Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (14 page)

28

J
enny looked up from her computer when Nightingale walked in, swinging his attaché case. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

‘Perfect,’ said Nightingale. He put the case on her desk, clicked the double locks and opened it. He removed the memory card from the side of the camera and gave it to Jenny. ‘Run off a couple of DVDs, might need a bit of editing.’

‘No problem,’ said Jenny. ‘How’s my car, by the way?’

‘I had a bit of a run-in with a delivery van, scraped the side.’

‘You did not!’

Nightingale grinned. ‘Joke,’ he said. ‘Would I take any risks with your pride and joy? Now, did you get the credit-card records? They were obviously regulars at the Hilton. Be handy to show how often they go there.’

‘Yes, but my contact’s asking for more money.’

‘Because?’

‘Because he says they’re clamping down – Data Protection Act and all that. Now he wants three hundred a go.’

‘There’s enough in petty cash, right?’ said Nightingale, lighting a cigarette.

Jenny flashed him a sarcastic smile. ‘We haven’t had any petty cash for the last three months. I paid him myself.’

‘Put it on Mr McBride’s bill,’ he said.

‘My DWP pal wants more too.’

‘What is it with these people?’ Nightingale sighed. ‘They shouldn’t even be selling us information in the first place.’

‘I think that’s why the price keeps going up,’ said Jenny.

‘But she came through, did she?’

‘She managed to track down Rebecca Keeley. She’s in a nursing home, apparently. But nothing on Mitchell. He isn’t on any of the databases. Never paid tax, never been on the electoral roll, never seen a doctor. The original invisible man.’

‘Well, I hope we’re not paying for that,’ said Nightingale.

‘We’re paying for the checks, Jack, not the results.’

‘So what’s the story on Keeley? It’s an old folks’ home, is it?’

‘Hardly,’ said Jenny. ‘She’s only fifty.’

Nightingale’s brow furrowed. ‘Fifty? That means she was seventeen when she gave birth.’

‘You’re assuming she’s your mother, Jack. And that’s a very big assumption. All you have is that Gosling gave her some money at about the time you were born.’

‘Twenty thousand pounds was a lot of money back then,’ said Nightingale. ‘He must have been paying her for something important.’

‘She could have sold him a painting. Or a piece of furniture.’

‘He was meticulous with his records. Every cheque stub was filled in with either a reference number or a description of what he’d paid for. But the one for Keeley just had the amount with no explanation.’

‘I’m just saying, don’t get too excited. It might turn out to be nothing.’

‘Message received and understood,’ said Nightingale. ‘So why’s she in a home if she’s only fifty?’

‘I don’t know, but I’ve got an address,’ she said, handing him a sheet of paper. ‘Shall I get Mr McBride in so that you can give him the bad news – and his bill?’

‘Might as well,’ said Nightingale, studying the piece of paper she’d given him. The Hillingdon Home was in Hampshire, and there was no indication of what sort of outfit it was. Underneath the address there was a phone number, and the name of the administrator, a Mrs Elizabeth Fraser.

‘His wife paid for the hotel room, did you realise that?’ asked Jenny.

‘Yeah, I saw her handing over her card. Unbelievable, isn’t it? She sleeps with the boss and pays for it. What’s he got that I haven’t?’

‘Charm for a start,’ said Jenny.

29

‘
G
o on, number five!’ bellowed Nightingale, waving his betting slip. ‘Go on, my son!’

‘His name’s Red Rover,’ said Hoyle, at his shoulder.

‘He doesn’t know his name,’ said Nightingale. ‘Go on, number five!’

The greyhounds reached the second bend in a tight pack with number five somewhere in the middle. Nightingale had put twenty pounds on it to win for no other reason than that he’d liked the way the dog seemed to be smiling as it was walked around by its trainer.

Hoyle had put fifty pounds on number six, and as the dogs sped into the final stretch he cursed: number six was bringing up the rear.

‘Come on, number five!’ shouted Nightingale.

A black dog, its tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth, seemed to hit a second wind and hurtled into the lead. It crossed the finishing line just yards behind the mechanical hare. Number five came in third. Nightingale screwed up his betting slip. They were at Wimbledon Stadium in south London. It had been Hoyle’s idea – he had been a regular visitor before he was married but now he barely managed two or three evenings a year. ‘Which do you fancy in the next race?’ asked Nightingale, studying his race card.

‘Old Kentucky,’ said Hoyle.

‘I think having the word “old” in his name isn’t a great start,’ said Nightingale.

‘Won his last four races,’ said Hoyle. ‘Come on, drinks are on me if he loses.’

They joined a queue to place their bets. ‘I got an address for that woman, the one Gosling gave twenty grand to,’ said Nightingale. ‘Some sort of home in Hampshire.’

‘You really think she might be your mother?’

‘She’s the only lead I’ve got.’

‘Are you going to see her?

‘I’ve got to, Robbie.’

‘You don’t have to, you could let sleeping dogs lie.’ He grinned. ‘No pun intended.’

Nightingale kept his eyes on the list of runners.

‘Are you going to see her because she’s your mother? Or because of this devil’s contract thing?’ asked Hoyle, lowering his voice to a whisper.

‘I just want to meet her.’

‘What if she doesn’t want to meet you?’

Nightingale frowned at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘She gave you up for adoption thirty-three years ago. She hasn’t made any attempt to contact you during that time, and the last thing she’s going to expect is you turning up on her doorstep.’

Nightingale reached the front of the queue and handed a twenty-pound note to the cashier, a rotund woman in her fifties with blue-rinsed hair and green eye-shadow. ‘Old Kentucky in the next race,’ he said.

The woman smiled at him through the protective Perspex screen. ‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale.’

‘What?’ said Nightingale, his fingers gripping the race card so tightly that his knuckles whitened. ‘What did you say?’ He knew what she’d said – he’d heard her quite distinctly. There was no mistake.

‘Win or place?’ said the woman.

Nightingale was sure he hadn’t misheard the first time – she hadn’t mumbled and had looked him right in the eye as she’d spoken. Her voice had been flat and cold, the voice of something not quite alive. But, like everyone else who had told him he was going to hell, she didn’t seem to be aware that she’d said it.

‘Win or place, young man,’ said the cashier. ‘I don’t have all day.’

‘Win,’ said Nightingale. Had he imagined it? Was his subconscious playing tricks on him? It had started with the dreams of Simon Underwood falling to his death, but maybe now his subconscious had decided that the dreams weren’t enough, that it wanted to torment him while he was awake. Or maybe he was going crazy.

The cashier handed him a betting slip and Nightingale walked away.

‘Jack, are you okay?’ Hoyle called.

Nightingale reached for his cigarettes. No, he wasn’t okay. He was a long, long way from it. He lit a cigarette but had taken only one drag when an official in a blazer tapped him on the shoulder and told him that smoking wasn’t allowed. ‘But we’re outside,’ he said, waving at the sky.

‘It’s a place of work,’ said the man. ‘Health and safety.’

‘It’s bloody nonsense,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’s the law,’ said the man. He had short, wiry hair and its dark brown hue was so uniform that it had to have been dyed. His cheeks were threaded with burst veins and he had the look of a former sergeant major hankering for the days when he could make life a misery for men who couldn’t answer back. ‘Don’t give me a hard time, sonny.’

‘You’re not going to tell me I’m going to hell, are you?’

‘I don’t have to use bad language,’ said the man, holding up a small transceiver. ‘All I have to do is call Security.’

Nightingale dropped the cigarette onto the ground, stamped on it and headed for the bar. He was about to order a beer but changed his mind and asked for a whisky instead. It had just arrived when Hoyle appeared at his shoulder. Nightingale handed the barman a ten-pound note and ordered Hoyle a glass of red wine.

‘What’s wrong, mate?’ asked Hoyle.

‘Nothing,’ said Nightingale. He downed his whisky in one gulp, and when the barman returned with Hoyle’s wine, he pointed at his empty glass and asked for a refill.

‘Clearly,’ said Hoyle. ‘Since when have you been knocking back the whisky like that?’

‘What’s happening to me, Robbie? My bloody life’s turned upside down in less than a week. My parents aren’t my parents. The man who was my father claimed he’d sold my soul to the devil. My uncle killed my aunt and himself and . . .’ He shook his head and picked up his glass.

‘And what?’

‘That message – the one my uncle wrote in blood. People keep saying it to me.’

‘They
what
?’

‘I keep hearing people tell me I’m going to hell.’

‘You’re under a lot of stress, that’s all. Have you heard me say it?’

‘No.’

‘That’s a relief.’ His face went blank and he stared at Nightingale. ‘You’re going to hell,’ he said, his voice a low whisper.

‘Screw you, Robbie. It’s not like that.’

Hoyle grinned. ‘Just trying to lighten the moment,’ he said.

‘Cheers, mate.’ Nightingale drained his glass.

‘But, seriously, you should lay off the booze,’ said Hoyle. ‘You were never a big drinker. Strictly amateur.’

‘I can drink you under the table,’ said Nightingale. ‘And look who’s talking! You’re a bloody wine drinker.’

Hoyle picked up his glass. ‘You’re just upset because you thought you were a Nightingale, but you turned out to be a Gosling,’ he said. ‘How the mighty have fallen.’

‘It’s not funny,’ said Nightingale. ‘My whole life has been a lie, Robbie. My parents lied to me from the day I was born. My uncle and aunt lied. Probably everyone I knew as a kid lied to me.’

‘They didn’t. lie to you, they just didn’t tell you the whole truth. There’s a difference,’ said Hoyle.

‘That’s lying by omission,’ said Nightingale. ‘Which is still lying.’

‘You were adopted. Loads of people adopt and don’t tell their kids. It’s just . . . simpler.’

‘Simpler? Or do you think that the fact they bought me from a Satanist might have had something to do with their reticence?’ Hoyle didn’t answer. ‘Anyway, can we change the subject?’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve had it up to here with Ainsley bloody Gosling.’

Hoyle sipped some wine. ‘Jenny said business hasn’t been so good recently.’

‘She did, did she?’

‘She said it was a bit quiet, yeah.’

‘It’s a dry spell, that’s all,’ said Nightingale. ‘It happens. Peaks and troughs. Swings and roundabouts. Everyone’s cutting back because of the recession, so the corporate side is down – but divorce work’s up. We’re doing okay.’

‘I don’t know why you’re bothering with the marital-strife stuff. You’re better than that, Jack.’

‘Like I’ve got a choice.’

‘You were a great negotiator – the best. You should be working for one of the kidnapping insurance firms. Or in-house security for a multinational.’

‘The last guy I negotiated with exited through a twenty-storey window, let’s not forget,’ said Nightingale. ‘That doesn’t look great on the old CV.’

‘I’m serious,’ said Hoyle. ‘You’re better than this. You know you are. Two years in the wilderness is enough. It’s time to come back in.’

‘Maybe.’

Hoyle slapped him on the back. ‘You know I’m right, mate. Oh, one bit of good news for you. Your man Turtledove is the real McCoy, he’s been a solicitor for nearly forty years and there’s never been a complaint against him. So, whatever’s going on, it’s not a con. Now, come on, the next race is about to start.’

‘Do you believe in hell, Robbie?’

‘Who was it said that hell is other people?’

‘I’m serious,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do you believe in a place called hell?’

‘I’ve been to Harlesden, mate. That’s as close to hell as I ever want to go.’ Hoyle put his arm around Nightingale’s shoulders. ‘No, Jack, there is no such place as hell. You can trust me on that.’

Nightingale finished his whisky. ‘Let’s go see these dogs run,’ he said.

30

J
oel McBride had thought long and hard before he decided to kill himself. He had no children, his parents were long dead, and most of his friends were his wife’s and he was sure they would side with her. McBride loved his wife and had done since the day they’d met, when she was a sales representative for a children’s books publisher and he had been working in the Trafalgar Square branch of Waterstones. She’d walked in wearing a short skirt and a low-cut top ready to extol the merits of her firm’s three new authors, and within an hour they were having coffee at Starbucks over the road. Two nights later they were in Leicester Square and on the next they were in bed together.

They had been married less than six months when McBride had injured himself. They had been on a riding holiday in Spain. His wife was a keen horsewoman but it had been his first time. His first and last. They had gone trekking through sand dunes, six holidaymakers and two girls from the stable, and had rounded off the afternoon with a gallop along the beach. The stable girls knew McBride was a novice and had told him to hold back, but he’d wanted to show off to his wife so he’d given the horse its head. It had been a combination of bad luck and bad judgement: the rein had snapped, McBride had fallen and the horse had trodden on him when he’d hit the sand. His spinal cord had been severed. The holiday insurance paid for the hospital in Spain and the flight back to London, but he had never walked again and never would.

Things had changed after the accident, of course. He could get himself in and out of his wheelchair and manage the toilet, and he could drive a specially adapted car, but he was still a cripple and, worse, a cripple who couldn’t get an erection. Sex was out of the question – or, at least, the sort of sex they’d enjoyed before the accident. He did his best to please her with his hands and tongue but it wasn’t enough. He’d known that one day she would take a lover but had hoped she’d be honest enough to tell him, and reassure him that she still loved him, that she was his wife and would be for ever.

He’d suspected for weeks that she’d embarked on an affair, but she’d denied it when he’d asked. But he knew in his heart that she was planning to leave him. She might stay for a few more weeks, maybe months, but there had been a growing coldness in her eyes and long silences in front of the television, so he had asked Jack Nightingale to check up on her.

McBride had confronted her with the evidence – the phone records and the video of her checking into the hotel, – and had asked if she was planning to leave him. She hadn’t said anything. Instead she’d put on her coat and walked out of their house. He had waited all evening and all night but she hadn’t returned – and she’d switched off her mobile phone. McBride knew he couldn’t bear to live without her.

His house, their house, the house they’d lived in for more than six years, was just a mile from the canal. That was the best way, he’d decided. He had painkillers but he’d checked on the Internet and an overdose wouldn’t kill him straight away. He’d die, but from liver failure, and it would be a long, lingering death over several days. His doctor would probably prescribe sleeping pills but it usually took at least three days to get an appointment with him. He thought of cutting his wrists but the idea of slicing through his flesh with a knife made him feel sick. The canal would be simple and quick.

McBride’s wheelchair wasn’t powered so he used his hands to propel it along the pavement. He hadn’t bothered to put on the fingerless leather gloves that usually protected them and his palms were soon muddy and sore. It had rained earlier that evening and the wheels made a swishing sound as he rolled along. The canal wasn’t deep, McBride knew, five feet at most, but standing up wasn’t an option for him. He’d found a length of chain in his garage, left there by the man who had sold them the house. It was heavy, the links the thickness of his thumb, and he had wrapped it around his waist, fastened with a padlock, in case he changed his mind at the last minute.

He rolled up the steep concrete ramp from the pavement to the muddy towpath. To his left there were banks of nettles and beyond them a tall hedge threaded with blackberry bushes. The canal was to his right. A narrow-boat was moored there, dark blue with circular brass-framed portholes and skylights. McBride kept going until it was out of sight, then pulled the chair around so that he was facing the water. He closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven,’ he whispered. He hadn’t been inside a church since his wedding day, and had never thought of himself as religious, but he wanted to die with the Lord’s Prayer on his lips. He continued to mumble it as he propelled himself forward. He had to push hard to get the wheels over the edge but he rocked himself back and forth until he pitched head first into the cold, dark water.

McBride had thought he was alone, but there was one witness – two if you counted her dog, which would be reasonable because the dog was watching as McBride wheeled himself to the edge of the canal and into the water. She was wearing Goth black and had upside-down black crosses dangling from her ears and an Egyptian ankh around her neck. She wore a black leather motorcycle jacket, black leather jeans and high-heeled black boots. The dog barked and looked up at his mistress. She smiled down at him and stroked his head, concentrating on the spot he liked, just behind his ear. ‘Not one of ours,’ she said. The dog panted, drooling a little and showing a fleshy pink tongue. He was wearing a black leather collar with a silver buckle and studs, and hanging from it was a small silver pentagram.