Free Lastnight by Stephen Leather Page A

the phone across to her. ‘He’s on his way,’ he said.
    ‘That’s a first.’
    ‘He’s your godfather, that comes with responsibilities.’
    ‘Murray doesn’t believe in God, and neither do I. How could God, any God, have allowed that to happen to Abbie?’
    Nightingale didn’t have an answer and he doubted that anyone did. She kept looking at him, waiting for him to say something, and he said a silent prayer of thanks when the kettle came to the boil, switched itself off and she went over to pour water into an old-fashioned brown earthenware teapot. She had already set out two cups and saucers. ‘One sugar?’ she said.
    ‘Terrific,’ he said. ‘You should have sugar, too.’
    ‘I don’t have a sweet tooth.’
    ‘It’s good for shock.’
    She turned to look at him. ‘I’m not in shock.’
    Nightingale nodded. ‘Yes, you are. Not the sharp, jolting kind. The numbing, pressing kind, the sort that makes your chest feel tight. Sugar can help. Seriously.’
    Zoe sighed. ‘I’m too tired to argue with you,’ she said. She reached for a sugar bowl and put one teaspoonful in each of the mugs.
    ‘Two would be better,’ said Nightingale.
    Zoe laughed. ‘Fine, I’ll have two if you do.’ She added another spoonful to each of the cups, and took them over to the island. ‘You’ve done this before,’ she said.
    ‘Suggested sugar? We’re taught to do that.’
    Zoe opened the left hand side of the fridge and took out a blue and white striped milk jug. She put it down in front of Nightingale and then fetched the teapot. ‘Taught?’ she said as she sat down and poured tea into the two cups.
    ‘I used to be a police negotiator,’ he said.
    She frowned. ‘What, talking to armed robbers with hostages and stuff?’
    Nightingale laughed. In fact he had undergone hundreds of hours of training to deal with people in crisis. He’d spent two years as a police negotiator and while in the movies that meant talking armed robbers out of hostage situations, in the real world more often than not it involved talking to people who wanted to hurt themselves or their nearest and dearest. ‘More often than not the person in crisis doesn’t have a weapon,’ he said.
    ‘Is that what you think I am, a person in crisis?’
    Nightingale shook his head. ‘Well, if you threatened to kill yourself, then you are, yes.’
    Her eyes narrowed. ‘Because of what I said, before? About not wanting to live without Abbie?’
    ‘You sounded as if you meant it.’
    She sipped her tea before answering. ‘I think I probably did, yes. But it’s a big step between thinking that and killing myself. I’m not suicidal, Jack.’
    ‘No, but you’re in shock and you’re vulnerable. And I could see why you didn’t want Victim Support, but they do help a lot of people.’
    ‘There’s nothing anyone can do to help,’ she said. ‘No one can bring Abbie back.’ She took another sip of tea. ‘You don’t do it any more then? Negotiating?’
    Nightingale shook his head. ‘No. Not any more.’
    ‘I’m guessing it’s very stressful.’
    ‘Yeah, and it doesn’t get any easier. You have to empathise, and that takes its toll. Empathy is a two-way street. You have to open yourself up to the other person and their unhappiness can spill over.’ He forced a smile. ‘Sorry, that sounds a bit crazy.’
    ‘No, it makes perfect sense. I can see that you genuinely care about me. Unless you’re faking it.’
    Nightingale laughed. ‘I’m not that good an actor. But I was a good negotiator because I could empathise. I could feel what they were going through so I was usually able to help them through it. But every time it was over, I felt a bit more … sad, I guess you’d call it. As if I’d taken some of their grief from them.’
    ‘A problem shared is a problem halved, they say.’
    Nightingale nodded. ‘More often than not they just wanted someone to talk to. Or, more importantly, someone to listen to them.’
    ‘You’re good at that,