‘It’s not about amnesia; it’s about the letter I wrote for her.’ He looked at his watch. ‘If I don’t see her by nine o’clock she’ll be dialling three nines.’
‘You didn’t bring no mobile with you.’
‘Yeah, I figured you’d be wary of phones, what with you having a thing about microphones up people’s arses.’
‘Plus, I’m guessing that you figured I’d be checking your phone once you told me about your back-up plan,’ said Smith.
‘You can read me like a book,’ said Nightingale. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. ‘Look, Perry, you know who I am and you’ve already tried to kill me once. There’s nothing much to stop you trying again and next time I might not be so lucky. Now I could tell you that I’ve got some pretty heavy friends that owe me a favour or two but I don’t think you’re the type that reacts well to threats, so why don’t you just let me have a go at finding out who really did shoot Dwayne? If I can do that we can call it quits. If I don’t, well, I’m no worse off, am I?’
‘Seventy-two hours,’ said Smith. ‘And the clock has just started ticking.’
Nightingale looked at his watch. ‘Deal,’ he said. ‘Sex, money, rage,’ he said.
‘Say what?’
‘The three most common motives for murder,’ said Nightingale, sitting back in his seat. ‘That’s what it all comes down to more often than not. One, he was killed by a former lover or by someone who was connected to a former lover. Jealous boyfriend or husband. Two, he was killed for money or by a business rival. Three, someone was really pissed off at him, which might or might not be connected with one or two. Let’s work backwards. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted Dwayne dead?’
‘You sell drugs, you tread on toes.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
Smith shrugged. ‘Two crews locally but they wouldn’t have the balls to attack us.’
‘White?’
Smith threw back his head and laughed. ‘White?’ He shook his head, still laughing. ‘A white crew in south London? They wouldn’t last five minutes.’
‘What about Colombians?’
Smith frowned. ‘Colombians?’
‘In the heat of the moment no one’s going to be able to tell the difference between a Brit and a South American.’
‘That’s right; your lot had trouble telling the difference between a Brazilian electrician and an Arab terrorist.’
‘I told you, they’re not my lot.’
‘But you were a cop back then, right?’ He reached for the pack of cigarette papers.
‘It was my day off.’
‘What sort of cop were you? Drugs?’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘I was with CO19.’
‘An armed cop?’
‘For my sins. And I was a negotiator. Hostage situations, people in crisis.’
‘But you’ve shot people, right?’
‘I was armed but I never shot anyone, no. Most CO19 officers never get to fire their weapon in anger, never mind hit someone. Shooting someone is a last resort.’
Smith chuckled. ‘Yeah, well, in my line of work it’s the method of choice for sorting out disputes.’
‘That’s why I’m asking about business rivals,’ said Nightingale.
‘Like I said, we don’t have no white rivals. And definitely no Colombians.’
‘What about a black gang who want to outsource their anger?’
Smith was rolling his second joint but he stopped and frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Anyone who wanted Dwayne dead enough to pay for someone to shoot him? You were quick enough to assume that I was a hired gun. Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe it was a professional hit.’
Smith jutted out his chin. ‘That’s worth thinking about.’
‘Did it look like a professional hit?’
‘You don’t know what happened?’
‘I keep telling you, Perry, I’m nothing to do with the cops any more. I’m more of a suspect than an investigator so far as they’re concerned. Where did it happen? All I know was that it was in Brixton.’
‘He was coming out of a nightclub. The Flamingo. It’s a salsa place.’
‘What, Dwayne was into salsa, was he?’
‘Dunno. He wasn’t much of a dancer.’
‘And he was there alone?’
‘Yeah.’ He picked up a lighter and lit the joint, puffing on it carefully.
‘Is that normal?’ He gestured at the heavies. ‘You’ve got muscle all around you; did he usually go out alone?’
‘Are you saying I’m chicken? Is that what you’re saying, Jack-Shit?’
Nightingale held up his hands. ‘No, I’m just asking a question, the sort of question that the cops should have been asking if they were serious about finding Dwayne’s killer.’
‘We won’t talk to no cops. Grasses we ain’t.’
‘Okay, I get it. But that night, he was out without you or your posse? Is that what you call them, a posse? What is the collective noun for a group of bodyguards?’
Smith’s eyes narrowed and he glared at Nightingale through a cloud of smoke. ‘You keep taking the piss and that collective noun is going to take you somewhere and put a collective bullet in your collective fucking head.’ He took another pull on the joint and blew smoke towards Nightingale. Nightingale tried holding his breath, not wanting to inhale the marijuana fumes.
‘Dwayne said he wanted to go out on his own.’
‘To the Flamingo?’
‘Didn’t know he knew that place. Not his thing. He just said he didn’t want anyone with him.’
‘And that was unusual?’
Smith shrugged. ‘Sometimes he wanted his space. But if it was business, I’d have been there, for sure.’
Nightingale rubbed his chin. ‘So he was, what, on a social visit? How was he fixed for women?’
‘Dwayne? Had all the women he wanted. Lived the life.’
‘Could he have been at the Flamingo to meet a woman?’
Smith took another drag on his joint. ‘It’s possible. Yeah. He went out wearing his Hugo Boss.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘And stinking of aftershave. You might have something there, Jack-Shit. What are you thinking? Boyfriend?’
‘Maybe. Or a honey trap. It wouldn’t be the first time that a pretty girl has set someone up for a killing.’
‘So what next? What’s your plan?’
‘I’m going to ask around. See what I can find out.’
‘This doesn’t let you off the hook, Jack-Shit.’ Smith picked up the gun and lazily pointed it at Nightingale. ‘You try to screw me over and you’ll be squealing like new tyres in a car park.’
‘I love the simile,’ said Nightingale.
‘Simile, analogy, so long as you get my drift, okay?’
‘I get it. But I’ve got seventy-two hours, right?’
‘You’ve got it, Jack-Shit. But that’s all you’ve got.’
30
Jenny put Nightingale’s coffee down on the desk by his Hush Puppies. He was sitting back in his chair with his feet up on the desk and the keyboard to his computer on his lap. There was a photograph leaning against the monitor and Jenny picked it up. The two men in the photograph were standing in what looked like a nightclub, their arms around each other, grinning at the camera.
‘Good-looking guys,’ said Jenny.
‘Yeah, under other circumstances we’d all go out for dinner, but as it is the one on the left is dead and the one on the right still wants to kill me.’
‘Who are they?’ she asked.
‘Guy on the left is the guy I shot,’ he said. ‘Allegedly. Dwayne Robinson.’
‘The one who talked to you while he was brain dead?’
‘Yeah. And the guy next to him is the guy who tried to shoot me in Queensway. Perry Smith.’
‘You’re calling the police, right?’ She put the picture back against the monitor.
‘I’m Googling and then I’ll put in a call,’ he said.
‘Googling what?’
‘Just seeing what’s out there about Robinson.’ He sighed. ‘Not much, as it happens.’ He sat up and put the keyboard back on the desk.
‘They’ll arrest this Smith guy, will they?’
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ said Nightingale.
‘What’s going on, Jack?’ said Jenny, sitting on the edge of his desk and folding her arms.