Stephen Leather - Midnight

Nightingale fished out his driving licence and gave it to the solicitor. Turtledove studied it for a few seconds and then handed it back. He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and took out an A4 manila padded envelope.

‘I don’t understand why you couldn’t just post or courier it to me,’ said Nightingale. He took it from the solicitor. There was a typewritten receipt clipped to one corner.

‘Please sign and date the receipt,’ asked Turtledove, handing Nightingale one of his fountain pens. He sat back in the chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘It wasn’t so much your identity that I was asked to confirm,’ he said. ‘It was more that I had to check that you were still…’ He winced before finishing the sentence. ‘… alive,’ he said. ‘My instructions were that I was to confirm that you were still living and hand you the envelope personally.’

Nightingale signed the receipt and slid it, and the pen, across the desk towards the solicitor.

‘And if I wasn’t alive?’ said Nightingale. ‘What then?’

‘Then I was told to put the envelope and the DVD through a shredder and burn the shreddings.’ He frowned. ‘Is that what they call the waste that has gone through a shredder? Shreddings?’

Nightingale was surprised the elderly solicitor even knew what a shredder was. ‘I’ve no idea, Mr Turtledove,’ he said. He looked at the padded envelope. ‘There must have been a covering letter, because if there wasn’t you wouldn’t have known about the stipulation that you had to confirm that I was still in the land of the living.’

Turtledove nodded. ‘Yes, yes of course, there was a covering letter. Now let me see, where did I put it?’ He frowned again and began rearranging the files on his desk. Little puffs of dust burst into the air like miniature explosions and he began to cough. He took a handkerchief from the top pocket of his jacket and coughed into it. Nightingale saw flecks of blood on the white linen before Turtledove slipped the handkerchief back into his pocket.

‘Are you all right, Mr Turtledove?’ asked Nightingale.

The solicitor forced a smile. ‘I’m fine, Mr Nightingale,’ he said. ‘Just old.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Angela!’ he called. ‘Come in here, please.’ Turtledove gestured with his hand at the door. ‘My wife and secretary,’ he said.

‘Keeping it in the family,’ said Nightingale.

‘She’s a trained book-keeper, and makes the perfect cup of tea,’ said Turtledove. ‘I’d be lost without her.’

The door opened and Mrs Turtledove looked at her husband over the top of her gold-rimmed spectacles and smiled. ‘You yelled?’ she said.

‘I’m sorry, my love,’ said Turtledove. ‘The envelope we were sent for Mr Nightingale — I can’t find the letter that came with it.’

‘I haven’t filed it yet, so it should still be in the in tray,’ said Mrs Turtledove.

The solicitor began rifling through papers in a wire tray. His wife sighed. ‘The other in tray, dear,’ she said.

The solicitor pulled a face and started sorting through another stack of papers.

‘It was delivered by a courier, was it?’ Nightingale asked Mrs Turtledove.

‘A motorcycle courier,’ she said.

‘A local firm?’

‘I hadn’t seen him before,’ said Mrs Turtledove. ‘In fact, he didn’t take his helmet off and he had a black visor so I don’t actually know what he looked like. But it wasn’t a firm we’ve used before, I know that.’

‘I don’t suppose you remember the name? Of the company?’

‘It had courier in it, but I suppose they all do, don’t they?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘I suppose they do.’

Mr Turtledove produced a sheet of paper and waved it triumphantly. ‘Found it,’ he said.

‘Told you so,’ said his wife. She closed the door as Turtledove handed the letter to Nightingale. There was no letterhead, no company name, no address or phone number, and no signature at the bottom. It was typewritten and comprised a simple set of instructions, which Mr Turtledove had carried out impeccably.

‘I’m assuming that you will be paid for this?’

‘The bank in Brighton that handled your late father’s finances has already transferred the money to our company account.’

‘This is all very irregular, isn’t it, Mr Turtledove?’

‘Mr Nightingale, nothing about your case has been the least bit regular from the start.’ He coughed again and dabbed his lips with his handkerchief.

Nightingale gave the sheet of paper back to the solicitor. ‘Would you by any chance know anything about my sister?’ he asked.

‘Your sister?’

‘Gosling had another child two years after I was born. A girl. Like me, she was adopted at birth.’

Turtledove shook his head. ‘My only involvement with Mr Gosling has been the administration of his estate and passing on that envelope. I know nothing of any other relative.’ He scratched his forehead. ‘Not that having a sibling would affect the will, of course. Mr Gosling was quite clear that you are his sole beneficiary.’

‘How is the work going on the will?’

‘Slowly but surely,’ said Turtledove. ‘I think it should all be tied up in another month or so.’

‘What’s the hold-up?’ asked Nightingale.

‘No hold-up,’ said Turtledove. ‘These things just take time, that’s all.’ He gestured at the envelope that Nightingale was holding. ‘I do hope that’s good news,’ he said.

Nightingale scowled. ‘Considering what I’ve been through in the last three weeks, I very much doubt it,’ he said.

N ightingale pushed open the door to the office, waving the padded envelope that Turtledove had given him. ‘Great, you’re still here,’ he said. ‘Got any popcorn?’

Jenny looked up from her computer, frowning quizzically. ‘I was just about to go home. How did it go?’

Nightingale slid a DVD out of the envelope. ‘If I’m right this is another home movie from my dear departed daddy.’

‘That’s what Turtledove wanted to give you?’ She followed him through to his office and watched as he slotted the DVD into the player.

‘Yeah, he said he had only just received it. And here’s the kicker — he had to prove that I was alive before he could hand it over.’

Jenny picked up the remote. ‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Sure about what?’

‘That you want to know what’s on that DVD?’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Because if it’s anything like the last message, it won’t be good news. And maybe you’d be better off not knowing what he’s got to say to you.’

Nightingale sat down and lit a Marlboro. ‘Press “play”, Jenny,’ he said.

‘Do you ever listen to a word I say?’ she said, sitting down on the sofa by the door.

‘With bated breath, but if it was important enough for me to drive all the way down to Hamdale for, it’s important enough for me to watch, whether or not we’ve got popcorn.’

‘We haven’t,’ she said. ‘But there are some chocolate Hobnobs in my drawer.’

‘I’ll pass,’ he said. He waved at the television. ‘Please, the suspense is killing me.’

Jenny pressed ‘play’ and sat with the remote in both hands as the screen flickered into life.

There was no mistaking the face of the bald elderly man that filled the screen as he adjusted the lens. Ainsley Gosling grunted and took a step back, frowning as he studied the camera. His scalp was dotted with liver spots and scabs, and he was wearing the same crimson dressing gown he’d had on for the first DVD they had watched. Gosling turned his back on the camera and waddled over to his bed, then grunted as he sat down, wrapping the gown around his massive stomach. He was holding an opened bottle of brandy in his left hand.