59

Nightingale waved the barmaid over. ‘A whisky – a double,’ he said, ‘with ice.’

‘Any particular brand?’ she asked. She had a South African accent.

‘Bell’s. Teacher’s. Anything.’

‘Jack, I don’t see that drink is going to help,’ said Jenny, putting a hand on his shoulder. They were in a pub close to the office. They had driven in silence from Battersea, too shocked to discuss what had happened.

‘I need a drink,’ said Nightingale. ‘And so do you.’

‘Make it two,’ she told the barmaid. She put her head close to Nightingale’s. ‘What happened back there, Jack?’

‘You saw what happened.’

‘You were in the way.’

‘You didn’t hear him tell me I’m going to hell? Because that’s what he said, Jenny, as clear as day. He said, “You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale.” Those were his exact words.’

‘The TV was on, I didn’t hear him say anything.’

‘We were talking on the balcony. You were right there.’

‘And he said you were going to hell?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, think about it, Jack. Maybe it’s your subconscious – maybe you were flashing back to what happened to Simon Underwood two years ago. Maybe you thought you heard him say that because the situations were so similar.’

‘Similar in what way?’

‘You know in what way,’ she said.

‘You don’t think I pushed him, do you?’

‘Who?’ she asked. ‘Underwood or Harrison?’

‘Thanks a lot, Jenny. Thanks a bloody lot.’ She reached over to touch his hand but he pulled it away. ‘You don’t want to get too close to me,’ he said. ‘I might push you out of a window.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Jack,’ she said softly. ‘Of course I don’t think you killed anybody. It’s not in your nature. But Harrison couldn’t have slipped – the railing was too high.’

‘I told you already. He jumped. He told me I was going to hell and then he jumped.’

‘Why would he jump?’

‘I don’t know.’ He drained his glass and gestured to the barmaid for another.

‘Getting drunk isn’t going to help,’ said Jenny.

‘I’m not driving, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ said Nightingale. He handed her the keys to the MGB. ‘You can drive me home.’

‘I’m not your bloody chauffeur.’

‘No, and you’re not my mother either.’

His drink arrived. He raised the glass to her, then sipped.

‘You can be an arsehole at times,’ she said, and sat on a barstool.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Nightingale. ‘I shouldn’t have let you go with me.’

‘That’s what you’re sorry about? You’re not sorry that a man died, that we saw him jump to his death?’

‘You told me you didn’t see anything.’

‘I saw him fall. I didn’t see if you pushed him.’ She raised her whisky to her lips, then put the glass down. ‘I’m not drinking this.’ To the barmaid she mouthed, ‘Coffee, please.’

Nightingale picked up her glass and poured the contents into his own. ‘Waste not, want not.’

‘If the police come, it’s not going to help if you’re smelling of drink,’ said Jenny. ‘We should have stayed. We should have called them and stayed.’

‘And said what? That he jumped to his death rather than talk about how he killed my parents? Chalmers already thinks I’m a vigilante killer after what happened to Underwood.’

‘The police will come, Jack. There were CCTV cameras, remember?’

‘They might not check if they’re sure it was suicide.’ He drained his glass. ‘Another whisky, darling,’ he called to the barmaid.

Jenny put a hand on his arm. ‘Jack, come on, you don’t have to do this.’

‘Do what?’

‘Drink like this. It isn’t helping.’

‘It’s making me feel better, and that’s what counts.’

‘You should have stayed and talked to the police,’ said Jenny. ‘They would have believed you.’

‘Only someone who’s never dealt with the cops would say that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Cops make mistakes like everyone else and, as I said, Chalmers is already gunning for me.’

‘You’re not a killer, Jack. You couldn’t kill somebody, not in cold blood.’

Nightingale smiled thinly. ‘You don’t know me, Jenny.’

‘I know you couldn’t deliberately kill somebody.’

‘I was in CO19, Jenny. I carried a gun. I was trained to kill people.’

‘There’s a world of a difference between firing a gun as an armed cop and pushing someone off a balcony. The police would understand that.’

‘Maybe,’ said Nightingale.

‘What’s wrong, Jack?’

The barmaid put a fresh glass of whisky in front of Nightingale and he nodded his thanks. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m just going crazy.’

‘You’re not crazy,’ she said. ‘A bit confused, maybe. And knocking back double whiskies isn’t helping.’

‘My father was crazy,’ said Nightingale. ‘Ainsley Gosling claimed to have done a deal with a devil and blew his head off with a shotgun. My mother, my birth-mother, was in an asylum for most of her life and hacked her wrists over dinner. So I’m the product of two people who were both clearly deranged. With DNA like that, what are the chances that I’m going to be normal? Pretty bloody slim, I’d say.’

‘You’re stressed out, that’s all.’

‘People keep telling me I’m going to hell, Jenny.’

‘It’s an expression. It’s just something people say. They don’t mean it literally.’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘No, they say it but it’s not them saying it. It’s like someone’s using them to get the message to me. My uncle wrote the words in blood in his bathroom and so did Barry O’Brien, and that night in the Chinese restaurant it was written in the fortune cookie.’ His words tumbled into one another, and he banged his glass on the bar.

‘It’s because Underwood said that to you before he died,’ said Jenny.

‘My subconscious is playing tricks with me? Is that what you really think?’

‘What’s the alternative, Jack? Messages from the grave? Spirits speaking through the living? The devil playing games with you?’

The barmaid glanced at them and Nightingale pointed at his empty glass. ‘I’m starting to think that maybe Chalmers is right,’ he said. ‘Maybe it is me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I went to see Barry O’Brien and he’s dead. I went to see my aunt and uncle and they’re dead. Maybe…’ He lowered his head.

‘What, Jack? Maybe what?’

Nightingale sighed. ‘Maybe I did kill them,’ he whispered. ‘Maybe I killed them and blocked it out. Maybe two years ago I did kill Underwood. And maybe I pushed Harrison off the balcony and I’m blocking it now. Hysterical amnesia. Or my subconscious is just refusing to admit what happened. Look at it from Chalmers’s point of view. Barry O’Brien killed Robbie so I’d want him dead. George Harrison killed my parents so I’d want him dead. My uncle and aunt lied to me so I’d want to hurt them. I’ve got the motive, and I had the opportunity, and I was at all three crime scenes. And it started two years ago when Simon Underwood went flying through the window.’

‘Except you didn’t do it, Jack. You didn’t do any of it.’

‘But I don’t know that for sure, Jenny. Don’t you get it? The more I think about it, the more it feels like I might have done it.’

‘Are you saying you remember killing them?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘No. It’s a feeling, not a memory. Like maybe I could have done it.’

‘Your mind’s playing tricks on you. It’s stress.’

The barmaid came over with another whisky and ice. Jenny ordered two black coffees. Nightingale reached for his glass but Jenny put her hand on his. ‘Take it slowly, Jack, please.’

‘You know what I’m thinking, don’t you?’

She nodded.

‘Maybe I’ve done this before,’ he said. ‘Maybe what’s happening now is a rerun of what I did to Simon Underwood. I get angry, I lash out, and then I block out the memories.’

‘I was with you today, Jack, remember?’

‘But you don’t know if I pushed Harrison or not.’

‘I know you’re not a killer, Jack.’

‘You think I’m not a killer – it’s not the same thing.’ He pulled his hand away and picked up his whisky.

The barmaid brought over the coffees and placed them on the bar. ‘You guys okay?’ she asked.

‘It’s been a rough day,’ said Jenny. She waited for the barmaid to leave, then leaned in to Nightingale. ‘It’ll work out, Jack. I promise.’

‘Jenny, you don’t know that. First rule of negotiating, don’t make promises you can’t keep. You don’t know it’ll work out. Look, today’s Monday and my birthday’s on Friday. Maybe at midnight on Thursday a devil’s going to reclaim my soul in which case I burn in hell for all eternity. Or maybe Gosling was just mad and I’m mad too and I’m going to spend the rest of my life in prison. Either way, it won’t work out.’

‘You don’t believe in this devil nonsense, do you?’

‘I wish I did,’ said Nightingale, ‘because at least that would explain what’s happening to me. Because if it isn’t the devil screwing with my life then maybe I’m doing it myself.’

‘You’re not a killer, Jack.’

‘I might be, Jenny. I might be. And that’s what scares me.’