Lastnight (5 page)

Nightingale shook his head.

‘They tell you that kids change you for ever, but you don’t really understand what they mean until you have one for yourself. You stop being your own person. It’s all about them, about satisfying their needs. You have to clean them, feed them, keep them warm, amuse them, get them to sleep. There isn’t a waking minute when they’re not the centre of your universe.’ The baby shifted in her lap and she looked down at it and made soft shushing sounds. ‘So the short answer is no, we didn’t get out much once Robert was born.’ She smiled down at the baby. ‘We called him Robert Smith, after the lead singer of the Cure. Gabe’s a huge fan. Had his picture taken with him a few years ago. He’d travel across the country to get to one of their gigs. We both would. Now we’ll have to wait …’ She shuddered and closed her eyes as she realised there was no more ‘we’ any more. There was just her and the child.

‘Where would you go for a Goth night out?’ he asked, keen to keep her talking.

‘North of the river, usually,’ she said. ‘There isn’t much here in Clapham. Soho, usually. We liked Garlic and Shots in Frith Street and the Royal George in Charing Cross Road. He used to go every second Thursday because that was when the London Vampire Group meets.’

‘Vampires?’

‘Not real vampires, obviously,’ she said. ‘Just Goths who like to go that bit further. They have sharp teeth and drink blood. Or tomato juice, anyway.’ She smiled. ‘I always thought they were a bit silly, but harmless enough. If it was a vampire night Gabe would go on his own, usually, and I’d have a girls’ night out. And our big thing was the Crypt. You’ve heard of the Crypt, right?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Torrens Street, near the Angel Tube station.’

‘Yeah, we used to go there a lot.’

‘Did he go alone?’

‘After Robert was born, you mean? Sometimes. Not so much, though. He shared the feeds and nappy-changing with me. He loved being a dad.’

‘The night he was killed, he’d gone out on his own, right?’

‘Yes, but not to the Crypt. The Crypt is only open on Saturdays. He was at a work thing, in Vauxhall, not far from the office. He left the pub at ten and that was the last anyone ever saw of him. He didn’t come home, there’s no CCTV footage of him getting on a train, he wasn’t picked up by a taxi. He just vanished. Until …’ She closed her eyes, unable to finish the sentence.

‘I know you’ll have already been asked this, but did you ever see any of these people with Gabe?’ Nightingale asked. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out photographs of Luke Aitken, Daryl Heaton, Stella Walsh and Abbie Greene.

Mrs Patterson looked at the four photographs and shuddered again. ‘They were the other four victims, weren’t they?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

She shook her head sadly. ‘Why would anyone kill people just because of what they look like?’ She looked as if she was about to cry again but the baby lost its grip on the bottle and she concentrated on getting him to feed again.

‘There are some very sick people in the world, Mrs Patterson,’ said Nightingale quietly. ‘Did you ever see Gabe with any of them?’ he pressed gently.

She shook her head. ‘The detectives asked me that already. I’m positive that Gabe didn’t know any of them. I know all his friends.’ She wiped her eyes again. ‘You see, that’s what I don’t understand. Why would anyone do that to someone just because they were different? Why does being different inspire such hatred?’

‘Sometimes it’s jealousy,’ said Nightingale.

‘Do you think they’ll catch them?’

‘Yes,’ said Nightingale emphatically. ‘I do.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ she asked.

Nightingale forced a smile as he wondered how he should answer that question. The simple fact was that most serial killers carried on killing until they got caught. Eventually they made a mistake or, more likely, they were unlucky. If the killers were skilled and careful, then regular police work wouldn’t catch them. It wasn’t like it was portrayed on television and in the movies. Dogged detectives didn’t use intuition to solve crimes, they asked questions, filled out forms and fed information into computers. Sometimes it paid off, but more often than not they were going through the motions. Forensic evidence could prove guilt, but outside of television drama scientists and technicians didn’t solve crimes. The true answer to her question was that at some point the killers would be spotted near a body, or walk by a CCTV camera, or more likely would be interviewed by the police about something totally unrelated. Peter Sutcliffe, the serial killer they called the Yorkshire Ripper, was interviewed nine times by murder squad detectives but he was only caught after being pulled over by police who spotted he had false plates on his car. But that wasn’t what Mrs Patterson wanted to hear so Nightingale smiled and lied. ‘The police will do whatever it takes to arrest the people responsible,’ he said. ‘They won’t rest until they’re behind bars.’

‘They should hang them,’ said Mrs Patterson. ‘Scum like that, they should hang.’

Nightingale nodded but didn’t say anything. Her eyes were blazing and the colour had returned to her cheek. In a way the hatred and anger would help her because at least they were emotions that were aimed externally, rather than the sadness that was eating her up from the inside.

Mrs Patterson took a deep breath, then nodded at her baby. ‘I’m going to have to put him in his cot,’ she said.

‘I understand,’ said Nightingale, standing up. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time.’

‘Just find them, that’s all I ask,’ she said, looking down at the baby. ‘And when you find them, ask them why. Ask them why they killed my Gabe.’

5

N
ightingale lit a cigarette as he walked back to his MGB. He’d managed to find a parking space down a side street but when he got back to the car he found that the vehicles he’d parked in between had moved and he was now hemmed in front and back. He stood at the front of his car and stared at the non-existent gap between his front bumper and the rear of the Honda CRV. He blew smoke as he considered his options, which seemed to be two-fold: wait for one of the drivers to come back and move their cars, or head off to his next interview by public transport. He looked at his watch. It was just after eleven o’clock in the morning. There was a traffic warden down the street, checking residents’ parking permits and heading his way.

He peered through the windows of the SUV, looking for clues as to who the owner might be. There were two car seats in the rear and an iPad on the front passenger seat. If he were lucky it’d be a housewife who had just popped off to do some shopping

The vehicle at the other end was a nearly new blue Ford Fiesta. Its nose was an inch away from his rear bumper, but there was almost three feet of space at the rear. He shaded his eyes and looked through the windscreen of the Fiesta but the car was empty. Nightingale cursed under his breath. As he straightened up he saw the traffic warden looking at the MGB.

‘Yours?’ asked the man. He was in his twenties, fresh-faced and gawky with shoulder-length hair that didn’t seem to have been washed in a while.

‘Yeah,’ said Nightingale.

‘Nice.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Owned by the Chinese now, MGB?’

‘Yeah. Wouldn’t touch a new one.’

‘Why would you when you get to drive a classic.’ He looked at the gap between the MGB and the Honda. ‘You did well to get it in there,’ he said.

‘They came after me …’ began Nightingale, then shook his head as he realised the traffic warden was joking. ‘You got me.’

The man grinned. ‘Now you’re thinking a traffic warden with a sense of humour, that has to be a first,’ he said. ‘You could try bouncing it out.’

‘Bouncing it out?’

‘Did it with a group at mates at uni once. We had a Mini and it got hemmed in. You all stand around the car and bounce it up and down and then you move it as it bounces.’

Nightingale’s eyebrows shot skyward. ‘You went to university?’

‘Newcastle,’ he said. ‘Upper second in Media, Communication and Cultural Studies.’ He laughed when he saw the look on Nightingale’s face. ‘I know, I know, it’s not the career I’d planned for myself but what can you do? I’ve got a student loan and a young kid and this is better than walking the streets.’ He grinned. ‘Oh, wait …’

Nightingale laughed. ‘Nice one.’ He saw the traffic warden looking at the cigarette in his hand so he took out his pack of Marlboro and offered it. The traffic warden looked around as if he feared being seen, then took one and smiled his thanks. Nightingale lit it for him.

‘Name’s Harry,’ he said. ‘So what do you for a living?’

‘I’m Jack. I used to be in law enforcement, like you,’ said Nightingale.

Harry frowned, and then chuckled. ‘Yeah. Law enforcement. Nice one.’

‘I was a cop. I was in CO19, a firearms officer, and I was a negotiator.’

‘Yeah? Talking down suicides?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘That and domestics, most of the time.’

‘I could do with a negotiator in this job,’ said Harry.

‘Can’t be easy.’

‘I’ve been hit three times.’ He shrugged. ‘It goes with the turf. So what brings you to sunny Clapham?’

Nightingale blew smoke at his trapped MGB. ‘I’m asking around about that Goth killers case.’

Harry pulled a face. ‘That’s some evil shit going on. But what’s the Clapham connection?’

Nightingale pointed down the street. ‘One of the victims lived down there.’

‘You don’t say? They were chopped up, right? Into little pieces?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘They were skinned.’

Harry shuddered. ‘Who would do something like that? A psycho?’

Nightingale smiled. ‘Well, it’s not normal behaviour, that’s for sure. But there has to be some reason for it. It’s not random. They’re targeting a particular sort of person and doing something very specific to them.’

‘They? There’s more than one?’

‘Has to be,’ said Nightingale. ‘There’s too much going on for one person to do. Some of the bodies were dumped from a vehicle and it’s hard for one person to do that.’ He took a long pull on his cigarette. ‘Are there any pubs around here where Goths hang out?’

‘Not that I know of. Plenty of Goths around, though. There’s a few take their dogs on the common.’

‘Yeah?’

Harry nodded. ‘Near Eagle Pond, not far from the Windmill pub. There’s a bench there and you’ll usually see two or three of them there this time of day.’

Nightingale looked up and down the street. There was no sign of anyone coming to move the cars either side of him. ‘I’ll give it a go,’ he said. He flicked his cigarette butt into the gutter and it disappeared into a grid in a shower of sparks.

‘Be lucky,’ said Harry.

‘Lucky would be good,’ said Nightingale.

‘Tell you what, give me your mobile number and I’ll send you a text if your motor gets released.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m in the area for the next hour or so. It’s no problem.’

Nightingale gave him a business card. ‘How long have you been a traffic warden?’ he asked.

Harry shrugged. ‘A month. Why?’

‘No reason,’ said Nightingale. He thanked him and started walking towards the common. He looked back over his shoulder, half expecting to see Harry printing out a ticket, but the traffic warden just smiled and flashed him a thumbs up.

6

N
ightingale walked slowly across the grass. There were grey clouds threatening rain overhead and a stiff breeze was blowing in from the north, ruffling his hair and sending a shiver down his spine. He stopped short when he saw the figure sitting on a bench ahead of him. She was wearing a black leather bomber jacket with chains hanging along the back of it. Sitting on the ground next to her was a black and white collie. He was about a hundred feet away from the girl and the dog but his heart was pounding as if it was about to leap out of his chest. He took a deep breath. The last time he’d seen Proserpine he had been standing in a protective circle in his garage and he’d summoned her from the bowels of Hell. That was how it was supposed to be done – confronting a demon from Hell under any other circumstances could easily end in tears – if not eternal damnation.

He took another deep breath, his mind racing. If it was Proserpine, what did she want? There was a time when Proserpine had a claim on his soul, but no longer. He’d won his soul back and he intended to keep it that way. The only time she appeared was when she wanted something from him, but at that moment he was in no mood to be doing any favours for one of Satan’s nearest and dearest.

He started walking again, his hands deep in the pockets of his raincoat. Was she connected to the dead Goths in some way? Was she there to warn him off? Or to help him?

As he got to within fifty feet of the bench she turned to the side and he realised it wasn’t her. She had the same black lipstick, thick mascara and pale white skin, but her face was rounder and her nose more upturned. Nightingale exhaled and he realised he had been holding his breath.

He decided not to come up behind her so he headed off to the left, joined the path and then walked back towards the bench. From the side she looked even less like Proserpine, she was a few pounds heavier and a fair bit curvier and her eyes didn’t look as if they belonged to something that had been dead for a long time.

He slowed as he reached the bench. ‘Nice dog,’ he said. He squatted down in front of the collie. ‘What’s your name, then?’

‘His name is I Don’t Talk To Strangers,’ said the girl.

Nightingale grinned and straightened up. ‘That’s a mouthful,’ he said. ‘Must be fun calling him in at night.’

‘He’s a she,’ said the girl. ‘And I don’t talk to strangers either. Especially old men in raincoats.’

‘That’s a bit harsh,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m early thirties, that’s not even middle-aged.’

‘You look older,’ said the girl, squinting up at him.

‘My name’s Jack.’

‘Still don’t care.’ She looked at the dog. ‘Do we care?’ The dog woofed softly. She looked up at Nightingale again. ‘No, we don’t care.’

Nightingale took out his cigarettes and lit one. ‘Jack Nightingale.’