Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (27 page)

57

N
ightingale climbed out of the MGB and looked up at the block of flats. ‘What floor did you say?’ It was a drab council building, the concrete stained by years of pollution and pigeon droppings, the windows grubby and cracked. There were colourful graffiti on most of the walls. A pack of mongrels watched them suspiciously.

Jenny grunted as she pushed herself out of the sports car. ‘There’s no elegant way of getting out of one of these things, is there?’

‘It’s a classic,’ said Nightingale.

‘I’m just glad I decided to wear jeans today.’

‘What floor?’

‘Ninth. Are you going to leave your car on the street here? The wheels’ll be off by the time we get back.’

‘Like I said, it’s a classic. People respect classics.’ He saw disbelief on her face and laughed. ‘I’m serious. When was the last time you saw a classic motor vandalised? It doesn’t happen. They go for the flash cars, the ones owned by people with more money than sense. Plus they can see I don’t have a CD player or anything worth stealing.’ He nodded at the entrance. There was a stainless-steel panel dotted with dozens of buttons, and a CCTV camera covering the door. ‘You should call him, tell him you’re from the mobile-phone company.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because you’re a girl, and a pretty one to boot.’

Jenny grinned. ‘To boot?’

‘You know what I mean. A girl is less of a threat than a guy.’

‘Are you a threat, Jack? Is that what’s happening here?’

‘I just want to talk, that’s all,’ he said. ‘Cross my heart.’

58

N
ightingale leaned against the wall, his hand on the yellow metal handrail. ‘What floor are we on now?’ he panted. There were piles of rubbish on every staircase, cockroaches and a strong smell of vomit and urine that got worse the higher they climbed.

‘Seventh,’ said Jenny. ‘And you wouldn’t be so tired if you didn’t smoke so much.’

‘Smoking’s good for you,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s packed with vitamins and minerals and has zero calories and fat.’ He gestured at the stairs. ‘It’s exercise that’s bad. Look what it’s doing to me.’

‘You should go to the gym more,’ said Jenny. ‘Maybe start running.’

‘I don’t need to lose weight,’ said Nightingale. He patted his stomach. ‘I’m not fat. You show me a fat smoker and I’ll show you a smoker who’s not inhaling.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ asked Jenny.

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he said, as he started up the stairs again. ‘I was just feeling defensive.’

‘When are you going to get over this lift thing?’

‘Never.’

‘Jack, lifts are just about the safest form of transport there is. You know how many people have died in lift accidents in the UK in the last twenty years? None. That’s how many.’

‘How do you know?’

Jenny grinned. ‘I don’t. I just made it up. But you never hear about lift accidents, do you?’

‘That’s because there’s a conspiracy between the media and the big lift companies.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘Can we just leave it that I don’t like lifts? It’s no big deal, Jenny. Besides, get stuck in a lift here and you’d starve to death before someone came out to help you.’

They reached the ninth floor and Nightingale held open the door to let Jenny go through first. The smell of vomit and urine was even stronger on the landing. The floor was bare concrete and the pale green walls were streaked with dirt. A council notice warned residents not to leave their rubbish in the stairwell. ‘That’s the flat,’ said Jenny, pointing at a door to their right.

‘You knock, check it’s him, then I’ll step in.’

‘Jack, are you sure this is a good idea? We’ve lied our way into the building and he’s not going to be happy to see us.’

‘Please, Jenny. Just do it.’

Jenny walked to the door and pressed the bell. Nightingale flattened himself against the wall. The door opened and Nightingale held his breath.

‘Mr Harrison?’ asked Jenny.

‘That’s me,’ said a male voice. ‘You’re from the phone company?’

‘George Arthur Harrison?’

‘I said already, that’s me.’

Nightingale pushed himself away from the wall and put his hand against the door so that Harrison couldn’t close it. ‘Mr Harrison, I need a few minutes of your time,’ he said.

Harrison was short and stick-thin, wearing a stained T-shirt that seemed to be several sizes too big for him, and brown cargo pants that had been turned up at the bottom. It was as if he’d shrunk within his clothes. ‘Who are you?’ He was balding with a greasy comb-over that barely concealed his liver-spotted scalp. From behind him came the sound of a TV show,
Jerry Springer
or
Trisha
. The audience were howling and jeering.

‘My name’s Nightingale, Jack Nightingale.’

Harrison tried to shut the door, but Nightingale was too strong for him. ‘I’ll call the police,’ said Harrison.

‘Jack,’ said Jenny, ‘maybe we should go.’

‘Just a few minutes, Mr Harrison. Then we’ll go. I promise.’

Harrison continued to push at the door but realised eventually that it wasn’t a contest he was ever going to win. He stepped back, holding up his hands defensively. Nightingale saw that his nails were bitten to the quick. ‘Please, just leave me alone.’

‘You know who I am, then?’ asked Nightingale.

‘You’re the boy, the Nightingale boy. Of course I know. You think I could ever forget?’

‘I want to talk about what happened to my parents,’ said Nightingale. ‘The accident.’

Harrison’s shoulders slumped and he turned to walk down the hallway.

Nightingale looked at Jenny. ‘Do you want to wait outside?’

She shook her head fiercely. ‘I’m coming with you,’ she said.

‘You don’t have to.’

‘I want to.’

Nightingale nodded and followed Harrison. The hallway was the same drab green as the corridor outside. A bare bulb hung from a frayed wire and there was a stack of unopened bills on a side table beneath a cracked mirror. As he passed it, Harrison adjusted his comb-over. Jenny shared a smile with Nightingale.

The living room was a mess. There were two red plastic sofas, one piled high with magazines, most of which seemed to be pornographic, and the other with old takeaway cartons. The only item of value in the flat was a large LCD television. Through an open door, Nightingale saw a filthy kitchen, with a greasy gas stove and a sink full of dirty dishes.

‘How long have you lived here, George?’ asked Nightingale. ‘What brought you to London?’

Harrison shrugged but didn’t answer. He went over to a door that led out to a small concrete balcony and pulled it open. A bicycle missing its front wheel was leaning against a box of empty vodka bottles.

Jenny stood watching the television. A young woman who must have weighed at least twenty stone was shrieking at a spotty-faced man, accusing him of fathering a child with her sister as the audience screamed and shook their fists.

Harrison went out onto the balcony, Nightingale behind him. The shabby council flat had a stunning view of the river Thames, with the Houses of Parliament ahead and the London Eye to the right. It was a cloudless day and they could see for miles. High overhead, passenger jets were lining up to land at Heathrow in the west.

The wind ruffled Harrison’s comb-over but he didn’t seem to notice. He wiped his face with his right hand. ‘Why, after all these years?’ he asked. ‘Why now?’ His comb-over flapped like a flag.

‘I need to talk to you,’ said Nightingale. He took out his Marlboro and offered one to Harrison. ‘About what happened to my parents.’

‘I don’t smoke,’ Harrison said.

Nightingale lit a cigarette. ‘We’re a dying breed, smokers,’ he said.

‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said Harrison, his face a blank mask, his voice a dull monotone. He vaulted over the side of the balcony. Nightingale froze, the cigarette on the way to his mouth. He flinched as he heard the body slam into the concrete nine floors below.

Jenny appeared behind him. ‘My God, Jack, what have you done?’

Nightingale backed away, the cigarette forgotten in his hand. ‘He just jumped,’ he said. ‘We were talking and he jumped.’

‘He jumped?’ said Jenny. ‘Why would he jump?’

‘He told me I was going to hell and he jumped.’ He turned to her. ‘You heard him, right? You heard what he said?’

‘I didn’t hear anything. I just saw him go over the edge.’

‘Jenny, he told me I was going to hell. You must have heard him say that! You were standing right there.’

‘Jack, I’m sorry . . .’ She was shaking as she folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’m going to throw up,’ she said.

‘We’ve got to get out of here – now,’ he said.

‘You’re not going to call the police?’

‘And tell them what? That he took one look at me and jumped to his death? They’re not going to believe that.’

‘But it’s the truth.’

‘They’ll assume I pushed him, Jenny.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘We have to go. We have to wipe everything we touched and then we have to go.’

‘What?’

‘Forensics. We have to wipe everything we touched to remove DNA and fingerprints and we have to do it now. Do you understand?’

Jenny stared at him blankly.

Nightingale grabbed her shoulders. ‘Jenny, I need you with me on this. We have to clean up and go – now.’

‘Okay,’ she said.

59

N
ightingale waved the barmaid over. ‘A whisky – a double,’ he said, ‘with ice.’

‘Any particular brand?’ she asked. She had a South African accent.

‘Bell’s. Teacher’s. Anything.’

‘Jack, I don’t see that drink is going to help,’ said Jenny, putting a hand on his shoulder. They were in a pub close to the office. They had driven in silence from Battersea, too shocked to discuss what had happened.

‘I need a drink,’ said Nightingale. ‘And so do you.’

‘Make it two,’ she told the barmaid. She put her head close to Nightingale’s. ‘What happened back there, Jack?’

‘You saw what happened.’

‘You were in the way.’

‘You didn’t hear him tell me I’m going to hell? Because that’s what he said, Jenny, as clear as day. He said, “You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale.” Those were his exact words.’

‘The TV was on, I didn’t hear him say anything.’

‘We were talking on the balcony. You were right there.’

‘And he said you were going to hell?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, think about it, Jack. Maybe it’s your subconscious – maybe you were flashing back to what happened to Simon Underwood two years ago. Maybe you thought you heard him say that because the situations were so similar.’

‘Similar in what way?’

‘You know in what way,’ she said.

‘You don’t think I pushed him, do you?’

‘Who?’ she asked. ‘Underwood or Harrison?’

‘Thanks a lot, Jenny. Thanks a bloody lot.’ She reached over to touch his hand but he pulled it away. ‘You don’t want to get too close to me,’ he said. ‘I might push you out of a window.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Jack,’ she said softly. ‘Of course I don’t think you killed anybody. It’s not in your nature. But Harrison couldn’t have slipped – the railing was too high.’

‘I told you already. He jumped. He told me I was going to hell and then he jumped.’

‘Why would he jump?’

‘I don’t know.’ He drained his glass and gestured to the barmaid for another.

‘Getting drunk isn’t going to help,’ said Jenny.

‘I’m not driving, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ said Nightingale. He handed her the keys to the MGB. ‘You can drive me home.’

‘I’m not your bloody chauffeur.’

‘No, and you’re not my mother either.’

His drink arrived. He raised the glass to her, then sipped.

‘You can be an arsehole at times,’ she said, and sat on a barstool.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Nightingale. ‘I shouldn’t have let you go with me.’

‘That’s what you’re sorry about? You’re not sorry that a man died, that we saw him jump to his death?’

‘You told me you didn’t see anything.’

‘I saw him fall. I didn’t see if you pushed him.’ She raised her whisky to her lips, then put the glass down. ‘I’m not drinking this.’ To the barmaid she mouthed, ‘Coffee, please.’

Nightingale picked up her glass and poured the contents into his own. ‘Waste not, want not.’

‘If the police come, it’s not going to help if you’re smelling of drink,’ said Jenny. ‘We should have stayed. We should have called them and stayed.’

‘And said what? That he jumped to his death rather than talk about how he killed my parents? Chalmers already thinks I’m a vigilante killer after what happened to Underwood.’

‘The police will come, Jack. There were CCTV cameras, remember?’

‘They might not check if they’re sure it was suicide.’ He drained his glass. ‘Another whisky, darling,’ he called to the barmaid.

Jenny put a hand on his arm. ‘Jack, come on, you don’t have to do this.’

‘Do what?’

‘Drink like this. It isn’t helping.’

‘It’s making me feel better, and that’s what counts.’

‘You should have stayed and talked to the police,’ said Jenny. ‘They would have believed you.’

‘Only someone who’s never dealt with the cops would say that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Cops make mistakes like everyone else and, as I said, Chalmers is already gunning for me.’

‘You’re not a killer, Jack. You couldn’t kill somebody, not in cold blood.’

Nightingale smiled thinly. ‘You don’t know me, Jenny.’

‘I know you couldn’t deliberately kill somebody.’

‘I was in CO19, Jenny. I carried a gun. I was trained to kill people.’

‘There’s a world of a difference between firing a gun as an armed cop and pushing someone off a balcony. The police would understand that.’

‘Maybe,’ said Nightingale.

‘What’s wrong, Jack?’

The barmaid put a fresh glass of whisky in front of Nightingale and he nodded his thanks. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m just going crazy.’

‘You’re not crazy,’ she said. ‘A bit confused, maybe. And knocking back double whiskies isn’t helping.’

‘My father was crazy,’ said Nightingale. ‘Ainsley Gosling claimed to have done a deal with a devil and blew his head off with a shotgun. My mother, my birth-mother, was in an asylum for most of her life and hacked her wrists over dinner. So I’m the product of two people who were both clearly deranged. With DNA like that, what are the chances that I’m going to be normal? Pretty bloody slim, I’d say.’

‘You’re stressed out, that’s all.’

‘People keep telling me I’m going to hell, Jenny.’

‘It’s an expression. It’s just something people say. They don’t mean it literally.’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘No, they say it but it’s not them saying it. It’s like someone’s using them to get the message to me. My uncle wrote the words in blood in his bathroom and so did Barry O’Brien, and that night in the Chinese restaurant it was written in the fortune cookie.’ His words tumbled into one another, and he banged his glass on the bar.

‘It’s because Underwood said that to you before he died,’ said Jenny.

‘My subconscious is playing tricks with me? Is that what you really think?’

‘What’s the alternative, Jack? Messages from the grave? Spirits speaking through the living? The devil playing games with you?’

The barmaid glanced at them and Nightingale pointed at his empty glass. ‘I’m starting to think that maybe Chalmers is right,’ he said. ‘Maybe it is me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I went to see Barry O’Brien and he’s dead. I went to see my aunt and uncle and they’re dead. Maybe . . .’ He lowered his head.

‘What, Jack? Maybe what?’

Nightingale sighed. ‘Maybe I did kill them,’ he whispered. ‘Maybe I killed them and blocked it out. Maybe two years ago I did kill Underwood. And maybe I pushed Harrison off the balcony and I’m blocking it now. Hysterical amnesia. Or my subconscious is just refusing to admit what happened. Look at it from Chalmers’s point of view. Barry O’Brien killed Robbie so I’d want him dead. George Harrison killed my parents so I’d want him dead. My uncle and aunt lied to me so I’d want to hurt them. I’ve got the motive, and I had the opportunity, and I was at all three crime scenes. And it started two years ago when Simon Underwood went flying through the window.’

‘Except you didn’t do it, Jack. You didn’t do any of it.’

‘But I don’t know that for sure, Jenny. Don’t you get it? The more I think about it, the more it feels like I might have done it.’

‘Are you saying you remember killing them?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘No. It’s a feeling, not a memory. Like maybe I could have done it.’

‘Your mind’s playing tricks on you. It’s stress.’

The barmaid came over with another whisky and ice. Jenny ordered two black coffees. Nightingale reached for his glass but Jenny put her hand on his. ‘Take it slowly, Jack, please.’

‘You know what I’m thinking, don’t you?’

She nodded.

‘Maybe I’ve done this before,’ he said. ‘Maybe what’s happening now is a rerun of what I did to Simon Underwood. I get angry, I lash out, and then I block out the memories.’

‘I was with you today, Jack, remember?’

‘But you don’t know if I pushed Harrison or not.’

‘I know you’re not a killer, Jack.’

‘You
think
I’m not a killer – it’s not the same thing.’ He pulled his hand away and picked up his whisky.

The barmaid brought over the coffees and placed them on the bar. ‘You guys okay?’ she asked.

‘It’s been a rough day,’ said Jenny. She waited for the barmaid to leave, then leaned in to Nightingale. ‘It’ll work out, Jack. I promise.’

‘Jenny, you don’t know that. First rule of negotiating, don’t make promises you can’t keep. You don’t know it’ll work out. Look, today’s Monday and my birthday’s on Friday. Maybe at midnight on Thursday a devil’s going to reclaim my soul in which case I burn in hell for all eternity. Or maybe Gosling was just mad and I’m mad too and I’m going to spend the rest of my life in prison. Either way, it won’t work out.’

‘You don’t believe in this devil nonsense, do you?’

‘I wish I did,’ said Nightingale, ‘because at least that would explain what’s happening to me. Because if it isn’t the devil screwing with my life then maybe I’m doing it myself.’

‘You’re not a killer, Jack.’

‘I might be, Jenny. I might be. And that’s what scares me.’