Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (20 page)

41

J
enny climbed out of the MGB. ‘You weren’t joking – it is a mansion,’ she said. ‘How many rooms?’

‘A lot,’ said Nightingale.

‘I expected gargoyles and turrets and stuff but it’s really nice,’ she said. ‘And the gardens are spectacular.’ She stood with her hands on her hips, admiring the house. ‘It’s chocolate-box pretty, isn’t it? Not the sort of house you’d expect a Satanist to live in.’

‘It was built by the local squire, apparently.’

‘What is it – seventeenth century?’

‘Sixteenth, the cops said. But it’s been added to over the years. You should have a look around the back – there’s a lake. And stables. How does it compare to the McLean ancestral pile?’

Jenny smiled. ‘Ah, now you’re talking,’ she said. ‘My parents’ place is a bit special.’

‘As special as this?’

‘I’m not playing the who’s-got-the-biggest-house game, Jack, but this is lovely, really lovely. You’re very lucky to have it.’

‘Yeah, but I can’t see how I can keep it,’ said Nightingale. He walked over to the garage, which was to the right of the main building. There were four metal doors that opened upwards but all were locked. CCTV cameras at either end covered all the doors and the area in front of them.

‘He was big on security,’ observed Jenny.

‘Inside and out,’ said Nightingale. He went to the far side of the garage. There were two windows, dusty and covered with cobwebs. He peered through the first but all he could see was a bare concrete floor, discoloured from years of spilled oil. He moved to the second, cupped his hand over his forehead and squinted through the glass. There was a long wooden workbench but no tools. A pulley and chains hung from a metal girder running the full length of the interior and there was a dark area at the far end, which looked like a pit.

‘What are you looking for?’ asked Jenny, joining him at the window.

‘A Bentley,’ said Nightingale. ‘Apparently that’s what Gosling drove. Or, rather, that’s what he was driven around in.’ He moved away from the window. ‘Empty,’ he said. ‘Just like the house.’

‘Maybe he sold it,’ said Jenny.

‘He seems to have sold everything else.’

‘Except the books,’ said Jenny.

‘Except the books,’ agreed Nightingale. ‘Come on, I’ll give you the tour.’

They walked to the front door and Nightingale unlocked it. He bowed and waved her inside. ‘Wow, would you look at that chandelier!’ she said. ‘And this floor is Italian marble, right?’

‘Only the best for Ainsley Gosling,’ said Nightingale, closing the door.

‘And there’s no furniture?’

‘Just a bed and a chair in the master bedroom.’

‘That’s where he . . . ?’

‘Killed himself? Yeah. But you wouldn’t know by looking at the room – it’s been cleaned. Not a speck of blood.’ He waved his hand around the hall. ‘So, can you see the secret panel?’

‘The what?’

‘The secret panel. Gosling was the only one who knew how to get down to the basement.’

Jenny walked slowly along the length of the hallway, running her hand along the wooden panelling. ‘How did you find it, if it’s so secret?’

Nightingale waxed an imaginary moustache and did his best Hercule Poirot impersonation. ‘Because I am ze great detective,’ he said.

‘Robbie found it, right?’

‘It was a joint effort,’ said Nightingale. He pressed the panel that led down to the basement and it clicked open. He flicked the light switch. ‘Be careful, the stairs are quite steep,’ he said. ‘And keep hold of the handrail.’

He followed her down the stairs. ‘This is amazing,’ said Jenny. ‘There must be thousands of books here. Are they all witchcraft and devil stuff?’

‘Seem to be.’

‘Are you going to sell them all?’ she asked, as she pulled one out of the middle of a shelf. ‘Ah,’ she said, before he could answer. ‘Perhaps not.’

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

She held up the book so that he could see the title.
Dissecting Humans
.

‘No way,’ he said.

Jenny leafed through it. ‘Complete with illustrations,’ she said. ‘I think it’s a medical text. At least, I hope it is.’ She put it back on the shelf and started walking through the display cases. ‘It’s half library, half museum.’

Nightingale went to Gosling’s desk. He sat down, opened the top drawer and pulled out a leather file. Inside, plastic folders held business cards – lawyers, businessmen, politicians, showbiz personalities, even high-ranking policemen. Ainsley Gosling had had some very important friends.

‘Have you seen these crystal balls?’ asked Jenny. ‘Was he a fortune-teller as well?’

‘Get away from there!’ shouted Nightingale, leaping out of the chair.

Jenny jumped backwards. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

Nightingale hurried over to her. ‘Just don’t touch them,’ he said.

‘Why? Are they valuable?’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.’

‘It’s not that,’ he said. His shoe crunched on a piece of broken glass. ‘It’s just . . .’ He tailed off, not sure if he could explain what he was worried about without appearing to be a complete idiot.

‘Tell me, Jack.’

‘The last time Robbie was here he saw himself in one of the balls.’

‘His reflection, you mean?’

Nightingale took a deep breath. ‘This is going to sound crazy, but he saw himself being hit by a taxi.’

Jenny’s face hardened. ‘That’s not funny, Jack,’ she said.

‘I’m not joking,’ said Nightingale. He pointed at the shards of glass on the floor. ‘He was so shocked that he dropped it.’

‘Jack, listen to yourself. You’re saying Robbie saw his future. You know that’s impossible.’

‘I’m only telling you what he told me, Jenny. And if you’d seen the look on his face, you’d know how serious he was.’

‘He saw himself being hit by a cab?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘It’s crazy.’

‘Everything about this is crazy,’ said Nightingale. ‘This basement is crazy, the DVD Gosling left me is crazy – killing yourself in a magic circle isn’t exactly a sign of sanity.’

Jenny flopped down onto a leather sofa. ‘Are you okay?’

‘In what sense?’

‘You’ve just found out your parents weren’t your real parents, that your real father killed himself with a shotgun and your birth-mother has spent most of her life in a psychiatric institution. Your uncle and aunt are dead and you’ve just buried your best friend.’

Nightingale lit a cigarette and sat down beside her. ‘Yeah. It’s been a stressful few days,’ he said sarcastically.

‘And how are you going to deal with it all?’

Nightingale held up the cigarette. ‘Nicotine and alcohol, same as usual,’ he said.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘With a therapist?’

Jenny laughed. ‘With me, you idiot.’

‘I’m okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m in bits about Robbie, but I’m an adult, I can deal with it. The parents thing is confusing me a bit, but I’m not the first person to discover they were adopted, and I can deal with it.’

‘And your mother?’

‘She’s not my mother, Jenny. She’s . . .’

‘She’s what?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Yes, she gave birth to me, I’m sure of that now, but she’s nothing to me and never will be. My mother was Irene Nightingale and she’s been dead almost fifteen years. And Bill was my father. Nothing will ever change that.’

‘And the DVD? Gosling’s message to you?’

‘The ramblings of a suicidal madman.’

She looked at him earnestly. ‘You’re sure that’s how you feel?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because what you’ve been through is traumatic. And you seem to be taking it all very calmly.’

‘I was a cop for almost ten years, Jenny. It takes a lot to faze me.’ He blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘Trust me, I’m fine.’

42

W
hen Nightingale woke on Friday morning he lay in bed for almost half an hour staring up at the ceiling. He had acted on impulse when he’d asked the detective inspector for the name of the man who had killed Robbie Hoyle, but once he had it he knew that nothing would stop him going to talk to him. Nightingale wanted to know if Hoyle had died immediately or if he had lain in a pool of blood, begging to be saved. He wanted to know why O’Brien hadn’t stopped or swerved, why he had just mown Hoyle down. He wanted to know what had happened, even though that knowledge wouldn’t change anything. Hoyle’s death didn’t make any sense but, in Nightingale’s experience, few deaths did.

He booted up his laptop and logged on to Tracesmart, an online service that provided access to electoral rolls around the country. There was only one Barry O’Brien living in Hammersmith. He made a note of the address and called Jenny to tell her he’d be late in. ‘I’ve things to do at Gosling Manor,’ he lied. ‘I’ll be with you during the afternoon. If there’s anything important, I’ll be on the mobile.’ He ended the call, feeling suddenly guilty. He didn’t like lying to Jenny, but telling her what he was really doing would only worry her. Nightingale had always been much more comfortable asking questions than answering them.

He shaved, showered and put on a clean shirt and a dark blue suit that had just come back from the drycleaner’s. He made himself a cup of black coffee, smoked a Marlboro, then drove to Hammersmith.

O’Brien’s house was in a terraced street and a black cab was parked in front of it. Nightingale found a space for the MGB about fifty yards away. He climbed out and walked over to the cab. There was no damage to the front, no blood, not even a scratch – nothing to show that the vehicle had ended the life of Robbie Hoyle. Nightingale wasn’t surprised. A London cab weighed more than 1600 kilograms and flesh was no match for that amount of steel moving at speed.

A middle-aged housewife walked by with a white poodle on a lead. She was holding a screwed-up plastic bag and cajoling the animal to do its business. Nightingale flashed her a smile and she glared at him as if he was a child-molester.

A flight of half a dozen stone steps led up to the front door of O’Brien’s house. Nightingale pressed the bell and heard it buzz in the hallway. He went back to the pavement and looked up at the bedroom windows. The curtains were drawn. Nightingale wondered if O’Brien had worked through the night and was now sleeping. He rang the bell again. When there was no answer, he took out his mobile phone and dialled the number he’d been given by Directory Enquiries. He heard the phone ring inside the house. He let it continue for a full thirty seconds, then ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket.

He stood on the pavement, considering his options. If O’Brien was asleep, he’d answer the door eventually. He obviously wasn’t working because his cab was in the street. Maybe he’d taken the day off and gone somewhere without it. If that was the case, then Nightingale was wasting his time.

He went back up the steps. There was a letterbox in the middle of the door. He pushed it open and bent down to shout through it. ‘Mr O’Brien?’ The door moved forward. Nightingale frowned. He straightened and pushed it open.

There were half a dozen envelopes on the carpet, mainly bills, and several garish leaflets. Nightingale stepped inside. ‘Mr O’Brien? Are you there?’ There was no answer, but Nightingale could hear a soft buzzing, like an electronic hum, coming from upstairs. He closed the door. He knew he shouldn’t be in the house, but he also knew that something was wrong. People didn’t leave their front doors open in London. He walked down the hallway and checked the living room, then the kitchen. There were dirty dishes in the sink and a half-drunk cup of coffee on the draining-board. He touched the kettle. It was cold.

He went back into the hallway. ‘Mr O’Brien? Are you upstairs?’ A large bluebottle flew around his head and he swatted it away. He headed up the stairs, peering up at the landing above. ‘Mr O’Brien, is everything okay?’

The buzzing got louder. Two more large flies circled Nightingale’s head. As he reached the landing he saw that the bathroom door was ajar. There were half a dozen flies on the wall by the light switch and as he moved closer more flew out through the open door. The buzzing was much stronger now, like a faulty electric circuit.

There was a bad smell in the air, an odour Nightingale had encountered many times during his years as a police officer, a smell that was difficult to describe but could never be forgotten. Before he even pushed open the bathroom door, Nightingale knew what he would find.

The man had been in the water for at least a day, probably longer, and had already started to swell. There were deep cuts in both arms and the savage wounds were filled with flies. They were everywhere, feeding and laying their eggs, buzzing around Nightingale as if they resented his appearance at their banquet.

O’Brien had filled the bath with water and cut his wrists with a Stanley knife, which was lying on the floor, the blade covered with blood. There were smears across the wall and the floor where arterial blood had sprayed but most had gone into the bathwater. O’Brien’s eyes were still open, staring up at the ceiling. Nightingale didn’t know why Barry O’Brien had wanted to kill himself but one thing was for sure: it hadn’t been a cry for help.

Scrawled across the tiles at the side of the bath in bloody letters was the sentence with which Nightingale had become all too familiar: ‘YOU ARE GOING TO HELL, JACK NIGHTINGALE.’ Dozens of flies were feeding off it.

Nightingale stared at the words in horror. ‘What is going on?’ he whispered. He pulled a couple of feet of toilet tissue from the roll, swatted the flies away with his hands and used it to wipe the tiles, then dropped it into the toilet. He pulled off another length, wet it under the tap and wiped the tiles a second time. They looked too clean now so he splashed bloody water from the bath over them and washed his hands in the basin. A fly came so close to his right ear that he flinched.

He dried his hands and went back into the hallway where he took out his mobile phone and started to dial 999. He stopped at the second digit. He cancelled the call and instead dialled New Scotland Yard. He asked the switchboard operator to put him through to Inspector Dan Evans, and after a couple of minutes the inspector was on the line. ‘Dan, I thought I’d better tell you this before you hear it from anyone else,’ he said.

‘That sounds ominous,’ said the inspector, jovially.

‘I’m at Barry O’Brien’s house and he’s killed himself.’

There was a long silence. ‘I hope this is some sort of sick joke,’ said Evans, eventually.

‘He’s cut his wrists. He’s been dead for a while by the look of it.’

‘What the hell are you doing in his house?’

‘I came to talk to him,’ said Nightingale. ‘The front door was open.’

‘So you just walked in?’

‘Like I said, the front door was open.’

‘You can’t just go wandering around people’s houses, Nightingale. You’re not in the job any more.’

‘I know that, but what’s done is done. I was going to call 999 but I thought I’d better let you know what had happened.’

‘Do you need an ambulance?’

‘He’s definitely dead. Are you going to handle it or should I call 999?’

‘Have you any idea of the trouble this is going to cause, Nightingale? You got O’Brien’s name from me, right?’

‘I’ve forgotten where I heard it,’ said Nightingale, ‘and I doubt I’m going to remember.’

‘Let’s keep it that way,’ said Evans. ‘Where’s the body?’

‘Upstairs bathroom,’ said Nightingale.

‘Wait for me downstairs, outside the house,’ said Evans. ‘And don’t touch anything.’