Smith grinned. ‘So you can’t tell a fib, can you?’
‘Like I said, I don’t lie under oath. It’s one of the few things that the criminal justice system really frowns on. They send peers of the realm to prison for perjury; with me they’d throw away the key.’
Smith jutted his chin out and nodded. ‘Bit of a dilemma, innit?’
‘One I’ve been wrestling with,’ said Nightingale dryly.
‘So why are you here?’
‘I’m hoping to persuade you that I had nothing to do with Dwayne’s shooting.’
Smith shrugged. ‘The cops seem to think you did it.’
‘I was nowhere near Brixton when it happened. And I don’t shoot people. Not any more.’
Smith’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Can I smoke?’
‘You can burst into flames for all I care,’ said Smith, and he threw back his head and laughed at his own joke.
Nightingale took out his pack of Marlboro.
Smith stiffened. ‘Check them fags,’ he yelled at the heavy nearest Nightingale. ‘Why did no one check his pockets?’ He waved the gun around. ‘If there’s a bug in there someone’s gonna get their nuts shot off.’
The girl from the stairs appeared in the doorway holding her bong. Her eyes were glassy and she was unsteady on her feet. Smith waved her away. ‘Upstairs, bitch,’ he said.
‘I’m hungry,’ she said.
‘There’s food in the fridge.’
‘I want pizza.’
‘Later,’ said Smith. The girl pouted and walked carefully down the hallway.
The heavy ripped the pack from Nightingale’s hands, tipped the cigarettes out onto the coffee table and crushed it. He tossed the pack into Nightingale’s lap.
‘Happy now?’ Nightingale asked Smith as he leaned forward and slotted the cigarettes back into the pack one by one.
‘Can never be too careful where Five-O are concerned,’ said Smith.
‘I told you, I’m not with the cops any more. Haven’t been for two years now.’
‘And that’s why I’m supposed to believe you? You were a cop and cops don’t lie?’
‘You’re supposed to believe me because I didn’t do it. I can prove that I was north of the river when Dwayne was shot.’
‘Prove how?’
‘I can get the phone company to show you my GPS position.’
‘That just shows where the phone was. Doesn’t mean you were with it.’
‘True, but I called my assistant so she can verify that I was with the phone.’ Nightingale lit a cigarette.
‘She can, can she?’ Smith sneered at him. ‘Do I look like I was born yesterday?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Then let’s leave your assistant out of the equation, shall we?’
Nightingale drew on his cigarette and blew smoke. ‘I was watching the footie,’ he said. ‘With a mate. A cop.’
‘Oh yeah, I’ll believe a cop, of course. How old do you think I am? Five?’ He shook his head in disgust.
‘The friend can’t back me up anyway. He’s dead.’
‘So no alibi there, then.’
‘The landlord of the pub remembers me being there.’
Smith shook his head. ‘You think I care what he says? I’m guessing he’s white, right?’
‘It’s not about race, Perry.’
‘Everything’s about race. The long and the short of it is that he’ll say whatever it takes to get me off your back.’ He waved the gun at Nightingale. ‘Look, Jack-Shit, the way I hear it, Dwayne said you were the shooter.’
‘That’s not what happened.’
‘Deathbed confession, and that’s gold.’
‘He wasn’t naming me as his killer. And it wasn’t a confession.’
‘He’s lying in intensive care and starts calling out your name. That’s what I was told.’
Smith smoked his joint while Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette. They both blew smoke, watching each other carefully.
‘You and Dwayne were tight, right?’ asked Nightingale eventually.
‘Tight as tight can be.’
‘As tight as he was with Reggie Gayle?’
‘Horses for courses.’
‘What, Reggie’s the brains and you’re the muscle?’ He held up his hands. ‘No offence. I just meant that on the day in Queensway he stayed in the car and you were at the sharp end with the MAC-10.’
‘I hear you. Let’s just say that when Dwayne needed a problem fixing, he came to me.’
‘And up to the shooting, he never mentioned a problem?’
Smith shook his head and then took a long drag on his joint.
‘So did he ever mention me to you? Ever talk about me? Did he tell you one single thing about me?’
Smith stared at Nightingale and blew a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke but didn’t say anything.
‘I’m guessing that means no. So why would someone he didn’t know put a bullet in his head?’
‘Maybe somebody paid you,’ said Smith.
‘So I’m a hired killer now?’
‘Poacher turned gamekeeper, maybe.’
‘Strictly speaking I’d be a gamekeeper turned poacher, but believe me, that’s not a line of work I’d be interested in.’
Smith took another long drag on his joint, held the smoke and then exhaled through clenched teeth so that his face was shrouded in smoke. ‘See right there is the problem,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t trust you.’
‘Yeah, I figured that’s what you’d say. So I’ve got a deal for you.’
‘A deal?’
‘Yeah. Let me do what I do best. Let me play detective.’
Nightingale stubbed out the last of his cigarette in a glass ashtray.
‘Here’s what I don’t get,’ said Smith. ‘Why do you think you can find the man who shot Dwayne when Scotland Yard’s finest can’t?’
‘Because Scotland Yard’s finest aren’t on the case,’ said Nightingale. ‘Operation Trident aren’t interested because the shooter wasn’t black, and they’re the experts when it comes to gang shootings. But they can’t touch it because the witnesses all say that the man who shot him was white. That means that a superintendent by the name of Chalmers is running the case and he’s a moron.’
Smith grinned. ‘A moron who thinks you pulled the trigger?’
‘Chalmers would do me for littering if he found a cigarette butt in the street,’ said Nightingale. ‘He doesn’t care whether or not I did it, so long as I go down for it. That means he’s not looking for anyone else. Or if he is, he’s just going through the motions.’
Smith managed to get one more drag from his joint then he stubbed it out in the ashtray that Nightingale had used.
‘And why do I let you do your Sherlock Holmes bit?’ asked Smith.
‘Because you want to know who killed Dwayne. And I think that deep down you know it wasn’t me. And if it wasn’t me, which it wasn’t, then maybe whoever it was that put the bullet in Dwayne’s head has another bullet with your name on it.’ He stared at Smith with unblinking eyes and Smith stared back.
‘You play poker, Jack-Shit?’
‘I’ve been known to,’ said Nightingale.
‘Are you good, because that’s one hell of a poker face, innit?’
‘It’s a genuine offer, Perry. Let me ask around, see if I can get you a name.’
‘And then what?’
‘Up to you. I’m not going to go running to the cops. I don’t have a dog in this fight. I just want to be able to go on with my life without looking over my shoulder every time a car with tinted windows goes by.’
Smith nodded slowly. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Got any Corona?’
‘That Mexican shit?’
‘Yeah. That Mexican shit.’
‘I’ve got Budweiser.’
‘That American shit?’
Smith laughed and looked over at his heavies, giving them a thumbs up. ‘Hear that?’ he said. ‘That’s banter, innit? This here Jack-Shit’s a funny man. A funny, funny man.’ He looked back at Nightingale and the smile vanished. ‘He’s going to be laughing all the way to the grave.’
‘Okay, forget the beer,’ said Nightingale. ‘But shooting me here isn’t really an option because my pretty young assistant knows where I am and that I came to see you, so if anything happens to me she’ll tell the cops everything.’
Smith chuckled and scratched his ear with the barrel of his gun. ‘Do you know how many eyewitnesses get amnesia after we pay them a visit?’ he said.