The heavy stared impassively at Nightingale.
‘T-Bone ain’t married,’ said Smith.
‘That was an example. Trust me, what I’ve got to tell you is for your ears only. You won’t want it generally known.’ Smith looked around the coffee shop, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘You’re not scared, are you?’
‘I’m not scared of nothing,’ said Smith.
Nightingale held up his hands. ‘No offence,’ he said. ‘You just seem nervous. Do you want a coffee? Or a muffin?’
‘No I don’t want a fucking coffee or muffin and I don’t want tea and fucking crumpets. Just tell me what you want.’
‘Okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘You know why I wanted to meet you here?’
Smith snarled at him. ‘You like coffee?’
‘Nah, I like CCTV.’ He nodded at the camera in the ceiling that was covering the seating area. ‘With the eye in the sky looking at us you’re not going to do anything crazy.’
‘I hear you.’
‘And if this doesn’t go well and something bad happens to me down the line, the cops will come knocking on your door.’
‘I ain’t scared of no cops, and I ain’t scared of no CCTV. Now tell me what the fuck you want or I’m out of here.’
Nightingale leaned forward. ‘I know what happened to Dwayne. The thing is, do you?’
Smith’s forehead creased into a frown. ‘What the fuck do you mean?’
‘Have you been blowing smoke all this time, making it look like you give a shit who shot Dwayne? Because if you have it’s all going to backfire on you.’
Smith’s lips pressed together tightly and his hands clenched as if he was about to attack Nightingale, but then he relaxed and nodded slowly. ‘Tell me what you found out and we’ll take it from there.’
Nightingale took a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his raincoat and slid it across the table. ‘The first number there is the throwaway mobile that Dwayne was using the night he was shot. Obviously he couldn’t throw it away, him being dead and all. I was able to get the records for the phone the night he died. The second number is the number that he called about three minutes before he was shot.’
Smith unfolded the sheet and looked at the numbers. ‘Who did he call?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘The number’s dead now. I’m guessing it was a throwaway too. But I was able to get a list of calls that were made from the second phone. The bottom two numbers are the calls made from the second phone after Dwayne phoned.’
Smith looked at the last two numbers and his eyebrows went skywards. ‘That last number is mine, innit?’
‘That’s right. I thought you always used throwaways.’
‘That phone’s not for business.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out an iPhone. He put it on the table. ‘Friends and family,’ he said.
Nightingale sat back in his chair. ‘You can see why I’d be worried, then.’
‘I don’t see what the problem is,’ said Smith.
‘The problem is that third number, the one that the second phone called before it called you. It’s not a throwaway either. It belongs to a gangster down Bromley way, did a ten-stretch for armed robbery when he was in his twenties but hasn’t been in trouble with the law since. But word on the street is that he’s a hitman.’
‘Hitman?’
‘I had his name run through the Police National Computer and there’s plenty of intel on him but no hard evidence. Name of Ben Marshal. Reckoned to carry out murder for hire at fifty grand a pop. About ten minutes after Marshal gets the call, he sends back a text message. A smiley face.’
‘Say what?’
‘A smiley face. A colon, a dash and a bracket.’ He drew the symbol on the table with his finger. ‘A smiley face.’
‘So what are you saying, Nightingale? Spell it out.’
‘Okay, here’s what I think happened. Dwayne went to the Flamingo to meet someone. I don’t know who and I don’t know what the meeting was about. Might have been a girl, might have been a dealer. But whoever it was, they didn’t turn up. But the who isn’t the point. The point was to get him in Brixton, out of his comfort zone. When he came out of the club he was looking for someone but they weren’t there. I’m thinking he was expecting a car to be there waiting for him. A black four-wheel drive, maybe. Anyway Dwayne calls the driver and the driver tells him to meet him around the corner. Then the driver phones Marshal and tells him that Dwayne is outside the club and heading to the side road. Marshal is close by and he goes up behind Dwayne and shoots him. The gun jams and he legs it. He gets picked up on a bike and off he goes. He sends a text to the driver. A smiley face. That means the job’s done. Half an hour after that the driver phones you.’
Smith cursed under his breath.
‘So who phoned you on the night that Dwayne was shot? About an hour after it happened?’
‘Bastard,’ said Smith under his breath.
‘You know who it was?’
Smith nodded. ‘Reggie.’
‘Reggie Gayle? Dwayne’s number two?’
Smith nodded again.
‘There you go, then. That’s why I’m getting a bit nervous because how do I know that you and Reggie aren’t in this together?’
‘Because of what I’m going to do to Reggie. And to this bastard Marshal. That’s how you’ll know.’ He shook his head. ‘Reggie bastard Gayle. I’ll have his balls-’
‘I don’t want to know,’ interrupted Nightingale. ‘I just want to know that we’re good.’
Smith stared at him but said nothing.
‘So we’re good?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Good as gold,’ said Smith quietly.
Nightingale stood up. ‘Can I ask you a question, Perry?’
‘You can ask, that don’t mean I’ll answer.’
‘Proserpine. Do you know her?’
Smith frowned. ‘Proserpine?’
‘When you came after me, it was all about Dwayne?’
Smith’s frown deepened. ‘What are you talking about, Birdy?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Nightingale.
‘You need to chill,’ said Smith.
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ Nightingale headed for the door.
39
Graham Lord lived in an innocuous semi-detached house in Highgate, north London. Nightingale parked his MGB close to the driveway of the house and walked past a five-year-old Honda before pressing the doorbell. Lord opened the door and smiled. He was wearing a baggy denim shirt over brown corduroy trousers. He wore reading glasses and his hair was flecked with dandruff. He shook hands with Nightingale. Lord’s hand was limp and lifeless, warm and slightly damp. ‘You’re early,’ said Lord.
‘But you knew I would be, right?’ said Nightingale. ‘Being psychic and all.’
Lord smiled without warmth. ‘That’s an old joke, Mr Nightingale. Or can I call you Jack?’
‘Jack’s fine,’ said Nightingale, taking off his raincoat.
‘First names it is, then,’ he said, adding, ‘I’m Lordy to my friends.’ Lord hung the coat on a wooden rack, then led Nightingale down a woodchip-papered hall and into the front room. The curtains, made of thick dark-blue velvet, were drawn and a small Tiffany lamp cast red, green and yellow blocks of light across the ceiling. There was a bookcase on the wall opposite the window; it was full of books on the supernatural, although, unlike Nightingale’s own collection, they were mainly newish paperbacks.
The flooring was bare boards that had been sanded and polished and they gleamed in the multicoloured light. In the centre of the room was a circular rosewood table with four high-backed chairs around it. There was a small hi-fi on a table under the window, with a flickering candle on either side. New-age music was playing, soft strings with the tinkling of wind chimes.
‘Have you come far?’ asked Lord, waving Nightingale to the chair that had its back to the window.
‘Don’t you know?’ said Nightingale, sitting down.
‘You really are a cynic, aren’t you?’ said Lord. ‘I’m not a psychic; I’m a spiritualist.’
‘Actually, I’ve got an open mind,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here.’