Nightfall

60

‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said Simon Underwood, his eye blazing with hatred.

‘How do you know my name?’ asked Nightingale. ‘I didn’t tell you my name. How do you know who I am?’ Underwood was wearing a dark pinstripe suit that fitted so well it could only have been made to measure. There was a gold Rolex on his left wrist, a gold signet ring on his right hand and a pair of designer glasses on his nose. He was in his forties with a touch of grey at the temples. He was holding a mobile phone and pointing it at Nightingale as if it was a gun. ‘How do you know my name?’ repeated Nightingale.

Underwood turned towards the window behind him. It ran from the floor to the ceiling and gave a panoramic view of the tower blocks of Canary Wharf, home to some of the world’s biggest financial institutions.

‘No!’ said Nightingale, knowing what would come next. ‘No!’ he screamed.

The phone that Underwood was holding began to ring. It was a regular ringtone, an insistent bell, and it got louder and louder until the sound was deafening. Nightingale opened his eyes and groaned as he groped for the phone on his bedside table and squinted at his bedside clock. It was eight o’clock in the morning. ‘Mr Nightingale, this is Alice Steadman. I didn’t wake you, did I?’

Nightingale sat up. His head was throbbing. He had drunk three double whiskies in the pub with Jenny and she’d driven him home where he’d finished off half a bottle of Macallan malt. ‘Who, sorry?’

‘Alice Steadman. From the Wicca Woman store in Camden.’

‘Right,’ said Nightingale.

‘I did wake you, didn’t I? I’m so sorry, I’m an early riser and I was asked to call you first thing to see if you’d be interested.’

‘Interested in what?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not explaining this at all well, am I? I’ve sold two of your books for you, Mr Nightingale, at a very good price. The gentleman concerned is interested in another volume Mr Gosling has in his collection.’

‘Who is this mystery buyer?’

‘An American,’ she said, ‘from Texas. His name is Joshua Wainwright. Like your father, he’s a collector. And apparently he was at several auctions where your father outbid him. Now he wonders whether you’d be prepared to sell at least one of the volumes to him. For more than your father paid, obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ said Nightingale. ‘Which book is it?’

‘It’s called The Formicarius, and it’s a first edition. Apparently your father bought it from a dealer in Germany.’

‘I’ve seen the receipt,’ said Nightingale. ‘Sure, I’ll be happy to sell it to him.’

‘If you’re agreeable, he’ll fly over to meet you. He’ll pay you in cash.’

‘I’m certainly agreeable to that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Tell him to give me a call when he gets here.’

‘Mr Wainwright said that if you were prepared to sell he’d fly over this afternoon.’

‘Tell him I’ll have the book ready for him.’

‘And don’t forget my commission, Mr Nightingale.’

‘Heaven forbid.’

He put down the receiver and rolled onto his back. His alarm wasn’t due to go off for another fifteen minutes and he was just wondering whether he was tired enough to doze when the phone rang again. Nightingale sighed and reached for it, assuming that it was Mrs Steadman again. It was Jenny.

‘Jack…’ She sounded shaky as if she was close to tears.

‘Jenny, what’s wrong?’

‘Jack, I’m at home – I’ve been robbed. Can you come, please?’

‘Of course,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll be right there.’

‘They had guns, Jack. They said they’d kill me.’