Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘I don’t need a will, then.’

‘Yes, you do,’ she said. ‘Otherwise your assets get divided up according to some legal formula. If you’re married, the surviving spouse gets it. If you have kids, they get a share. And if there’s no wife and kids it goes to the parents, and if they’re not around any other relatives get it. Trust me, you need a will.’

‘Anyway, the will isn’t the point. The point is that I don’t want to be buried, okay?’

‘Message received,’ she said. ‘Do you want to donate your body to medical science instead? I’m sure your liver would be worth looking at.’

Nightingale flashed her a tight smile. ‘I’m not having bloody medical students poking around with my innards,’ he said. ‘Cremation will do just fine.’

‘Cremation it is,’ said Jenny. ‘What shall I do with the ashes?’

‘Whatever you like,’ said Nightingale. ‘Speaking of which, do you think it’s okay to smoke in a churchyard?’

‘I think legally you’d be okay but it’s pretty bad form. How about an egg-timer?’

‘A what?’

‘I’ll have your ashes put in an egg-timer. Then you’ll be one of the few men in the country who’s actually useful in the kitchen.’

The policemen finished lowering the coffin. The three on the left dropped their end of the slings and the three on the right pulled them out. Anna let her rose fall onto the coffin and encouraged Sarah to do the same.

‘Scatter them over the pitch at Old Trafford,’ said Nightingale.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yeah. I don’t want to be in the ground – I don’t want to rot slowly, and I don’t want a gravestone for people to look at.’

‘Jack, you’re thirty-two, you’ve got years ahead of you. Provided you stop smoking and drinking.’

‘Unless Gosling was telling the truth. In two weeks’ time I’ll be thirty-three. Two weeks today, in fact.’

‘Today’s Thursday,’ said Jenny. ‘Your birthday’s Friday the twenty-seventh.’

‘Yeah, but I figure that means my soul’s up for grabs just after midnight on the twenty-sixth, right?’

‘I don’t know how prompt devils are,’ said Jenny. ‘Anyway, it’s all nonsense and you know it. Come on, we have to go to the reception.’

‘I can’t face that,’ said Nightingale.

‘Well, at least let’s say goodbye to Anna. You can’t just leave without saying anything.’

Anna was being comforted by Robbie’s mother. ‘She’s got enough on her plate,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll call around tomorrow.’

As Nightingale turned to go he spotted Derbyshire and Evans, the two detectives who had called into his office. He went over to them. ‘Did you guys know Robbie?’ he asked.

‘Met him once on an interview course at Hendon,’ said Evans. ‘Never worked with him, though.’

‘Bloody nightmare,’ said Nightingale. ‘I still can’t believe it. Anything happening with the taxi driver?’

The inspector shook his head. ‘The way things stand at the moment, we can’t even do him for careless driving. He wasn’t on his mobile, he hadn’t been drinking, he wasn’t speeding. It really was an accident, plain and simple.’

‘What’s his name?’

Evans narrowed his eyes. ‘Why?’

Nightingale faked a smile. ‘The Federation rep asked if I’d give Anna a hand filling out the insurance forms and they need details of the accident.’

Evans nodded. ‘Barry O’Brien,’ he said. ‘He lives out in Hammersmith. He was fully insured, clean licence and everything, so I don’t see there’ll be any problems.’

‘How is he?’

‘Physically fine – he was wearing his seatbelt – but he’s really shaken.’

‘He should be,’ said Nightingale.

‘I’m serious,’ said Evans. ‘He was in a right mess when we saw him. He’d never had an accident before, and he’s been driving a cab for over thirty years. He’s taking it really badly.’

Nightingale thanked them and headed for the exit. Jenny linked her arm through his. ‘You just lied to him, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘There are no insurance papers.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just know. You can’t lie to the police, Jack.’

‘Yes, you can. It’s practically a national pastime,’ said Nightingale. ‘Everyone lies to the cops.’

‘But why do you need to know who the driver was?’

‘I want to talk to him.’

‘Because?’

Nightingale sighed. ‘Because he killed my best friend and I want to know what happened.’

‘They told you what happened. It was an accident. Robbie was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘Yeah, well, cops don’t always tell the truth,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need to hear it from the horse’s mouth.’ They walked out of the graveyard. ‘I can’t work, Jenny, not today. Let’s go and get drunk.’

‘I’ve a better idea,’ said Jenny. ‘Why don’t you show me Gosling Manor?’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Why not?’ said Jenny. ‘I want to see if it’s as big as you say it is.’

Nightingale grinned. ‘Jenny, size isn’t everything, you know.’

‘Actually,’ she smiled, ‘it is, pretty much.’

Jenny climbed out of the MGB. ‘You weren’t joking – it is a mansion,’ she said. ‘How many rooms?’

‘A lot,’ said Nightingale.

‘I expected gargoyles and turrets and stuff but it’s really nice,’ she said. ‘And the gardens are spectacular.’ She stood with her hands on her hips, admiring the house. ‘It’s chocolate-box pretty, isn’t it? Not the sort of house you’d expect a Satanist to live in.’

‘It was built by the local squire, apparently.’

‘What is it – seventeenth century?’

‘Sixteenth, the cops said. But it’s been added to over the years. You should have a look around the back – there’s a lake. And stables. How does it compare to the McLean ancestral pile?’

Jenny smiled. ‘Ah, now you’re talking,’ she said. ‘My parents’ place is a bit special.’

‘As special as this?’

‘I’m not playing the who’s-got-the-biggest-house game, Jack, but this is lovely, really lovely. You’re very lucky to have it.’

‘Yeah, but I can’t see how I can keep it,’ said Nightingale. He walked over to the garage, which was to the right of the main building. There were four metal doors that opened upwards but all were locked. CCTV cameras at either end covered all the doors and the area in front of them.

‘He was big on security,’ observed Jenny.

‘Inside and out,’ said Nightingale. He went to the far side of the garage. There were two windows, dusty and covered with cobwebs. He peered through the first but all he could see was a bare concrete floor, discoloured from years of spilled oil. He moved to the second, cupped his hand over his forehead and squinted through the glass. There was a long wooden workbench but no tools. A pulley and chains hung from a metal girder running the full length of the interior and there was a dark area at the far end, which looked like a pit.

‘What are you looking for?’ asked Jenny, joining him at the window.

‘A Bentley,’ said Nightingale. ‘Apparently that’s what Gosling drove. Or, rather, that’s what he was driven around in.’ He moved away from the window. ‘Empty,’ he said. ‘Just like the house.’

‘Maybe he sold it,’ said Jenny.

‘He seems to have sold everything else.’

‘Except the books,’ said Jenny.

‘Except the books,’ agreed Nightingale. ‘Come on, I’ll give you the tour.’

They walked to the front door and Nightingale unlocked it. He bowed and waved her inside. ‘Wow, would you look at that chandelier!’ she said. ‘And this floor is Italian marble, right?’