Nightfall

13

Robbie Hoyle lived in a neat semi-detached house in Raynes Park that he’d bought a couple of years before property prices crashed and was now worth less than the mortgage he’d taken out to pay for it. His wife’s black VW Golf was already in the driveway so he parked in the street.

‘Maybe we should sell this place and move into Chez Nightingale,’ said Hoyle, as they walked down the driveway to the house.

‘I don’t think you could afford the rent, mate.’

‘You could cut me a deal,’ said Hoyle. He unlocked the door. ‘We’re going to need a bigger place – we bought this before we knew we were having twins.’

‘Twin girls, they can share a room,’ said Nightingale.

‘Spoken like an only child,’ said Hoyle, pushing the front door open. ‘Trust me, kids need their own space.’

Anna Hoyle came out of the kitchen, holding a bottle of red wine. ‘Keep the noise down, boys. I’ve only just got the twins to sleep and Sarah’s got an exam tomorrow.’

‘I love you too,’ said Hoyle. He pecked her on the cheek.

‘I’m serious,’ said Anna. She smiled at Nightingale and held up the wine bottle. ‘Hi, Jack. Red okay?’ Nightingale and Hoyle had met Anna at the same time ten years earlier. She had been a probationer at the south London station they were working at and they had both asked her out. She’d said yes to Nightingale first but on the evening they were due to meet he’d been called away to an armed siege at a bank in Clapham. The following evening she’d gone for a drink with Hoyle and things had gone so well that they had married six months later. After three children she was still a stunner, with shoulder-length blonde hair, a trim figure and green eyes that always seemed amused.

‘Red’s fine. Sorry I kept your man out,’ said Nightingale, taking off his raincoat. He dropped it on the back of an armchair and gave her a brotherly peck on the cheek. He’d long ago come to terms with the fact that she’d never be more than a friend, though he still caught himself looking at her legs whenever she left a room.

‘I’ll get the glasses,’ said Hoyle. ‘You sit yourself down. I know you gumshoes spend all your day pounding the streets.’

‘Great,’ said Nightingale. He collapsed onto the sofa and stretched out his legs.

‘How’s business?’ asked Anna, sitting opposite him.

‘Getting by,’ he said, trying not to look at her cleavage. ‘The divorce rate always goes up during a recession. More arguments about money, I guess.’

‘And Jenny?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘Asked her out yet?’

Nightingale groaned. ‘Anna, she’s an employee. She’s staff. Start anything with your staff these days and you end up in an industrial tribunal.’

‘She fancies you something rotten, Jack. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. Why else do you think she works for you?’

Nightingale grinned. ‘We’re a dynamic company with growth prospects,’ he said.

Hoyle returned from the kitchen with three glasses. He put them on the coffee-table and flopped into an armchair while Anna poured the wine. ‘So, did Jack tell you he’s a man of property now?’

‘Really?’ said Anna. ‘Property?’

‘I’ve been left a house.’

‘A mansion,’ said Hoyle. ‘It’s fantastic, babe. You have to see it to believe it. Dozens of bedrooms, a library – the kitchen alone is the size of this place.’

‘Lucky you,’ said Anna. ‘How come?’

‘A relative died,’ said Nightingale.

‘Close?’ asked Anna.

‘My father.’

Anna’s eyebrows shot skywards. ‘Jack!’

‘Okay, somebody claiming to be my father.’

Hoyle sipped his wine. ‘Some sort of Satanist, apparently.’

‘A devil-worshipper?’ said Anna. ‘This is a joke, right?’

‘I don’t know about devil-worship, but he was definitely disturbed. He blew his head off with a shotgun.’

Anna drew her legs up underneath her and held her glass with both hands. ‘I thought your parents died years ago,’ she said.

‘They did, but apparently I was adopted and Gosling was my genetic father.’

‘But you’d know if you were adopted, surely.’

‘It happened at birth. I was given to the Nightingales and registered as if I was their natural child. Anyway, it might all be bollocks. Some sort of scam.’

‘You should be able to prove if he was your father or not. DNA, right?’

‘I’m on the case,’ said Hoyle.

‘We could ask him now, if you like,’ said Anna.

Nightingale and Hoyle looked at her in amazement. ‘What?’ said Nightingale. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘What was his name – your father?’

‘My genetic father? Ainsley Gosling.’

‘Well, let’s ask Mr Gosling. Let’s go right to the source.’

‘Anna, what’s going on?’ asked her husband.

‘Let’s have a seance,’ she said. ‘Fingers on a glass and you talk to the dead – the spirits. Robbie and I used to do it years ago.’

‘It was a joke, a party game,’ said Hoyle.

‘We had some pretty weird messages.’

‘There’s always someone pushing the glass,’ said Hoyle.

‘Anna, you don’t really believe that you can talk to the dead?’ said Nightingale.

‘It works! I can’t explain why it works but you can get messages from people who’ve passed over.’

Nightingale frowned. ‘You’re serious?’

‘I’m just saying it’s worth a try. And they say that spirits who passed over violently, like when they’ve been murdered or committed suicide, tend to hang around – I suppose because there’s unfinished business.’

‘Well, Jack is certainly that,’ said Hoyle.

Anna smiled brightly at Nightingale. ‘Want to give it a go?’