Lastnight (23 page)

31

J
enny was sitting at her desk watching a video of a young man being tattooed when Nightingale walked into the office on Tuesday morning. He leant over her shoulder. ‘What’s that?’ he said.

‘That’s Rusty Nail hard at work,’ she said. ‘There are a dozen CDs in that box you gave me. Looks like he videoed a lot of his work. For fun or for insurance purposes, I’m not sure which.’

‘Well, he doesn’t look like that now, I can tell you that much,’ said Nightingale. He hung up his coat and went into his office to put the Glock in the bottom drawer of his desk. He hadn’t told Jenny he was carrying a gun, and didn’t intend to.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

Nightingale went back to her office, dropped into a chair and explained what had happened the previous day.

‘You need to give all this stuff to Chalmers,’ she said when he’d finished. ‘It’s evidence.’

‘I got it from Nail’s ex, it’s not as if it was in his flat.’

‘He’s dead and that box contains his personal effects. Chalmers will hit the roof if he finds out you’ve got it.’

‘To be honest, I don’t think Chalmers will give a toss,’ said Nightingale. ‘He thinks that Nail killed himself. Either accidentally or intentionally.’

‘How he died isn’t really the point, is it?’ She pointed at the cardboard box, which was on the floor at the side of her desk. ‘That’s his personal stuff. You were supposed to give it to him.’

‘And now he’s dead so it makes no difference to him, does it?’

‘This playing detective is going to get you into trouble, Jack.’

‘Playing detective? I am a detective.’

‘You’re a private detective. And this is a police case.’

‘A case I was asked to help with.’

‘Help being the operative word,’ said Jenny. ‘Hiding evidence isn’t helping, is it?’

‘I’m hardly hiding it,’ said Nightingale. He sighed. ‘Okay, I take your point. I’ll take it to Chalmers tomorrow.’

‘Why not today?’

‘Let’s just look at the video, okay? Let’s see if we can find Nail working on any of the Goths that died. At least then we’ll be taking something useful to Chalmers.’

She nodded reluctantly. ‘Okay, but first thing tomorrow.’

‘Deal,’ he said.

He leaned forward and looked at her screen. Rusty Nail was tattooing a leaping tiger on the arm of a man in his twenties. Rock music was playing in the background. Every now and again the man would take a swig from a bottle of cider. ‘Is that allowed, drinking while you’re being tattooed?’ he said.

‘I think it’s up to the individual tattooist,’ said Jenny.

Nightingale rubbed his chin. ‘There’s no CCTV in the shop. He must have used his own camera.’ Realisation dawned and he sat back in his chair. ‘Nail did a lot of late-night stuff, I bet he videoed it so that he wouldn’t have problems down the line.’

‘What sort of problems?’

‘His partner was telling me that they always discussed a tattoo with the customer to make sure everyone was happy before they started work, but that Nail was always trying to push the envelope. That’s why he worked late at night.’ He gestured at the screen. ‘I’m guessing that letting the punters drink meant they’d be more amenable to experimentation. By videoing what he was doing, they couldn’t turn around later and say that he’d forced them into it.’

‘What do you mean by experimentation?’

‘Jezza didn’t say.’ He gestured at the tiger. ‘That looks pretty standard.’

‘There are lots of designs in the notebooks in the box,’ she said.

Nightingale went over to the box and picked it up. ‘I’ll have a look,’ he said. ‘How many videos are there?’

‘This is my second CD and there are fifty or so on each of them. Each file is from ten minutes up to a couple of hours, depending on the complexity of the tattoo. I’m not watching them all the way through, just checking their faces.’

Nightingale took the box through to his office and sat down. There were half a dozen notebooks and two ring binders and he placed them on his desk. ‘What about a coffee?’ he shouted.

‘Lovely,’ said Jenny.

‘I meant would you make me one?’

‘How about we have another race?’

‘Pretty please?’

He heard Jenny sigh and then get up from her desk. He picked up one of the notebooks and slowly turned the pages. They were ideas for tattoos, some just sketches but many were much more detailed. Ricky Nail was clearly a talented artist. There were glorious animals – lions, tigers, fish – and mythical creatures such as gargoyles, mermaids and dragons. Some of the drawings were in colour, but most were black and white.

There were pages of different typefaces where Nail would play around with the structure of letters, and he had drawn several hundred words in Arabic, Chinese and Hindi and other languages he didn’t recognise.

Jenny came in with a mug of coffee and put it on his desk. ‘He was talented, wasn’t he?’ said Jenny. ‘There’s some really good stuff in there.’

Nightingale grinned. ‘Are you thinking of getting a tattoo?’

She nodded at the notebook. ‘If it was a good one, artistic, and had some meaning, then maybe. I almost got a seagull when I was at university.’

‘A seagull?’

‘I read a book called
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
, written by Richard Bach. I think everyone in my year read it. It’s about a seagull learning how to fly.’

‘Sounds riveting.’

‘You can be such a Philistine, Jack. It’s about striving for perfection, in whatever you do. A couple of my friends had seagull tattoos and I very nearly got one.’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘I don’t know. It’s the fact that they’re permanent, you know? Okay, I know they can be lasered off, but you know what I mean.’

‘Where would you have it, if you’d got one?’

‘I don’t know. My ankle maybe. Or my hip. But it would have been a small one. I can’t understand women who go big on tattoos. Men okay, they can look good on a ripped body, but a woman just looks …’

‘Cheap?’

‘I was going to say damaged,’ she said.

She picked up one of the ring binders and flicked through it. It contained photographs of finished tattoos. The name of the customer and the date was in the bottom right-hand corner of each of the pictures. One of them was a huge tattoo of two carp, nose to tail, which took up the whole of a man’s back. She showed it to Nightingale. ‘That’s impressive,’ said Nightingale.

‘That must have taken days to do,’ she said. ‘The colours are amazing.’ The carp were a reddish orange and they had bright blue eyes and were swimming through plants of various shades of green.

‘It certainly puts mine to shame,’ said Nightingale.

Jenny’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘You’ve got a tattoo?’

‘I was young, and drunk,’ said Nightingale. ‘What can I say?’

‘Where is it?’

‘You don’t need to know,’ said Nightingale.

‘Okay, what is it?’

‘Jenny, a tattoo is very personal thing,’ said Nightingale.

He leaned over to pick up his coffee mug but she beat him to it and held it just out of his reach. ‘Fair trade,’ she said.

‘Oh, come on,’ Nightingale protested. ‘I was a kid.’

‘Eighteen?’

‘Nineteen. And I’d been drinking. There were three of us and the deal was that other two decided on the tattoo that the other one got.’

Jenny giggled. ‘That’s a recipe for disaster if ever I heard one,’ she said. She waved the mug in front of him. ‘Come on, I want details.’

‘You know this entire interview contravenes the Police And Criminal Evidence Act,’ said Nightingale. ‘You’re not allowed to interrogate someone like this.’

‘I’m not a cop,’ she said. ‘And neither are you. Now where is this tattoo and more importantly, what is it?’

Nightingale sighed. ‘It’s the pink panther. Wearing a top hat and carrying a cane.’

Jenny sniggered and put her hand over her mouth. ‘No,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘And where is it?’

‘My backside.’

‘No way!’

‘Why would I lie about something like that?’

Jenny put the mug down on the desk again. She motioned with her fingers. ‘Come on, give.’

‘Give?’

‘I want to see it.’

‘You think I’m going to drop my pants in the office?’

‘I think you know if you don’t I’m never going to shut up about it,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘So you might as well get it over with now.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘I’m using my serious voice, can’t you tell?’

Nightingale groaned, stood up and turned so that he had his back to her. He undid his trousers and pushed them down to his knees, then pulled down his boxer shorts on the right side. The tattoo was about three inches high, a grinning Pink Panther tipping his top hat as he leant on his cane. Jenny’s laughter echoed around the office. ‘That is priceless,’ she said. ‘Absolutely priceless.’

32

N
ightingale walked slowly up the stairs. ‘Jenny?’ he called. ‘Are you there?’ There was no reply. ‘Come on, stop pissing around, the front door was open.’ There was a flash of light behind him and he flinched, then realised it was just a car driving by Jenny’s mews house. He stopped and listened, wondering if she was in the shower, but other than the sound of the receding car the night was quiet. ‘Jenny?’ Nightingale took another step, then another, his heart pounding.

He took another step. And another. Then he was walking towards her bedroom door, his Hush Puppies squeaking softly on the bare wooden floorboards. The door to the bedroom – like the front door – was ajar. A pale yellow light seeped through the gap. Nightingale reached it and stretched out a trembling hand. He pushed the door open and his breath caught in his throat as he saw the body lying on the blood-stained sheets. Jenny’s body. She was lying on her back, her arms outstretched, her lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. She had been gutted from her neck down to her crotch, the skin folded back and her entrails pulled out and piled next to her. The sheets glistened wetly and blood was dripping down on to the floor with a soft plopping sound. Nightingale’s stomach lurched and he tasted bile at the back of his throat. He swallowed, fighting the urge to vomit. His whole body began to tremble as he stared at the butchered corpse.

He turned to look at the mirror above her dressing table. Someone had written a message in bloody capital letters.
WE ARE COMING FOR YOU, JACK NIGHTINGALE
. Nightingale stared at the words in horror. His reflection stared back, his mouth open, his eyes wide and fearful, his skin sickly white.

The bedside phone began to ring. Nightingale looked at it fearfully, knowing with a dreadful certainty that the call was for him.

He took a step towards the phone, his shaking arm outstretched. The ringing seemed to be getting louder and louder and the handset was vibrating as if it had taken on a life of its own. He took another step forward, certain now that the call was for him.

‘Answer the phone, Jack.’ Nightingale jumped as if he had been stung. He turned and stared down at Jenny. Her blood-smeared face had turned towards him and he could see his own reflection in her lifeless eyes. Jenny’s mouth opened again and this time she screamed at the top of her voice. ‘ANSWER THE PHONE, JACK!’

Nightingale woke up, gasping for breath. His face was bathed in sweat and he felt light-headed as if he’d been holding his breath for several minutes. His mobile was ringing on the bedside table and he groped for it. ‘Bird-man?’ It was T-Bone.

‘Yeah,’ said Nightingale.

‘You okay? You’re panting like a dog in heat.’

‘I’m fine. Bad dream.’

‘Yeah? Well, we all get those. The names you gave me, I’ve got one of them with me now. You still want a word with him because if you do the clock is ticking?’

Nightingale sat up and ran a hand through his unkempt hair. ‘Damn right I do.’

‘Then get your arse over here. And quickly.’

‘Where?’

‘I’ll send you the address. Don’t use that piece of shit MGB, it’ll attract too much attention. Take a cab to the address I give you and keep an eye out for Kipper.’

‘Kipper?’

‘The lad who gave you the piece. He’ll bring you to us.’

Before Nightingale could say anything else, the line went dead. He rolled out of bed and was pulling on his trousers when his phone beeped to let him know he’d received a text message. He finished dressing, grabbed the phone and headed downstairs.

33

N
ightingale walked around to Queensway and flagged down a black cab. It was two o’clock in the morning but the pavements were busy and half the shops and restaurants were still open. The cab headed south, crossed over the Thames and dropped him in Streatham High Road in front of a bakery. Nightingale paid the driver, asked for a receipt, and then looked around as the cab drove away. Someone whistled from behind him and he saw a black youth in a hoodie sitting on a BMX bike fifty feet away. Nightingale was pretty sure it was Kipper, but the hood covered most of his face. The youth nodded at Nightingale then flipped his bike around in the opposite direction.

Nightingale walked after him, his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. Kipper reared the bike up on its back wheel, turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees, then pedalled down a side road. ‘Show off,’ muttered Nightingale.

A police van drove by and three uniforms stared at Nightingale impassively through dirt-streaked windows. Nightingale turned into the side street. Kipper was waiting for him, holding a lamppost to steady himself. As soon as Nightingale stepped around the corner, Kipper sped off.

Nightingale cursed under his breath. He figured the song and dance was to make sure he wasn’t being followed and while he understood T-Bone’s nervousness, he still resented being treated with suspicion. Nightingale figured that he’d already done enough to prove himself by giving the names to T-Bone. He took out his pack of Marlboro and lit one as he walked down the street.

When he reached the end of the street, Kipper pulled a tight circle then bobbed up and down, first on the rear wheel, then on the front, back and forth like a demented jack in the box.

‘Yeah, very clever,’ muttered Nightingale to himself. He blew smoke and took a quick look over his shoulder. A second youth had appeared behind him. Like Kipper he was wearing a hoodie and was riding a BMX. Under any other circumstances he’d have been wary of a mugging, but he knew they were there to take him to T-Bone. Kipper started pedalling again, but slowly enough for Nightingale to keep up with him. The second youth kept pace with them as they headed west.