Barbara leaned forward. ‘That’s a very significant thing to say, Jack.’
‘I was joking.’
‘Jokes can often be a window into our psyche. We often use them to make light of our real fears.’
Nightingale threw up his hands and laughed. ‘I can’t win with you, can I? You’re determined to psychoanalyse me, no matter what I say.’
‘Jenny’s worried about you, and sometimes a third party can offer a view that might not occur to those close to the situation. I think you’re blotting something out, Jack. Subconsciously or consciously.’
‘And?’
‘And if you wanted, I could perhaps help you remember. There are various relaxation techniques we can use that will open up your subconscious and allow you to get to the memories you’re repressing.’
‘You mean hypnotise me?’
‘Not necessarily. I’d help you reach a relaxed frame of mind in which you’re less anxious about remembering.’
‘Honestly, Barbara, if I need someone to talk to, I’ll find someone.’
‘Like who, Jack?’ asked Jenny.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort that out. Really.’
Jenny looked at her watch. ‘We should be going.’ She and Barbara stood up. ‘If you need me over the weekend, call me.’
‘I will, I promise,’ said Nightingale.
‘And think about what Barbara said. Maybe she can help you remember. And if you do remember, then maybe things’ll become a bit clearer.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘I’m serious, Jack. I’m worried about you.’
Nightingale hugged her. He winked at Barbara over Jenny’s shoulder. ‘I bring out her mothering instincts,’ he said.
‘She was always rescuing stray dogs when she was a student,’ said Barbara. ‘I can see that nothing’s changed.’
49
Nightingale walked slowly through the cemetery – there was a full moon and the sky was cloudless so there was plenty of light to see by. A soft wind blew through the conifers that bordered it. He was smoking a Marlboro and holding a Threshers carrier-bag. The earth had been shovelled back into Robbie Hoyle’s grave and pounded down but there was still a slight curve. Soil settled over time, Nightingale knew. He’d once been on a search team in the New Forest, looking for the body of a woman who’d been strangled by her husband seven years earlier. The guy had turned up at a local police station claiming that his wife had come back to haunt him and wouldn’t leave him alone until he confessed and arranged for a proper Christian burial. The detectives who had interviewed him didn’t believe in ghosts, and neither did Nightingale, but they did believe in grief and guilt, and because the man was vague about where he’d buried his wife, more than fifty officers in overalls and wellington boots had been dispatched to the forest.
Nightingale was with the group who had found the remains, and two clues had pinpointed its location. There was a deep depression where the soil had settled, and the grass above the body was greener and lusher than the surrounding vegetation. Two hours before they’d found the murdered wife, another group had found the body of a child that had been in the ground for more than a decade. There was little more than a skeleton left, wrapped in a bloodstained rug, and the child was never identified. Again, the depression in the ground and lush grass had given it away.
There was no headstone on Hoyle’s grave, but marble edging had already been put around the perimeter, white with dark brown veins. Nightingale flicked away his cigarette butt, spread his raincoat on the grass and sat down on it. ‘How’s it going, Robbie?’ he asked. It was a stupid question. Hoyle wasn’t going anywhere. He was in a wooden box six feet underground, his veins pumped full of formaldehyde, his best suit on and his tie neatly knotted, the way it had never been when he was alive.
He opened the carrier-bag and took out a bottle of red wine. ‘I know you’re a wine drinker, so I brought this,’ he said. He grinned as he held up the bottle. ‘I couldn’t be bothered with a corkscrew so I got one with a screw top. The girl who sold it to me said it was a respectable red from Chile. Mind you, she was Romanian so I don’t think she knew much about wine.’ He poured a splash of wine over the grave. ‘Cheers, Robbie,’ he said, then took a long drink. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Respectable wine, long on the palate with a blackcurrant and raspberry aftertaste.’ He chuckled. ‘Yeah, you got me – that’s what it says on the label. Perfect for red meat and pasta. What the hell do I know? I’m a beer drinker, right? Or whisky when there’s serious drinking to be done.’
Nightingale had another swig, then poured more on to the soil. ‘I know this is a bloody cliche, talking to your mate’s grave and sharing a drink with him, but I couldn’t think what else to do. Actually, I did think of doing the glass-and-letters trick but I’d feel a right twat if you told me to go and shag Jenny again.’ He shook his head. ‘And, no, I haven’t shagged her. Doubt I ever will. Don’t want to ruin what we have – or don’t want to ruin what we don’t have. Either way, we haven’t. And probably won’t.’ He raised his eyes skywards. ‘Yeah, I heard the “probably”, too. Freudian slip?’
Nightingale sniffed the neck of the bottle. ‘It’s not bad, this, is it? But it doesn’t give you the same warm feeling as a good whisky. Or a bad one.’ He took another drink. ‘My mum died, Robbie. My real mum. My genetic mum.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t know why I said that because she doesn’t feel like my real mum. She was just a sad woman who couldn’t even feed herself and got conned into having me by a guy old enough to be her father. She slashed her wrists with a knife. They’re arranging her funeral as we speak. I don’t think it’ll be as well attended as yours, mate. Did you hear Chalmers? Said some nice things, he did. For a moment I thought he’d turned over a new leaf, but then he had me in for a grilling because the moron who ran you over topped himself and Chalmers wants to put me in the frame for it.’
Nightingale cursed vehemently. ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you to look both ways before you cross the road, you stupid bastard? How could you walk in front of a bloody taxi? And on Friday the thirteenth. Another stupid cliche.’
Nightingale drank again, then poured another slug of wine over the grave. ‘Right, so here’s the thing, Robbie. Here’s why I’m sitting next to your bloody grave sharing a bottle of cheap plonk with you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I need a sign, Robbie. I need you to let me know that there’s something after death, that you’re still out there somewhere, that it’s not…’ Nightingale closed his eyes and cursed again. ‘What the hell am I doing?’ he muttered. ‘This is mad. Crazy.’
He opened his eyes. ‘Am I crazy? Am I sitting here talking to myself? Or can you hear me? I need to know, Robbie. I really need to know. I need something. Some sign. Something to let me know that death isn’t the end. You know what’s important, Robbie. You know why I need to know. Just give me a sign. Please.’
A shooting star flashed overhead and vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Nightingale laughed harshly. ‘Is that the best you can do?’ he said. ‘A bloody meteor? One poxy bit of ice and rock? I need something real, Robbie. I need to hear your voice or see you or feel your hand on my shoulder. It’s not much to ask, not considering all the years we’ve been friends.’
He swallowed some more wine. ‘Someone else I know died the other day. Killed himself. Client of mine. He wanted me to follow his wife and when he found out she was having an affair he topped himself. He bloody well topped himself and now the wife’s blaming me, calling me all the names under the sun and threatening to sue me… She won’t, of course. It’s just the grief and anger talking. When you lose someone you want to lash out. I wanted to kill the driver of the black cab that hit you when I heard. But he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Same as you. Just one of those things. One of those stupid bloody things. If you’d stepped off the pavement a second later or he’d taken another route or if he’d just been bloody well looking where he was going, then you’d still be here and…’ Nightingale tailed off. He groaned, lay back on his raincoat and stared up at the night sky, the bottom of the bottle balanced on his stomach. ‘He’s dead, the guy that was driving the cab. He topped himself. Slit his wrists to the bone. God knows why. Grief, maybe. Guilt.’ Nightingale sighed. ‘The thing about suicides is that they don’t really think about death, about what it means. You know that – you did the courses. They think that what they’re doing will prove something, or hurt someone, and because they’re not thinking straight they imagine they’ll be around to see what effect their death has. They imagine that they’ll be at their own funeral, seeing everyone crying and saying how sorry they are. If they really thought about what was going to happen, they’d hang on to every second of life because life is all there is, right? Tell me, Robbie, am I right?’ He grinned. ‘You can’t, can you? Because if death really is the end then I’m wasting my time. You can’t prove a negative, right? Or is the fact that you’re not replying the answer to my question but I’m just too stubborn to hear it?’