Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘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.’

Turtledove was dipping a digestive biscuit into a cup of tea when Nightingale burst into his office. His jaw dropped and a chunk of biscuit fell into his tea.

‘Mr Turtledove, I need you tell me what’s going on,’ said Nightingale.

Turtledove’s glasses were perched on top of his head but now they dropped onto his nose. ‘Excuse me?’ he said.

The secretary appeared at Nightingale’s shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Turtledove, I said you were busy but he barged straight past me.’

‘You didn’t even get out of your chair,’ said Nightingale, without looking at her. He closed the door on her and sat down. ‘I don’t think you’ve told me everything, Mr Turtledove.’

‘I’ve told you all I know,’ said Turtledove, putting the remains of his biscuit on the saucer.

‘Just who was Ainsley Gosling?’

‘I told you yesterday. He was your genetic father.’

‘What did he do for a living? How did he make his money? How could he afford that house? Have you seen it? It’s a mansion, Mr Turtledove, a huge mansion.’

‘I never met Mr Gosling and I never visited the house,’ said the solicitor. ‘I’ve told you that already.’

Nightingale took out his cigarettes. Turtledove opened his mouth to protest but closed it when Nightingale glared at him. He lit one and blew smoke, trying to calm himself.

‘I understand how stressful it must be, losing your father,’ began Turtledove, but Nightingale cut him short with a wave of his hand.

‘Please don’t try to empathise with me,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve been trained to empathise and I can spot a fake a mile off. Now, you said you never met Gosling. How can that be if you’re the executor of his will?’

‘I didn’t draw up the will. It was delivered to me by courier,’ said the solicitor. ‘After he died.’

‘So you didn’t witness the signature?’

‘Mr Nightingale, how many times do you want me to repeat myself? I never went to the house, and I never met Mr Gosling. I was simply asked to execute the will.’

‘So you have no idea if the will is genuine or not?’

‘I assume the firm that drew it up made all the necessary checks,’ said Turtledove. ‘My understanding is that he was a client of theirs for many years.’

Nightingale flicked ash onto the floor. ‘Who was he? What did Gosling do for a living?’

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ said the solicitor. ‘Obviously, being local, I’d heard of him, but I gather he kept himself to himself. He was a very private man.’

‘He died three weeks ago,’ said Nightingale. ‘Why did it take you so long to contact me?’

‘I was only sent the file on Monday. On Wednesday I called your office.’

‘Did you know that he committed suicide?’

Turtledove’s jaw dropped.

‘I assume from the look on your face that you didn’t,’ said Nightingale.

‘Good Lord, what happened?’

‘He blew his head off with a shotgun,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t suppose he left a note with you, did he, anything that you were supposed to give me?’

‘There was nothing,’ said the solicitor. ‘He killed himself, you say? That’s terrible. That’s simply terrible.’

‘And you never went to Gosling Manor?’

‘Never.’

‘And so you didn’t leave an envelope on the mantelpiece?’

The solicitor frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

Nightingale waved his cigarette dismissively. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘You’re being paid for your work, I assume. You’re not doing this out of the goodness of your heart.’

‘Of course I’m being paid,’ said Turtledove.

‘By whom? Specifically,’ said Nightingale. ‘I want a name.’

Turtledove flicked through a case containing business cards. He took one out, squinted at it and handed it to Nightingale. ‘This is the gentleman who handled your father’s finances. He’s the manager of a bank in Brighton.’

‘But you haven’t met him?’

‘No. He sent me a retainer and a promise to pay my bill in full once the will had been executed.’

‘Why are you being paid by a bank in Brighton and not by the lawyer who sent you the file?’

Turtledove looked pained. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that, Mr Nightingale. As I keep telling you, everything about this matter has been irregular and, frankly, I’m starting to wish that I’d never heard of Ainsley Gosling.’

‘You and me both, Mr Turtledove,’ said Nightingale.

The bank manager was a middle-aged man in a dark blue pinstriped suit. His office was a windowless cube in a featureless block a stone’s throw from the Brighton seafront. ‘My name’s Mr Collinson,’ he said. ‘I’m the manager here, but I’m not sure how I can help you.’

Nightingale never trusted men who introduced themselves as ‘Mr’. It suggested that they wanted to impose their authority on you from the start. There was a brass nameplate on the desk that announced his full name – Phillip Collinson – but even that was preceded by ‘Mr’. Collinson waved him to a small, uncomfortable plastic chair with metal legs while he himself took the massive leather executive model, with large arms and a high back, the type favoured by shaven-headed villains in James Bond films.

The bank manager was balding but had artfully combed his hair across the top of his head and used gel to keep it in place. He leaned back and pursed his thin lips as he scrutinised Nightingale’s business card. ‘Mr Nightingale, if you are Ainsley Gosling’s son, why the different surname?’

‘I was adopted, apparently,’ said Nightingale. ‘But surely you know that. Didn’t you instruct Turtledove?’

‘I didn’t actually instruct him,’ said Collinson, placing the card on his desk and steepling his fingers under his chin. ‘The instructions regarding the execution of the will came from a law firm in the City. I’ll be paying Mr Turtledove for his work, but that’s the end of my involvement.’

‘But you met Mr Gosling?’

‘Of course, several times. He was a valued customer.’

‘Did he come here or did you go out to Gosling Manor?’

‘We went to his house,’ said Collinson. ‘Mr Gosling was reluctant to travel so either I or the deputy manager would go to see him.’

‘Do you do that for all of your customers?’ asked Nightingale. ‘My bank manager won’t even see me to talk about my overdraft.’

Collinson smiled without warmth. ‘As I said, Mr Gosling was a valued customer.’

‘Rich, you mean?’

‘Rich is relative,’ said Collinson. ‘But let’s just say it was worth our while to keep him happy. But I don’t understand why you’re here now, Mr Nightingale. Mr Turtledove will be handling the will and the distribution of assets. It’s nothing to do with the bank.’