertly from a market stall.’

‘Pathetic.’

‘Agreed. The next time was a bit better but my real
pièce de resistance
…’

‘Thought you didn’t speak French,’ Jenni grinned, pleased with herself, and Nightingale encouraged the fleeting thaw with a laugh.

‘Good point.’ She paused.

‘Well go on, then,’ Jenni said, trying to sound bored.

‘Well, my best attempt was my last. I managed to get to Glasgow. My parents had succeeded in finding me in England, and even in France where I was arrested and deported.’ It sounded big and Nightingale could sense some grudging respect.

‘So Scotland was, like, neutral territory,’ Jenni ventured.

‘Exactly, I knew you’d get it. Anyway, I travelled there no problem, found somewhere to hang out. It was good – particularly while the weather was warm.’

‘So what went wrong?’

‘I did. Took some stuff that affected me really badly. It was typical, the first time I’d tried something and I had this allergic reaction. I ended up in hospital, a bit like you, really. I was lucky, though; there were no permanent side effects and I was well enough to leave after two weeks.’

Jenni was looking at her with real interest.

‘
So
… like I said, what went wrong?’

‘It was what went right, actually,’ Nightingale said softly. ‘I’d given a false name—’

‘’Course.’

‘—so nobody knew who I was. I was planning go back to my mates as soon as I could. Except,’ she paused, finding the next part of the story surprisingly hard, ‘except there was this do-gooding policewoman who insisted on visiting me. It started with her wanting to know where I’d got the stuff.’