CONTENTS
NIGHTFALL
Stephen Leather
www.hodder.co.uk
Also by Stephen Leather
Pay Off
The Fireman
Hungry Ghost
The Chinaman
The Vets
The Long Shot
The Birthday Girl
The Double Tap
The Solitary Man
The Tunnel Rats
The Bombmaker
The Stretch
Tango One
The Eyewitness
Hard Landing
Soft Target
Cold Kill
Hot Blood
Dead Men
Live Fire
About the Author
Stephen Leather was a journalist for more than ten years on newspapers such as The Times, the Daily Mail and the South China Morning Post in Hong Kong. Before that, he was employed as a biochemist for ICI, shovelled limestone in a quarry, worked as a baker, a petrol pump attendant, a barman, and worked for the Inland Revenue.
He began writing full-time in 1992. His bestsellers have been translated into more than ten languages. He has also written for television shows such as Londons Burning, The Knock and the BBCs Murder in Mind series.
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK Company
Copyright Stephen Leather 2010
The right of Stephen Leather to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Epub ISBN 978 1 84894 571 5
Book ISBN 978 1 44470 062 6
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
An Hachette UK Company
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
J ack Nightingale didnt intend to kill anyone when he woke up on that chilly November morning. He shaved, showered and dressed, made himself coffee and a bacon sandwich, and at no point did he even contemplate the taking of a human life, even though he had spent the last five years training to do just that. As a serving member of the Metropolitan Polices elite CO19 armed-response unit he was more than capable of putting a bullet in a mans head or chest if it was necessary and provided he had been given the necessary authorisation by a senior officer.
His mobile phone rang just as he was pouring the coffee from his cafetiere. It was the Co-ordinator of the Metropolitan Polices negotiating team. Jack, Ive just had a call from the Duty Officer at Fulham. They have a person in crisis down at Chelsea Harbour. Can you get there?
No problem, said Nightingale. After two courses at the Mets Bramshill Officer Training College he was now one of several dozen officers qualified to talk to hostage-takers and potential suicides in addition to his regular duties.
Im told its a jumper on a ledge but thats all I have. Im trying to get back up for you but weve got four guys tied up with a domestic in Brixton.
Give me the address, said Nightingale, reaching for a pen.
He ate his bacon sandwich as he drove his MGB Roadster to Chelsea Harbour. During the three years he had worked as a negotiator he had been called to more than forty attempted suicides but on only three occasions had he seen someone take their own life. In his experience, people either wanted to kill themselves or they wanted to talk. They rarely wanted to do both. Suicide was a relatively easy matter. You climbed to the top of a high building or a bridge and you jumped. Or you swallowed a lot of tablets. Or you tied a rope around your neck and stepped off a chair. Or you took a razor blade and made deep cuts in your wrist or throat. If you were lucky enough to have a gun you put it in your mouth or against your temple and pulled the trigger. What you didnt do if you really wanted to kill yourself was say you were going to do it, then wait for a trained police negotiator to arrive. People who did that usually just wanted someone to listen to their problems and reassure them that their lives were worth living. Once theyd got whatever was worrying them off their chests they came off the ledge, or put down the gun or lowered the knife, and everyone cheered, patted Nightingale on the back and told him job well done.
When he reached the address that the Duty Officer had given him, his way was blocked by a police car and two Community Support Officers in police-type uniforms and yellow fluorescent jackets. One pointed the way Nightingale had come and told him to turn around, in a tone that suggested his motivation for becoming a CSO had more to do with wielding power than helping his fellow citizens. Nightingale wound down the window and showed them his warrant card. Inspector Nightingale, he said. Im the negotiator.
Sorry, sir, said the CSO, suddenly all sweetness and light. He gestured at a parked ambulance. You can leave your car there, Ill keep an eye on it. He and his colleague moved aside to allow Nightingale to drive through. He pulled up behind the ambulance and climbed out, stretching and yawning.
If youd asked Nightingale what he was expecting that chilly November morning, hed probably have shrugged carelessly and said that jumpers tended to be either men the worse for drink, women the worse for anti-depressants or druggies the worse for their Class-A drug of choice, generally cocaine or amphetamines. Nightingales drug of choice while working was nicotine so he lit himself a Marlboro and blew smoke at the cloudless sky.
A uniformed inspector hurried over, holding a transceiver. Im glad its you, Jack, he said.
And Im glad its you. Hed known Colin Duggan for almost a decade. He was old school a good reliable thief-taker who, like Nightingale, was a smoker. He offered him a Marlboro and lit it for him, even though smoking in uniform was a disciplinary offence.
Its a kid, Jack, said Duggan, scratching his fleshy neck.
Gang-banger? Drug deal gone wrong? Nightingale inhaled and held the smoke deep in his lungs.
A kid kid, said Duggan. Nine-year-old girl.
Nightingale frowned as he blew a tight plume of smoke. Nine-year-old girls didnt kill themselves. They played with their PlayStations or Wiis, or they went rollerblading, and sometimes they were kidnapped and raped by paedophiles, but they never, ever killed themselves.
Duggan pointed up at a luxury tower block overlooking the Thames. Her names Sophie, shes locked herself on the thirteenth-floor balcony and shes sitting there talking to her doll.
Where are the parents? said Nightingale. There was a cold feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach.
Fathers at work, mothers shopping. She was left in the care of the au pair. Duggan waved his cigarette at an anorexic blonde who was sitting on a bench, sobbing, as a uniformed WPC tried to comfort her. Polish girl. She was ironing, then saw Sophie on the balcony. She banged on the window but Sophie had locked it from the outside.
And what makes her think Sophie wants to jump?
Shes talking to her doll, wont look at anyone. We sent up two WPCs but she wont talk to them.
