Nightfall

7

Jenny was on the phone when Nightingale opened the office door. ‘I’m sure the cheque was sent out on Tuesday and it’s only Thursday today so it could still be in the post,’ she said, wagging a warning finger at him as he went over to the DVD player. ‘He isn’t in at the moment, but as soon as he arrives I’ll tell him to call you.’

Nightingale slotted in the DVD and turned on the television. ‘Remote?’ he mouthed at Jenny.

She pointed at his desk. ‘Absolutely,’ she said, into the phone. ‘Goodbye.’ She replaced the receiver and wagged the finger at him again. ‘You can’t mess around with Customs and Excise like this,’ she said. ‘They send people to jail for not paying their VAT.’

‘While they let murderers and rapists roam the streets,’ he said, picking up the remote control. ‘You should write a letter to the editor of the Daily Mail.’

‘How did it go yesterday? What’s the job?’

‘There’s no job,’ said Nightingale, ‘but I do have a house. A bloody big one. And a father I never knew that I had.’

‘Jack, what on earth are you talking about?’

‘Get me a coffee and I’ll tell you,’ he said. As Jenny made it, Nightingale filled her in on the events of the past twenty-four hours.

‘A mansion?’ she said, when he’d finished.

‘Right out of Country Life,’ he told her. ‘Land as far as the eye can see, stables, a conservatory, more bedrooms than you can shake a stick at.’

‘And it’s yours?’

‘Seems to be. Unless this is all some Candid Camera stunt.’

‘And this Gosling was your father?’

‘According to the solicitor, yes. My biological father. I was adopted at birth. He killed himself a few weeks ago. I’ve asked Robbie to get me the case file.’

He pointed the remote at the DVD player and pressed ‘play’. ‘He left me this, too, in a safe-deposit box.’

The screen flickered into life. A bald, elderly man, his scalp flecked with liver spots and scabs, was frowning and cursing as he adjusted the lens of the camera. Then he went to sit on a bed – it was the one in the master bedroom at Gosling Manor, Nightingale noticed. Where Ainsley Gosling had killed himself.

The man was overweight, with heavy jowls and a swollen belly that strained at the crimson dressing-gown he was wearing. He adjusted it and Nightingale caught a glimpse of milky-white skin, blue-veined like ripe Stilton. There were dark patches under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days. He took a deep breath to compose himself, then forced a smile and began to speak. ‘Hello, Jack,’ he said, his voice a deep, wheezy growl. ‘I wish this could have been under more fortuitous circumstances but…’ He shrugged. ‘As you will probably already know I’m Ainsley Gosling, your father.’ He readjusted the dressing-gown. ‘Your biological father, that is.’ Gosling sighed. ‘I’ve not been much of a father, obviously. And there’s not much I can do to rectify that now.’ He held up his hands. ‘Mea culpa, Jack. It’s all my fault.’

‘What’s his fault?’ asked Jenny. ‘What’s he talking about?’

Nightingale didn’t answer but motioned for her to be quiet as he stared intently at the screen. Gosling was in his seventies and grossly overweight, but he had Nightingale’s slightly hooked nose and the same frown lines across his forehead.

Gosling sighed again, then coughed. Nightingale recognised a smoker’s cough and smiled. His adoptive parents had never smoked and they couldn’t understand why their son had taken up the habit. Maybe it was in his genes.

‘So, to business,’ Gosling continued. ‘The fact that you’re watching this means that I’m dead and that you’ve been to the house. Nothing that I can say will ever make up for what I’ve condemned you to.’

‘What does he mean, Jack?’ said Jenny.

‘Sssh,’ hissed Nightingale.

‘But you must believe me, Jack,’ Gosling continued, ‘I do regret my actions, and if I could turn back time… But even I can’t do that. What’s done is done.’ Gosling took a deep breath, then coughed. The cough turned into a splutter. Belly trembling and shoulders shaking, he fought to control it. ‘I’m your father, Jack. Not that my being your father means anything in the traditional sense. I’ve given you nothing over the last thirty-three years. Not even your name.’

Gosling bent down. When he straightened he was holding a bottle of brandy. He took a swig, then wiped his fleshy mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I gave you away when you were a few hours old, Jack, to a man who passed you on to the Nightingales. He knew they were good people and that they were desperate for a baby so they’d take you, no questions asked.’ He took another swig, then cleared his throat. ‘So, where do I start?’ he said, looking at the bottle in his hand as if he was seeing it for the first time. ‘At the beginning or at the end? Do I tell you what’s happened, or what’s going to happen?’ He had another slug of brandy, then closed his eyes. He shuddered, opened his eyes again and looked straight into the lens. He took a deep breath and licked his lips.

‘Get on with it,’ Nightingale muttered.

‘On your thirty-third birthday, Jack, a demon from hell is coming to claim your soul.’ Gosling closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed. When he opened them, they were burning with a fierce intensity and he began to speak faster. ‘I did a deal with a devil thirty-three years ago. Not the devil. A devil. One of his minions. A nasty piece of work.’

‘This is a joke, right?’ said Jenny. ‘Somebody’s messing with you?’

‘The deal was simple enough,’ continued Gosling. ‘I got power, almost unlimited power – power over women, power to amass money, more money than a man could spend in a dozen lifetimes. The only thing I couldn’t get was immortality. That wasn’t up for negotiation.’ He forced a smile, showing uneven teeth. ‘Even a newborn’s soul wouldn’t buy me that.’

‘He’s insane,’ said Jenny. ‘Look how his hands are shaking. Look at his eyes. He’s mad as a hatter, Jack.’

Nightingale ignored her and blew smoke at the television screen.

‘In exchange for your immortal soul, I got the keys to the kingdom here on earth. And now it’s time to pay the piper.’ He took another swig of brandy and looked at his wristwatch. ‘I’ve tried to put this right, Jack. I’ve tried to renegotiate, but there’s nothing I can do. What’s done is done. Your soul and your sister’s soul are forfeit.’

Jenny frowned in confusion. ‘You don’t have a sister,’ she said. She turned to him. ‘Do you?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I’m getting a lot of surprises this week.’

‘You said you were an only child.’

‘I am.’

‘Your sister was born two years after you,’ growled Gosling, almost as if he was answering Jenny’s question. ‘Another child, another deal. Another soul. I tried to trace her but she’s vanished.’ Gosling tried to smile at the camera but it came across as a snarl – the snarl of an animal that knew it was trapped. ‘I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry, Jack. Sorry for what I did, sorry for what happened, and sorry for what’s going to happen to you.’ Gosling got to his feet unsteadily. His dressing-gown flapped open and he grabbed at it with his free hand as he lurched over to the camera, still clutching the bottle. His swollen belly filled the screen and then it went blank.

‘Jack, what the hell is going on?’

Nightingale put his hands behind his neck. ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he said. And that was the truth. Jack Nightingale didn’t believe he had a soul, and he certainly didn’t believe that a soul was something to be bartered or traded like a sack of beans. He reached for his cigarettes.

‘You smoke too much,’ admonished Jenny.

‘Can’t argue with you there,’ said Nightingale, taking one out and lighting it.

‘Your birthday’s the week after next, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Friday the twenty-seventh,’ he said. ‘What is it today?’

‘Thursday the fifth.’

‘Three weeks, then. But you don’t need to get me anything.’

‘I wasn’t planning to,’ she said. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Few beers and a curry,’ said Nightingale. ‘Same as I do every year. Birthdays are no big deal.’

Jenny jerked her thumb at the DVD player. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘It’s a wind-up, Jenny. Some sort of practical joke.’

‘He left you his house. And his money. He made you his sole heir, according to the solicitor.’

‘So?’

‘So why would he do that unless you were his son?’

‘Maybe he is my father, maybe he isn’t. I’ll talk to Robbie, see if he can run a DNA check for me. But even if he is my biological father…’ He gestured at the television. ‘… even if what he just said is true, that was nonsense.’ He flicked ash into the ashtray. ‘Did you hear what he said? He sold my soul for the keys to the kingdom. He was mad, Jenny. Deranged.’ He checked his watch. ‘Tell you what, can you hold the fort? I’m going to have a chat with Turtledove.’