Nightfall

52

Nightingale drove up to a set of high, wrought-iron gates set into a ten-foot brick wall. He climbed out of the MGB, went up to a small brass speakerphone set into the gatepost on the left and pressed it. It buzzed, then there was static but no one spoke. Nightingale leaned closer to the grille. ‘Hello,’ he said. There was no reply, just static. There was a CCTV camera on a metal post on the other side of the wall, covering the gate. Nightingale grinned and held up his driving licence to it. ‘Jack Nightingale,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see Mr Mitchell.’ He had no way of knowing if anyone was watching him so he put it away and went back to the speakerphone. ‘Jack Nightingale,’ he repeated. ‘I’m here to see Mr Mitchell.’

The static stopped abruptly and a woman spoke, her voice curt and official. ‘Mr Mitchell doesn’t see visitors. Please remove yourself from outside our property. Thank you.’ The speakerphone went dead.

Nightingale pressed the button again and the static returned. ‘My name is Jack Nightingale and I want to see Mr Mitchell. Mr Sebastian Mitchell.’

‘Mr Mitchell does not receive visitors,’ said the woman.

‘Can you tell him it’s about the book he wrote? His diary.’

‘Mr Mitchell never sees visitors,’ said the woman. ‘If you don’t go away immediately, the police will be called.’

There was more static. Nightingale leaned towards the speakerphone. ‘Tell him my father was Ainsley Gosling.’ The static ended and there was only the sound of birdsong from the trees on the far side of the road. The lock buzzed and the gates swung open. He turned and looked up at the CCTV, threw it a mock salute, then climbed back into the MGB and drove through the gates. The drive curved to the right in front of a three-storey concrete and glass cube. A flight of white marble steps led up to a white double-height door that was already opening as he got out of the car. Two men in black suits, wearing impenetrable sunglasses, walked down the steps towards him.

Nightingale knew instinctively that they were going to pat him down so he smiled amiably and raised his arms. One of the men, burly with a shaved head, slowly and methodically squeezed his legs and arms, then worked his way down from his neck to his groin. He found Nightingale’s phone and examined it carefully before handing it back. ‘Photo ID,’ he said. He wasn’t English, Nightingale realised. Serbian, maybe, or Bosnian.

Nightingale gave the man his driving licence.

‘Business card.’ The man held out his other hand. Nightingale took out his wallet and gave him one.

The second man was walking slowly around the car, checking it inside and out. Nightingale smiled and nodded but was ignored.

The heavy with his ID went back up the steps to where a woman had emerged from the house. She was wearing a black suit, the skirt ending just above her knees, a crisp white shirt and black high heels. Her blonde hair was tied back with a black ribbon.

As the man gave the driving licence and business card to her, a gust lifted the back of his jacket and Nightingale caught a glimpse of a black automatic in a leather and nylon holster. It looked like a Glock. The woman studied the licence and card and then waved at Nightingale to come up the stairs. He held out his hand to shake hers but she just gave him his licence and card. ‘My name is Sylvia, Mr Nightingale. There are certain house rules that must be followed to the letter if you are to meet with Mr Mitchell.’

‘I understand.’

‘No, you don’t,’ she said. ‘You will do everything I ask or you will not be permitted to speak with him.’ She turned and walked back inside the house. Two more men in black suits and dark glasses were standing in the large white-marble hallway, their hands clasped over their groins. Two stainless-steel CCTV cameras covered the area.

A marble spiral staircase, also covered by a CCTV camera, led to the upper floors, and a glass-feature light, which looked like a waterfall that had frozen mid-flow, hung from the centre of the ceiling. Half a dozen jet black doors with glossy white handles led off the hall. Sylvia walked to the middle, her heels clicking on the marble, and stopped under the glass waterfall. She turned to him and pointed to a door. ‘In there is a bathroom. You will remove all your clothing and you will shower, using the gel provided. You will use the same gel to wash your hair twice. You will use the brush provided to clean under your toe- and fingernails. There are no towels but there is an electric dryer in which you stand. When you are dry you will put on the robe provided and come back here. Do not touch your clothes once you have showered. Do you have any questions?’

‘Just one,’ said Nightingale. ‘I said I was the son of Ainsley Gosling, but my name is Nightingale. Yet you showed no surprise at the different names.’

‘Apparently Mr Mitchell was expecting you,’ said Sylvia. She motioned at the door to the bathroom. ‘Please, if you will.’