Lastnight (16 page)

‘And his soul was sold to the Devil, so you’d better be nice to him,’ said Becky.

Ponytail unhitched the black rope. ‘If he’s with you, he can go in. But make sure he behaves himself.’

‘He’ll be on his best behaviour,’ said Becky, and she blew the doorman a kiss. Hannah hugged Shaven Head and then kissed Ponytail on the cheek.

‘Thanks,’ Nightingale said to Hannah. ‘How come you get the VIP treatment?’

‘I’m a member,’ she said. ‘And I dated his boss for a few weeks.’

Nightingale followed the two girls down a corridor and into the main ground floor bar area. ‘Why do you call him Jellybean?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Because that’s his name,’ said Becky, scornfully.

‘His name’s John Brown.’

‘That’s right. John Brown. JB. Jellybean. It’s not rocket science.’

‘And he knows how old you are?’

‘He thinks I’m eighteen. Which I am in a few weeks. Now are you going to get us drinks or what?’

‘A Coke?’

‘Yeah, with a Jack Daniels in it.’ She looked at him and laughed. ‘Hey, if you get it it’ll be a Jack with a Jack and Coke.’

‘You’re a hoot,’ said Nightingale. He looked across at Hannah. ‘Least I can do is to buy you a drink.’

‘A Bloody Mary,’ she said.

‘Are you serious?’

‘My favourite tipple,’ she said.

Nightingale headed for the bar. Above his head was a massive chandelier and around the walls were flickering candles. The walls were lined with red velvet curtains and there were black sofas and armchairs around the edge of the room. When he returned, the two girls were deep in conversation with two lanky Goths, guys in their twenties who were both well over six feet tall and stick thin, their height emphasised by spiky hair and high-heeled boots. They both grinned when they saw Nightingale and he realised that in the club, even with his black clothing, he was the one who looked strange.

‘I’ll catch you girls later,’ he said, handing them their drinks. ‘And thanks again for getting me in.’

He weaved his way through the clubbers, his bottle of Corona in front of him, and headed upstairs. Most of the clubbers were in their teens or twenties, and the vast majority were in Goth gear. The doorman had been right, after a while it became difficult to tell them apart. The black clothing and the black make-up made them all blend together, though the clubbers in Victorian gear did show more originality in their choice of dress. The club was spread over three floors. The ground floor and a mezzanine level above it had music on at full blast, so loud that conversation was pretty much impossible. There was a lot of dancing going on, and a fair amount of drinking, but the atmosphere was good-natured despite the frequently gloomy nature of the music being played. A lot of the songs seemed to be screamed at the top of the singer’s voice and what lyrics Nightingale could make out appeared to involve death, loneliness, pain and despair.

It was quieter in the basement. There were leather armchairs and more sofas and dummies dressed in Victorian gear and gilt-framed portraits of unhappy-looking people on the walls. Nightingale moved from group to group, explaining who he was and showing them the photographs. There was a bouncer in a black suit standing by the stairs that led up to the ground floor, his head swivelling professionally from side to side as if it was on castors. Nightingale wandered over and showed him the photographs. ‘Jellybean said he didn’t recognise any of these people, what about you?’

The bouncer didn’t look at the sheet but stared at Nightingale. ‘You a cop?’

‘I’m working with them. Just trying to find a connection between them.’

‘Jellybean said it was okay?’

‘Sure.’

Nightingale looked at the man’s ID, fastened to his left forearm. Billy Moore.

‘You know we’ve had cops here before, showing the same photographs?’

‘I think the idea is that they’ll get different people at different times.’

‘Yeah, well, look around. It’s the same faces every week.’

‘And these five? Do you remember them?’

‘It’s hard, mate,’ said Moore. ‘If I talk to them or there’s a problem, then sure I’ll remember. But most of the time they’re just bodies.’ He pointed at the picture of Daryl Heaton. ‘I can tell you what I told the cops before. If I’d seen him I’d probably remember him. He looks like trouble, you know. He’s the type to start throwing punches after he’d had a few drinks. So him I’d have been keeping an eye out for.’ He pursed his lips as he studied the print-out. He tapped the photograph of Abbie Greene. ‘The cops didn’t show me this picture.’

‘Yeah, for some reason they had her as a blonde. She dyed her hair about six months ago.’

The man nodded. ‘Yeah, I think I do remember her. She was with an older blonde woman. Couldn’t work them out, the older one was very possessive, almost motherly. There was a bit of an argument, I remember that. Some guy was chatting up the young one and the older one kicked off.’

‘How did it end?’

‘The older woman smashed her glass on the floor and the guy walked off. The two women hugged. It was over.’ Realisation dawned. ‘She’s one of the victims?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Shit.’

‘She was the last one to be killed.’

‘The bastard that’s doing it is cutting them up, right?’

‘Yeah.’ He put the print-out back in his pocket. ‘You ever get much trouble, outside the club?’

The man shook his head. ‘Not that I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been here two years. Mind you, there’s safety in numbers.’ He frowned. ‘Do the cops think the killer found them here?’

‘They’re considering all options at the moment,’ said Nightingale. ‘But it seems unlikely they were taken from here because the bodies have been found all over London. But it’s possible that the killer saw them here.’

‘And followed them.’ The man shook his head. ‘He’d stick out like a sore thumb. Same as you do.’ He tilted his head on one side. ‘Unless he was a Goth too, I suppose.’

Nightingale took a drink of his lager. It wasn’t something that he’d considered but it made sense. If the killers were Goths – or at least dressed like Goths – then that would explain why they had been able to get close to the victims.

‘Is there a membership list, do you know?’ he asked.

‘Sure. It used to be a members’ only club but these days non-members can just pay to get in.’

‘So anyone can get in?’

Moore grinned. ‘Well, you did, clearly.’

Nightingale laughed and raised his bottle in salute. ‘Nice one,’ he said. He looked around the crowd. ‘Other than that woman kicking off, do you get many problems here of a night?’

‘Almost never,’ said Moore. ‘They wear dark gear and scary make-up, but they’re as sweet as pie. You hardly ever see anyone getting drunk, the drug use is mainly cannabis and ecstasy, and they’re generally genuinely nice people. They’re not confrontational, you know?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Passive.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing. I’ve dealt with hen parties where girls have gone for each other with their heels. And stag parties where the alcohol and testosterone gets everyone fired up. I’ve done security at football matches where people want to kill each other because of the team they support. Passive is good. But passive’s the wrong word. They’re easy-going. Maybe a bit insecure. Inward-looking, you know?’

‘Yeah, I guess.’

‘I tell you, I’d rather be stuck in a lift with a dozen Goths than a dozen football hooligans. Or a dozen bankers, come to that. Look around. They’re listening to the music or they’re chatting to each other. And it’ll be like that until seven o’clock in the morning. Then they’ll emerge blinking in the daylight and they’ll go home.’

‘It’s a fair point,’ said Nightingale. ‘There’s pretty much zero aggression.’

‘That’s why it’s so fucked up that someone would target them,’ said Moore. ‘They’re not a threat. They’re not evil, they’re not in your face. Why would anyone want to kill them?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘That’s a very good question,’ he said. He sipped his beer. It was an excellent question, in fact, and one that he couldn’t answer.

He left the club at two o’clock in the morning, having given out more than twenty of his business cards but with no clearer idea of who might be killing Goths. Everyone he’d spoken to had been helpful and polite, and eager to help. He found several clubbers who remembered one or more of the victims, and he spoke to a guy who said he had bought Zoe and Abbie a few drinks two months earlier but couldn’t remember much about their conversation. He hadn’t met anyone who remembered seeing Daryl Heaton at the club.

As he left the queue was even longer than when he’d arrived. Jellybean nodded at Nightingale. ‘Any luck?’

‘Not really. But thanks.’

The doorman held out his hand. ‘Give me that sheet, I’ll copy it and hand it out. Maybe put your number it, yeah?’

‘That’d be great,’ said Nightingale. ‘I appreciate it.’ He took the sheet of paper from his pocket and gave it to him.

‘We need to catch the bastard, that’s for sure,’ said Jellybean.

‘Bastards, plural,’ said Nightingale. ‘We think there’s more than one, working together.’

Jellybean grimaced. ‘You wonder what the world’s coming to,’ he said. ‘We’re going to hell in a hand-basket.’

‘You’re not the first person to say that, and you won’t be the last.’

‘Just make sure the cops get the bastards, that’s all.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Nightingale. He took out his cigarettes and lit one as he went in search of a black cab.

17

N
ightingale decided to drive down to Brighton, figuring that the Sunday morning traffic wouldn’t be too heavy. The half marathon started at midday and Nightingale was there at the start to video Mr Drummond, who was most definitely not wearing a neck brace or using a crutch. He had a dark blue sweatband and a Cancer Research badge and was wearing an expensive pair of running shoes. His wife was with him offering moral support with far more enthusiasm then she’d shown when she was helping him in and out of their car when Nightingale last had them under surveillance.

He got several minutes’ footage at the start, including some of Mr Drummond doing some very energetic warming up. Because of the way the route curved back on itself he got more footage at the halfway stage, with Mr Drummond grabbing a paper cup of water, drinking some, and pouring it over himself, and he was there at the finish to record Mr Drummond’s very respectable one hour and fifty-three minute finish time, and to see him receiving his participatory medal. There was also some nice footage of Mr and Mrs Drummond walking hand in hand to their car, with not a crutch in sight.

Nightingale was driving back to London when his mobile rang. The traffic was heavy so he let the call go through to voicemail and he waited until he had parked his MGB in his lock-up before taking his phone out of his raincoat pocket. He didn’t recognise the mobile number that had called him. It was a girl. ‘I’m calling for Jack Nightingale,’ she said. ‘Call me back when you get this.’ Her accent was difficult to place. From the north, certainly, and the flat vowels suggested Yorkshire.

Nightingale pressed redial. ‘This is Jack Nightingale,’ he said when she answered.

‘Hi. You were at The Crypt asking about the Goth Killers, right? You’re a private eye?’

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, who are you?’

‘My name’s Caitlin. You were asking around about the Goths that were killed.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I think I might be able to help you.’

‘In what way?’

‘There was a couple of strange guys at The Crypt a few weeks ago. They wanted me to go with them. And I think I saw them talking to one of the girls who died.’

‘Did you tell the police this?’

‘I don’t want to get involved. At least I didn’t. Now I’m starting to think that I should say something. Look, can I see you tonight?’

‘I guess so,’ said Nightingale. ‘Where are you?’

‘I can meet you in a pub,’ she said. ‘Do you know Garlic and Shots, in Frith Street, Soho?’

‘I can find it.’

‘I’ll see you there at seven o’clock tonight,’ she said. ‘Basement bar.’

She ended the call before he could ask her how he’d recognise her. He stared at his phone pensively. She hadn’t asked him what he looked like, either. Which suggested that she already knew.

He pulled down the door to his lock-up and walked back to his flat, deep in thought. As always the Bayswater pavements were packed and he heard at least a dozen languages as he threaded through the crowds. The area was never quiet and there was always somewhere to eat or drink. There were hundreds of small hotels and several big ones close by, and thousands of rented rooms and studio flats favoured by students and migrant workers. He was so busy trying to decide whether to buy a bowl of duck noodles from the Chinese restaurant on the ground floor of his building or to go inside and make himself a bacon sandwich that he didn’t see the plainclothes police car waiting at the roadside in front of his building.

He looked around as he heard car doors slam and groaned, realising that middle-aged men in dark suits with their hands in the pockets of their long coats were never good news.

‘Jack Nightingale?’ growled the taller of the two.

Nightingale thought of coming up with a reply but he could see from their hard faces that they were as thrilled about the confrontation as he was so he just nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he sighed.

‘Superintendent Chalmers wants a word.’

‘Does Chalmers not know how to use a bloody phone?’

The detective shrugged. ‘You’d have to ask him about that.’

‘Warrant cards?’ said Nightingale, just to be on the safe side, though there was no doubt that the two men were cops, and cops who had done their share of pounding the pavements.

The taller one was a DS Robert Waterman, his colleague DC Alex Shaw. Both were in their forties, wide-shouldered and square-chinned, relics of a bygone time before the Met lowered its standards of physique and fitness to allow in pretty much anybody. Nightingale nodded and the detectives put away their warrant cards.

DC Shaw stepped to the side and waved at the car, a black Vauxhall Vectra, the standard Met pool car. ‘Your chariot awaits,’ he said dourly.