Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘Where’s all the furniture?’ asked Hoyle.

‘He must have sold it,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m guessing he sold everything before he died, except the furniture in the bedroom.’

‘You could have some great parties in here.’

‘You could have a half-decent game of five-a-side football,’ said Nightingale.

Something scraped across the floor upstairs and both men jumped. ‘What the hell was that?’ said Hoyle.

‘Probably a cat,’ said Nightingale. ‘There was a cat upstairs last time I was here.’

‘Didn’t sound like a cat,’ said Hoyle.

‘Do you want to leave?’

‘Hell, no, we’re here now,’ said Hoyle. ‘Show me where he topped himself.’

Nightingale led him back into the hallway and up the staircase. ‘What are you going to do with the place?’ asked Hoyle.

‘Sell it, I guess,’ said Nightingale. ‘Pay off the mortgage, see what’s left. Why – do you want to make me an offer?’

‘You could think about developing it,’ said Hoyle. ‘Turn it into flats. There’s a big market for these old buildings when they’re done right.’

‘It’d be sacrilege to split it into flats, a beautiful house like this,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t know how easy it’ll be to find a buyer, though.’

‘The rich are always rich,’ said Hoyle. ‘Recession or boom, they always have money. Sell it to a Russian oligarch or a Saudi prince and let them enjoy it.’

‘I was thinking, back in the bar, it might be a con.’

‘A con?’

‘They’re setting me up for something. Telling me the house is mine, then hitting me for money somehow.’

‘Have you got any money?’

Nightingale laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But maybe they don’t know that. Can you do me a favour and check out the solicitor for me? His name’s Ernest Turtledove. He’s based in a village called Hamdale.’

Something screamed out in the fields and both men stopped dead. ‘Fox?’ said Hoyle, hopefully.

‘I hope so,’ said Nightingale. He shone his torch along the landing. ‘This way.’ He headed down the corridor towards the master bedroom.

Hoyle ran his beam along the ceiling, the light making the miniature chandeliers sparkle. He stopped when he saw the CCTV camera. ‘Smile,’ he said. ‘We’re on Candid Camera.’

‘They’re all over the place,’ said Nightingale, ‘but no alarms from what I can see. Just the cameras.’

‘Which means what, do you think?’

The two men paused, their torches pointing at the camera.

‘Which means he wasn’t worried about burglars. It was more about watching the house, inside and out.’

‘Maybe not,’ said Hoyle. ‘If you’ve got comprehensive CCTV coverage, you don’t need an alarm. Any burglar worth his salt would know he’d be filmed and give the place a wide berth.’

‘Unless they wore masks,’ said Nightingale. ‘You’re missing the point, Robbie. He was scared of someone, but it wasn’t burglars. And whoever he was scared of wouldn’t be put off by an alarm.’

Hoyle walked down the corridor to take a closer look at the camera. ‘It’s not working,’ he said.

‘Why would it be?’ said Nightingale. ‘The power’s off.’ He went to stand next to Hoyle. There was a small red light on the side of the unit but it wasn’t glowing.

Hoyle ran his torch along the ceiling and down the wall. ‘I don’t see any wiring,’ he said. ‘Could be a wireless system. I wonder where the monitors are?’

‘I didn’t see any downstairs, and there was nothing in the bedroom.’

‘Must be somewhere,’ said Hoyle. ‘They wouldn’t take them away and leave the cameras behind.’

Nightingale walked back to the master bedroom and opened the door. ‘This is where he killed himself.’

Hoyle flashed his torch across the ceiling. ‘No CCTV cameras in here,’ he said. He went into the bedroom, his torch lighting the walls and ceiling. ‘They’ve done a hell of a job cleaning this up, haven’t they?’

‘It was a professional clean-up crew,’ said Nightingale, following him into the room.

‘If ever I kill anyone, I’ll use them to clean up afterwards,’ said Hoyle. ‘They’ve got rid of all the splatter. And there’s no staining on the floor at all.’ He frowned. ‘What about the pentagram?’

‘I guess that was chalk and they just rubbed it off,’ he said. ‘I think this is where he lived, during his last few days. There was no furniture anywhere else in the house. This was the nerve centre, I guess.’

‘So, why no monitors?’ said Hoyle. ‘If he was holed up here, he’d need the monitors close by. Otherwise they’d be useless.’

‘What are you thinking, Robbie? He was here under siege, waiting for somebody?’

Hoyle grinned. ‘Somebody,’ he said. ‘Or something.’ He made a ghostly face, waggled his hands in the air and moaned.

‘A man died here, Robbie, let’s not forget that.’

‘He killed himself,’ said Hoyle, suddenly serious. ‘And anyone who does that loses any sympathy I might have had. Killing yourself is the coward’s way out, Jack, because it leaves the living to clear up the mess you’ve made.’

‘You don’t know the facts,’ said Nightingale.

‘I know that he’s dumped a whole load of grief on you,’ said Hoyle. ‘He claimed to be your father but didn’t have the decency to tell you face to face. He could at least have had a sit-down with you, answered any questions that you had and then gone ahead and done the dirty deed.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

‘There’s no maybe about it,’ said Hoyle. ‘Only cowards commit suicide.’

‘Sometimes it takes guts,’ said Nightingale, quietly. ‘Sometimes it’s the only way out.’

‘Well, there’s no way I’d top myself and leave my girls wondering why,’ said Hoyle.

‘He did explain,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s what the DVD was for.’

‘You’re not buying this, are you?’ said Hoyle, scornfully. ‘You don’t really think that on your birthday a devil’s going to come and take your soul?’

Nightingale scowled. ‘Of course not.’

‘There you are, then. The DVD’s a load of crap. He was a nutter and, genetic father or not, he’s just trying to screw with your mind from beyond the grave.’

‘Because?’

‘He was a nutter, Jack. There’s no “because” with a nutter.’ He nodded at the door. ‘Come on, let’s have a look downstairs.’

Nightingale followed Hoyle down the staircase. Hoyle ran his hands over the panelled wall. ‘This is quality workmanship,’ he said. ‘No Polish builders here – it’s the real thing. The wood alone’s worth thousands. How old do you think it is?’

‘The cops said sixteenth century,’ said Nightingale. ‘It was called something else then, named after the local squires.’

‘Hey, do you think owning this makes you the new squire? Maybe you’ll get to deflower the local virgins. Any idea how much land goes with it?’

‘I didn’t ask,’ said Nightingale.

‘Could turn it into a golf course, maybe,’ said Hoyle. ‘This would make a great clubhouse.’

They went into the kitchen. Hoyle opened a door to find a pantry lined with empty shelves while Nightingale opened another to reveal a tiled room that had been plumbed for a washing-machine but, like the rest, had been stripped bare. Beyond the pantry there were three small rooms. There were marks on the walls where posters and pictures had once been fixed, and Nightingale decided they had been staff quarters. A door led to the back garden. There were three locks, two bolts and a CCTV camera aimed at it. ‘That one’s not wireless,’ said Hoyle, aiming his torch at the camera. ‘See the wire there?’

Nightingale squinted up at it. A black wire at the rear of the camera unit burrowed into the plaster. ‘Which means what?’ he asked.