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to her death unless Nightingale came up with the words that would stop her. Nightingale looked over his shoulder at the room behind him. That was where the Number Two would be, if he had a Number Two. The Secondary. It was the Secondary’s job to monitor the situation, keep notes and offer advice. The Primary was often caught up in the moment and had to think on his feet but the Secondary was able to supply a dispassionate perspective. The third member of the team was the Intelligence Negotiator. Number Three. He would be down on the ground talking to anyone who knew the person in crisis, friends and relatives, anyone who might be able to provide information that could be useful for the Primary. That information would be relayed to the Number Two who would pass it on to the Number One. Except that there was no Number Two and no Number Three. There was just Nightingale and the nine-year-old girl who was sitting on the balcony swinging her legs and whispering to her doll and preparing to fall to her death.
    Nightingale looked across at the balcony where the girl was. She was still whispering to her doll. She had long blonde hair that she’d tucked behind her ears and skin as white and smooth as porcelain. He could see dark patches under her eyes as if she had trouble sleeping. He took another long drag on his cigarette. He had to find some way of initiating a conversation because so long as she was talking she wasn’t falling. He couldn’t talk about her family because it was her father who was abusing her and her mother knew but wasn’t doing anything to stop him. School, maybe. Maybe she was happier at school so if they talked about that then she’d realise that there were people who loved her and wanted to protect her. He didn’t know if she had a pet. Pets were good because pets loved unconditionally. She lived in an apartment so that probably meant she didn’t have a dog but there could be a cat or a gerbil, something that depended on her. That was always a good way of reaching a person in crisis: appeal to their caring side, show that the world was a better place because they were in it. That’s why he needed a Number Two and Number Three because then he’d know for sure and he wouldn’t say anything that would provoke a negative response. All the responses had to be positive because she was sitting on the edge of a wall with nothing other than a rail between her and the ground thirteen storeys below. He looked over his shoulder again but there was no one there. No back-up. No support. Just Jack Nightingale and a nine-year-old girl. And for the life of him he had no idea what to say.
    He took a quick look to his right. She had stopped whispering to the doll and was staring out over the Thames. Seagulls were gliding over the river, searching out the updrafts so that they didn’t have to flap their wings. Nightingale smiled. The birds. He could talk about the birds. All kids liked birds and she must have seen them every day from her apartment. Perfect. He took a final pull on his cigarette and flicked it away, watching it spin through the air, sparks scattering from the lit end as it fell. He flinched, realising that had been a mistake.
    He turned to look at her, smiling to show that he was on her side, but just as he opened his mouth to speak she slid off the balcony, her eyes tightly closed, the doll clutched to her chest.
    Nightingale screamed and that was when he woke up, bathed in sweat. His heart was pounding. He padded to the kitchen and took a bottle of Russian vodka from the icebox of his fridge, where it had been since the Christmas before last. He unscrewed the top and drank from the bottle. The warmth spread across his chest but it didn’t make him feel any better. He paced up and down as he drank, trying to blot out the image of Sophie falling to her death, her blonde hair whipping around in the wind, the doll in her arms. He shivered as he remembered the dull wet sound she’d made as she hit the