Nightfall

41

Jenny 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.’