Nightfall

58

Nightingale leaned against the wall, his hand on the yellow metal handrail. ‘What floor are we on now?’ he panted. There were piles of rubbish on every staircase, cockroaches and a strong smell of vomit and urine that got worse the higher they climbed.

‘Seventh,’ said Jenny. ‘And you wouldn’t be so tired if you didn’t smoke so much.’

‘Smoking’s good for you,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s packed with vitamins and minerals and has zero calories and fat.’ He gestured at the stairs. ‘It’s exercise that’s bad. Look what it’s doing to me.’

‘You should go to the gym more,’ said Jenny. ‘Maybe start running.’

‘I don’t need to lose weight,’ said Nightingale. He patted his stomach. ‘I’m not fat. You show me a fat smoker and I’ll show you a smoker who’s not inhaling.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ asked Jenny.

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he said, as he started up the stairs again. ‘I was just feeling defensive.’

‘When are you going to get over this lift thing?’

‘Never.’

‘Jack, lifts are just about the safest form of transport there is. You know how many people have died in lift accidents in the UK in the last twenty years? None. That’s how many.’

‘How do you know?’

Jenny grinned. ‘I don’t. I just made it up. But you never hear about lift accidents, do you?’

‘That’s because there’s a conspiracy between the media and the big lift companies.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘Can we just leave it that I don’t like lifts? It’s no big deal, Jenny. Besides, get stuck in a lift here and you’d starve to death before someone came out to help you.’

They reached the ninth floor and Nightingale held open the door to let Jenny go through first. The smell of vomit and urine was even stronger on the landing. The floor was bare concrete and the pale green walls were streaked with dirt. A council notice warned residents not to leave their rubbish in the stairwell. ‘That’s the flat,’ said Jenny, pointing at a door to their right.

‘You knock, check it’s him, then I’ll step in.’

‘Jack, are you sure this is a good idea? We’ve lied our way into the building and he’s not going to be happy to see us.’

‘Please, Jenny. Just do it.’

Jenny walked to the door and pressed the bell. Nightingale flattened himself against the wall. The door opened and Nightingale held his breath.

‘Mr Harrison?’ asked Jenny.

‘That’s me,’ said a male voice. ‘You’re from the phone company?’

‘George Arthur Harrison?’

‘I said already, that’s me.’

Nightingale pushed himself away from the wall and put his hand against the door so that Harrison couldn’t close it. ‘Mr Harrison, I need a few minutes of your time,’ he said.

Harrison was short and stick-thin, wearing a stained T-shirt that seemed to be several sizes too big for him, and brown cargo pants that had been turned up at the bottom. It was as if he’d shrunk within his clothes. ‘Who are you?’ He was balding with a greasy comb-over that barely concealed his liver-spotted scalp. From behind him came the sound of a TV show, Jerry Springer or Trisha. The audience were howling and jeering.

‘My name’s Nightingale, Jack Nightingale.’

Harrison tried to shut the door, but Nightingale was too strong for him. ‘I’ll call the police,’ said Harrison.

‘Jack,’ said Jenny, ‘maybe we should go.’

‘Just a few minutes, Mr Harrison. Then we’ll go. I promise.’

Harrison continued to push at the door but realised eventually that it wasn’t a contest he was ever going to win. He stepped back, holding up his hands defensively. Nightingale saw that his nails were bitten to the quick. ‘Please, just leave me alone.’

‘You know who I am, then?’ asked Nightingale.

‘You’re the boy, the Nightingale boy. Of course I know. You think I could ever forget?’

‘I want to talk about what happened to my parents,’ said Nightingale. ‘The accident.’

Harrison’s shoulders slumped and he turned to walk down the hallway.

Nightingale looked at Jenny. ‘Do you want to wait outside?’

She shook her head fiercely. ‘I’m coming with you,’ she said.

‘You don’t have to.’

‘I want to.’

Nightingale nodded and followed Harrison. The hallway was the same drab green as the corridor outside. A bare bulb hung from a frayed wire and there was a stack of unopened bills on a side table beneath a cracked mirror. As he passed it, Harrison adjusted his comb-over. Jenny shared a smile with Nightingale.

The living room was a mess. There were two red plastic sofas, one piled high with magazines, most of which seemed to be pornographic, and the other with old takeaway cartons. The only item of value in the flat was a large LCD television. Through an open door, Nightingale saw a filthy kitchen, with a greasy gas stove and a sink full of dirty dishes.

‘How long have you lived here, George?’ asked Nightingale. ‘What brought you to London?’

Harrison shrugged but didn’t answer. He went over to a door that led out to a small concrete balcony and pulled it open. A bicycle missing its front wheel was leaning against a box of empty vodka bottles.

Jenny stood watching the television. A young woman who must have weighed at least twenty stone was shrieking at a spotty-faced man, accusing him of fathering a child with her sister as the audience screamed and shook their fists.

Harrison went out onto the balcony, Nightingale behind him. The shabby council flat had a stunning view of the river Thames, with the Houses of Parliament ahead and the London Eye to the right. It was a cloudless day and they could see for miles. High overhead, passenger jets were lining up to land at Heathrow in the west.

The wind ruffled Harrison’s comb-over but he didn’t seem to notice. He wiped his face with his right hand. ‘Why, after all these years?’ he asked. ‘Why now?’ His comb-over flapped like a flag.

‘I need to talk to you,’ said Nightingale. He took out his Marlboro and offered one to Harrison. ‘About what happened to my parents.’

‘I don’t smoke,’ Harrison said.

Nightingale lit a cigarette. ‘We’re a dying breed, smokers,’ he said.

‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said Harrison, his face a blank mask, his voice a dull monotone. He vaulted over the side of the balcony. Nightingale froze, the cigarette on the way to his mouth. He flinched as he heard the body slam into the concrete nine floors below.

Jenny appeared behind him. ‘My God, Jack, what have you done?’

Nightingale backed away, the cigarette forgotten in his hand. ‘He just jumped,’ he said. ‘We were talking and he jumped.’

‘He jumped?’ said Jenny. ‘Why would he jump?’

‘He told me I was going to hell and he jumped.’ He turned to her. ‘You heard him, right? You heard what he said?’

‘I didn’t hear anything. I just saw him go over the edge.’

‘Jenny, he told me I was going to hell. You must have heard him say that! You were standing right there.’

‘Jack, I’m sorry…’ She was shaking as she folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’m going to throw up,’ she said.

‘We’ve got to get out of here – now,’ he said.

‘You’re not going to call the police?’

‘And tell them what? That he took one look at me and jumped to his death? They’re not going to believe that.’

‘But it’s the truth.’

‘They’ll assume I pushed him, Jenny.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘We have to go. We have to wipe everything we touched and then we have to go.’

‘What?’

‘Forensics. We have to wipe everything we touched to remove DNA and fingerprints and we have to do it now. Do you understand?’

Jenny stared at him blankly.

Nightingale grabbed her shoulders. ‘Jenny, I need you with me on this. We have to clean up and go – now.’

‘Okay,’ she said.