Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (5 page)

The sergeant shook his head. ‘They don’t always leave notes.’

‘They usually do,’ said Nightingale. ‘They want to explain themselves, maybe ask for forgiveness.’

‘You know a lot about suicides, then?’ said the PC.

‘I was a negotiator, back in the day,’ said Nightingale.

The sergeant frowned. ‘Jack Nightingale? Aren’t you the guy who killed that paedophile?’

‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. He took out his packet of Marlboro. The PC shook his head as if Nightingale was trying to sell him a wrap of heroin, but the older man took one. Nightingale lit it, and one for himself.

‘Mr Nightingale here’s a bit of a legend,’ said the sergeant. ‘Threw a banker out of a window down Canary Wharf.’

‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke into sky.

‘The bastard was fiddling with his daughter,’ said the sergeant. ‘She topped herself, right?’

‘Right,’ said Nightingale. He shivered and took another drag on his cigarette.

‘The bastard got what was coming to him.’ The sergeant flicked ash onto the ground.

‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale.

‘So, are you going to be moving in?’ asked the younger man.

Nightingale laughed and looked up at the imposing façade. ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he said. ‘I’d rattle around in a place this big.’

‘Must be worth a fortune. What do you think, Sarge?’

‘Five million, six maybe.’

‘Before the property crash.’

‘What happened to all the furniture and stuff?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Who took it away?’

The sergeant shrugged. ‘It was gone when we got here. The only room that had furniture was the bedroom where he died.’ His radio crackled and he walked away, talking into the microphone.

‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said the PC, his voice dull and lifeless, almost robotic.

Nightingale turned to him. ‘What?’ he said.

‘I said, are you going to sell up?’

Nightingale wondered if he’d simply misheard.

‘You could make even more money dividing it up into flats.’

‘I guess so,’ said Nightingale. He was sure he hadn’t misheard. But the policeman didn’t appear to be messing with him: he was smiling good-naturedly, just making conversation with a former cop while he waited for his colleague to finish on the radio. ‘I haven’t really had time to think about it.’

‘Was he a close relative, old man Gosling?’ He had an Essex accent, with long vowels and clipped consonants, slightly high-pitched as if his voice hadn’t fully broken. It sounded nothing like the one that had told Nightingale he was going to hell.

‘Not really,’ said Nightingale. ‘He was my father. Allegedly.’

The sergeant was on his way back to them. ‘Landlord of the Fox and Goose has got a problem with gypsies,’ he said. He grinned at Nightingale. ‘Not that we can call them gypsies these days. “Citizens of no fixed abode” is probably the politically correct term. Anyway, one’s just glassed a waitress so we’ve got to get over there. Good luck with the house.’ He reached into his pocket and gave Nightingale a Neighbourhood Watch card. ‘My number’s on there. Give me a call if you need anything.’

Nightingale read his name: Sergeant Harry Wilde. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Look, something I don’t understand. The house is old, right? More than a hundred years, I’d guess.’

‘A lot more,’ said the policeman. ‘The main part dates back to the sixteenth century but a lot of additions were made during the nineteen thirties. Then the family who sold it to Gosling were into horses so they built the stable and paddocks.’

‘So why’s it called Gosling Manor? Has it been in the family for generations?’

‘Mr Gosling bought it in the eighties, cash on the nail, they say. Used to be called Willborough Manor, after the family who built it. They were the local squires here for a couple of hundred years. Mr Gosling put a few noses out of joint by renaming it and there’s a lot of folk around here still call it by its old name. They’ve got a point. Houses are like boats – you only bring bad luck by renaming them.’

‘Yeah, well, it was certainly unlucky for Gosling,’ said Nightingale.

Wilde’s radio crackled again. ‘We’ve got to go,’ said the sergeant. He stuck out his hand and Nightingale shook it. ‘What you did back then, fair play to you. It was the right thing.’

Nightingale smiled thinly but he didn’t say anything. He had long since given up trying to justify to himself what he’d done that November morning and he’d never tried to justify it to anyone else.

He watched the two policemen walk to their patrol car before he climbed into the MGB. He took the envelope out of his pocket. Inside there was a key and the business card of a safe-deposit company. ‘The plot thickens,’ he muttered. He looked at the envelope again. Other than his name there was nothing on it, no indication of who had left it for him in the house. He doubted it had been Ainsley Gosling because if it had been there when the police had entered they’d have opened it in case it was a suicide note. That meant someone else had been in the house after the police had taken away the body.

6

T
he safe-deposit company was in Mayfair and Nightingale travelled there by tube because he figured parking the car would be a nightmare. He went straight from home after phoning Jenny to say that he would be late in. She was full of questions about his visit to the Hamdale solicitor but Nightingale said it would have to wait until he was back in the office.

The company’s office was discreet with just a small brass plate on a black door and a single brass bell-push. He pressed it and looked up at a CCTV camera. The door buzzed and Nightingale went in. The reception area was equally discreet, grey walls and carpet, glass and metal furniture, and no inkling of what services were on offer. Nightingale told a receptionist why he was there and two minutes later a female clerk in a grey suit was leading him down a steel staircase to a large room lined with metal doors of varying sizes. The clerk took Nightingale’s key, then used it with a key of her own to open the two locks on one of the larger doors. She pulled out a metal box and placed it on a table, had him sign a form attached to a clipboard, then went back upstairs. Nightingale wondered what it contained. The clerk hadn’t strained as she’d lifted it so if there was cash inside there wouldn’t be much. Diamonds would be nice, he decided. Or a few Krugerrands. Or maybe even an explanation of who Ainsley Gosling was and why he had given up his son for adoption and never made any attempt to contact him until after he’d blown off his head with a shotgun. He took a deep breath and opened the lid. It was empty. Nightingale groaned. What was the point of leaving him the key if there was nothing in the box? Was someone playing a sick trick on him? He started to close the lid but stopped. There was something at the bottom of the box. A brown envelope. He took it out and opened it. Inside he found a single DVD.

7

J
enny was on the phone when Nightingale opened the office door. ‘I’m sure the cheque was sent out on Tuesday and it’s only Thursday today so it could still be in the post,’ she said, wagging a warning finger at him as he went over to the DVD player. ‘He isn’t in at the moment, but as soon as he arrives I’ll tell him to call you.’

Nightingale slotted in the DVD and turned on the television. ‘Remote?’ he mouthed at Jenny.

She pointed at his desk. ‘Absolutely,’ she said, into the phone. ‘Goodbye.’ She replaced the receiver and wagged the finger at him again. ‘You can’t mess around with Customs and Excise like this,’ she said. ‘They send people to jail for not paying their VAT.’

‘While they let murderers and rapists roam the streets,’ he said, picking up the remote control. ‘You should write a letter to the editor of the
Daily Mail
.’

‘How did it go yesterday? What’s the job?’

‘There’s no job,’ said Nightingale, ‘but I do have a house. A bloody big one. And a father I never knew that I had.’

‘Jack, what on earth are you talking about?’

‘Get me a coffee and I’ll tell you,’ he said. As Jenny made it, Nightingale filled her in on the events of the past twenty-four hours.

‘A mansion?’ she said, when he’d finished.

‘Right out of
Country Life
,’ he told her. ‘Land as far as the eye can see, stables, a conservatory, more bedrooms than you can shake a stick at.’

‘And it’s yours?’

‘Seems to be. Unless this is all some
Candid Camera
stunt.’

‘And this Gosling was your father?’

‘According to the solicitor, yes. My biological father. I was adopted at birth. He killed himself a few weeks ago. I’ve asked Robbie to get me the case file.’

He pointed the remote at the DVD player and pressed ‘play’. ‘He left me this, too, in a safe-deposit box.’

The screen flickered into life. A bald, elderly man, his scalp flecked with liver spots and scabs, was frowning and cursing as he adjusted the lens of the camera. Then he went to sit on a bed – it was the one in the master bedroom at Gosling Manor, Nightingale noticed. Where Ainsley Gosling had killed himself.

The man was overweight, with heavy jowls and a swollen belly that strained at the crimson dressing-gown he was wearing. He adjusted it and Nightingale caught a glimpse of milky-white skin, blue-veined like ripe Stilton. There were dark patches under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days. He took a deep breath to compose himself, then forced a smile and began to speak. ‘Hello, Jack,’ he said, his voice a deep, wheezy growl. ‘I wish this could have been under more fortuitous circumstances but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘As you will probably already know I’m Ainsley Gosling, your father.’ He readjusted the dressing-gown. ‘Your biological father, that is.’ Gosling sighed. ‘I’ve not been much of a father, obviously. And there’s not much I can do to rectify that now.’ He held up his hands. ‘
Mea culpa
, Jack. It’s all my fault.’

‘What’s his fault?’ asked Jenny. ‘What’s he talking about?’

Nightingale didn’t answer but motioned for her to be quiet as he stared intently at the screen. Gosling was in his seventies and grossly overweight, but he had Nightingale’s slightly hooked nose and the same frown lines across his forehead.

Gosling sighed again, then coughed. Nightingale recognised a smoker’s cough and smiled. His adoptive parents had never smoked and they couldn’t understand why their son had taken up the habit. Maybe it was in his genes.

‘So, to business,’ Gosling continued. ‘The fact that you’re watching this means that I’m dead and that you’ve been to the house. Nothing that I can say will ever make up for what I’ve condemned you to.’

‘What does he mean, Jack?’ said Jenny.

‘Sssh,’ hissed Nightingale.

‘But you must believe me, Jack,’ Gosling continued, ‘I do regret my actions, and if I could turn back time . . . But even I can’t do that. What’s done is done.’ Gosling took a deep breath, then coughed. The cough turned into a splutter. Belly trembling and shoulders shaking, he fought to control it. ‘I’m your father, Jack. Not that my being your father means anything in the traditional sense. I’ve given you nothing over the last thirty-three years. Not even your name.’

Gosling bent down. When he straightened he was holding a bottle of brandy. He took a swig, then wiped his fleshy mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I gave you away when you were a few hours old, Jack, to a man who passed you on to the Nightingales. He knew they were good people and that they were desperate for a baby so they’d take you, no questions asked.’ He took another swig, then cleared his throat. ‘So, where do I start?’ he said, looking at the bottle in his hand as if he was seeing it for the first time. ‘At the beginning or at the end? Do I tell you what’s happened, or what’s going to happen?’ He had another slug of brandy, then closed his eyes. He shuddered, opened his eyes again and looked straight into the lens. He took a deep breath and licked his lips.

‘Get on with it,’ Nightingale muttered.

‘On your thirty-third birthday, Jack, a demon from hell is coming to claim your soul.’ Gosling closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed. When he opened them, they were burning with a fierce intensity and he began to speak faster. ‘I did a deal with a devil thirty-three years ago. Not
the
devil. A devil. One of his minions. A nasty piece of work.’

‘This is a joke, right?’ said Jenny. ‘Somebody’s messing with you?’

‘The deal was simple enough,’ continued Gosling. ‘I got power, almost unlimited power – power over women, power to amass money, more money than a man could spend in a dozen lifetimes. The only thing I couldn’t get was immortality. That wasn’t up for negotiation.’ He forced a smile, showing uneven teeth. ‘Even a newborn’s soul wouldn’t buy me that.’

‘He’s insane,’ said Jenny. ‘Look how his hands are shaking. Look at his eyes. He’s mad as a hatter, Jack.’

Nightingale ignored her and blew smoke at the television screen.

‘In exchange for your immortal soul, I got the keys to the kingdom here on earth. And now it’s time to pay the piper.’ He took another swig of brandy and looked at his wristwatch. ‘I’ve tried to put this right, Jack. I’ve tried to renegotiate, but there’s nothing I can do. What’s done is done. Your soul and your sister’s soul are forfeit.’

Jenny frowned in confusion. ‘You don’t have a sister,’ she said. She turned to him. ‘Do you?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I’m getting a lot of surprises this week.’

‘You said you were an only child.’

‘I am.’

‘Your sister was born two years after you,’ growled Gosling, almost as if he was answering Jenny’s question. ‘Another child, another deal. Another soul. I tried to trace her but she’s vanished.’ Gosling tried to smile at the camera but it came across as a snarl – the snarl of an animal that knew it was trapped. ‘I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry, Jack. Sorry for what I did, sorry for what happened, and sorry for what’s going to happen to you.’ Gosling got to his feet unsteadily. His dressing-gown flapped open and he grabbed at it with his free hand as he lurched over to the camera, still clutching the bottle. His swollen belly filled the screen and then it went blank.

‘Jack, what the hell is going on?’

Nightingale put his hands behind his neck. ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he said. And that was the truth. Jack Nightingale didn’t believe he had a soul, and he certainly didn’t believe that a soul was something to be bartered or traded like a sack of beans. He reached for his cigarettes.

‘You smoke too much,’ admonished Jenny.

‘Can’t argue with you there,’ said Nightingale, taking one out and lighting it.

‘Your birthday’s the week after next, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Friday the twenty-seventh,’ he said. ‘What is it today?’

‘Thursday the fifth.’

‘Three weeks, then. But you don’t need to get me anything.’

‘I wasn’t planning to,’ she said. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Few beers and a curry,’ said Nightingale. ‘Same as I do every year. Birthdays are no big deal.’

Jenny jerked her thumb at the DVD player. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘It’s a wind-up, Jenny. Some sort of practical joke.’

‘He left you his house. And his money. He made you his sole heir, according to the solicitor.’

‘So?’

‘So why would he do that unless you were his son?’

‘Maybe he is my father, maybe he isn’t. I’ll talk to Robbie, see if he can run a DNA check for me. But even if he is my biological father . . .’ He gestured at the television. ‘. . . even if what he just said is true, that was nonsense.’ He flicked ash into the ashtray. ‘Did you hear what he said? He sold my soul for the keys to the kingdom. He was mad, Jenny. Deranged.’ He checked his watch. ‘Tell you what, can you hold the fort? I’m going to have a chat with Turtledove.’