Nightmare

32

Nightingale drove from the graveyard to Brixton. He was reluctant to leave the MGB on the street but it was late and he couldn’t find a multi-storey car park. He decided to leave it close to Brixton police station in the hope that the proximity of the boys in blue would be a deterrent to any would-be car thief. Just to make sure he took a printed sign out of the glove box and left it on the dashboard: ‘BATTERY DEAD — AA ON THE WAY.’

It was a ten-minute walk to the Flamingo and on the way Nightingale was asked by three different black teenagers if he was looking to buy drugs. The third dealer couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old and was riding a BMX bike. He was wearing a black Puffa jacket and gleaming white Nikes.

‘Weed, crack, blow?’ he said to Nightingale as he pulled up next to him.

‘How old are you?’

‘How old are you?’ said the teenager.

‘Old enough not to be buying drugs from someone I don’t know,’ Nightingale said. ‘How do I know you’re not an undercover cop?’ He carried on walking and the teenager followed him on the bike.

‘I’m a kid,’ he said. ‘They don’t have kids as cops.’

‘How do I know that? Maybe they’ve got a special kids unit.’

‘Why would I be a cop and try to sell you drugs?’

‘Entrapment,’ said Nightingale.

‘You’re fucking crazy,’ said the teenager.

Nightingale stopped and studied the boy. ‘You’re really selling drugs?’

‘Sure. What do you want?’

‘But you’re not carrying, right?’

‘Course not. You give me the money.’ He nodded over at the other side of the road where another teenager in a blue Puffa jacket was sitting on a bike. ‘He’ll give you what you want.’

‘Clever,’ said Nightingale.

‘What are you, Five-O?’ asked the teenager suspiciously.

‘If I was a cop I’d have busted you already for dealing,’ said Nightingale. He took out his wallet, extracted a fifty-pound note and moved as if he was going to give it to the teenager. ‘You’re out every night?’

The teenager grinned at the banknote. ‘Rain or snow.’ He reached for the note but Nightingale snatched it away.

‘What about when that guy was shot last year?’

‘This is Brixton,’ said the teenager, standing up on the pedals of his bike. ‘People get shot all the time.’

‘July the twentieth. Dwayne Robinson. Dealer from Clapham.’

‘Oh yeah, him,’ said the teenager. He mimed firing a gun at his own head. ‘He’s not dead, though, right? I heard he was in a coma. Brain dead or summfink.’

‘That’s changed,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’s dead.’

The teenager shrugged. ‘Shit happens,’ he said. He nodded at the fifty-pound note. ‘You gonna give me that or not?’

‘Where were you when he was shot?’

‘You think I did it? You’re mad, man.’

Nightingale chuckled. ‘I’m just asking if you know what happened. You’re a smart kid and I bet you keep your ear to the ground.’

The teenager nodded at the banknote. ‘You gonna give me that?’

‘If you’ve got something to tell me, sure.’

The teenager held out a gloved hand. ‘Cash up front.’

‘Info first.’

The teenager shook his head. His eyes were hard and his jaw was clamped shut. Nightingale gave him the money. The teenager pocketed it and gripped his handlebars as if he was about to take off. ‘The shooter was a white guy.’

‘Yeah, I know that. Did you see it?’

‘Nah, but I heard the shot. It was around the corner from the Flamingo.’

‘Yeah, I know that too.’

‘Do you know the gun jammed?’ Nightingale raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, he shot Dwayne in the head and then went to shoot him again but the gun jammed and he ran off.’

‘How do you know that?’

The teenager tapped the side of his nose. ‘I got my sources.’

‘But did your source see it or did he get it from someone else?’

The teenager shrugged. ‘Maybe he saw it; maybe he spoke to someone who saw it. But that’s the word. One shot in the head and then he was gonna shoot him again but the gun didn’t fire and he ran off and got picked up by a bike.’

‘A motorbike?’

‘No, a BMX. What do you think, man?’

‘Do you know what sort of bike?’

‘A trail bike. That’s what I was told. Leathers and a full-face helmet and off they went.’

‘And does anyone have any idea who did it? Turf war?’

The teenager pulled a face. ‘Dwayne never did nothing on our manor. He knew there’d be a war if he did.’

‘But there’d be no problems with him going to the Flamingo?’

‘Business is business and social is social,’ said the teenager. ‘Providing he don’t try to sell gear here no one’s going to care where he drinks.’

‘Okay, thanks. What’s your name?’

‘Jason,’ said the teenager.

‘You take care, Jason.’ He took out his wallet and gave him one of his business cards. ‘If you hear anything else, you give me a call. I’ve more fifties with your name on them.’

Jason slipped the card in the pocket of his jacket, winked at Nightingale, and pedalled away.