Lastnight (21 page)

‘Don’t you think you should take this with you, seeing as how it’s his property?’

‘Let’s see if I can find him first. And I’d like to know a bit more about him, just in case he’s the link between all the victims.’

‘You’re playing at being a cop again,’ she said, wagging her finger at him. ‘If you’re not careful it’ll end in tears.’

26

R
icky Nail lived in Lanark Road in Maida Vale, in a block of six terraced houses that had been knocked together and converted into flats. There were two entrances, one on the left for flats numbered one to eight and a matching one on the right for flats nine to sixteen. Nail lived in number fifteen. There was a bank of eight bells to the side of the door, and a speakerphone. Nightingale pressed the bell for number fifteen, then when there was no answer he pressed it again.

Underneath the speakerphone was a metal plate on which was engraved the fact that the caretaker was in flat number nine and that deliveries could be left there. Nightingale pressed the button and after a few seconds a man answered. Nightingale explained who he was and the man said he’d be there in a few minutes.

The caretaker was in his sixties, balding and wearing a tweed jacket over a pair of overalls. He was overweight and the effort of walking up from the basement flat had beaded his brow with sweat. ‘You’re a cop, you said?’

‘I’m with the cops,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m not getting an answer from Mr Nail’s flat and I wanted to go up and knock on his door.’

‘So who are you exactly?’

Nightingale took out his wallet and gave the caretaker one of his business cards. The man took a pair of reading glasses from a pocket on the front of his overalls and perched them on the end of his nose before scrutinising the card.

‘Ah. A private detective,’ he said, emphasising the ‘private’.

‘I’m helping the police with a case and I really need to know if Mr Nail is home.’

‘You tried the bell?’

Nightingale resisted the urge to say something sarcastic. ‘Yes, I did,’ he said. ‘But Mr Nail has a habit of not answering his phone so I’m thinking that maybe he also ignores the doorbell.’

Nightingale caught the caretaker looking at the money in his wallet. He took out a twenty-pound note and offered it to him. ‘For your trouble,’ he said.

The caretaker scratched his chin. ‘To be honest, it’s a lot of trouble. And you’re not a cop.’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. He took out a second twenty-pound note and handed over the two of them.

The caretaker grinned and pocketed the money. He pulled out a key chain and unlocked the door. He walked slowly up the stairs to the top floor, breathing heavily. When he reached the top he stood with his hand on the banister, taking deep breaths.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Nightingale.

‘I’ve been a bit off colour the last few days,’ he said. ‘My wife says I need to lose a few pounds. What do you think?’

Nightingale thought his wife was probably right, except kilos would be better and a dozen or so would be closer to the mark. ‘I’m not a big fan of dieting,’ he said.

The caretaker laughed and patted his ample stomach. ‘You and me both.’

Nightingale leaned over and pressed the doorbell. A buzzer sounded from somewhere inside the flat. ‘How big are they, these flats?’ he asked.

‘The ones on the top floor are one-bedroom,’ he said. ‘There are some two bedrooms on the floors below, and they’re one bedrooms in the basement.’

‘Do you see much of Mr Nail?’

‘He’s the one with the tattoos, right? Once a month, maybe. Seems to be one for the ladies.’

Nightingale smiled. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard that.’ He pressed the doorbell again.

‘Doesn’t look as if he’s in,’ said the caretaker.

Nightingale knelt down and pushed the brass letterbox open. ‘Mr Nail, are you in?’ he called, then the stench hit him and he rocked back on his heels and let the letterbox snap back into place.

He stood up gasping for breath.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked the caretaker. He bent down close to the letterbox and stared at it.

‘You really don’t want to get a whiff of that,’ said Nightingale. He stood up and took a deep breath to clear his lungs.

The caretaker flipped open the letterbox, peered through, then almost immediately started to gag. He pushed himself up and retched several times, though thankfully nothing came up. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ he gasped.

‘I did warn you,’ said Nightingale.

‘That’s disgusting.’

‘That’s death,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s what flesh smells like when it rots.’

The caretaker’s stomach heaved again and he bent over, but despite retching several times he didn’t actually throw up. He put a hand against the wall to steady himself. ‘It always smells like that?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Always. Men. Women. Children. Death is an equal opportunity employer.’

‘How come you know so much about it?’

‘Like I said, I was a cop,’ said Nightingale. ‘Who gets called first when a body is discovered? The police. Murder, suicide, natural causes, it’s almost always a cop who’s first on the scene. You don’t walk a beat for more than a few weeks before you come across a body. I probably averaged three or four a year.’

‘You think that’s Mr Nail?’

‘I guess so, but we won’t know until we open the door.’

‘I don’t have a key,’ said the caretaker.

‘That’s okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘This is a job for the police. The real police.’

‘I’m not going in there,’ said the caretaker, heading down the stairs. ‘Not for love nor money. I’ll be in my flat if they need me.’

27

T
he street had been cordoned off with blue and white tape by the two officers who had arrived in a patrol car just minutes after Nightingale had phoned Chalmers. An armed response vehicle had arrived and two officers had gone into the building and were waiting outside the top floor flat. Shortly after the ARV had arrived, two detectives had arrived in a black Vectra closely followed by the SOCO van. The two detectives had put on forensic suits and gone upstairs. Nightingale had offered to go with them but they told him to wait for the superintendent. It was only when Superintendent Chalmers climbed out of his black Jaguar that Nightingale remembered he had a loaded Glock pistol in a holster in the small of his back. He lit a cigarette and was blowing smoke when Chalmers strode up. He was wearing a black overcoat that looked like cashmere over a dark suit that was probably Savile Row. ‘You’d better not be wasting my time, Nightingale,’ said the superintendent.

‘I’m not. There’s a body in there.’

‘Fine. But just so you know, if we get in there and there’s bloody writing on the bathroom mirror, your goose is cooked.’

‘That’s hardly fair,’ said Nightingale.

‘Fair or not fair, that’s the way it’s going to be. Now put out that cigarette and we’ll get suited up.’

They went over to the SOCO van and changed into white forensic suits and shoe covers, then pulled on blue latex gloves. Chalmers looked around for a hanger for his coat and when he couldn’t find one he took it over to his Jaguar and carefully laid it on the back seat.

‘Right, come on,’ Chalmers growled at Nightingale. ‘What floor?’

‘Top floor. Flat fifteen.’

A uniformed cop in a fluorescent jacket held the door open for them and Nightingale followed the superintendent up the stairs. ‘Tell me again who we think this is,’ said Chalmers.

‘The flat belongs to Ricky Nail. He’s the owner of that tattoo place I told you about in Camden. The Ink Pit.’

‘Yeah, we called but he wasn’t there.’

‘I told you that, remember?’

‘Yeah, well, just because you tell me something doesn’t mean it’s necessarily so,’ said the superintendent.

‘I’m fairly certain Nail worked on at least some of the victims,’ said Nightingale. ‘And he was having a thing with Stella Walsh.’

Chalmers froze, mid-step. He turned to look down at Nightingale. ‘What?’ he said.

‘She was sexting him.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Sexting. Sex texting. She was sending him sex texts. Pictures.’

‘How long have you known about this?’

‘I literally found out this morning. Then I came here.’

Chalmers pointed a gloved finger at Nightingale’s face. ‘I’ve already warned you about this,’ he said. ‘As soon as you find something out, you tell me.’

Nightingale put his hand on his chest. ‘Hand on heart, swear to God, I left the ex-girlfriend’s house an hour or so ago at most, and came here. Rang the bell, knocked on the door, smelled the smell, and called you.’ Nightingale decided against telling Chalmers about the box of Nail’s belongings that he’d dropped off at the office.

Chalmers lowered his hand but continued to glare at Nightingale. ‘What sort of texts?’

‘I haven’t seen them. Pictures, I’m told. He had a spare phone which I assume was a pay-as-you-go and Stella sent him topless pictures.’

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this for the first time,’ said Chalmers.

‘Better late than never.’

Chalmers scowled at Nightingale then headed up the stairs again. Four officers were waiting, two in regular uniforms and stab vests and two in forensic suits and shoe covers. One of the uniforms was holding a black steel tube with a steel pad at one end, a handle at the other and another handle in the middle. Known as the enforcer, it weighed sixteen kilos but in the hands of an expert it could exert close to three tonnes of pressure, more than enough to open most doors.

‘There’s no key?’ asked Chalmers.

Nightingale shook his head. ‘There’s a caretaker but he doesn’t have one, no.’

Chalmers nodded at the officer holding the enforcer. ‘You have my authorisation to gain entry,’ he said. He took a tube of Vicks VapoRub from his pocket and dabbed some under his nose before offering the tube to Nightingale.

The officer swung the enforcer back and then slammed it into the door, just below the lock. The wood splintered and the door tilted inwards. Nightingale was dabbing the mentholated cream under his nose when the officer swung the battering ram a second time. The door crashed inwards. The other uniformed officer gasped and then twisted around and vomited down the stairs. The two officers both gasped and turned their faces away.

Even with the mentholated cream under his nose the stench was enough to make Nightingale gag. Chalmers smiled at his discomfort and made his way past the broken door. There were bluebottles buzzing around the ceiling, another sign if it were needed that there was a body on the premises.

Chalmers walked slowly down a white hallway, his shoe covers brushing against a pale green carpet. The first door on the left led into a sitting room but it took only a brief look to see the room was empty.

The next door was on the right and it was closed. Chalmers opened it. It was the bathroom. He took a step back, a look of horror on his face. ‘You’re not going to believe this, Nightingale,’ he said.

Nightingale’s heart began to pound and he hurried down the hallway. He pushed past Chalmers and stepped into the bathroom. There was a bath, a cramped shower, a washbasin and a toilet. Everything was clean as could be expected in a flat occupied by a single guy. He jumped as a hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Had you going,’ chuckled the superintendent.

Chalmers continued down the hallway. The buzzing of the flies was louder, and even with the mentholated ointment under their noses the smell was getting stronger.

Chalmers looked into the bedroom. Nightingale peered over his shoulder. There was a double bed with a leopard-skin print duvet and a large mirror on the wall behind it. A dozen shirts on hangers had been thrown on to the bed. The buzzing was insistent now. A large fly lazily buzzed by Nightingale’s ear and he swatted it away.

The two other officers in forensic suits had entered the flat and were standing by the bathroom door.

Chalmers stepped into the room. Nightingale followed him. There was an iPhone on the bedside table. The buzzing was louder to their left and they turned to look at a built-in wardrobe with mirrored sliding doors. The left hand door had been pulled to the side and there was a body hanging from the rail inside the wardrobe. ‘There we go,’ said Chalmers.

The body was that of a man, but the fact that it was swarming with flies and the skin had turned black and blue made it hard to make out his features. He was wearing a black T-shirt and around his ankles were a pair of Batman boxer shorts. Nightingale took a step closer, trying to breathe through his mouth, and saw that there was a leather belt around the man’s neck, looped around the clothes rail. The man was on his knees, his head slumped forward, held in place by the belt around his neck.

Death was never pretty, but the longer a body was left to decompose, the uglier it got. Nightingale knew if he touched the flesh it would be soft. Bodies tended to go stiff about three hours after death – rigor mortis – but within a day they started to relax again.

At the moment of death the body’s individual cells begin to die, broken down by scavenging bacteria. Neurones died within minutes, skin cells could survive for up to a week. Within minutes of the heart stopping pumping, the blood would begin to settle at the lowest points of the body, in this case the man’s legs, from his knees down to his bare feet.

The bacteria in the gut would then multiply rapidly and start to break down the tissues around them. As the body decomposed, hydrogen sulphide and methane and half a dozen other foul-smelling gases were released, creating the distinctive odour produced by rotting flesh.

The base of the wardrobe was coated in a thick, treacly green fluid, another by-product of putrefaction. Flies loved putrefied flesh and would smell it from half a mile away, finding any way into the flat to feed. Then they’d lay their eggs, up to three hundred at a time, close to the food supply, and in any skin openings they could find, the mouth, the eyes, the nose, and in any open wounds. Maggots would hatch within a day and immediately start to suck up the putrefied liquids. Then they would move up the body, burrowing into the flesh, little marvels of nature, able to eat and breathe at the same time.