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  Nightingale nodded. ‘I heard that.’

  ‘The father’s very close to an awful lot of movers and shakers.’

  ‘I only met him the once.’

  ‘Really? How unlucky is that? The first time you get to meet him and his gamekeeper kills himself ? I bet that took the gloss off the Christmas celebrations.’

  ‘I’m glad you think it’s funny,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Oh I’m not laughing, Nightingale.’ The superintendent looked at Evans. ‘Do I look as if I’m laughing, Inspector?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Evans.

  ‘See, Nightingale, I’m definitely not laughing. I’d hate you to think that murder was a laughing matter.’

  ‘Lachie wasn’t murdered,’ said Nightingale. ‘He killed himself.’

  ‘Well, we’ll wait for the inquest, shall we? But we can put it down as yet another suicide, if you want.’ He looked down at his notepad. ‘Tell me again why you were at the McLeans’ house?’

  ‘Jenny asked me down for Christmas.’

  ‘That was nice of her,’ said Chalmers, his voice loaded with sarcasm. ‘And was it a coincidence that Marcus Fairchild was there?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In the way that he was part of your sister’s legal team. Don’t play the innocent, Nightingale. You spend Christmas with your sister’s lawyer and a few days later she escapes from Rampton Mental Hospital. That seems suspicious to me.’

  ‘That was the first time I’d met Marcus.’

  ‘And what did you do? Plan your sister’s escape? Is that why you were there?’

  Nightingale sat back in his chair but didn’t reply.

  ‘I’d like an answer to my question, Mr Nightingale.’

  ‘I was there for Christmas. Marcus Fairchild was also a guest.’

  ‘Did you discuss your sister?’

  ‘She was mentioned in passing. That’s all.’

  The door opened and a uniformed policewoman stepped aside so that a man in his late fifties could walk into the interview room. The paunch that stretched the waistcoat of his pinstriped suit and the pug nose flecked with broken blood vessels suggested a fondness for good food and drink, and the mane of grey hair combed back hinted that he might have had an eye for the ladies when he was younger.

  Chalmers put down his gold pen. ‘Well, now, speak of the devil,’ he said.

  Fairchild smiled, but it was a cold baring of the teeth without a shred of warmth in it.

  ‘Has my client been charged?’ he asked.

  ‘Mr Nightingale is assisting us with our enquiries,’ said Chalmers.

  ‘Not any more he isn’t,’ said Fairchild. ‘My client has done all the assisting he’s going to do.’

  Nightingale raised a hand. ‘Marcus, I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but when did I become a client of yours?’

  ‘Jenny called me,’ said the lawyer. ‘She asked me to put a stop to this.’ He adjusted his shirt cuffs and gold links glinted under the fluorescent lights. ‘Of course, if you want to stay here all day answering their questions then that’s up to you, but it’s clear that Superintendent Chalmers here has his own agenda and he won’t be happy until you’re behind bars.’

  ‘Mr Nightingale is here of his own accord,’ said Chalmers frostily.

  ‘No, he’s here because you are in the process of carrying out a vendetta against my client, a vendetta which began when he was a serving officer with the Metropolitan Police. And if this carries on much longer you run the risk of a civil action and a claim for substantial damages.’

  Chalmers stood up, his cheeks reddening. ‘Mr Nightingale is the prime suspect in the murder of a south London drug dealer,’ he said.

  ‘According to the information I have you don’t have a shred of evidence against my client,’ said Fairchild.

  ‘We have a deathbed statement,’ said Chalmers. ‘The victim named Nightingale as his attacker.’

  ‘That’s crap,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Then charge him,’ said Fairchild. ‘But be aware that we will have no hesitation in suing you for wrongful arrest, and in view of comments you have made about my client we shall also be considering an action for slander.’ He looked at his watch and then flashed the superintendent a sarcastic smile. ‘Do you need a minute to think about it?’

  Chalmers put his pen into his jacket pocket, picked up his notepad and walked out of the interview room. Dan Evans tried not to smile as he leaned over and switched off the recorder. ‘Looks like you’re free to go,’ he said to Nightingale.

  Nightingale grinned. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’

  20

  ‘We could crack open a bottle of champagne, if you want,’ said Fairchild, waving a fifty-pound note at a barmaid who was busy polishing glasses. They were in a wine bar a short walk from the police station. It had just opened and they were the only customers. There were terracotta tiles on the floor, vineyard scenes on the walls and the gantry behind the bar was filled with bottles of Italian wine. As Nightingale stood with his back to the glass doors overlooking the London traffic and dismal English winter weather he could almost imagine that he was in Tuscany.

  ‘You don’t have to buy me a drink, Marcus,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Nonsense. I told Jenny I’d look after you until she gets here and look after you I will,’ said Fairchild. The barmaid was steadfastly refusing to make eye contact with him. He waved his banknote again. ‘When you’re ready, darling,’ he said.

  ‘I should go,’ said Nightingale.

  Fairchild put a hand on his arm. ‘I insist,’ he said. His fingers bit into Nightingale’s flesh through the material of the raincoat, gripping like steel claws. Fairchild released his grip as the barmaid walked over, drying her hands on a towel. ‘A double Hennessy with ice,’ he said. ‘Jack?’

  Nightingale sighed. He didn’t want to drink with the lawyer but he couldn’t see how he could continue to refuse without being deliberately rude. ‘Corona, please.’ The barmaid went off to get their drinks. ‘Why did Jenny call you?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘She felt that the police were overstepping their authority and frankly I think she’s right.’

  ‘I could have handled it.’

  ‘How? By sitting there and answering questions until the cows come home? You mustn’t encourage them, Jack, my boy. The police are like any other bureaucrats; they’ll always take the path of least resistance. If you don’t stand up to them, they’ll walk all over you.’

  The barmaid returned with their drinks and Fairchild gave her the fifty-pound note. ‘Keep the change, my love,’ he said. ‘Come on, Jack, there’s a table over there.’

  Nightingale picked up his Corona and smiled at the barmaid, who was staring after Fairchild with a look of astonishment on her face. ‘He prints them himself,’ said Nightingale, and he winked at her before following Fairchild to the corner table. The seats were white-painted wrought iron with overstuffed cushions, and the table had a glass top allowing Nightingale to compare his scuffed Hush Puppies with the lawyer’s gleaming black brogues.

  ‘So the last time we spoke you were telling me about your sister,’ said Fairchild, swirling his brandy around the balloon glass.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘And very shortly afterwards she escaped. Vanished, by all accounts.’

  Nightingale sipped his lager.

  ‘Did you have anything to do with that, Jack?’ asked Fairchild. ‘And before you answer, remember that everything you tell me is covered by lawyer–client privilege.’

  Nightingale stared at Fairchild, trying to work out whether or not he was serious.

  Fairchild laughed and raised his glass. ‘I can see from the look on your face that you did,’ he said. He clinked his glass against Nightingale’s Corona bottle. ‘Here’s to crime.’

  ‘Crime?’

  ‘Look, Jack, I’m a lawyer and you’re a police officer turned private detective – where would either of us be without the lawbreakers?’
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  ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’

  ‘Well, you should,’ said Fairchild. ‘If there were no criminals we’d both be out of a job.’ Fairchild sipped his brandy and then put the glass down. ‘Seriously, Jack, what do you think happened to your sister?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You know exactly in what way,’ said Fairchild, and he chuckled dryly. ‘By all accounts she vanished from a locked room leaving behind Satanic symbols and paraphernalia. You know as well as I do that you don’t just walk out of a place like Rampton. It’s the most secure hospital in the country.’

  Nightingale stared at the lawyer but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Of course, if you’d rather not say . . .’

  ‘Looks like I’ve gone from one interrogation to another,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Hardly,’ said Fairchild.

  Nightingale leaned forward, both hands around his bottle of lager. ‘Let me ask you something, Marcus. Okay?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said the lawyer.

  ‘Are you a member of the Order of Nine Angles?’

  Nightingale resisted the urge to smile when he saw the look of surprise that flashed across the lawyer’s face. Fairchild adjusted his cufflinks as he tried to regain his composure. ‘That’s a strange question to ask,’ he said.

  ‘And that’s you being evasive,’ said Nightingale.

  Fairchild’s face had hardened and there was a coldness in his eyes. Not annoyance, not contempt, but something in between. Nightingale could imagine the lawyer using the baleful stare to good effect on opposing counsel in court, but it made no impression at all on Nightingale. As a cop he’d faced down some of the hardest criminals in London and it had been years since he’d been fazed by a nasty look. He stared back at the lawyer, determined not to be the first to blink.

  ‘One of the things I picked up during thirty years of cross-examination in court is never to ask a question to which you don’t know the answer,’ said Fairchild.

  ‘That’s pretty much how it works with cops too,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘So you know already. Yes, I am a member of the Order. Have been for years. So let me ask you a question in return, Jack. The Order goes to a lot of trouble to maintain a low profile, so who told you about us?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘An informant, you mean? I assume that your friend is an outsider. In the entire history of the Order no member has ever divulged any details of who we are or what we do.’

  ‘Child sacrifice, is what I heard,’ said Nightingale quietly.

  Fairchild’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped, then he quickly forced a smile to cover his discomfort. ‘Exactly what were you told about the Order of Nine Angles?’ he asked.

  Nightingale smiled. ‘There you go, asking a question that you don’t know the answer to,’ he said.

  A small vein began to pulse in Fairchild’s left temple and Nightingale saw the lawyer’s legs begin to tremble, signs of the tension the man was feeling.

  ‘Are you a Freemason?’ asked Fairchild.

  ‘Never went for funny handshakes and rolling up my trouser leg,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘A lot of police officers are, though.’

  ‘No argument there.’

  ‘Superintendent Chalmers, for instance. I’d be very surprised if he wasn’t the member of a lodge.’

  ‘I dare say. But what’s that got to do with the Nine Angles?’

  ‘People who don’t understand the Masons think that they get up to all sorts of shenanigans.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone has ever accused the Masons of child sacrifice.’

  Fairchild shook his head. ‘You really believe that, Jack? You think that in this day and age people actually go around sacrificing children?’

  Nightingale slowly sipped his lager. ‘Since I discovered that my father, my genetic father, was a Satanist, I’ve tried to keep an open mind on the whole black-magic thing.’

  ‘Now it’s black magic, is it? You’re accusing the Order of black magic, devil-worship and killing children?’

  ‘If I was, what would your answer be?’

  ‘Jack, you’re being ridiculous. You know that, surely?’

  ‘I know that whenever you’re faced with a difficult question, you prevaricate.’

  Fairchild leaned forward and glared at Nightingale. ‘I can unequivocally say that the Order of Nine Angles has absolutely nothing to do with child sacrifice or devil-worship or any other nonsense of that nature. It’s a charitable organisation that allows like-minded people to network. There are judges in the Order, politicians, members of the royal family, sportsmen. It’s not very different from the Rotary Club. Or the Freemasons, come to that.’ He stared intently at Nightingale for several seconds, then smiled, picked up his glass and swirled his brandy again.

  ‘And my sister?’ said Nightingale.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Was Robyn a member of the Order?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Fairchild. ‘Why would you even think that?’

  ‘Because she confessed to murdering five children.’

  ‘Jack, you’re not listening to me. The Order of Nine Angles does not kill children. But your sister . . .’ He sipped his brandy.

  ‘My sister what, Marcus? My sister is a child-killer? Is that what you were going to say?’

  ‘As you just said, she confessed.’

  ‘But you were on her defence team, weren’t you? You were defending her.’

  ‘Innocent or guilty, a person is entitled to the best possible representation in court,’ said Fairchild. He sipped his brandy again.

  ‘I know what you did, Marcus,’ said Nightingale quietly.

  Fairchild stiffened. ‘What do you mean? What do you think I did, Jack?’

  Nightingale opened his mouth to speak but before he could say anything he saw Jenny McLean walk into the bar. She waved at him and then hurried over to their table. The two men stood up. Jenny headed straight for Fairchild, hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Thanks for rescuing him, Uncle Marcus.’

  ‘Always a pleasure to put the police in their place,’ said Fairchild. ‘What can I get you to drink?’

  ‘White wine would be lovely, thank you,’ said Jenny. Fairchild went over to the bar as Jenny sat down next to Nightingale.

  ‘Why did you call him?’ whispered Nightingale.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Jenny. ‘He got you out, didn’t he?’

  ‘I’m serious, Jenny. He’s dangerous.’

  ‘Look, Jack, Chalmers clearly has it in for you and if he throws enough mud at you some of it is going to stick.’

  ‘I can handle Chalmers,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘No you can’t because you’re a civilian and he’s got the Met behind him. Now that he knows that Uncle Marcus is in your corner he’ll be less likely to give you a hard time.’

  ‘He’s not your uncle. I don’t know why you call him that.’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk. You know that you were adopted at birth but you still call them your parents, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s different. That’s totally different.’

  ‘Sometimes you can be an obstinate bastard, Jack,’ said Jenny. She folded her arms and glared at him.

  ‘Something wrong?’ asked Fairchild as he returned to the table with a glass of wine for Jenny. He put the glass on the table and sat down.

  ‘I’m starting to think that Jack enjoys sparring with Chalmers,’ said Jenny.

  ‘What I can’t understand is where all the bad feeling has sprung from,’ said Fairchild, adjusting the creases of his trousers. ‘You’ve obviously done something to get under his skin.’

  ‘It’s probably jealousy,’ said Jenny.

  ‘What, of my good looks?’ said Nightingale.

  Jenny smiled sarcastically. ‘Yes, I’m sure that’s it.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘For a start you were a better cop than he ever was,’ said Jenny.

 
‘Is that so?’ asked Fairchild.

  ‘That’s what Jack always says.’

  ‘Chalmers is an idiot,’ said Nightingale. ‘Always has been, always will be. But he knows how to tick the right boxes and how to say the right things at interviews to climb the slippery pole.’

  ‘Plus, the fact that you have the house must really get up his nose.’

  ‘House?’ said Fairchild.

  ‘Jack inherited a huge house in the country,’ said Jenny. She sipped her wine.

  ‘Did he now?’ said Fairchild.

  ‘Gosling Manor,’ said Nightingale. ‘From my biological father.’

  ‘What about Robyn? Did he leave anything to her?’ said Fairchild.

  ‘He didn’t know where she was. He gave both of us away at birth and although he found me he had no idea what had happened to her. So no, she got nothing.’

  ‘And this house – are you going to live there?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m still considering my options. I’ll decide once the builders are out.’

  ‘You’re doing the place up?’ asked Fairchild.

  ‘I wish,’ said Nightingale. ‘I had a visit from an arsonist.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ said Fairchild.

  ‘If I am, there’s no punchline,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was in the house at the time.’

  ‘Did the police catch him?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Nightingale. ‘But he set fire to himself before they could put the cuffs on him.’

  ‘And why did he pick on you?’ asked Fairchild.

  ‘It was probably his winning personality,’ said Jenny. She raised her glass to Fairchild. ‘Thanks for riding to Jack’s rescue,’ she said. ‘I’m grateful, even if he isn’t.’

  21

  Nightingale got into Jenny’s Audi with every intention of not mentioning Marcus Fairchild but she knew him well enough to realise that something was wrong. ‘You really are pissed off that I got Uncle Marcus to bail you out, aren’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘Bail wasn’t an issue. I was helping them with their enquiries.’ He stared out through the windscreen. There were roadworks ahead and the traffic was crawling along.