21
There were two of them and they could have been twins. Hard faces, receding hairlines, carrying more weight than was good for them and wearing cheap suits. They both had the weary faces of men who had been lied to for decades. Detectives. They looked the same the world over, and Nightingale figured that if he’d stayed in the job he’d probably have looked just like them by now.
Nightingale had been escorted to the room by the two armed policemen and left there until the two detectives had turned up.
One of the detectives was an inspector but he hadn’t said anything. His colleague, a detective constable, had done the introductions and swung Nightingale’s bag onto the table. Nightingale got the feeling that the constable was new to CID and the inspector was assessing his performance. The conversation wasn’t being recorded and there didn’t appear to be any CCTV cameras, which he took as a good sign, despite the hard stares. The constable’s name was McKee and he had an accent so impenetrable that Nightingale had trouble understanding him. He held up the evidence bag containing the knife. ‘What is this?’
‘A knife. A ceremonial knife. It’s an antique.’
McKee wrinkled his nose as he stared at the knife. ‘It looks old, I agree. But it doesn’t look like an antique. And why were you taking it onto the plane?’
‘I’m taking it to London.’
‘You know that you can’t take knives onto planes?’
Nightingale held up his hands. ‘It was a mistake. An honest mistake. I’d forgotten it was in my bag, that’s all.’
‘And why is it in an evidence bag?’
‘I’m taking it to be analysed.’
‘Analysed?’
‘I want to run it through a lab.’
‘A lab?’
Nightingale was about to make a joke about the detective repeating everything he said, but he doubted that he’d appreciate the attempt at humour. ‘I wanted to get the blood checked.’
‘You know there’s blood on the knife, then?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘I’d noticed it.’
‘And can you explain how the blood got there?’
Nightingale took out his wallet. ‘I’m a detective, private,’ he said. He handed over a business card. ‘The knife and the crucible are a case. Evidence.’
The detective studied the card and then passed it to the inspector. ‘Evidence or not, you can’t take a knife onto a plane.’
‘Absolutely, I’m sorry. It was a genuine mistake. Look, I used to be in the job. I was a detective with the Met.’
‘Were you now?’ He looked over at the inspector as if seeking his approval. The inspector nodded.
‘CO19. And I was a negotiator. If you need a reference, I can give you the name of an inspector who’ll vouch for me.’
The detective held out his hand. ‘Do you have your passport?’
‘Sure.’ Nightingale took his passport from his pocket and gave it to the detective.
The detective flicked through it, then studied the photo. He handed it to the inspector, who also flicked through the pages and checked the photograph. He checked the name in the passport with the name on the business card, then stood up. ‘I’ll be back shortly,’ he said. His voice sounded more Northern Irish than Scottish.
Nightingale looked at his watch. ‘I’m going to miss my plane.’
‘We’ll get you on the next one, Mr Nightingale,’ said the inspector. ‘Assuming that you check out.’ He went out of the room.
Nightingale smiled at the remaining detective. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’
‘About as much chance of Hell freezing over,’ growled the detective.
‘Good to know. Don’t suppose I can smoke in here?’
The detective stared at Nightingale silently, his lips a thin bloodless line.
Nightingale folded his arms and sat back in his chair. Five minutes later the inspector reappeared and gave him back the passport. He sat down and interlinked his fingers. ‘Well, a police officer you were, Mr Nightingale. You left the Met under a cloud but at least you didn’t kill anyone.’
‘That would be the silver lining,’ said Nightingale.
The inspector pointed at the knife. ‘You said that the knife was evidence in a case. Would that be a criminal case?’
Nightingale looked at the inspector and tried to smile as amiably as possible. Lying to police officers was never a good idea, especially detectives, but he didn’t want to start a conversation about the murders in Berwick. ‘Divorce,’ he said.
The two detectives frowned in unison. ‘Divorce?’ said the inspector.
Nightingale tried to keep the casual smile on his face as he nodded. ‘I’m acting for a woman who thinks that her husband is messing around with a coven of witches.’
‘Witches?’ repeated McKee.
‘Well, they claim they’re a coven but the lady suspects that her husband is using it for casual sex. She found the knife and the crucible hidden in their house so she wanted me to get it checked to see if that’s animal blood.’
‘Why does it matter what sort of blood it is?’ asked the inspector.
That was a very good question, Nightingale realised. His mind raced, trying to come up with a believable answer. ‘It’s more so that when she sues him for divorce she can say that she found a knife with chicken blood or whatever in his wardrobe. If she doesn’t do the checks then he might just turn around and say it was a rusty knife he used in the garden. He’s got a lot of money and he’ll fight any divorce tooth and nail so she wants to get all her ducks in a row.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘He’s quite well connected, which is why she came to my firm. We’re in London, so no one’s going to tip him off.’
The inspector nodded as if he was buying it.
‘So can I go?’ asked Nightingale.
‘I don’t think we need to keep you any longer. But you can’t take the knife on the plane, not in your hand luggage anyway. I’d suggest you check it in with the airline. Put it in a box or a padded envelope and it can go in the baggage hold. Or use a courier service. It’s Saturday, so you won’t get next-day delivery, but it’ll be in London Monday or Tuesday.’
‘Thanks,’ said Nightingale. He stood up and put the bagged knife into his kitbag.