Nightfall

43

They left him in the interview room for the best part of an hour, with just a cup of canteen coffee. Nightingale had asked if it was okay to smoke and a sullen uniformed constable had said no. He hadn’t been arrested so he was free to leave whenever he wanted, but there were questions that had to be answered and Nightingale decided it would be best to get it over with. They hadn’t searched him or taken his mobile phone so he rang Jenny and said he’d be later than expected. She wanted to know where he was. ‘It’s complicated,’ he said. ‘I’ll explain when I get back.’ Jenny pressed him for more details but Nightingale heard footsteps in the corridor. The door opened and Superintendent Chalmers, in full uniform and holding a clipboard, walked in. Nightingale hung up.

‘Calling your brief?’ asked Chalmers. Dan Evans and Neil Derbyshire, both holding notebooks and ballpoint pens, were behind him.

‘I didn’t think I needed a lawyer,’ said Nightingale. ‘They told me they just wanted a chat.’

‘A chat it is, then,’ said Chalmers. He sat down opposite Nightingale. Evans took the chair next to him while Derbyshire moved the one that was beside Nightingale and placed it by the door so that all three policemen were facing him around a metal table that had been bolted to the floor. On a shelf on the wall above the table there was a digital voice recorder and in the far upper corner of the room a small CCTV camera.

Chalmers nodded at Evans, who switched on the recorder. ‘Superintendent Ronald Chalmers, interviewing Jack Nightingale.’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘It is now a quarter past two in the afternoon on Friday the twentieth of November and with me are…’ He nodded at Evans.

‘Detective Inspector Dan Evans.’

‘Detective Constable Neil Derbyshire.’

‘If this is just a chat, why the recording?’ asked Nightingale.

‘It’s procedure,’ said Chalmers.

‘Can I smoke?’

‘No, you can’t,’ said the superintendent.

‘But I’m not under arrest?’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘I’m free to go whenever I want?’

‘You’re helping us with our enquiries into the death of Barry O’Brien.’

‘Just so we’re all clear on that,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m here to help.’

‘Date of birth,’ said Chalmers.

‘What?’

‘Your date of birth, for the record.’

‘I’m thirty-two, thirty three on Friday the twenty-seventh. That’s a week from today.’

Evans and Derbyshire scribbled in their notebooks.

‘Don’t feel you have to get me a present,’ said Nightingale.

‘What were you doing in Barry O’Brien’s house this morning?’

‘I wanted to talk to him.’

‘So you broke in?’

‘The front door was open.’

‘You invited yourself in? Is that it?’

‘The door was open. I pushed it and it opened. I went upstairs and found the body.’

‘Why did you go upstairs?’

‘To see if he was there.’

‘But you’d already called his phone so you knew he wasn’t in the house.’

‘I thought he might be asleep.’

Chalmers sat back. ‘So why didn’t you just go away and come back another time?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just thought…’

‘Yes? You thought what?’

‘I thought that maybe something was wrong.’

‘So why didn’t you call the police? Why did you break into his house?’

‘I didn’t break in,’ said Nightingale. ‘I already told you, the front door was open. Then I heard the flies.’

‘The flies?’

‘He’d been dead for a while. He was covered with flies. I heard the buzzing from the hallway.’

‘And what did you want to talk to Mr O’Brien about?’

Nightingale sighed. It was a difficult question to answer.

‘You do understand the question, Mr Nightingale?’

‘Yes. I just wanted to talk to him.’

‘About what?’

‘About what happened to Robbie.’

‘You’re referring to Inspector Robert Hoyle?’

‘Robbie Hoyle,’ corrected Nightingale. ‘Nobody called him Robert.’

‘You wanted to talk to Mr O’Brien because he was responsible for the death of your friend, Inspector Hoyle?’

‘I guess so.’

‘You guess so?’

Nightingale threw up his hands. ‘You make it sound like there was something sinister going on. I just wanted to talk to him.’

‘About what, specifically?’

‘About what happened. How Robbie died.’

‘But there’s no mystery as to what happened. It was a road-traffic accident. What did you expect Mr O’Brien to say? Did you want him to apologise? Did you want him to express remorse?’

‘No,’ said Nightingale, flatly.

‘And when he wasn’t remorseful, did that make you angry?’

‘He was dead when I got there,’ said Nightingale.

‘You’re making a habit of walking in on dead people, aren’t you?’ said Chalmers.

Nightingale didn’t reply.

‘Come on, Jack, don’t get all coy with me. You found your aunt and uncle dead, didn’t you? Just a few days ago. Up in Manchester.’

‘My uncle killed my aunt and then he hanged himself. I was supposed to be having Sunday lunch with them.’

‘According to the Manchester cops, you smashed a window to get in. With a spade.’

‘There was blood on the cat,’ said Nightingale.

Chalmers looked confused. ‘What?’

‘There was blood on the cat and on the cat flap. So I knew there was something wrong. Then I saw my aunt through the window, lying on the kitchen floor.’

‘And again you didn’t wait for the police.’

‘What do you expect?’ snapped Nightingale. ‘I call 999 and when and if I get through some civilian arsehole asks me a series of questions on his check list before telling me that someone will be with me at some unspecified time and then I sit on my arse and wait until they bother to show up? You know how piss poor the police response times are these days. I saw blood on the door and my aunt on the floor so I did what I had to do and I’m damn well not going to apologise to you or anyone else for that.’

‘And you don’t think it’s a bit coincidental, discovering three bodies in less than a week?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yes, you do, Jack. You know there’s something strange going on here. And I think you’re not telling us the whole story.’

‘There’s no story to tell.’

‘The thing is, you’ve always been a bit of a vigilante, haven’t you? That’s why you had to leave the force.’

Nightingale sat back in his chair and folded his arms. He knew there was no point in rising to the bait – Chalmers was only trying to provoke him.

‘You threw Simon Underwood out of his office window, didn’t you? And got away without even a slap on the wrist. Is that what you think, Nightingale, that you’re some sort of masked avenger who can go around murdering at will?’

‘Barry O’Brien committed suicide.’

‘And I suppose Underwood threw himself out of his office window?’

Nightingale said nothing.

‘Were you drinking before you went to see Mr O’Brien?’

‘Of course not,’ said Nightingale. ‘It was first thing in the morning.’

‘Because you do have a drink problem, don’t you?’

‘Bollocks.’

‘You’re due to appear in court on a drink-driving charge next month, aren’t you?’

‘I had a few beers and was stupid enough to drive,’ said Nightingale. ‘That doesn’t qualify as a drink problem.’

Chalmers leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Look, Jack, I understand how you feel. I understand how you felt about Underwood, and I know there were no tears shed for him after what he did to his daughter. And I understand how you felt about Robbie’s death. He didn’t deserve to die. He was a husband and a dad and a good cop, and some bastard who wasn’t watching what he was doing ran him over. I understand that you’d be angry – hell, I’m angry. And I could see that you’d want revenge, because we both know the courts won’t do anything. I can understand why you’d want to hurt O’Brien. Anyone could.’

‘It was an accident, you said.’

‘And you’re okay with that?’

‘Accidents happen,’ said Nightingale.

‘They do around you, that’s for sure,’ said Chalmers.