feet off the bed. ‘I’ll do the three interviews first, I should be back this afternoon.’
He ended the call then shaved and showered and put on a dark blue suit, a white shirt that he’d only worn once and a green tie with yellow MGB logos on it. He had scheduled three visits on the Goth case, all north of the river. He needed to talk to the neighbours of Daryl Heaton, who lived alone in Kilburn. He had to talk to the parents of Stella Walsh, the first victim, in Islington, and the parents of Luke Aitken, who lived in Hampstead. Geographically they were only a few miles from each other but the quirks of the London transport system meant that the easiest and quickest way of getting to all three was to drive. His stomach was growling but he figured he didn’t have time to make his regular bacon sandwich breakfast so he picked up a coffee and muffin from Starbucks on his way to his car.
His first stop was Kilburn. Daryl Heaton lived in a three-storey terraced house that in Edwardian times had probably been home to a family and servants but which had long ago been converted into studio flats. It was a short walk from Kilburn High Street and Nightingale managed to find a parking space between a skip piled high with wood and plaster and a British Gas van. To the left of the front door was an intercom with six buttons, six at the top and one on the bottom. According to the police file, Heaton lived in Flat 3. Nightingale pressed the button for Flat 4 and waited. After a minute he pressed it again but when there was still no answer he pressed Flat 1. Again there was no answer. Nightingale sighed and stabbed the button for Flat 5. This time a man answered and it sounded as if he had just woken up. ‘What?’
‘I’m with the police,’ said Nightingale, which he figured was an approximation of the truth. ‘I need to talk to you about Mr Heaton.’
‘Again? This is the third time.’
‘I won’t take long, a few minutes at most,’ said Nightingale. The door lock buzzed and Nightingale pushed it open. There was a pile of junk mail and fast food leaflets on the floor and a pushchair at the bottom of the stairs. The stair carpet was threadbare and had worn completely through in places. The walls were streaked with dirt and the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling was covered in dust and there was a cobweb running from the flex to the wall. Nightingale picked up the mail and flicked through it. There were several bills among the junk including a mobile phone bill addressed to Joe Lumley. He tossed the envelopes to the side and went upstairs.
There was police tape across the door to Flat 3 and a letter had been stapled to it saying that no one was to gain entrance and that any queries could be dealt with by calling one of three phone numbers. The wood around the lock had splintered, presumably from when the police had broken it down, and it had been roughly repaired with a few pieces of cheap timber.
Flat 5 was directly above Heaton’s flat. Nightingale knocked on the door and it was opened by a man in his late twenties wearing Mickey Mouse boxer shorts. He looked at Nightingale blearily and yawned, showing perfect white teeth. ‘Yeah?’ he said, then yawned again.
‘Joe Lumley?’
The man nodded and ran a hand through his unkempt hair as he tried to focus on Nightingale’s face. ‘Yeah.’
‘I’m sorry to have woken you up,’ said Nightingale.
‘I haven’t been to bed yet,’ said Lumley. Nightingale looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. ‘I work nights,’ the man growled. ‘I only just got in.’
‘Sorry,’ said Nightingale.
Lumley opened the door wider. ‘No sweat. You want tea?’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ said Nightingale. The man padded over to a table on which there was a microwave and a kettle. He switched on the kettle, then grabbed a pair of jeans and a black pullover and disappeared into the bathroom. He reappeared a couple of minutes later wearing the jeans and pullover and having
He ended the call then shaved and showered and put on a dark blue suit, a white shirt that he’d only worn once and a green tie with yellow MGB logos on it. He had scheduled three visits on the Goth case, all north of the river. He needed to talk to the neighbours of Daryl Heaton, who lived alone in Kilburn. He had to talk to the parents of Stella Walsh, the first victim, in Islington, and the parents of Luke Aitken, who lived in Hampstead. Geographically they were only a few miles from each other but the quirks of the London transport system meant that the easiest and quickest way of getting to all three was to drive. His stomach was growling but he figured he didn’t have time to make his regular bacon sandwich breakfast so he picked up a coffee and muffin from Starbucks on his way to his car.
His first stop was Kilburn. Daryl Heaton lived in a three-storey terraced house that in Edwardian times had probably been home to a family and servants but which had long ago been converted into studio flats. It was a short walk from Kilburn High Street and Nightingale managed to find a parking space between a skip piled high with wood and plaster and a British Gas van. To the left of the front door was an intercom with six buttons, six at the top and one on the bottom. According to the police file, Heaton lived in Flat 3. Nightingale pressed the button for Flat 4 and waited. After a minute he pressed it again but when there was still no answer he pressed Flat 1. Again there was no answer. Nightingale sighed and stabbed the button for Flat 5. This time a man answered and it sounded as if he had just woken up. ‘What?’
‘I’m with the police,’ said Nightingale, which he figured was an approximation of the truth. ‘I need to talk to you about Mr Heaton.’
‘Again? This is the third time.’
‘I won’t take long, a few minutes at most,’ said Nightingale. The door lock buzzed and Nightingale pushed it open. There was a pile of junk mail and fast food leaflets on the floor and a pushchair at the bottom of the stairs. The stair carpet was threadbare and had worn completely through in places. The walls were streaked with dirt and the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling was covered in dust and there was a cobweb running from the flex to the wall. Nightingale picked up the mail and flicked through it. There were several bills among the junk including a mobile phone bill addressed to Joe Lumley. He tossed the envelopes to the side and went upstairs.
There was police tape across the door to Flat 3 and a letter had been stapled to it saying that no one was to gain entrance and that any queries could be dealt with by calling one of three phone numbers. The wood around the lock had splintered, presumably from when the police had broken it down, and it had been roughly repaired with a few pieces of cheap timber.
Flat 5 was directly above Heaton’s flat. Nightingale knocked on the door and it was opened by a man in his late twenties wearing Mickey Mouse boxer shorts. He looked at Nightingale blearily and yawned, showing perfect white teeth. ‘Yeah?’ he said, then yawned again.
‘Joe Lumley?’
The man nodded and ran a hand through his unkempt hair as he tried to focus on Nightingale’s face. ‘Yeah.’
‘I’m sorry to have woken you up,’ said Nightingale.
‘I haven’t been to bed yet,’ said Lumley. Nightingale looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. ‘I work nights,’ the man growled. ‘I only just got in.’
‘Sorry,’ said Nightingale.
Lumley opened the door wider. ‘No sweat. You want tea?’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ said Nightingale. The man padded over to a table on which there was a microwave and a kettle. He switched on the kettle, then grabbed a pair of jeans and a black pullover and disappeared into the bathroom. He reappeared a couple of minutes later wearing the jeans and pullover and having
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