Nightfall

19

Nightingale lit a cigarette as he steered the MGB with one hand. The vicar hadn’t been much help but, then, Nightingale hadn’t expected he would be. He hadn’t gone to the graveyard for spiritual guidance. Truth be told, he had no idea why he’d felt the need to be there. His questions could only be answered by his parents, and they were dead. Dead and buried.

He wound down his window and blew smoke as he drove. There was no proof that he was adopted. It might turn out to be some perverse mistake, that Ainsley Gosling had simply been wrong, or that he had chosen Nightingale as the victim of some beyond-the-grave hoax. Fathers didn’t sell the souls of their children to the devil, not in the twentieth or twenty-first century. Not in any century. But until Hoyle came back with the results of the DNA analysis, Nightingale had no way of knowing whether Gosling really had been his biological father.

A blue light flashed in his rear-view mirror and Nightingale swore. He hadn’t been speeding but the car had woven a little while he was lighting the cigarette. The siren blipped and Nightingale swore again. He indicated, pulled over and switched off the engine. The police car pulled up behind him and two constables got out. Nightingale gritted his teeth and stubbed out his cigarette. They’d smell the alcohol on his breath. He leaned over, flicked open the glove compartment and groped for the packet of Wrigley’s chewing gum he always kept there. He unwrapped two sticks and slotted them into his mouth, then opened the door and climbed out, keeping his hands where the officers could see them. ‘Sorry, guys, I wasn’t speeding, was I?’

The younger of the two was in his mid-twenties and holding a breathalyser machine. The older man did the talking. ‘Have you been drinking, sir?’ he asked.

‘A few beers, a few hours ago,’ said Nightingale. Even with the spearmint gum he knew he wouldn’t get away with a complete denial. He took out his wallet and showed them his private-investigator identification. ‘Guys, I know this won’t cut me any slack, but I used to be in the job.’

‘If you were in the job, you’d know there’s no slack to be cut,’ said the policeman. ‘We’re going to need a sample of your breath to ascertain if you’ve been drinking. If you’re unable or unwilling to provide such a sample we’ll take you to the station where you’ll have to give a blood or urine sample.’

Nightingale raised his hands in surrender. He knew there was no point in arguing. ‘No problem,’ he said.

The younger policeman handed him the breathalyser unit and showed him what to do. Nightingale took a deep breath, then blew slowly into the tube. A red light winked on accusingly and the officer grinned triumphantly.

The older man told Nightingale he was being arrested but Nightingale wasn’t listening. It was his own fault, no one had forced him to drink and drive, and now he was going to have to pay the penalty for his stupidity.

‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said the younger policeman, putting a hand on his shoulder. His voice was cold and flat, devoid of emotion.

‘What?’ said Nightingale.

‘I said we’ll secure your car and drive you to the station, sir. Please give me the keys.’ His voice had returned to normal.

Nightingale shook his head. ‘What did you say just then?’

The younger constable looked at his colleague. ‘Drunk as a skunk,’ he said.

‘I’m not drunk,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve been drinking but I’m not drunk. What did you say about me going to hell?’

‘There’s no need for offensive language, sir,’ said the older policeman, taking hold of Nightingale’s left arm.

‘I wasn’t being offensive,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just want to know what he said.’

‘He said we’re going to have to secure your vehicle. You can come back and get it once we’ve done the paperwork at the station and you’re fit to drive. Now, please don’t give us any more trouble.’ He tightened his grip.

Nightingale said nothing. He handed over his keys and let them lead him to their car.