Stephen Leather - Nightfall

Nightingale’s green MGB was too conspicuous for surveillance work and the company credit card was close to its limit, so he had borrowed Jenny McLean’s Audi A4. He wasn’t sure how his assistant could afford such an expensive car, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask her directly in case she mistook his curiosity for jealousy. He’d parked outside the hotel and listened to a radio discussion programme while he waited for Mrs McBride to arrive for her assignation. She was as regular as clockwork, using the same hotel on the second and last Monday of each month. She always drove there with her lover and parked in a multi-storey a short distance away. She would check in and get the key to the room, then phone the man on his mobile. Nightingale had watched them two weeks earlier but Joel McBride wouldn’t take his word for it and was insisting on photographic evidence.

Nightingale saw Mrs McBride coming around the corner and switched off the radio. He climbed out of the Audi and locked it. He was holding a black-leather attache case and pointed it at her as he pressed a hidden button in the handle. A lens in the side was connected to a digital video recorder inside the case.

Mrs McBride was smiling as she talked into her mobile phone, her high heels clicking on the pavement. She was an attractive blonde in her thirties, about five feet six with good legs. She was so engrossed in her call that she didn’t give Nightingale a second glance as she walked past him. The briefcase recorded sound and vision and he was close enough to hear her say ‘darling’ and tell whoever it was that she would see them soon.

She pushed through the double doors into Reception and Nightingale followed her. As she walked up to the desk, he moved to a sofa and sat down, keeping the lens pointed at her. She handed over her credit card and filled in the registration form, then took her room key and headed for the lifts. Nightingale got up and walked slowly after her, pretending to have a conversation into his mobile. He waited until the lift doors were about to close after her before he stepped in. ‘I’m just getting into the lift,’ he said into his phone. ‘I’ll call you back.’ He put it into his pocket and looked at the button she’d pressed. ‘Same floor,’ he said. He smiled but he didn’t feel like smiling. He hated lifts with a vengeance but there were times when he had no other choice than to trust his fate to the wires and pulleys that kept him suspended above the ground.

She flashed him an uninterested smile and watched the numbers as they winked on and off. When they reached the floor she walked quickly down the corridor. Nightingale followed, keeping well back. She had a room in the middle of the corridor so he walked past her, tilting the case to keep her in the camera’s view. He heard her unlock the door and close it. He walked to the end of the corridor, turned and stepped around the corner, keeping the briefcase aimed at the room where Mrs McBride was. He didn’t have to wait long. He heard the lift doors open and took out his phone, held it to his ear with his left hand and aimed the attache case down the corridor with the right.

Mrs McBride’s lover walked briskly down the corridor, tapping a copy of the Evening Standard against his leg. He was wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit that had the look of Savile Row and carrying a cashmere coat over one arm.

Nightingale walked towards him slowly, muttering into his phone, keeping the case pointing towards the man as he knocked on Mrs McBride’s door. She opened it and kissed him, then dragged him inside just as Nightingale drew level with the door. His timing was perfect.

He went back outside and sat in the Audi. Two hours later he videoed the man leaving on his own and walking along the street towards the tube station. Five minutes after that he got a nice shot of Mrs McBride walking out of the hotel, looking like the cat that had got the cream.

Jenny looked up from her computer when Nightingale walked in, swinging his attache case. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

‘Perfect,’ said Nightingale. He put the case on her desk, clicked the double locks and opened it. He removed the memory card from the side of the camera and gave it to Jenny. ‘Run off a couple of DVDs, might need a bit of editing.’

‘No problem,’ said Jenny. ‘How’s my car, by the way?’

‘I had a bit of a run-in with a delivery van, scraped the side.’

‘You did not!’

Nightingale grinned. ‘Joke,’ he said. ‘Would I take any risks with your pride and joy? Now, did you get the credit-card records? They were obviously regulars at the Hilton. Be handy to show how often they go there.’

‘Yes, but my contact’s asking for more money.’

‘Because?’

‘Because he says they’re clamping down – Data Protection Act and all that. Now he wants three hundred a go.’

‘There’s enough in petty cash, right?’ said Nightingale, lighting a cigarette.

Jenny flashed him a sarcastic smile. ‘We haven’t had any petty cash for the last three months. I paid him myself.’

‘Put it on Mr McBride’s bill,’ he said.

‘My DWP pal wants more too.’

‘What is it with these people?’ Nightingale sighed. ‘They shouldn’t even be selling us information in the first place.’

‘I think that’s why the price keeps going up,’ said Jenny.

‘But she came through, did she?’

‘She managed to track down Rebecca Keeley. She’s in a nursing home, apparently. But nothing on Mitchell. He isn’t on any of the databases. Never paid tax, never been on the electoral roll, never seen a doctor. The original invisible man.’

‘Well, I hope we’re not paying for that,’ said Nightingale.

‘We’re paying for the checks, Jack, not the results.’

‘So what’s the story on Keeley? It’s an old folks’ home, is it?’

‘Hardly,’ said Jenny. ‘She’s only fifty.’

Nightingale’s brow furrowed. ‘Fifty? That means she was seventeen when she gave birth.’

‘You’re assuming she’s your mother, Jack. And that’s a very big assumption. All you have is that Gosling gave her some money at about the time you were born.’

‘Twenty thousand pounds was a lot of money back then,’ said Nightingale. ‘He must have been paying her for something important.’

‘She could have sold him a painting. Or a piece of furniture.’

‘He was meticulous with his records. Every cheque stub was filled in with either a reference number or a description of what he’d paid for. But the one for Keeley just had the amount with no explanation.’

‘I’m just saying, don’t get too excited. It might turn out to be nothing.’

‘Message received and understood,’ said Nightingale. ‘So why’s she in a home if she’s only fifty?’

‘I don’t know, but I’ve got an address,’ she said, handing him a sheet of paper. ‘Shall I get Mr McBride in so that you can give him the bad news – and his bill?’

‘Might as well,’ said Nightingale, studying the piece of paper she’d given him. The Hillingdon Home was in Hampshire, and there was no indication of what sort of outfit it was. Underneath the address there was a phone number, and the name of the administrator, a Mrs Elizabeth Fraser.

‘His wife paid for the hotel room, did you realise that?’ asked Jenny.

‘Yeah, I saw her handing over her card. Unbelievable, isn’t it? She sleeps with the boss and pays for it. What’s he got that I haven’t?’

‘Charm for a start,’ said Jenny.

‘Go on, number five!’ bellowed Nightingale, waving his betting slip. ‘Go on, my son!’

‘His name’s Red Rover,’ said Hoyle, at his shoulder.

‘He doesn’t know his name,’ said Nightingale. ‘Go on, number five!’