Nightmare

34

The upstairs bar was hot and airless and the music was loud enough to be almost painful. There was a dance floor at the far end of the room above which a giant mirrored ball was slowly turning. There were several dozen men dancing together and Nightingale couldn’t help but notice that they were all younger, better-looking and fitter than he was. Sweat was already beading on his forehead so he took off his raincoat and slung it over his shoulder. He pushed his way to the bar, which ran the full length of the room. Two young black men in tight white T-shirts and even tighter denim shorts were mixing cocktails as they swivelled their hips to the music and another was pulling glasses out of a dishwasher. Nightingale managed to catch the eye of an Asian barmaid with waist-length pigtails and mouthed ‘Corona’. He took his drink and managed to find a space close to a fire exit. To the left of the dance floor was a female DJ, a young black girl with a shaved head and giant hooped earrings, who looked as if she was in the grip of a perpetual epileptic fit. Any idea of showing Robinson’s photograph to the customers had gone out of the window. It was far too noisy to start asking questions and he doubted that they were the same crowd that would turn up for salsa night.

As he sipped his lager a middle-aged man with receding hair and a ponytail appeared at his shoulder. He was wearing a pale blue V-neck sweater with damp stains under the arms and leather jeans. He was also holding a bottle of Corona and he held it up and smiled at Nightingale. ‘Snap,’ he said.

Nightingale nodded and raised his bottle. ‘Breakfast of champions,’ he said.

He looked across at the dance floor. In the middle was a young punk girl in black leather, her head lowered but her black eyes staring straight at him. Proserpine. Her black and white collie was sitting next to her, its tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. Nightingale frowned. There was no way that a dog would have been allowed into the bar. Two men moved together to hug in front of her, and when they moved apart Proserpine and the dog had gone. Nightingale blinked, not sure if he’d really seen her or if he’d imagined it.

‘Do you want to dance?’ asked the man, moving his hips suggestively.

‘Not really my thing,’ said Nightingale. The music seemed to increase in volume so he put his head closer to the man’s ear. He caught a whiff of expensive aftershave. ‘Any idea where I can smoke?’ he asked.

The man winked and slipped his arm around Nightingale’s waist. ‘You don’t waste any time, do you?’ He nodded at the sign to the Gents. ‘We can do it in there,’ he said.

Nightingale frowned, then he laughed when he realised what the man meant. He fished out his pack of Marlboro and showed it to him and the man laughed too.

‘Ah, wrong end of the stick,’ he said, releasing his grip on Nightingale. He pointed to a doorway on the other side of the bar. ‘There’s a terrace upstairs.’

Nightingale gave him a thumbs up then threaded his way to the door and up a flight of stairs leading to a small decked terrace that overlooked the alley at the rear of the building. There was a brick wall around the edge of the terrace and at each corner there was a large propane patio heater with orange flames flickering under black metal canopies.

In the middle of the terrace were a dozen or so smokers huddled around two waist-high tables. The smokers had split into sexes with four women standing around one table and the men at the other. Nightingale lit a cigarette. A blonde waitress dressed all in black came up the stairs carrying a tray and she began collecting empty glasses and bottles.

‘Busy night?’ he asked.

‘Busy every night,’ she said. She had an East European accent.

They both looked up as they heard a helicopter fly overhead, playing a searchlight over the rooftops.

‘Are you Polish?’ he asked the waitress.

‘Hungarian,’ she said.

‘Sorry.’

‘Sorry I’m Hungarian? Why? You don’t like Hungarians?’

‘No, I meant I’m sorry I was wrong.’

Her face broke into a grin, showing uneven greyish teeth. ‘I was joking with you.’

‘Okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘You got me. How long have you been working here?’

‘A year,’ she said. ‘Daytime I study computers.’ She finished loading her tray and was about to head downstairs when he pulled out the photograph of Robinson and Smith and showed it to her.

He tapped Robinson’s face. ‘This guy here, he was at the salsa night last July. He was shot outside.’

She bit down on her lower lip as she studied the photograph. ‘I remember, yes.’

A siren burst into life in the distance. An ambulance.

‘You remember him? Or you remember him being shot?’

‘Both,’ said the waitress. ‘Salsa night.’

‘Was he dancing?’

She shook her head. ‘He was up here.’

‘Smoking?’

She shook her head again. ‘That’s why I remember. He was standing over there,’ she said and gestured at the far corner of the terrace where two middle-aged men in matching camouflage shirts and cargo pants were French kissing. ‘He asked for a bottle of champagne, Cristal, which is why I remember. And he gave me a big tip.’

Nightingale put the picture away. ‘You told the police this?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, they spoke to all the staff. They wanted to know if he’d been with someone but he was here on his own.’

‘He didn’t talk to anyone?’

‘He chatted to two men for a while but they weren’t with him. I saw them shaking hands and then they left.’

‘And you told the police that?’

She nodded again. ‘They showed me some photographs but I didn’t know their names. They do drink here sometimes, though.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I think they sell drugs, you know.’

‘But they left first, right?’

‘I’m not sure if they left or if they were just up here to smoke and then went downstairs.’

‘But after they went downstairs, Dwayne stayed here?’

‘For a while. He kept looking at his watch.’

‘So he was waiting for someone?’

‘I think so. That’s what it looked like.’

‘And then he left and that’s when he got shot?’

She shrugged. ‘I guess so. I was down in the main bar when he left. The bottle was still half-full. I remember leaving it there for an hour just in case he came back, but he didn’t.’

Nightingale thanked her and gave her a twenty-pound note. He finished his lager and cigarette and then left the nightclub and headed back to his car.

There was a young couple lying in sleeping bags in a shop doorway, their arms wrapped around each other. By their feet was a paper cup with loose change in it and a hand-written cardboard sign. Nightingale jumped as he saw what was written on the cardboard in capital letters: ‘PLEASE HELP ME, JACK.’ He took a step back and slipped off the pavement. A black cab missed him by inches, the slipstream tugging at his raincoat. Nightingale stepped back onto the pavement, his heart racing. He looked again at the piece of cardboard. It said: ‘HOMELESS — PLEASE HELP’ and there was a smiley face.

The girl opened her eyes and sneered at him. ‘What are you looking at, pervert?’

‘What?’ said Nightingale. ‘Nothing.’ He put his hand into his pocket, pulled out a handful of change and dropped it into the paper cup. The girl closed her eyes and snuggled up to her boyfriend.

As Nightingale walked away he phoned Perry Smith and asked him for Dwayne Robinson’s mobile phone number.

‘What, that’s your plan?’ said Smith. ‘Phone up the dead guy and ask him who shot him? It’s no wonder you stopped being a cop.’

‘Very funny,’ said Nightingale. ‘He made a call just before he was shot. I want to find out who he spoke to.’

‘You can do that?’

‘Yeah, Perry, I can do that. Now give me the number and stop wasting my seventy-two hours.’

‘No can do,’ said Perry. ‘He used throwaways, and he made a big thing about it. He didn’t just toss the Sim card; he’d dump the phone as well. He said that these days they can track a phone no matter what Sim card’s in it.’

‘So you don’t know the number of the phone he had that night?’

‘That’s what I just said, innit?’

‘Shit,’ said Nightingale. The line went dead.

Nightingale waited until he was back in his Bayswater flat before phoning Dan Evans.

‘Hell’s bells, it’s after midnight,’ groaned Evans.

‘Were you asleep?’

‘I’m on the school run tomorrow because the missus isn’t feeling well. So yes, I was asleep.’

‘Sorry, mate, but I didn’t want to call you in the office, me being persona non grata and all.’

Evans sighed. ‘What do you want?’

‘Dwayne Robinson had a mobile phone on him when he was killed.’

‘So?’

‘It was a throwaway, a pay-as-you-go. I need the number.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t ask and I won’t tell,’ said Nightingale.

‘Please don’t tell me you’re going to be playing fast and loose with the Data Protection Act.’

‘That’s why I said not to ask. Have you got the number?’

‘Not with me, no. I’ll give you a bell tomorrow.’

‘You’re a star, Dan. Sweet dreams.’