Lastnight (6 page)

‘Like the bird?’

‘I don’t know. Is Jack a bird’s name?’

The girl laughed and held out her hand for a cigarette.

‘How old are you?’

‘Half your age, now give me a fag or piss off.’

Nightingale held out the pack. She took out a cigarette and he lit it for her. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

‘Providing you stay at your end of the bench,’ she said.

‘I’m not a child molester,’ he said, putting the cigarettes away.

‘That’s what all the child molesters say.’

Nightingale laughed as he sat down.

‘I’m serious,’ said the girl. ‘When was the last time a child molester sat down next to a kid and said, “Hello, little girl, I’m a child molester.” It doesn’t happen.’

‘Your parents taught you well,’ said Nightingale.

‘Mum did. Dad ran off when I was three.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Yeah. Ouch. What about your parents?’

‘I was brought up by foster parents. My father was a Satanist who sold my soul to the devil and my genetic mother killed herself in a lunatic asylum.’

She looked over at him with narrowed eyes, blew smoke up at the sky, and nodded. ‘Respect,’ she said.

Her dog jumped to its feet, startling them both, and seconds later another dog joined them and the two animals stood nose to nose, their tails thrashing about. The new arrival was a brown and white Jack Russell with a black leather collar. ‘Mojo, behave!’ shouted a girl who was walking over the grass towards them. She was wearing a long black leather coat that brushed the grass as she walked, and had jet-black hair that had been cut with a severe fringe that gave it the look of a glossy motorcycle helmet. In her right hand she was swinging a black leather lead. She stopped by the bench and looked at Nightingale with an amused smile. Like the girl on the bench she had thick mascara and black lipstick and there were half a dozen small silver rings piercing her left ear. ‘Is this the new boyfriend, then?’ she asked.

‘Ew,’ said the girl. ‘As if. I mean, seriously. His name’s Jack, he’s a child molester.’ She unclipped her lead from her dog’s collar and the two dogs ran off, barking excitedly.

‘See, that’s not funny,’ said Nightingale. ‘If someone hears that they could get the wrong end of the stick.’ He smiled at the girl who had just arrived. ‘The name’s Jack. I used to be a policeman but now I’m a private detective.’

‘He tells great stories,’ said the first girl. ‘His father’s the devil.’

‘That’s not actually what I said,’ protested Nightingale.

‘Becky was never very bright,’ said the girl. ‘My name’s Hannah. You’ve got cigarettes?’

Nightingale took out his pack and offered her one. She motioned with her hand for him to scoot over so he shuffled next to Becky while she sat down on the edge of the bench.

‘No funny business,’ said Becky.

‘Scout’s honour,’ said Nightingale. ‘Now, forgive me for asking, but how old are you girls.’

‘I’m eighteen,’ said Hannah. ‘Becky’s seventeen.’

‘Eighteen in two weeks,’ said Becky.

‘Are you at school?’

‘Do we look like we’re at school?’ scowled Becky.

‘We’re sort of on a gap year,’ said Hannah.

‘Yeah, but all we’ve got to go on is Jobseeker’s Allowance,’ said Becky. ‘And that doesn’t go far.’

‘Ever been to the Crypt?’

‘Loads of times,’ said Becky.

‘I thought you had to be eighteen to get in?’

‘I’m almost eighteen.’

‘We’re going on Saturday, probably,’ said Hannah. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Thought I might try it. There’s a dress code, right?’

Hannah shrugged carelessly. ‘You might want to lose the raincoat, but not everyone there is Goth or Emo.’

Nightingale blew smoke down at the ground. ‘What’s the difference between a Goth and an Emo?’

‘That’s a good question,’ said Hannah.

‘Any chance of an answer?’

The girl sighed. ‘I’m not one for labels. But I guess when you’re a Goth, you hate the world. When you’re an Emo, the world hates you.’

‘So you hate the world? Seriously?’

Becky smiled thinly. ‘What’s not to hate?’ she asked.

‘But doesn’t being different make it worse?’

‘Everyone’s different,’ she said scornfully. She nodded down at his shoes. ‘What are they, Hush Puppies?’

‘Yeah. I hear they’re coming back into fashion.’

She laughed. ‘They’re not,’ she said. ‘But you choose to wear them, they’re your style.’

‘I do a lot of walking and they’re comfortable,’ he said.

Becky gestured at the chains hanging from her jeans. ‘And I feel comfortable like this,’ she said.

‘Why are you so interested in Goths?’ asked Hannah.

‘I’m working with the cops, trying to find out who’s behind the killings.’

Becky looked across at him, her eyes narrowed. ‘Seriously?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah. Seriously. I was just talking to the wife of one of the guys who died. Gabe Patterson. And I’m heading over to Battersea to talk to Abbie Green’s flatmate.’

‘I met her once,’ said Hannah.

‘Who?’

‘Abbie Green.’

‘Really?’ said Nightingale.

‘Yeah, in the Crypt. She was with her girlfriend. What was her name?’

‘Zoe?’

‘Yeah, that’s it. Zoe.’ Hannah leaned over to look at Becky. ‘You remember Zoe? The blonde with the tits? She kept hitting on you?’

Becky wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

Hannah laughed at Nightingale. ‘She was out of her head, she usually is at the Crypt. Zoe was a bit older than Abbie.’ She grinned mischievously. ‘Not as old as you, obviously. Late twenties. Thirty, maybe, hard to tell with all the make-up. Seriously, she kept hitting on Becky even if she doesn’t remember. Wanted to take her back to the flat with her and Abbie.’

‘When was this?’

‘A few months ago. It was no big deal.’

‘She thought I was a lezza?’ asked Becky.

‘I don’t think she cared,’ said Hannah. She took a long pull on her cigarette and smiled at Nightingale as she blew a tight plume of smoke up into the air. ‘So why are you helping the cops? You some sort of Sheer-luck Holmes?’

‘All hands to the pumps,’ said Nightingale.

‘You need to catch the bastard, and quick,’ said Becky.

‘The cops are working on it,’ said Nightingale.

‘By bringing in a private dick?’ said Hannah scornfully. ‘What about DNA? CCTV? I mean, they listen in on all our phone calls and read all our emails, don’t they? How hard can it be to catch someone who’s killed, what, five people?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Yeah, five.’

‘You know what I don’t understand?’ asked Hannah. ‘How does the killer get them to go with him? I mean, we’ve just met you, right? If you said you wanted us to go with you so that you could show us some puppies we’d tell you what to do with yourself, right?’

‘I hope so,’ said Nightingale.

‘So how does the killer get five adults to go off with him so that he can cut them up into little pieces?’

‘Is that what he does?’ said Becky.

‘He uses a knife to mutilate them,’ said Nightingale. ‘He doesn’t cut them up, he just slices their skin.’

‘What sort of sick bastard does that?’ asked Becky.

Nightingale shrugged. ‘We’ll know when we catch him. But we don’t think it’s just one guy. Two, maybe more.’

‘But that’s what makes it even more strange,’ said Hannah. ‘I’m not going to go off with two guys I don’t know, am I?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘What do you mean?’ She took a final drag on her cigarette and flicked it on to the grass. In the distance the two dogs had ganged up on a German Shepherd and were chasing it back and forth.

‘Puppies wouldn’t work, but what if I said I could get you into a concert you wanted to see? You’d get into my car then?’

‘Depends on the band.’

‘But you see what I mean? If I dangle the right carrot in front of you, you’ll bite. Do you take drugs?’

‘Now that is a cop question. I’ll take the fifth, officer.’

Nightingale laughed. ‘What I mean is, suppose you’re partial to ecstasy. Suppose I gave you a couple of tablets every time I saw you. Then one day I say we have to go out to my car because the tablets were there.’

‘Have you got some E then?’ asked Becky.

‘I’m talking hypothetically,’ said Nightingale.

Becky frowned at Hannah. ‘Does he or not?’

Hannah smiled at her friend. ‘No,’ she said.

‘But you see what I mean?’ said Nightingale. ‘Serial killers generally don’t snatch people off the streets. They charm. They wheedle. They persuade. They find out what it is the victim wants and then they offer them that. Suppose I was the killer, and I pick on you. I might sit here and offer you ecstasy. Or offer to take you to a concert. But if I was being really devious, I’d turn up with a dog. A small, cute dog. Maybe a Jack Russell like Mojo. You’d trust a guy with a dog. And once I’ve gained your trust, I’ve got you.’

The two girls looked at each other. ‘Have you got a Jack Russell?’ asked Becky.

Nightingale smiled. ‘I live on my own, I can’t have pets.’ He finished his cigarette and ground it out with his heel. ‘What do the people you talk to think is going on?’ he asked Hannah.

‘It’s a hate crime, innit?’ said Becky.

Hannah nodded. ‘That’s what everyone thinks, right? Someone who hates Goths. It’s not the first time that Goths have been killed because of the way they look. It’s no different to attacking people because they’re gay or they’re black.’

‘Except that you choose to be a Goth,’ said Nightingale.

Hannah frowned. ‘What are you saying? That it’s our fault?’ She shook her head fiercely. ‘I can’t believe you said that.’

‘No, of course not,’ said Nightingale hurriedly. ‘That’s not what I meant. But there is a difference. You don’t choose to be black. You don’t choose to be gay. But you could stop being a Goth.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know where I’m going with this.’

‘It’s a hate crime, end of,’ said Hannah. ‘People are being killed because they’re different.’

‘So what sort of person would hate Goths?’

‘Everyone hates us,’ said Becky, sourly.

‘Not everyone,’ said Hannah. ‘But yeah, we get spat on in the streets. We get looks. We get a lot of looks.’

‘From who?’

Hannah shrugged. ‘Like Becky says, everyone. Old people who say that we should get a job. People in suits who say that we look ridiculous. Kids saying that we’re vampires. There are a lot of haters out there.’

Nightingale nodded. ‘But you’d know that, wouldn’t you? You’d know if someone hated you and you’d keep away from them.’

‘Sometimes you can’t move away,’ said Hannah. ‘We were sitting in a pub once and group of guys threw tomato juice over us. I mean, how do you deal with that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘What did you do?’

‘Cleaned ourselves up and went to another pub.’

‘The landlord didn’t do anything?’

‘He didn’t want us in there in the first place. He was laughing along with the rest of them.’

‘Bastards,’ hissed Becky.

‘But bastards like that you wouldn’t go near, right?’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s what I can’t work out. You can spot a hater. So how did the five who died end up letting the haters get so close?’

‘Maybe they overpowered them?’

‘When they were on their own? How often are you alone out in the open, Hannah? So alone that strangers could grab you without anyone seeing.’

Hannah wrinkled her nose but didn’t say anything.

Nightingale waved a hand at the common. ‘How many people can you see, right here? A dozen? Fifteen?’

Hannah solemnly counted. ‘Nineteen,’ she said. ‘And six dogs.’

Nightingale pointed at the line of houses overlooking the common. ‘And see all those windows. If you were to start screaming now, people would look out to see what’s going on. They might not dial nine nine nine, but they’d remember. And no one, absolutely no one, remembers seeing any of those five people being abducted. That’s what I finds so curious. This is London, there are more CCTV cameras per head of population than anywhere else in the world. And there are, what, eight million people living in the city. You’re never alone. But no one saw anything.’

‘Which means what?’ asked Hannah.

‘It means that whoever is doing it doesn’t look like a hater, and doesn’t act like a hater. It’s planned, it’s organised, and it’s carried out so efficiently that no one sees it happening. And that’s not what normally happens with hate crime.’

Nightingale’s phone buzzed in his pocket to let him know he’d received a text message. He looked at his watch. ‘Okay, girls, I’m going to have to love you and leave you. He took out his wallet and gave them business cards. ‘If either of you do come across anything, you know, weird, give me a call.’

‘Weird?’ said Hannah. ‘How would we know?’

The two girls laughed and in the distance their dogs pricked up their ears.

‘That’s a good question,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s the thing about serial killers. Everyone expects them to look strange or menacing, like they do in the movies. They don’t. They look completely normal. They can be charming, that’s how they get up close.’ He took his phone out. He didn’t recognise the number but the message made him smile. ‘
YOUR CAR IS FREE NOW
’ followed by a smiley face. Nightingale wasn’t sure how long Harry would carry on working as a traffic warden but he hoped the job wouldn’t change him.

‘So how do you know?’ asked Becky. ‘How do you know if someone is a psychopath?’

Nightingale shrugged. It was a good question. ‘You need to step back and take a look at the situation,’ he said. ‘Look at what’s happening to you and ask yourself if what’s happening is logical. If a stranger starts chatting you up, is he doing it because he fancies you, or because he wants to get you on your own? Generally if you’re in a crowd, you’re safe. So never get into a car or go into a house with someone you don’t know.’

Becky laughed. ‘Come on now, Jack, we’re not kids. We’re adults, remember.’

Nightingale stood up. ‘And all five victims were adults, too. Remember that.’ He turned up the collar of his raincoat and walked away.

7

T
here was no sign of Harry the traffic warden when Nightingale got back to his MGB, but there was no sign of the CRV either and the car that had replaced it, a white VW Golf, had been considerate enough to leave him with more than enough room to get out. It was starting to rain, which was never a good thing because the MGB’s windscreen wipers were less than efficient. The rain stayed light during his drive from Clapham to Battersea and by the time he’d found a parking space close to Abbie Greene’s apartment it had pretty much stopped.