Nightmare

5

Nightingale caught Evans looking wistfully at his cigarette and he offered him the pack.

‘The wife’ll kill me,’ Evans said.

‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ said Nightingale. They were standing in the car park at the rear of the building, hidden from the street by a high brick wall topped by razor wire. A blue metal gate rattled open to allow two detectives to leave in an unmarked Vauxhall Vectra.

Evans grinned and took a cigarette. Nightingale lit it for him and Evans inhaled with relish and then slowly blew smoke up at the sky. ‘You know, if it wasn’t for bronchitis, cancer and heart disease, cigarettes would be great.’

‘All that stuff is down to your genes more than the ciggies,’ said Nightingale. The metal gate rattled shut.

‘You believe that?’

Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke before replying. ‘If cigarettes caused cancer, everyone who smoked would get cancer. And they don’t. Less than fifteen per cent of smokers get lung cancer. Eighty-five per cent don’t. So how can they say that cigarettes cause cancer?’

‘Because the incidence of lung cancer is greater among smokers.’

‘Everybody dies, mate,’ said Nightingale.

‘That’s certainly true.’ Evans grinned at Nightingale. ‘And it feels good, doesn’t it? Smoking?’

‘We wouldn’t do it if it didn’t,’ agreed Nightingale. He took another long pull on the cigarette and held the smoke deep in his lungs. He could almost feel the nicotine leaching into his blood, coursing through his veins, revitalising him. Evans was right. Smoking did feel good. He exhaled slowly and watched the smoke gradually dissipate. He looked over at Evans, who was doing the same, and they giggled like naughty schoolboys. ‘When was your first ciggie?’ asked Nightingale.

‘At school, where else? The proverbial bike sheds. I was thirteen. Benson amp; Hedges. Coughed like nobody’s business and I was nearly sick but I was hooked. You?’

‘I was a late starter,’ said Nightingale. ‘Sixteen. Down at the pub. Back in the days when they didn’t throw you in prison for smoking in a bar.’

‘Strictly speaking, it’s only a fine,’ said Evans. He flicked ash onto the ground. ‘First brand?’

Nightingale held up his cigarette. ‘Marlboro,’ he said. ‘Red pack. It’s the only brand I smoke.’

‘I’ll take whatever I’m given,’ said Evans. ‘I figure if I don’t actually buy any then I can say that I’ve given up.’ He chuckled. ‘Wife hates the smell. I’ll have to chew a pack of gum before I go home.’ He sighed and put the cigarette between his lips again.

They smoked in silence for a while. A TSG van drove into the car park and a group of officers piled out and headed for the canteen, laughing and joking. Two uniformed constables in fluorescent jackets came out of the station, nodded at Evans and walked over to the wall, where they began smoking.

‘Is Chalmers serious about this Robinson thing?’ asked Nightingale.

Evans shrugged. ‘He wants you for something,’ he said. ‘Robinson will do.’

‘He’s clutching at straws. Why would I want to shoot a Brixton gangbanger?’

‘I guess he figures that if he keeps on throwing shit at you, something’s going to stick eventually. He hated you when you were a cop and he hates you even more now that you’re a private eye.’

‘But he’s got nothing. Just Robinson saying my name.’

‘But that’s the thing, isn’t it?’ said Evans. ‘If you’ve never met Robinson, why would he do that? He’s brain dead, right, so why’s he going to say your name?’

Nightingale blew smoke. ‘It’s a mystery,’ he said.

‘But you say you never met him,’ pressed Evans. ‘Presumably he didn’t pluck your name out of the air.’

‘You weren’t there.’

‘No, but I was there last night when we were called in.’

‘What happened?’

‘Robinson started talking. No brain activity, but the words were coming out of his mouth. Your name. Jack Nightingale. The doctor told the woodentop sitting outside and he called his boss; his boss ran your name through the computer and Chalmers got a call.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Which is when I got dragged out of bed just as the missus was about to give me my weekly treat.’

‘Sorry about that,’ said Nightingale.

‘Yeah, not as sorry as I was,’ said Evans. ‘Anyway, Chalmers drags me down to Lambeth and we go into the ICU and, sure enough, there’s Robinson saying your name. Chalmers gets all excited and books an armed response team for first thing this morning.’

‘You know, with the way the Met’s budget has been cut you’d think he’d have better things to spend his money on.’

‘Yeah, well, with you it’s personal, I think. And you can understand why, can’t you? Just look at the body count racking up around you. That’s just a coincidence, is it?’

‘Chalmers doesn’t seem to think so.’

‘He’s got a point, though, hasn’t he? People close to you seem to have a nasty habit of either killing themselves or being killed. So what’s going on? Are you cursed, is that it? Some sort of Jonah.’ He laughed but stopped when he saw the frown on Nightingale’s face. ‘You do know what’s happening, don’t you? It’s not a coincidence, right?’

‘Dan, you don’t want to know. And even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’

‘Try me.’

Nightingale sighed. The officers in fluorescent jackets started laughing and one of them looked over in his direction. Nightingale sensed that they were laughing about him and he turned his back on them. He looked at Evans and smiled. ‘Okay, you want to know, so I’ll tell you.’ He took a drag on his cigarette, blew smoke, and then shrugged. ‘You know that my biological father killed himself. But what you don’t know is that Ainsley Gosling was a Satanist. A devil-worshipper. And he sold my soul to a devil, a bitch by the name of Proserpine. I managed to get my soul back from her but then it turns out that Gosling also sold the soul of the sister I never knew I had, so then I had to negotiate with another demon from Hell and as part of that deal Proserpine sent three of her minions to kill me. And pretty much everyone who might be able to help me dies violently before I can talk to them. I think that pretty much sums up the state of play, Dan. Happy now?’

Evans shook his head sadly. ‘You’re a bastard, Nightingale. I was only trying to help.’ He took a last drag on his cigarette, dropped the butt onto the ground and stamped on it. ‘You should remember who your friends are.’ He gestured at the door. ‘Get your arse back inside.’