Lastnight (18 page)

Nightingale could see that Chalmers was staring at him, gauging his reaction, and he fought to keep his face impassive.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ asked Chalmers.

‘What do want me to say? I barely knew Fairchild.’

‘You knew him well enough to go to his funeral.’

‘I was there to support Jenny. She was pretty upset, obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ said Chalmers. ‘But you can see where I’m going with this, can’t you?’

Nightingale shook his head slowly. ‘Not really, no.’

‘It’s about connections. Common threads. We have Marcus Fairchild shot in the back of his car. And we have Perry Smith and his crew butchered in their own home. And then we have you.’

‘Me?’

‘You knew Fairchild. And your name is written in blood above Perry Smith’s corpse. I’m not a great believer in coincidences, Nightingale.’

‘You think I killed half a dozen gang-bangers? Is that what you think?’

‘Did you?’

Nightingale laughed out loud. ‘Of course not.’

‘Can you think of any reason why someone would go to the trouble of writing your name in blood at a crime scene?’

‘Nothing springs to mind.’

‘You don’t seem worried.’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’m a bit confused, truth be told.’

‘Confused? If I’d been threatened like that I’d be a lot more than confused.’

‘Being threatened goes with the job, it always has done.’

‘Yeah, but you’re not in the job, are you? And this isn’t some drunk mouthing off, is it?’

Nightingale dropped what was left of his cigarette on to the ground and stepped on it.

‘Doesn’t seem like an empty threat, that’s all I’m saying,’ said Chalmers.

‘I’ll be vigilant,’ said Nightingale.

‘And you have no idea who it might be?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’ve made my fair share of enemies over the years, but that in there does seem a bit extreme, don’t you think?’

‘It seems to me that whoever killed Smith and his crew is threatening to come after you. And if I were you, I’d be a bit more worried than you actually are.’

‘Like I said, I’ll be vigilant.’

‘I suppose I should be offering you police protection. I’d hate to be accused down the line of not doing enough to protect a member of the public.’

‘I’ll pass,’ said Nightingale.

‘I could put a uniform on your front door for a few days.’

‘I’m sure Smith would have had some sort of security but it didn’t do him any good.’

The superintendent nodded. ‘Agreed, but at least I can say I offered and my offer was turned down.’

‘Do you want it in writing?’ asked Nightingale, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

‘No need,’ said Chalmers. ‘You don’t seem to be curious about the connection between Smith and Fairchild.’

‘Why should I be?’

‘You’re a family friend, I thought you might have wanted to know who killed him.’

‘Jenny’s my friend. Marcus was barely an acquaintance.’

‘And you wouldn’t shed a tear over a dead lawyer?’ Chalmers chuckled softly. ‘Who would, right? Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said “First kill all the lawyers”? Or Stalin? I can never remember.’

‘Lawyers make enemies,’ said Nightingale.

‘Of course they do. But we can’t find any connection between Smith and Fairchild. Except you. He didn’t do much in the way of criminal work, and I certainly can’t see him having a low-life like Smith for a client.’

‘From what I heard, Marcus was shot by a pro. Guy on a motorbike, full face helmet.’

‘That’s pretty much it. The bike turned up a couple of days later, torched. No match from ballistics.’

‘So how do you link Smith to it?’

‘Fairchild was shot with a MAC-10, weapon of choice of gang-bangers like Perry. Plus we have intel from a CI. That’s all I can tell you, and I shouldn’t even be telling you that much.’

‘Gossip from a confidential informant isn’t a case, is it? Could be someone with an axe to grind, you’ve been around the block long enough to have learned that, surely.’

‘One of Smith’s soldiers was boasting about getting rid of a gun used to kill an old white lawyer. Our CI was within earshot. If we were being fed bullshit, there’d be a darn sight more of it.’

‘That’s not much, is it?’

‘It was enough for us to put Smith and his crew under the microscope.’ The superintendent gestured at the house behind them. ‘But that bloodbath has put paid to that investigation, obviously.’

‘A drug dealer shooting up a City lawyer seems a bit unlikely, doesn’t it?’

‘Who knows? Maybe they were in business together. It wouldn’t be the first time a white middle-class professional has got into bed with a black drugs dealer.’

‘What, you think Fairchild was bankrolling Smith?’

‘Or buying drugs from him. We’re exploring all avenues. If it was Smith behind the hit, he must have had a reason.’ He shrugged. ‘But with both men dead, I guess we’ll never know.’ He looked sideways at Nightingale. ‘Unless there’s something you want to share with me?’

‘I’m as much in the dark as you are.’

‘I didn’t say I was in the dark, Nightingale,’ said Chalmers. ‘But if there’s no other link between Fairchild and Smith, I’m drawn to the conclusion that you’re the connection.’

‘And if I am?’

‘Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it,’ said Chalmers. He looked at his watch and then looked around. ‘Where the hell is my driver?’ he muttered.

‘Any chance of a lift back to Bayswater?’

‘I’m not going that way,’ said Chalmers. ‘Talk to the uniforms, tell them I said it was okay.’

‘You’re a prince among men,’ said Nightingale.

Chalmers turned to look at him. ‘Look, Nightingale, I know when someone is being less than honest with me. I don’t know what it is you’re keeping from me, but this time you’re playing with fire. What happened in there is as bad as anything I’ve seen in twenty-five years on the force. And that message on the mirror means that you could be next on their list. You watch your back, okay?’

‘I intend to,’ said Nightingale. The policeman’s concern seemed genuine, which was surprising because Nightingale had never felt that the superintendent had had his best interests at heart.

‘And what’s happening with the Goths?’

‘I’m on the case,’ said Nightingale. ‘I think I’ve found a connection. They all had tattoos, which isn’t the norm for Goths. They might all have gone to the same tattooist. A shop in Camden. It’s possible their paths had crossed there.’

‘Give me the details, I’ll get them checked out.’

‘I’ve already spoken to them. They had a break-in and their records were stolen. The one guy who might be able to confirm that they all went there has gone walkabout.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ll get my people on it anyway.’ He took out a small black notebook and a gold pen.

‘The Ink Pit,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s run by two guys, Ricky Nail and Jezza Sampson.’

‘Jezza?’

‘Short for Jeremy, I guess.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I went to a Goth club last night. The Crypt, near the Angel. Showed the photographs around and left my card.’

‘Any joy?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘The one thing I didn’t find was anyone who remembered seeing Daryl Heaton.’

‘So?’

‘So I’m not sure he was actually a Goth. Seems to have been more of a biker.’

‘He wore black.’

‘So do cops.’

The superintendent’s jaw tensed. ‘This isn’t a laughing matter, Nightingale.’

‘I’m just saying, you’re looking for Goth killers, but from what I’ve been told, Heaton wasn’t a Goth. That’s why I think the tattoo place is a better bet.’

Chalmers put away his notebook and pen. ‘Keep at it, Nightingale. Nose to the grindstone, I need a name in the frame for those killings and soon.’

‘I’m on it,’ said Nightingale.

A black Jaguar parked some way down the road flashed its lights and Chalmers waved back. ‘Why the hell did he park all the way down there?’ muttered the superintendent. He walked over to the police tape, ducked under it and headed for the car, his coat flapping behind him. Nightingale lit another cigarette as he watched the superintendent climb into the back of the Jaguar. Chalmers was right, of course. Nightingale did know Perry Smith. He knew him and had done business with him. But there was no way that Nightingale could ever admit that, not without opening up a very messy can of worms.

20

N
ightingale climbed out of the police patrol car that had parked a short distance from his flat in Inverness Terrace. ‘Thanks, guys, I really appreciate it,’ he said.

The driver, a uniformed sergeant with greying hair, winked up at him. ‘No problem, Jack. Good to see you again.’

‘Cheers, Barry, love to the wife.’ He closed the door and patted the roof of the patrol car.

The sergeant waved and drove off. Nightingale pulled his keys out of his pocket and fumbled for the one that opened the main door. As he was slotting the key into the lock a large shadow fell across the door. He flinched and twisted around, his hands flying up in front of his face to protect himself. A large figure was looming over him. Nightingale staggered back and his shoulders slammed into the door.

The man raised his hands. ‘Hey, Bird-man, chill. It’s me.’

Nightingale sighed as he recognised the man. ‘Bloody hell, T-Bone, you gave me the fright of my life.’ He shook his head and patted his chest. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

‘You live here?’ asked T-Bone, nodding at the door.

‘Home sweet home,’ said Nightingale.

‘Can we go inside?’

‘That was my plan before you crept up on me,’ said Nightingale. ‘Next time, shout out or something, will you?’

‘I had to wait for Five-0 to leave.’

Realisation dawned and Nightingale nodded thoughtfully. ‘You were outside the house?’

‘Yeah. And was there when they brought you in. Why were you there, Bird-man?’

‘You didn’t go inside?’

The big man shook his head.

Nightingale gestured at the door. ‘Best we talk inside, T-Bone.’

‘No argument here.’

Nightingale unlocked the door and took T-Bone upstairs. He unlocked the door to his flat and showed T-Bone inside before taking off his raincoat. ‘You want a drink?’ he asked T-Bone, who was looking around the small flat with a look of disdain on his face.

‘You live here?’

‘Nah, it’s a safe house. My main place is a mansion in St John’s Wood.’ He grinned. ‘Of course I live here.’

‘It’s a bit small, innit?’

‘I live on my own, T-Bone, I don’t need a big place. Now do you want a drink or not?’ He went into the kitchen and took a bottle of Corona from the fridge.

‘Got any wine?’ asked T-Bone, taking off his Puffa jacket to reveal a black Versace T-shirt that appeared to have been sprayed across his massive chest. T-Bone’s forearms were thicker than Nightingale’s thighs and his six-pack was clearly visible through the thin material.

‘Wine?’

‘What, a black man can’t enjoy wine?’ said T-Bone, dropping down on to the one sofa. There was a sharp cracking sound and Nightingale half-expected the sofa to disintegrate under the weight, but it held firm.

‘Just didn’t have you down as a wine drinker, that’s all,’ said Nightingale. ‘Red or white?’

‘Red’s cool,’ said T-Bone.

‘That’s a problem because I’ve only got white,’ said Nightingale, opening the fridge.

‘So why did you ask?’

‘I was trying to be a good host,’ said Nightingale.

‘Offering a man a drink you don’t have doesn’t make you a good host, Bird-man.’

Nightingale showed him the one bottle of wine he had in his fridge. ‘My assistant gave it to me so it’s probably a decent one.’

T-Bone looked at the label and nodded. ‘Nice bottle of Chardonnay,’ he said. ‘Your assistant knows her wine.’

Nightingale rooted around in a drawer and pulled out a corkscrew. He opened the bottle, poured some into a glass and gave it to T-Bone. He put the bottle down on the coffee table and took a chair from his dining table and reversed it so that he could rest his arms on the back of it as he sat down opposite his guest.

T-Bone raised the glass in salute. ‘Cheers, Bird-man.’

Nightingale clinked his bottle against T-Bone’s glass. ‘You called three nines, right?’

T-Bone frowned. ‘How do you know?’

‘If you’d have been inside the house you’d be dead. I’m guessing that you followed me here from Clapham. Which means that you must have been waiting outside the house. The cops were acting on a nine nine nine call from a throwaway mobile.’ He gestured at T-Bone with the bottle. ‘Elementary, dear Watson.’

‘Yeah, well the big question is what the fuck you were doing there.’

‘I was summoned. Didn’t you see them bring me in? I was one step away from being cuffed.’

‘Looked to me like you were helping them with their enquiries. And you seemed very pally with that detective. What is he, a CI?’

‘Superintendent. Chalmers is his name, making my life misery is his game.’

‘And he wanted your input because?’

Nightingale sipped his beer, playing for time. He wasn’t planning on lying to T-Bone but there were things Nightingale needed to know and he didn’t want the man clamming up. ‘You didn’t go inside the house?’

T-Bone shook his head. ‘I saw them leave and figured I’d best not get involved with what had gone down. Smith’s dead, yeah?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Yeah. I’m sorry.’

T-Bone shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Our line of work, not many get to collect a pension.’ He looked at Nightingale with narrowed eyes. ‘They’re all dead?’

‘I’m told seven guys and two girls. What did you see, T-Bone?’

T-Bone took a deep breath. He blinked several times and then took another breath, steadying himself. ‘When I parked I could see that there was no security on the door. That’s our golden rule – there’s always someone there, usually two. I knew something was wrong but didn’t know what so I moved the car down the street and waited. I called Perry but he didn’t answer and he always takes my calls no matter what so I was pretty sure the shit had hit the fan. I figured maybe gang-bangers but they wouldn’t normally attack a base, drive-bys are more their thing.’