Stephen Leather - Nightfall

Her eyes were glistening with tears but her cheeks were dry, as dry and wrinkled as old parchment.

‘Why did you do it? Why did you sell me to Ainsley Gosling? I know he gave you twenty thousand pounds. Did he buy me from you?’

The woman’s right hand twitched and her eyes widened. It was the first reaction she’d shown since he’d walked into the room. Her mouth opened and he saw she had no teeth, just ulcerated gums.

‘Ainsley Gosling, you know that name, don’t you?’

The woman’s mouth opened wider. Her tongue was coated with white fur and he could smell her breath, sour and vinegary, like stale vomit.

‘Ainsley Gosling,’ repeated Nightingale. ‘He was the man you sold me to, wasn’t he? Tell me.’

The woman’s hands bunched into arthritic fists and she stared at Nightingale, seeing him for the first time. She took a deep breath, opened her mouth and began to scream as if she was being burned at the stake.

Robbie Hoyle sipped his coffee and flicked through the file he had taken from the basement at Gosling Manor. Ainsley Gosling seemed never to have thrown away a single receipt or invoice. There were travel inventories that showed he had travelled the world, invoices from antiques shops and auction houses that showed he had been an avid collector, and one with a Harley Street address, written in an almost illegible scrawl. Hoyle screwed up his eyes and made out some of the words but not all. It related to treatment at a private clinic, and one word was quite clear – ‘ultrasound’.

He looked at the heading again. ‘Dr Geoffrey Griffith, paediatrician’. It was dated twenty months after Nightingale had been born. ‘Got you,’ he whispered. He couldn’t see the name of the patient but he was fairly sure it involved Nightingale’s missing sister. He took out his mobile phone and scrolled through the address book until he found his friend’s number. The call connected but after half a dozen rings it went to voicemail. Hoyle looked at his watch. His shift was due to start in fifteen minutes so he drained his cup, paid his bill and headed out of the coffee shop. The Starbucks was across the road from the police station. He looked left and right. A double-decker bus drove past, then an Evening Standard delivery van. Cars rushed by on both sides of the road. He pressed redial but the call went to Nightingale’s voicemail again. A Tesco truck drove past, a motorcycle courier, then a line of cars, bumper to bumper. ‘Jack, it’s Robbie. I’m just heading into work but I’ve found something in Gosling’s file about your sister.’ There was a gap in the traffic and Hoyle stepped off the pavement. ‘I’ll give you a call when my shift’s over…’

A girl in Goth clothes was standing in the doorway of a florist’s. Her Border collie was sitting next to her, its ears pricked. She ran a hand through her spiky jet black hair as she watched Hoyle step off the pavement.

‘Hey, Robbie!’ she shouted. Her voice cut through the hum of the traffic and Hoyle stopped in his tracks. ‘Hey, Robbie, have you got a light?’ she called.

Hoyle turned, frowning, the phone still at his ear. The girl waved and blew him a kiss. He took a step towards her and the black cab hit him full on at thirty-five miles an hour, breaking his legs, hip and spine, bursting his spleen and splintering his ribs, which punctured his lungs. The driver said later that he’d been distracted by something in the back of his cab, which was empty at the time. Something had been fluttering around like a trapped bird, he told police, but when he’d turned there was nothing. He hadn’t had time to brake before the impact.

Hoyle bled out quickly as he lay on the Tarmac and he was dead before the paramedics arrived. The contents of the file were scattered across the road. The wind picked them up and blew them in all directions. The invoice from the paediatrician was caught in an updraught, spun into the air, then slapped against a lamppost. The wind snatched it again and it swirled back into the road. It blew under a parked car and settled in a puddle of oily water.

The girl and the dog watched as Hoyle’s life ebbed away, then disappeared into the crowds pouring out of nearby shops, some staring in horror, others reaching for their mobile phones to photograph and video Hoyle as he lay dying in the road.

The male nurse straightened the quilt over Rebecca Keeley and took the thermometer from her mouth. ‘I’m not sure you should still be here,’ he said to Nightingale. He put the thermometer into the top pocket of his tunic. ‘I think it’d be better if you left now.’

‘It wasn’t anything I did,’ said Nightingale. The woman had only screamed once, but the mournful wail had gone on for more than a minute and it was only when she ran out of breath that she had stopped. Her hands had tensed into fists and she had grabbed her crucifix and held it in front of her as if she was warding off a vampire.

The nurse had burst into the room expecting the worst, but the woman had remained in her chair even when she was screaming. When she quietened he had helped her onto the bed and draped the quilt over her. Nightingale tried to help but the nurse pushed him away. His mobile phone had rung while the nurse was comforting Rebecca Keeley, but he had reached into his pocket and switched it off.

The nurse took his stethoscope from around his neck and listened to her chest, then took her pulse. ‘I really think you should go,’ he said to Nightingale.

‘We were just talking and she started to scream,’ said Nightingale. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘Miss Keeley doesn’t talk,’ said the nurse. ‘I’ve been here eighteen months and she’s not said one word to me.’ He stood up and faced Nightingale with his hands on his hips. ‘It would be best if you left now.’

‘She’s never done that before? Screamed like that?’

The nurse shook his head. ‘She’s normally as good as gold. What did you say to her?’

‘Nothing,’ lied Nightingale. ‘I just told her who I was and showed her the flowers. Are you sure she isn’t in pain or something?’

‘No, she’s fine.’

‘Look, I’d really like to sit with her for a while,’ said Nightingale.

‘She needs rest,’ said the nurse. ‘She’d be better off sleeping.’

‘If it’s a question of money…’ said Nightingale, taking out his wallet.

The nurse held up a hand. ‘It isn’t,’ he said. ‘It’s a question of my patient’s wellbeing. She needs her rest, Mr Nightingale. You can come and see her tomorrow.’

He was adamant, so Nightingale thanked the man for his help and left. As he went out of the room he picked up a hairbrush from the dressing-table and slipped it into his pocket.

Jenny smiled as Nightingale walked into the office. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

‘Difficult to say.’

‘Was she pleased to see you?’

‘Not really,’ said Nightingale. He went over and made himself a coffee. ‘Want one?’ he asked.

‘I’m okay,’ she said. ‘Come on, Jack, tell me what happened. Is she your mother or not? What did she say?’

‘Not much,’ said Nightingale. ‘She’s been on all sorts of anti-depressants for years. She’s in a hell of a state.’

‘But she’s your mother. There’s no doubt?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘She screamed like a banshee when I mentioned Gosling but all in all I couldn’t get much sense out of her.’ He pulled a Ziploc bag from the pocket of his coat. Inside was the hairbrush. ‘But I did get a DNA sample.’

‘You stole her brush?’

‘I borrowed it,’ said Nightingale. ‘She can have it back when I’m done with it. You remember that private forensics laboratory we used on the paternity case? The one out by the airport?’