Nightmare

49

Duggan blew smoke across the street, a look of contentment on his face. He looked at the cigarette. ‘My wife’ll kill me if she finds out I had a smoke.’ He moved aside to allow two men in paint-stained overalls to push through the door into the pub.

‘One cigarette’s not going to kill you, mate. And neither’s one whisky. Everything in moderation.’

They both looked to the left as a police siren started up and their heads swivelled as a car went by with two uniformed officers inside. The driver looked as if he was barely in his twenties and the officer in the passenger seat was borderline obese, with rolls of fat protruding from under his stab vest.

‘How many a day are you on now?’ asked Duggan. ‘You were two packs a day when you were in the job.’

‘It varies,’ said Nightingale. He shrugged. ‘Everybody dies, Colin. I’d rather die happy than die healthy.’

Duggan laughed ruefully. ‘I like that. Die healthy.’

‘It’s true. Lots of very healthy people die.’

‘Sophie’s father, for one,’ said Duggan. He grinned. ‘He was in the prime of life when you threw him through his office window.’

‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. He took a long drag on his cigarette.

The two men stood in silence for a few minutes, people-watching. Queensway was always busy and was one of the most multicultural areas of London, and while they smoked they heard conversations in Chinese, Arabic, French, Italian, Japanese and half a dozen that Nightingale didn’t recognise. There were students, tourists, workers heading home, couples heading out, mates on the way to the pub or a restaurant. He watched two African women walk by in brightly coloured long dresses with headdresses made from the same material, laughing loudly at something one of them said. The one closest to Nightingale saw that he was watching her and she flashed him a beaming smile. Nightingale grinned back and winked. As the two women walked away the one he’d winked at turned and gave him another smile.

‘You seeing anyone these days?’ asked Duggan.

‘Nah,’ said Nightingale.

‘Why not? You were a bit of a lad when you were in the job. There was that blonde sergeant over at Harrow Road. And the dog handler, the cute one. You put yourself about a bit, back in the day.’

Nightingale laughed. ‘Yeah, that’s true.’

‘You need to settle down, get yourself a wife. How old are you now?’

‘Thirty-three.’

‘You’re not getting any younger.’

‘Who is?’ said Nightingale. He smoked his cigarette. ‘You ever think about death?’ he asked quietly.

‘I’m a cop. What do you think? How many bodies did you come across when you were in the job? As a bobby you’ll see one a month. Accidents, suicides, murders. In my first year on the beat I saw half a dozen pensioners who’d swallowed all their sleeping tablets and as many junkies who’d overdosed. Death’s part of the job, you know that.’

‘I meant your own death. Dying.’

Duggan chuckled ruefully. ‘I didn’t until this diabetes thing hit me,’ he said. ‘But the doc read me the riot act and didn’t pull any punches.’

‘So what do you think happens to you after you die?’

Duggan turned to look at him. ‘Bloody hell, what’s brought this on?’

‘It’s the biggest question of all time, isn’t it? It’s the only question that matters and yet it’s the one question you never hear asked. Turn on the news and it’s about the economy and politics and conflict, and the one thing that really matters is never mentioned. What happens to us when we die? Is this it? Is this all there is?’

‘People don’t talk about it because they’re scared.’

‘You think?’ said Nightingale.

‘It’s easier to sweat the small stuff, right? Keeps you from thinking about the big stuff because the big stuff is very, very scary.’

Nightingale didn’t say anything. He smoked his cigarette and stared at Whiteleys Shopping Centre on the other side of the road.

Duggan looked over at him, the cigarette on the way to his mouth. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You sure?’

Nightingale laughed but he could hear the unease in his voice. He smoked his cigarette.

‘I’m serious, Jack. You look a bit tightly wound, truth be told.’

‘I’ve a lot on my plate at the moment. Did you hear about the fire at my house?’

‘I heard there was an arsonist trying to burn your place down while you were inside. And you’re doing your old trick of changing the subject when anyone asks you an awkward question. So I’ll ask you straight out — are you thinking about topping yourself??’

Nightingale’s jaw dropped. ‘Am I what?’

Duggan turned to face him. ‘You’re showing all the signs. You’re under stress, you’re drinking, you’re talking about death and dying. And you’re two years out of the job. A lot of former cops end up killing themselves, you know that.’

‘Come on.?.?.’

‘I’m serious, Jack. You wanting that kid’s doll, that’s the last straw.’ He nodded at Nightingale’s coat pocket. ‘That’s irrational, that is.’

‘I swear, cross my heart and all that, I’m not planning to top myself.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m amazed you’d even think it.’

‘If you need anyone to talk to, you call me,’ said Duggan earnestly.

‘Colin.?.?.’

Duggan gripped Nightingale’s shoulder, tightly. ‘Listen to me, you stupid bastard. I don’t know what’s going through your mind but I’ve got a really bad feeling about this. Promise you’ll call me.’

‘Hell’s bells, Colin, I promise. But it’s not going to happen. Topping myself is the absolute last thing on my mind.’

Duggan’s nails bit into Nightingale’s shoulder, then he relaxed and took his hand away. He flicked ash on the pavement. ‘See what happens when you get me drinking and smoking again? I go and get all emotional.’ He took a final drag on his cigarette and dropped the butt onto the ground.

‘One for the road?’ asked Nightingale, doing the same with his cigarette.

Duggan snorted softly. ‘You really are the devil, aren’t you?’ he said.