Nightfall

5

Nightingale drove slowly down the narrow country road. The sky had darkened while he had been in the solicitor’s office, and it was starting to rain. He switched on the wipers, which swished back and forth leaving greasy streaks on the glass. He glanced down at the map Turtledove had given him. When he looked up he saw a tractor pulling out in front of him and jammed on the brakes. The tyres couldn’t grip the wet road and the car slid to the right. Nightingale took his foot off the brake pedal, then pumped it and brought the skid under control, managing to stop just inches from the back of the tractor. The driver was wearing headphones, his head bobbing up and down in time to whatever music he was listening to, totally oblivious to how close he’d come to killing Nightingale. As Nightingale sat with his hands on the steering-wheel, heart pounding, the tractor roared off, leaving a plume of black smoke behind it. His mind hadn’t been on the road, he realised. He’d been too busy thinking about his meeting with the solicitor.

It didn’t make sense. Nightingale had never suspected that Bill and Irene Nightingale weren’t his real parents. Even the phrase ‘real parents’ sounded wrong. Of course they were his real parents. In every childhood memory he had, they were there – his mum teaching him the alphabet, his father helping him ride his bike for the first time, clapping as he blew out birthday candles, the pride on their faces when he’d told them he’d been accepted by King’s College, London. There had been tears in his father’s eyes when he’d told Nightingale that he was the first member of the family ever to go to university. Nightingale was sure that if he really had been adopted, his parents would have said something.

Nightingale took deep breaths to steady himself, then put the car into first gear and headed off. To the right there was a field that had been recently ploughed, to the left a six-foot-high stone wall. Ahead, he saw a break in it and a large circular metal mirror attached to a tree. He slowed the car. He saw metal gates and a sign: Gosling Manor. He pulled up alongside the gates and climbed out of the MGB. On the other side of them a narrow paved road curved to the right through thick woodland, mainly deciduous trees that had lost most of their leaves, their bare branches outlined like skeletons against the grey November sky. A thick chain linked the gates, with a brass padlock. Nightingale took out the keys Turtledove had given him. One fitted the padlock. He unravelled the chain, pushed open the gates and got back into his car.

He drove slowly as the road curved to the right, then to the left. When the trees thinned he saw the house and brought the car to a halt. It was a stunning mansion, the sort of grand house you’d see on the cover of Country Life magazine or on a box of chocolates you’d give to an elderly relative at Christmas. The main part of the house was built of sandstone with upper facades of weathered bricks. It was two-storeys high, topped with a steepled tiled roof that was almost the same colour as the bricks, and four towering chimney stacks, which gave it the impression of an ocean-going liner. Vibrant green ivy had been trained to climb the walls, reaching from the ground to the roof, the main vines as thick as a man’s wrist. The entrance, too, was shrouded in ivy, a massive oak door with ornate black hinges. The window-frames were painted white, and to the left of the main building there was a brick garage with four doors, also painted white, and a matching tiled roof. To the left of the house, a magnificent conservatory and, beyond it, another wing seemed to have been added as an afterthought. The house appeared somehow to have grown out of the ground rather than having being built, as if it had pushed itself out of the earth as a living, breathing entity.

Nightingale drove slowly towards it. The paved road merged into a parking area large enough for several dozen vehicles, now littered with dead leaves, and in the middle stood a massive stone fountain, whose centrepiece was a weathered stone mermaid surrounded by dolphins and fish. There was no water in it. He parked the MGB and climbed out. He looked back down the road that disappeared into the woodland. There was no sign of the main road, no sound other than birdsong and the occasional bark of a far-off dog. He turned back to the house. ‘And it’s mine, all mine,’ he muttered to himself. When Turtledove had given him the keys Nightingale had assumed there had been some mistake, but as he stood looking at the grand house he realised such mistakes didn’t happen – people weren’t accidentally handed multimillion-pound mansions. Checks would have been carried out, assurances given, and the only way that the house could be his was if Ainsley Gosling really had been his father.

The thought that his parents had lied to him so completely made his head spin. If he really had been adopted, they couldn’t have kept the secret to themselves, surely. Other members of the family must have known – babies didn’t just appear from nowhere. He took out his mobile phone, scrolled through his address book and called his uncle Tommy. He hadn’t spoken to him since the previous Christmas when he’d driven up to Altrincham to spend the day with him and his aunt.

His aunt answered the phone. ‘Auntie Linda? It’s Jack.’

There was a moment’s hesitation as if she wasn’t sure who Jack was, then she almost yelped: ‘Jack!’

‘Hi, how’s things?’

‘Jack, it’s so good to hear from you. Is everything okay?’

‘Everything’s fine. And Uncle Tommy, how is he?’ He looked around as he talked, and frowned when he saw a CCTV camera half hidden in the ivy over the front door.

‘He’s taken the dog out for a walk. He’ll be so sorry that he missed you. How’s work? Are you married yet?’

‘No, I’m not married yet.’ Jack laughed. ‘Look, I know this is a strange thing to ask out of the blue, but do you by any chance know if I was adopted?’ He spotted another CCTV camera on the side of one of the chimneys, and a third atop the conservatory. There was a long silence and Nightingale thought for a moment he’d lost the connection. ‘Aunty Linda, did you hear me?’

‘What a question, Jack. We don’t hear from you for almost a year and you ask a question like that.’

‘I know, I’m sorry, but something very strange has happened. You’d know, wouldn’t you? You’d know if I was adopted?’

‘Jack, I can’t…’

‘You can’t what, Aunty Linda?’

There was another long silence.

‘Aunty Linda?’

‘Jack, this is really something you’d have to talk to your uncle about.’

‘Why can’t you tell me?’

‘Because Uncle Tommy was your father’s brother – he’s blood. I’m just Tommy’s wife. You have to talk to him.’

‘Aunty Linda?’

‘I have to go, Jack. I’ll get your uncle to call you. Goodbye now.’ The line went dead.

Nightingale put away the phone. She’d sounded nervous, scared even, and he’d never known his aunt to be scared of anything before. He stood back and scrutinised the front of the house. He spotted another three CCTV cameras. He took out the keys Turtledove had given him and walked up to the door. There were two locks, which opened with the same key. The door creaked as he pushed it open. He stepped into a hallway with wood-panelled walls and a marble floor, dominated by a massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He looked around for a burglar-alarm console but couldn’t see one and there was no beeping to suggest that a system was working. There was no furniture and no pictures or mirrors on the wall. The house had been cleared but he had no way of knowing if professional burglars or a removal firm had taken everything away. There was a light switch by the door but nothing happened when Nightingale flicked it. He walked across the hallway, his black leather shoes squeaking on the marble, and tried another switch but that didn’t work either.

Three oak doors led off the hallway. Nightingale pushed one open and stepped into a room the size of a basketball court with a vaulted ceiling and a massive white marble fireplace. The room was also devoid of furniture and the carpets had been taken up to reveal oak floorboards. Patches of underlay were stuck to them, like flaking skin, and around the edge, close to the skirting-board, he noted the metal tacks that had been used to keep the carpet in place. Whoever had lifted the carpets had simply ripped them up.

Along one wall a line of windows looked over ornamental gardens with bushes that had been trained into the shapes of exotic animals. Nightingale saw a giraffe, an elephant and a line of horses, and beyond them what looked like a hedge maze. The curtains had been removed but the brass rods from which they had hung were still in place. Nightingale frowned when he saw a small CCTV camera in one corner of the room, aimed at the windows. He could understand the need for security on the exterior of the building but having them inside seemed like overkill.

He saw something on the mantelpiece and walked over to it, the floorboards creaking underfoot. It was an envelope, with his name printed on it in slightly uneven typing. As he reached for it he heard a bang upstairs and flinched. He listened intently but heard nothing. He picked up the envelope. Something shifted inside it. He was about to open it when he heard another noise from the upper floor, this time a scratching sound that lasted a second or two. He put the envelope into his jacket pocket and walked on tiptoe to the door. He listened, but heard nothing.

The staircase that curved upwards was marble and he made no sound as he crept up it. He put his hand on the wooden banister as he craned his neck to look around the curve. The wall to the left was panelled and there were brass picture hooks from which large paintings had once hung.

The stairway opened onto a landing that ran the length of the building. There were small chandeliers hanging every twelve feet or so, miniature replicas of the one in the downstairs hallway. To the left the landing would be above the large room he had been into so that was where he headed, still on tiptoe. There were CCTV cameras at either end and doors to left and right. He eased open the first on the left. The room was empty and, as in the room downstairs, the curtains had been removed. He closed the door quietly and opened the one opposite. That room, too, was empty.

He pulled the door closed and moved silently down the corridor. He listened carefully at the next door before he put his hand on the brass handle and turned it. Inside this room there was furniture: a large four-poster bed and a green leather winged armchair. Dark green curtains were tied back with gold ropes. The bed was made, and didn’t appear to have been slept in, and the bathroom was spotless.

He checked another nine bedrooms, all of which were empty, then went back downstairs. There was a large dining room, a study, another reception room, a huge kitchen, from which all the appliances had been removed, and a walk-in larder with bare shelves. Even the conservatory had been stripped. Nightingale looked out across a sweeping lawn to a small lake and a stable beside a large paddock. He shivered. There were cast-iron radiators dotted around the house but the heating system wasn’t working.

He tried opening the conservatory door but it was locked and he could see no key for it. He walked slowly back through the kitchen and into the main hallway. He heard a soft scratching upstairs. ‘If you want to get out before I lock up, now’s the time,’ he called. The scratching stopped immediately. ‘Stupid cat,’ Nightingale muttered, under his breath. He pulled open the front door and gasped when he saw two men standing there. He took a step back as they came towards him.

They were wearing uniforms, he realised, police uniforms, and the older man was a sergeant. The younger of the two grabbed his arm. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. Nightingale was too surprised to speak and he just shook his head. The policeman tightened his grip. ‘Right. Come on, in the car.’

‘It’s my house,’ said Nightingale.

The policeman let go of him, He was in his early twenties, skinny, with a rash of acne across his forehead. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Jack Nightingale,’ he said. ‘Look, I used to be in the job, and now I’m a private investigator.’

‘Let’s see your ID, then.’

Nightingale took out his wallet, showed them his licence and gave them one of his business cards. He patted his chest and sighed. ‘You scared the shit out of me,’ he said.

‘The house has been locked up since old man Gosling died,’ said the sergeant. He had grey hair and broken veins across his cheeks. An old scar under his chin looked as if it had been caused by a broken bottle. ‘We were told the house was going up for auction.’

‘He left it to me,’ said Nightingale. ‘A solicitor in Hamdale’s handling probate or whatever they call it. I’m the sole heir.’

‘Are you a relative?’

‘Apparently,’ said Nightingale. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how did you know I was here? The power’s off so I assume the alarm’s not working.’

‘There’s no alarm link to our station. Gosling had his own security arrangements. We saw the gate open as we were driving past, that’s all. What’s the name of the solicitor?’

‘Turtledove.’ He took the business card out of his wallet and showed it to them. ‘You guys local?’

‘Depends what you mean,’ said the sergeant. ‘There used to be a police house in Hamdale but that went in the seventies. The nearest station now is in Hastings. But we took the call when it happened. Well, I did anyway. Gosling killed himself. Blew his head off with a shotgun in the master bedroom.’

‘There’s no doubt it was suicide?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Shotgun was still in his hands. And there was some weird stuff in the room that suggested he was a bit not right in the head, if you get my drift.’

‘I don’t,’ said Nightingale. ‘What do you mean?’

‘There were lots of candles burning. And he was in some sort of magic circle, one of those star things.’

‘There’s no sign of it now,’ said Nightingale.

‘A team of cleaners went in. Crime-scene specialists. They do a good job, those guys. You wouldn’t get me doing it for love or money.’

‘How did you get in the house?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Security seems pretty tight.’

‘Gosling’s driver found the body. He let us in.’

‘But there was no note?’

The sergeant shook his head. ‘They don’t always leave notes.’

‘They usually do,’ said Nightingale. ‘They want to explain themselves, maybe ask for forgiveness.’

‘You know a lot about suicides, then?’ said the PC.

‘I was a negotiator, back in the day,’ said Nightingale.

The sergeant frowned. ‘Jack Nightingale? Aren’t you the guy who killed that paedophile?’

‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. He took out his packet of Marlboro. The PC shook his head as if Nightingale was trying to sell him a wrap of heroin, but the older man took one. Nightingale lit it, and one for himself.

‘Mr Nightingale here’s a bit of a legend,’ said the sergeant. ‘Threw a banker out of a window down Canary Wharf.’

‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke into sky.

‘The bastard was fiddling with his daughter,’ said the sergeant. ‘She topped herself, right?’

‘Right,’ said Nightingale. He shivered and took another drag on his cigarette.

‘The bastard got what was coming to him.’ The sergeant flicked ash onto the ground.

‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale.

‘So, are you going to be moving in?’ asked the younger man.

Nightingale laughed and looked up at the imposing facade. ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he said. ‘I’d rattle around in a place this big.’

‘Must be worth a fortune. What do you think, Sarge?’

‘Five million, six maybe.’

‘Before the property crash.’

‘What happened to all the furniture and stuff?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Who took it away?’

The sergeant shrugged. ‘It was gone when we got here. The only room that had furniture was the bedroom where he died.’ His radio crackled and he walked away, talking into the microphone.

‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said the PC, his voice dull and lifeless, almost robotic.

Nightingale turned to him. ‘What?’ he said.

‘I said, are you going to sell up?’

Nightingale wondered if he’d simply misheard.

‘You could make even more money dividing it up into flats.’

‘I guess so,’ said Nightingale. He was sure he hadn’t misheard. But the policeman didn’t appear to be messing with him: he was smiling good-naturedly, just making conversation with a former cop while he waited for his colleague to finish on the radio. ‘I haven’t really had time to think about it.’

‘Was he a close relative, old man Gosling?’ He had an Essex accent, with long vowels and clipped consonants, slightly high-pitched as if his voice hadn’t fully broken. It sounded nothing like the one that had told Nightingale he was going to hell.

‘Not really,’ said Nightingale. ‘He was my father. Allegedly.’

The sergeant was on his way back to them. ‘Landlord of the Fox and Goose has got a problem with gypsies,’ he said. He grinned at Nightingale. ‘Not that we can call them gypsies these days. “Citizens of no fixed abode” is probably the politically correct term. Anyway, one’s just glassed a waitress so we’ve got to get over there. Good luck with the house.’ He reached into his pocket and gave Nightingale a Neighbourhood Watch card. ‘My number’s on there. Give me a call if you need anything.’

Nightingale read his name: Sergeant Harry Wilde. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Look, something I don’t understand. The house is old, right? More than a hundred years, I’d guess.’

‘A lot more,’ said the policeman. ‘The main part dates back to the sixteenth century but a lot of additions were made during the nineteen thirties. Then the family who sold it to Gosling were into horses so they built the stable and paddocks.’

‘So why’s it called Gosling Manor? Has it been in the family for generations?’

‘Mr Gosling bought it in the eighties, cash on the nail, they say. Used to be called Willborough Manor, after the family who built it. They were the local squires here for a couple of hundred years. Mr Gosling put a few noses out of joint by renaming it and there’s a lot of folk around here still call it by its old name. They’ve got a point. Houses are like boats – you only bring bad luck by renaming them.’

‘Yeah, well, it was certainly unlucky for Gosling,’ said Nightingale.

Wilde’s radio crackled again. ‘We’ve got to go,’ said the sergeant. He stuck out his hand and Nightingale shook it. ‘What you did back then, fair play to you. It was the right thing.’

Nightingale smiled thinly but he didn’t say anything. He had long since given up trying to justify to himself what he’d done that November morning and he’d never tried to justify it to anyone else.

He watched the two policemen walk to their patrol car before he climbed into the MGB. He took the envelope out of his pocket. Inside there was a key and the business card of a safe-deposit company. ‘The plot thickens,’ he muttered. He looked at the envelope again. Other than his name there was nothing on it, no indication of who had left it for him in the house. He doubted it had been Ainsley Gosling because if it had been there when the police had entered they’d have opened it in case it was a suicide note. That meant someone else had been in the house after the police had taken away the body.