Nightmare

37

Nightingale had left Graham Lord’s card on the table by the phone. As he sat and watched Saturday afternoon racing from Sandown Park on Channel 4 he drank a bottle of Corona and kept looking over at the card. On the way to the kitchen to get a second bottle of beer he picked up the card, looked at it, then put it down. He drank the second bottle of beer lying on the sofa, then he picked up the card again and dialled the number.

‘Mr Nightingale,’ said Lord before Nightingale had spoken. ‘I was waiting for you to call.’

‘How do you know my name?’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t remember telling you my name.’

‘You didn’t,’ said Lord. ‘You’re calling to arrange an appointment?’

Nightingale didn’t reply. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up and he shivered. He felt as if he was being played, as if a trap was being set for him and he was being invited to step inside.

‘Mr Nightingale? You want an appointment?’

‘I guess so, yes,’ said Nightingale.

‘What about tomorrow evening? Sunday is always a good day.’ He chuckled softly. ‘The Lord’s Day, of course. Shall we say eight o’clock?’

‘Okay,’ said Nightingale.

‘My fee is two hundred pounds,’ said Lord. ‘I’m afraid that’s my standard charge.’

‘What sort of guarantee is there that I’ll talk to Sophie?’ said Nightingale.

‘There are no guarantees; but trust me, you’ll have a much more satisfactory experience than you had at Marylebone.’

‘And how does it work? We just sit down and talk?’

Lord chuckled. ‘It’s a bit more complicated than that,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry, Mr Nightingale. I know what I’m doing. I’ll see you tomorrow at eight. My address is on my card. And if you have anything that belongs to Sophie, please bring it with you.’