Dead of Winter (34 page)

The flat wasn’t as warm as she expected when she walked in. She had forgotten to change the central heating timer before leaving. The hall thermostat read eighteen degrees. There was a pathetic meowing from the top of the cupboard housing the boiler.

‘Hello, Cat; what are you complaining about?’

The black moggy jumped down and wrapped himself around her calves. Nightingale scratched the top of his head between the ears but didn’t attempt to pick him up. Blackie was independent, untrusting and had very sharp claws. She gave him some fresh milk and filled his bowl with dried food. He glared at her for failing to remember that salmon was his favourite, which almost made her laugh as she filled the kettle. She would have hated a grateful pet.

Sorting out his supper occupied her mind, befuddled with the brandy and a swirling mess of emotions. One moment she was euphoric that she had finally met her real mother. The next she was vulnerable and terrified for no reason. No sooner had she got to grips with her paranoia than she plunged into despondency. Bizarrely there was a sense of anticlimax underneath it all, which she didn’t understand. It made her feel guilty and that made everything else so much worse.

No sooner had the cat finished eating than he demanded to be let out. It was late, time for him to prowl his territory and for her to go to bed. She made a mug of herbal tea and checked that everywhere was locked up tight, checking obsessively as if fearing an invader. If she was lucky she would be able to find a few hours’ sleep.

An hour later she was still lying awake listening to the wind moan around the chimney. Another slate had worked loose but there was nothing she could do about it. Slipping on her dressing gown she made another cup of tea, wincing as she caught sight of the time. Tomorrow was a big day; she was determined to take advantage of Whitby’s absence to visit Jenni and she wanted to read the final report on Flash Harry from cover to cover. She shut her eyes briefly and her thoughts turned to Fenwick. This was no good. She needed to sleep. Blackie was scratching at the door so she let him in. He followed her to the bedroom and plonked his weight down on her feet. She fell asleep almost immediately.

At five o’clock she jerked awake, sweat from a nightmare chill on her chest despite the cool of the bedroom. Her iPod earphones were still in but the stream of calming Gregorian chants that had lulled her had finished long ago. There was a persistent pain behind her eyes and her mouth was dry. She drank what was left in her water glass and squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself back to sleep, but her mind immediately struggled to recall her dream.

Flash Harry had been telling her the identity of his victims. There were hundreds of them, he’d said, two a week stretching back years. ‘
Should’ve caught me sooner
,’ he’d gloated and she had picked up a knife …

How many victims had there been? Were there really hundreds of them? Had Fenwick and Big Mac done everything to find them and would they work assiduously to notify them of Dan Mariner’s death? Possibly not, given Fenwick’s obsession with the search for Issie. What about the ones who may never have come forward? They would be living with psychological damage that might be
healed if they knew the perpetrator of the violence against them had been brought to account. It had been rough justice, nothing to do with the force of law but still …

Nightingale sat up and winced. It was important that they were told that their attacker had been dealt with. She needed to think through a plan of how to contact the known victims and a way of finding any they were as yet unaware of. There was no chance she would sleep again. Nightingale switched on the bedside light and swung her feet onto the floor, finding her slippers in an automatic movement. Tea; that would be good.

As she waited for the kettle to boil, Nightingale wondered how to tackle the conflicting tasks ahead of her. The easiest thing to do would be to ask Big Mac for help. No point trying to speak to Fenwick … A strand of conversation with Lulu came back to her. As they had talked she had found herself mentioning her unrequited love for an older man. Lulu had given her firm advice. Should she follow it?

Nightingale shuddered. The day ahead was going to be complicated enough! She needed to concentrate. First things first, she needed to track down Big Mac. He should be in Harlden today; they could work together on Flash Harry before she went to Guildford to see Jenni. They would need to go through the Home Office database, HOLMES, and make up a list of victims. She poured boiling water onto the detox tea bag she had persuaded herself tasted all right then threw it away and made herself an espresso. She was expecting a demanding day.

Mac was already in the detectives’ room when she arrived before eight o’clock.

‘Morning, early bird,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Good morning, Detective,’ she replied with mock severity. ‘How’s the report coming along?’

‘With his nibs for review. He said he’d be back to me by lunchtime.’

‘So you’re free this morning!’

Big Mac looked cautious.

‘What are you plotting, ma’am?’ He touched his forehead in mock subservience.

She told him of her worry for Flash Harry’s victims, known and anonymous. He looked guilty.

‘I should have thought of that. There’s a list obviously in the report but I haven’t initiated contact. I assumed MCS would organise that. I’ll get onto them.’

‘Hang on; before you do, let’s identify those on our patch so that we can cover them ourselves. And we should speak to the PO at Lewes. Publicity on Dan Mariner may bring others into the open.’

‘Leave it with me.’ Big Mac was already scanning his computer while reaching for the phone with his other hand.

‘So you won’t need my help?’

‘No,’ he looked up and winked at her, ‘not for a couple of hours, anyway; enough time for you to get to the Royal and back.’

‘Mind-reader.’

He shrugged modestly, making her laugh.

Nightingale decided to stop by one of the hospital cafés to pick up something for Constable Rogers before seeing Jenni. She stepped out of the lift bearing a takeaway tea and slice of cake when she saw him walking fast down the corridor towards her. As soon as he saw her his face lifted into a look of relief.

‘That man there,’ he whispered, pointing towards someone on the far side of a pillar with his back to them talking into a mobile phone despite the notices. ‘I saw him hovering outside Jenni’s room yesterday but when he saw me he wandered off. This morning he came back, even though it’s not visiting time. I was in the toilet next to Jenni’s room and he was about to go in when he saw me. I didn’t know whether to follow him or stay with her, but now you’re here …’

‘Well done. Go back and call this in while I keep an eye on him. Your uniform will scare him off.’

Nightingale walked to one side of the pillar to gain a better look at the man. He was shorter than she was, about five ten but
thickset, with long, curly brown hair, a flash leather jacket and heavy boots. His face was obscured and he hadn’t noticed her with Rogers. When a registrar passed the man stopped her, presumably to ask about Jenni, but he had his back turned and was talking so quietly that Nightingale couldn’t hear. The registrar’s reply though carried clearly.

‘… no telling, I’m afraid. She’s being hydrated and fed intravenously so there’s no immediate need for concern, though we are becoming a little worried about how long she’s remaining unconscious.’

‘Will she recover fully?’

‘The scans we took of her brain suggest that she will but we’ll have to wait to be sure. But do tell her mum when you see her that we’re optimistic. By the way, you should really talk to the police while you’re here. They’re keen to trace her relatives. What was your name again?’

‘Fred; I’m a cousin but I see her mum all the time.’

‘Right, a cousin you say?’ The registrar sounded confused. ‘I thought you told the nurse yesterday you were her brother and on the file she noted your name as Stanley.’ The registrar’s pager buzzed and she looked at it with a frown. ‘Look, I have to deal with this but I want you to wait here while a nurse goes and finds the officer waiting with Jenni. We need to sort this out.’

He agreed but as soon as the registrar was out of sight, the man calling himself Fred walked quickly to the lift. Nightingale followed, picking up a magazine from a coffee table as she passed. As they waited together for the lift to arrive, she turned to a page at random and learnt the best way to ice a Christmas cake. She continued to study it while descending to the ground floor.

Her plan was to follow the man to his car rather than accost him straight away. That way she would discover the index number, as a contingency against him providing a false name and address. Unfortunately, he turned away from the car park and headed for the main entrance so she was obliged to follow. She hunched under her umbrella, walking slowly to allow him to get far enough ahead
so that she could ring Big Mac. Her call went straight through to messaging.

When she looked up the man was no longer visible through the falling snow. Cursing, she increased her pace, only to come to a halt abruptly when she spotted him at the bus stop immediately outside the hospital. Nightingale darted into the meagre protection of the bus shelter. The man looked at her suspiciously but she ignored him and started to text Mac. Eventually he turned away.

The bus arrived after five minutes. Just before it did so, she realised she didn’t have a ticket and couldn’t show her warrant card. She hoped it was one that allowed you to pay the fare on board. It was and she breathed a sigh of relief.

The bus was almost full but she found a seat from where she could keep the suspect in view. It was overheated and the tips of her ears and fingers tingled as they thawed, a strange, comforting sensation. Her boots had rubber soles and her hooded coat was well lined;
No such thing as bad weather, just inappropriate clothing
– her father’s words came back to her. She loosened her scarf.

The man was on the phone two rows in front. She could hear the murmur of his voice but not the words. As the bus neared the next stop she tensed in case he was getting off but he didn’t move. There was a buzz and she noticed a text from Mac: ‘You rang. Problem?’

‘Following suspect on #37 Arriva bus from hosp to town centre.’

She pressed ‘send’ and then immediately typed out a further message: ‘male, white, 5.10. long brown hair. Age c25. Distinctive leather jacket. Need backup. Cant call.’

The bus stopped again and the man remained seated. By now people were standing in the aisle and Nightingale relaxed a little, realising that it would take time for him to disembark.

Mac’s reply was brief and to the point: ‘Stick with him. Help on way.’ When she put the phone in her pocket her hand brushed against a ski lift pass that brought back a snapshot of memory: of ex-boyfriend Clive insisting he could handle the challenge of a black
run on their first morning in Kitzbühel and then the hours waiting for him in the hospital as his wrist was set. She had skied alone for the rest of the holiday. He hadn’t appreciated her independence or the fact that she was the better skier. His snapped wrist turned out to be the start of the break in their relationship. Nightingale had been relieved.

She had no idea where their route was taking them and minimal knowledge of Guildford. The street outside was as anonymous as any suburb so she pressed ‘present location’ on the i-map app. It showed them nearing the Friary where she had met Bess earlier that month. If he left the bus there it would be hard to follow him unobtrusively but there was no other option.

All was quiet; around her other passengers read, listened to music or dozed in an atmosphere that was surprisingly soothing. A sudden shout disturbed the calm. Three seats ahead an Asian lady in her sixties was arguing with the man she was trailing who had put his wet boots on the seat beside her.

‘Somebody’s going to sit there.’

‘What’s it to you?’

The man leant into her space, clearly expecting her to back down. She didn’t.

‘Please take your feet off the seat. I’ve had enough of people like you messing up public property.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Don’t speak to me like that.’ The woman was furious but powerless to do anything.

Other passengers looked away with expressions of incredulity or indifference as they puzzled on what had prompted someone into such public-spirited but inherently stupid behaviour. The man started laughing, victorious, but the woman was not prepared to give up that easily.

‘I’m going to report you; that’s criminal damage. There’s CCTV on this bus, your face is on camera and when I make an official complaint they’ll be able to find you.’

There was a soft groan as the other passengers exhaled.
Why
couldn’t she just leave it alone?
The demeanour of the man changed from belligerent to threatening.

‘You’re asking for trouble,’ he said, leaning until his face was almost touching hers. ‘Shut up.’

‘I will not.’

The sound of the slap reverberated through the bus. Nightingale was on her feet and moving forward instantly.

‘Leave her alone, now!’

‘Who do you think you are? Fuck off.’ The man turned his attention back to the public-spirited woman.

‘I said, leave her alone.’ When he ignored her Nightingale realised she had no option.

‘Police.’ She waved her card. ‘You’re under arrest. Anything you—’

The punch he aimed at her arm almost connected but Nightingale’s reactions were faster. Her other hand came up and grabbed his wrist, twisting sharply so that the shock travelled up his arm and he howled in pain. Then the bus braked hard and she almost lost her footing. Her grip weakened and he was able to jerk his arm free. He swung around and squared up to Nightingale as the bus driver brought the vehicle to a halt.

‘Keep the doors shut,’ she called out. ‘Call your control and tell them to send traffic police to our location.’

‘No way!’ The man sprang towards her, his fist clenched around the handle of a knife that had appeared without warning.