Nightfall

51

Tyler sighted down his cue, smacked the white ball against the number five and grinned as it shot into a corner pocket. ‘That’s another tenner you owe me,’ he said, holding out his hand.

Nightingale took out his wallet and gave him a ten-pound note. ‘That’s the sign of a misspent youth,’ he said.

Tyler had built a bar in his basement, complete with a full range of optics, draught-beer pumps, a pool table, a jukebox and half a dozen fruit machines. On one wall there were dozens of framed photographs of a younger Tyler with well-known villains, movie stars and even a few members of the Metropolitan Police. Nightingale recognised two senior officers from the Flying Squad, both of whom had left the force on medical grounds and now lived in palatial villas in Spain. Most of the villains had either retired or died, but as far as Nightingale could recall, none had served time behind bars.

‘Not much else to do in prison,’ said Tyler.

‘How long did you get?’ asked Nightingale.

‘I did two stretches, eighteen months and four years,’ said Tyler. ‘It was when I came out the second time that I started working for Mr Gosling. He knew my probation officer and I went to see him. We got on like a house on fire.’

‘Did you ever go into the basement at Gosling Manor?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Didn’t know there was one,’ said Tyler, as he racked up the balls again. ‘How about twenty quid a game? Give you a chance to win your money back.’

‘You conning me, Alfie?’ he said.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Tyler. ‘So, you’re really Mr Gosling’s boy?’

‘He had me adopted at birth,’ said Nightingale. ‘How long did you work for him?’

‘Fifteen years, pretty much,’ said Tyler.

‘And he paid you well, did he? Because this is one expensive place you’ve got here.’

Tyler grinned. ‘I had this place long before I worked for Mr Gosling. I was pretty productive in my glory days.’

‘So what were you doing driving for him if you weren’t short of a bob or two?’

‘He was a character, your dad,’ said Tyler, putting the white ball in position. He reached for Nightingale’s Marlboro and took a cigarette. ‘Could charm the birds from the trees. And the people he knew! Film stars, businessmen, sportsmen. Everyone liked Ainsley Gosling. They were like moths to a flame. He was on first-name terms with half a dozen prime ministers. We had Mrs Thatcher around three times at Gosling Manor. She was a real lady. Took a shine to your dad, she did.’

‘If he was that popular, why did I never read anything about him? And Googling him doesn’t throw up anything. There’s never been a newspaper article about him and there are no photographs. He’s the original invisible man.’

‘He had a team of spin doctors who did nothing but keep his name out of the papers. And if someone did start getting too close, well, let’s just say that Mr Gosling had a way of helping people to forget things.’

‘Now it’s my turn to look puzzled and say, “What?”’

‘You never met him, right?’

‘I only found out he was my father recently,’ said Nightingale.

‘He wasn’t like other men, your dad,’ said Tyler. ‘He had a way with him. A strength.’

‘You know he was a Satanist, don’t you?’

Tyler shrugged. ‘I’m not one for putting labels on people.’

‘He studied the occult – he spent millions buying books on witchcraft and devil-worship.’

‘Can’t argue with that.’

‘Did you ever see him do stuff?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like summoning devils,’ said Nightingale.

‘You on drugs, Nightingale?’ asked Tyler.

‘He was a Satanist and that’s what Satanists do, right? They serve the devil.’

‘I never saw him do anything like that,’ said Tyler. ‘I was his driver, his personal assistant, his bodyguard. And I’d like to think I was his friend, too.’ He hit the white ball and it shot into the triangle of numbered ones with the sound of a skull being cracked with a baseball bat. Two balls dropped into pockets.

‘How did he make his money, Alfie?’

‘He just made it. It came to him. I never saw anybody as lucky as Mr Gosling. If he bought gold, it went up in price. If he bought oil, it went up. Any shares he bought went through the roof.’

‘Insider trading?’

‘I don’t think so. I reckon he was just lucky.’

‘Lucky?’

Tyler potted three balls in quick succession. Then he straightened and rested the cue on his shoulder. ‘We went to a casino once. He had two girls with him, model-slash-singers or singer-slash-actresses – bloody fit, legs that went on for ever. Couldn’t have been more than nineteen, either of them. He was always lucky with the ladies, was Mr Gosling.’

‘Yeah, rich men usually are,’ said Nightingale.

‘It wasn’t about the money,’ said Tyler. ‘I mean, Mr Gosling was a generous man, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve seen women fall for him even when they didn’t know who he was or how much he had. It was like he had power over them, the sort of charisma film stars have. I mean, he was an old man and all but he had no problem pulling young flesh.’

He bent over the table and potted another ball, then picked up his pint of beer. ‘Anyway, the girls wanted to go to a casino so I drove them all to Leicester Square. Mr Gosling won at every game he played. He sat down at the high-stakes blackjack table and he just won hand after hand. It was like he knew what cards were going to be dealt.’

‘Maybe he was a card counter.’

Tyler shook his head. ‘He was hardly even looking at them. He just sat there joking with the girls and chips kept piling up in front of him. Then they wanted to play roulette and he gave them thousands of pounds’ worth of chips and they lost it all. But pretty much every time he placed a bet he won. It got so that a couple of the casino managers came over to see what was happening.’

‘Did they throw him out?’

Tyler chuckled. ‘You really didn’t know Mr Gosling, did you?’ he said. He sipped his beer. ‘He looked at them and smiled, in that way he did, and they smiled and went away. Nobody ever gave Mr Gosling any trouble over anything. If a flight was overbooked, there was a seat for him in first class. If a restaurant was full, there was a table. He was like royalty. More often than not he didn’t even have to ask. It wasn’t money, it was…’

‘Power,’ Nightingale finished for him.

‘Presence was what I was going to say,’ said Tyler. ‘People just wanted to help him, to make his life easier, happier, whatever. Maybe that’s why I stayed with him so long. I can’t explain it any other way.’

‘Probably a gay thing,’ said Nightingale. Tyler put down his pint and held his cue in both hands, his face tightening. Nightingale held up his hands. ‘Joke,’ he said.

‘I’m not gay,’ said Tyler.

‘I was joking,’ he said, ‘trying to lighten the moment. Because what you’re telling me is that Ainsley Gosling had power over people. And that’s what I was told.’

‘Who by?’

‘Him. He left me a DVD, a sort of video last will and testament.’ He smiled, trying to show that he wasn’t intimidated by Tyler’s menacing stare. ‘Wasn’t you that left the envelope on the mantelpiece, was it?’

‘What?’ said Tyler, his brow furrowing again.

‘Someone left an envelope in Gosling Manor with my name on it. Inside it I found the key to a safe-deposit box and, in the box, the