‘Don’t you?’
Nightingale flopped back in his chair. ‘I just don’t know.’
‘Jack, if Robbie was still out there somewhere, don’t you think I’d know? Don’t you think he’d at least let me and the girls know? You think he’d want us to hurt the way we’re hurting? What about your parents? Did you ever feel that they came back?’
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘The dead don’t come back because they can’t. That’s what being dead means.’
‘Maybe they’re there but they can’t let us know.’ He picked up his coffee mug. ‘Jenny said something about caterpillars.’
‘Caterpillars?’
‘Yeah, she said that caterpillars turn into butterflies, but you never see the butterflies hanging out with the caterpillars, do you? Caterpillars turn into butterflies and they fly away. Maybe it’s the same with us. We die, we change, and we move on. And we can’t communicate with those we leave behind. Or maybe we just don’t want to. Maybe we don’t want to spoil the fun.’ He drank the rest of his coffee but he couldn’t taste it. When he put down the mug, his hand was trembling.
‘Jack, you’re starting to worry me now,’ said Anna.
Nightingale forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Just thinking too much.’
‘No, it’s more than that,’ she said. ‘Have you looked in a mirror recently? You look like you haven’t slept for a month.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Clearly you’re not. What’s going on? What’s worrying you?’
Nightingale looked at her and tried to hide the turmoil he was going through. He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t explain about Sophie, not without appearing to be totally crazy. Anna was right. Robbie was dead and the dead didn’t come back, and if they did then surely Robbie would be first in line. His death had been sudden and unexpected so he’d never had the chance to say goodbye to the people he loved. ‘It’s nothing,’ he lied. ‘I guess visiting Robbie’s grave shook me up.’
‘Are you sure?’
She held his look and Nightingale felt that she was looking right through him. She’d have made a great interrogator. He tried to smile convincingly. ‘I’m sure.’
She relaxed and Nightingale realised that she believed him. He felt a sudden stab of guilt. He’d lied to her and she’d believed him without hesitation. But he knew that he’d done the right thing. Anna had more than enough to worry about already.
‘You know, living on your own isn’t helping. When are you going to get serious about Jenny?’
‘What?’ said Nightingale. ‘She works for me.’
‘I know that. But she’s the perfect girl for you, not least because she puts up with your nonsense. Ask her out and have done with it.’
Nightingale laughed and shook his head. ‘I don’t think she’d be interested anyway.’
‘You should go for it,’ said Anna. ‘Ask her.’
‘Jenny’s a great assistant; the office would fall apart without her.’
‘You’re assuming that it’ll all go wrong. You might get a pleasant surprise. You’re thirty-three years old and single. It’s time for you to settle down.’
Nightingale grinned. ‘Maybe,’ he said.
‘I’m serious, Jack. You’ve been on your own for too long.’
‘I’m happy enough, Anna, really. And I’m not going to ask Jenny out just because she’s available.’
‘And you’ve never asked yourself why she works for you? Because I’m damn sure it’s not for the money.’
‘I pay okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I’m a good boss.’
Anna laughed. ‘I’ve seen the two of you together. She’s got a soft spot for you.’
‘Yeah, a patch of quicksand behind her dad’s mansion,’ he said. He groaned in defeat. ‘Okay, I give up. I’ll think about it.’
‘Well, don’t leave it too long. A girl like Jenny’s going to be snapped up sooner rather than later.’
Nightingale held up his hands. ‘Okay, okay, I hear you.’
They both laughed and Anna wiped a tear from her eye and then her laughs turned into sobs. She put her hands over her face as she cried and her whole body started to shake. Nightingale hurried over to her, put his arms around her and held her tightly.
‘I miss him, Jack,’ she sobbed. ‘I miss him so much.’
‘I know,’ said Nightingale, as she buried her face in his chest. ‘So do I.’
37
Nightingale had left Graham Lord’s card on the table by the phone. As he sat and watched Saturday afternoon racing from Sandown Park on Channel 4 he drank a bottle of Corona and kept looking over at the card. On the way to the kitchen to get a second bottle of beer he picked up the card, looked at it, then put it down. He drank the second bottle of beer lying on the sofa, then he picked up the card again and dialled the number.
‘Mr Nightingale,’ said Lord before Nightingale had spoken. ‘I was waiting for you to call.’
‘How do you know my name?’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t remember telling you my name.’
‘You didn’t,’ said Lord. ‘You’re calling to arrange an appointment?’
Nightingale didn’t reply. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up and he shivered. He felt as if he was being played, as if a trap was being set for him and he was being invited to step inside.
‘Mr Nightingale? You want an appointment?’
‘I guess so, yes,’ said Nightingale.
‘What about tomorrow evening? Sunday is always a good day.’ He chuckled softly. ‘The Lord’s Day, of course. Shall we say eight o’clock?’
‘Okay,’ said Nightingale.
‘My fee is two hundred pounds,’ said Lord. ‘I’m afraid that’s my standard charge.’
‘What sort of guarantee is there that I’ll talk to Sophie?’ said Nightingale.
‘There are no guarantees; but trust me, you’ll have a much more satisfactory experience than you had at Marylebone.’
‘And how does it work? We just sit down and talk?’
Lord chuckled. ‘It’s a bit more complicated than that,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry, Mr Nightingale. I know what I’m doing. I’ll see you tomorrow at eight. My address is on my card. And if you have anything that belongs to Sophie, please bring it with you.’
38
There were three baristas working behind the counter, all Polish, all female, and all with dyed-blonde hair, as if Starbucks had a factory that turned them out with the same efficiency that they produced their coffees and cookies. Nightingale ordered a cappuccino and carried it over to a table near the door that led to the toilets. He looked at his watch. He was early. The coffee shop was busy with Saturday shoppers boosting their caffeine levels before heading back into the fray. There was a copy of that day’s Daily Express on the table next to his and he retrieved it and flicked through it as he waited. He was halfway through his coffee when he saw a black Lexus pull up on the other side of the road. Perry Smith climbed out of the back and stood on the pavement, looking around. He was wearing a black Puffa jacket over a dark blue tracksuit and white Nikes. A big man eased himself out of the car, slammed the door and joined Smith on the pavement. Smith pointed in the direction of the coffee shop and the two men crossed the road. Nightingale felt his heart begin to pound and he took a deep breath to steady himself.
The heavy walked into the coffee shop first, his eyes watchful. Smith followed, then grinned when he saw Nightingale. He swaggered over, his arms swinging loosely at his sides. He sat down opposite Nightingale and unzipped his jacket. ‘You just made it,’ he said, looking at a chunky gold watch on his wrist. ‘Your seventy-two hours are almost up.’ The heavy stood behind Nightingale, his arms crossed.
‘Yeah, it wasn’t easy,’ said Nightingale. He nodded at the heavy. ‘I told you to come alone. Tyson here can wait outside.’
‘Anything you want to say to me you can say in front of T-Bone,’ said Smith.
Nightingale shook his head. ‘You’ve no idea what I’m going to say. I might be here to tell you that I know that you’ve been screwing T-Bone’s wife and you wouldn’t want him to know that.’