Lastnight (22 page)

Over the first three or four days the flesh would change into the consistency of cottage cheese, then after a week it would start to discolour, starting at the abdomen and moving outwards. The skin would blacken and the veins would become visible and the whole body would puff out, bloated by the gases inside.

‘How long do you think?’ asked Chalmers.

‘Two weeks,’ said Nightingale. ‘Maybe three. The abdomen is well bloated so the internal gas is pretty much at maximum pressure. Central heating’s off so it’s not been too warm. A couple of the fingernails have fallen off, that usually happens at three weeks or so, right?’

Chalmers nodded. ‘So he’s probably not our killer.’

‘That’s what you were thinking?’

‘Hoping rather than thinking,’ said Chalmers. ‘If he was the common point of contact and he’d killed them and killed himself in remorse, well, it would make my life a lot easier.’

‘So you think this was a sex game gone wrong?’

‘It happens,’ said Chalmers. ‘It happens a lot.’ He leaned through the door and called down the hall to the overalled detectives. ‘One of you phone the coroner’s office and arrange for the body to be taken to the mortuary. We’ll need a full forensic post-mortem. One of you needs to stay with the body at all times.’

‘Nail had girls queuing up to sleep with him,’ said Nightingale when Chalmers turned back into the room.

‘I’ve no doubt. Which suggests he had a high sex drive, which is what leads to sex games like this.’

Nightingale exhaled through pursed lips.

‘What?’ said Chalmers.

‘It just feels wrong.’

‘Not to me,’ said the superintendent.

‘It could be a set up.’

‘What, someone gets in, fakes this and leaves. Because?’

‘Because they want the cops to think that it’s exactly what you think it is.’

‘Now you’re just confusing me, Nightingale.’

‘It’s starting to look as if Nail was the link between the five Goths. He might even have had a relationship with Stella Walsh. You don’t think that it’s a coincidence that he ends up dead, too?’

‘Nail is hanging up in a wardrobe with his pants around his knees. The Goths were hacked to death with knives.’

‘True enough,’ said Nightingale. He could see that Chalmers had already made his mind up. Rusty Nail had killed himself, either accidently or deliberately.

28

N
ightingale left Chalmers staring at the decomposing body and went back along the hallway to the sitting room. It was about twelve by twelve feet with a large window overlooking the street. There were wooden blinds on the window, slanted so that he could look down on to the street below. A blue saloon had arrived and a middle-aged man in a grey suit was climbing out. Probably the doctor come to confirm the death. He heard a noise behind him and turned to see the SOCO, a large black case in one hand and a camera in the other. ‘Straight down on the left,’ said Nightingale. ‘The bedroom.’

The SOCO headed to the bedroom. There was no television in the room but there was an expensive printer on a desk behind the door. There had once been a fireplace in the wall to the right of the window but it had been bricked up and papered over. There was a bookcase to the left of the chimneybreast and Nightingale ran his eyes along the shelves. There were horror and sci-fi novels and a lot of books on graphic design. One shelf was devoted to books about tattooing and he pulled one out and flicked through it. Some of the designs were huge, intricate works of art that covered a whole back or a leg.

‘You’re not here officially, Nightingale, don’t go touching anything,’ Chalmers said.

Nightingale put the book back. ‘The doc’s on his way up.’

‘That was quick.’

‘Are you going to write this off as a suicide?’

‘Accidental death or death by misadventure,’ said Chalmers. ‘I don’t think he meant to kill himself. You weren’t the world’s best cop but even you must have learned that people don’t use auto-asphyxiation as a way of ending it all. And if it was suicide, he’d have probably left a note. No, he was just having a bit of fun and he let the noose tighten just a bit too much and a bit too long.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens.’

‘No computer,’ said Nightingale, nodding at the desk.

‘No TV either.’

‘Yeah, but there didn’t seem to have ever been a TV in here, but there’s a printer on the desk and a space that suggests that there used to be a laptop there.’

‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘But we’re clearly not looking at a robbery.’ He pointed at the coffee table. There was a wallet next to a pile of tattooing magazines. Chalmers picked it up and showed Nightingale a wad of notes and three debit cards. ‘If they were thieving, why take a laptop and not the wallet? And his iPhone is in the bedroom. What sort of housebreaker doesn’t take an iPhone?’

‘Exactly,’ said Nightingale.

Chalmers took out a driving licence and scrutinised it, then showed it to Nightingale. ‘Definitely our man in the wardrobe,’ he said. He slid the driving licence back into the wallet and tossed it on to the table. He scowled at Nightingale. ‘What do you mean by that? “Exactly”?’

‘You think it’s a coincidence. Fine. But I don’t think it is. He didn’t strangle himself, he was killed. By the same people who killed the Goths. They weren’t here to rob, obviously, but they took his laptop. Why? Because they wanted whatever was on it. His client list maybe. I told you they had a break-in at the shop.’

‘I checked that. There was a lot of stuff stolen. Computer, DVD, pretty much anything that wasn’t nailed down.’

‘Who robs a tattoo store, Chalmers? Seriously?’

‘Drug addicts who aren’t thinking too clearly,’ said Chalmers. ‘But you can sell an iPhone and a computer and a DVD player no matter where you stole it from.’

‘And what if it wasn’t? What if someone wanted the Ink Pit’s client list? And what if having stolen the shop’s computer they realised Nail had another client list on his laptop.’ He gestured at the door. ‘Maybe they came here three weeks ago and killed Nail and took his laptop and on it were the names of his clients.’

Chalmers frowned. ‘That’s one hell of a conspiracy theory.’

‘Well, what do you have? If you write Nail’s death off as misadventure, that doesn’t get you any closer to catching the killers of the five Goths.’

‘I need evidence, Nightingale, not half-arsed theories.’

‘Find the computer,’ said Nightingale. ‘Or talk to the staff in the Ink Pit again. See if there’s CCTV near the shop.’

‘All that’ll do is confirm that all five victims went to the shop.’

‘And that Ricky Nail worked on them. And if Nail is the common factor and if Nail was murdered, then there could be forensics here that leads us to the killers.’

Chalmers sighed and
rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Feels like clutching at straws to me.’

‘What else have you got?’

The superintendent didn’t answer. He turned and walked out of the sitting room, still rubbing the back of his neck.

29

N
ightingale was biting into a bacon sandwich as he watched the evening news when his phone beeped to let him know he’d received a message. It beeped a second time a few seconds later. He put down his sandwich and reached for the phone. He didn’t recognise the number. There were two attachments, both photographs of computer print-outs. One contained the PNC details of the owner of the white van that had been outside Perry Smith’s, the other identified the owner of the BMW SUV. Nightingale started to text back his thanks but stopped as he realised Robbie would probably already have ditched the SIM card. He took another bite from his sandwich before fetching a pen and paper from the kitchen.

The owner of the white van was a Billy McDowell. No criminal convictions but a plethora of parking tickets, speeding fines and a licence that was always a few points away from being suspended. McDowell was a plumber, married with two children, one of whom had a conviction for possession of marijuana in the days when the police bothered to prosecute.

The BMW’s owner was Tony Barnett, unemployed and with a string of convictions for violence including a six-month sentence for assault and three years for GBH. He was single and lived in Croydon, South London. One obvious question for Mr Barnett was how he managed to run a two-year-old BMW on benefits.

Nightingale finished his coffee and then phoned T-Bone. ‘You got news for me, Bird-man?’ he asked before Nightingale had even had chance to identify himself.

‘I have indeed,’ said Nightingale. ‘We need to meet.’

30

T
here were half a dozen five-a-side football matches going on in a line of outdoor pitches, each team trying to outdo the others in aggression and volume. Sweaty shaved heads glistened under the floodlights and it seemed that every other player sported at least one tattoo. There were more players than spectators and most of those watching seemed to be wives and girlfriends who given the choice would have preferred a quiet night in.

Nightingale saw T-Bone’s black Porsche SUV at the far end of the car park and he drove up next to it. He climbed out, walked over to the Porsche and got into the front passenger seat. Rap music was blaring through the car’s sound system and T-Bone turned down the volume. He was wearing impenetrable Oakleys, a tight mesh T-shirt that showed off his bulging biceps, and blue Versace jeans.

‘I wouldn’t have had you down as a soccer fan,’ said Nightingale as he slammed the door shut.

T-Bone grinned. ‘Two of my nephews are playing. I’m doing a favour for my sister.’ He gestured over at Nightingale’s MGB. ‘I can’t believe you drive around in that piece of shit,’ said T-Bone.

‘It’s a classic,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’s a rust bucket, and I bet it leaks in the rain.’ T-Bone patted the steering wheel of the Porsche. ‘You should get yourself one of these. German engineering. Vorsprung durch Technik.’

‘That’s Audi, isn’t it?’

‘Porsche, Audi, BMW, the Germans build good cars,’ said T-Bone.

‘The Brits used to,’ said Nightingale. ‘Anyway, I’m not here to talk up the British automotive industry.’

‘You’ve got the names?’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

T-Bone held out a gloved hand. ‘I need to come with you,’ said Nightingale.

‘What?’

‘I’ve got the names. But before you do what you’ve got to do, I want to talk to them.’

‘No way,’ said T-Bone.

‘That’s not a request, T-Bone. It’s a condition. If you want the names, I get to go with you.’

T-Bone looked at Nightingale over the top of his shades. ‘Let me ask you a question, Bird-man. What’s to stop me just taking those numbers off you?’

‘Nothing,’ said Nightingale. ‘You could just lie to me. But I know you won’t. I trust you.’

T-Bone pushed the glasses higher up his nose. ‘What possible reason would you have to get in on the act?’

‘What they wrote on the mirror. I need to know why I’m on their shit list.’

‘These names? They gangsters?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘One’s a plumber with a wife and kids. The other’s on the dole but the fact that he has a BMW suggests he’s got irons in the fire. Few convictions for violence but no sign of him being connected.’

‘I’ll be careful, then,’ said T-Bone. He flashed Nightingale a smile. ‘No drugs connections?’

‘None on the system and these days the PNC is pretty accurate. They might be flying below the radar but I doubt it.’

‘So if it wasn’t a turf war, why did they do what they did?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘No idea, T-Bone. Now what’s your game plan?’

T-Bone smiled thinly. ‘This ain’t no game, trust me on that. We’re gonna talk to the two names you’ve got and get them to roll over on the others.’

‘Then?’

T-Bone frowned. He leaned towards Nightingale and began patting his chest with his right hand. ‘You think I’m wired?’ asked Nightingale indignantly.

‘Once a cop, always a cop,’ said T-Bone, running his hand around Nightingale’s sternum.

‘I’m the one doing all the law-breaking at the moment,’ said Nightingale. ‘I got you these names off the PNC and I’m carrying the gun you gave me. That’s worth ten years right there.’

‘Not if you’re working with the Feds to set me up.’

‘Now you’re just being silly,’ said Nightingale. ‘Perry and his crew are dead, why would the cops want to set you up on a conspiracy to murder charge? They’re after the killers, they don’t have time to be pissing around.’

T-Bone took his hand off Nightingale’s chest. ‘You can understand me getting jittery, right?’

‘Yeah. Jittery is always how I feel when a group of nutters with knives put me on their to-do list.’

‘You think they’re nutters?’

‘Wrong word,’ said Nightingale. ‘They went to a lot of trouble to do what they did, so they must have had a good reason.’ He fished his cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘Okay if I smoke?’

T-Bone nodded. ‘But I want you blowing smoke out of the window and not up my arse.’

‘T-Bone, mate, I am most definitely not blowing smoke up your arse.’ He opened the window and lit a cigarette then offered the pack to T-Bone. T-Bone shook his head and Nightingale put the pack away. ‘So do we have a deal?’ he asked.

‘You want to be there when we kill them? Is that what you want?’

‘Hell, no,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s the last thing I want. In fact, I’d be happier if you just beat the crap out of them and handed them over to the cops.’

‘Yeah, well, I can tell you right now that’s not going to happen. Not after they did what they did. They’re dead men walking, all of them. And that includes the sluts they used to get into the house.’

Nightingale blew smoke out the window and didn’t say anything. He knew there was nothing he could say to T-Bone that would persuade the man to change his mind.

‘Give me the names,’ said T-Bone, holding out his massive hand and clicking his fingers.

‘You’ll let me be there when you question them?’

‘I’ll call you.’

Nightingale took the piece of paper with the names from his pocket and gave it to T-Bone. ‘Don’t forget, yeah.’

‘It’s in my diary, Bird-man.’

Nightingale opened the door, climbed out of the Porsche and walked over to his MGB.