Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘Only the best for Ainsley Gosling,’ said Nightingale, closing the door.

‘And there’s no furniture?’

‘Just a bed and a chair in the master bedroom.’

‘That’s where he…?’

‘Killed himself? Yeah. But you wouldn’t know by looking at the room – it’s been cleaned. Not a speck of blood.’ He waved his hand around the hall. ‘So, can you see the secret panel?’

‘The what?’

‘The secret panel. Gosling was the only one who knew how to get down to the basement.’

Jenny walked slowly along the length of the hallway, running her hand along the wooden panelling. ‘How did you find it, if it’s so secret?’

Nightingale waxed an imaginary moustache and did his best Hercule Poirot impersonation. ‘Because I am ze great detective,’ he said.

‘Robbie found it, right?’

‘It was a joint effort,’ said Nightingale. He pressed the panel that led down to the basement and it clicked open. He flicked the light switch. ‘Be careful, the stairs are quite steep,’ he said. ‘And keep hold of the handrail.’

He followed her down the stairs. ‘This is amazing,’ said Jenny. ‘There must be thousands of books here. Are they all witchcraft and devil stuff?’

‘Seem to be.’

‘Are you going to sell them all?’ she asked, as she pulled one out of the middle of a shelf. ‘Ah,’ she said, before he could answer. ‘Perhaps not.’

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

She held up the book so that he could see the title. Dissecting Humans.

‘No way,’ he said.

Jenny leafed through it. ‘Complete with illustrations,’ she said. ‘I think it’s a medical text. At least, I hope it is.’ She put it back on the shelf and started walking through the display cases. ‘It’s half library, half museum.’

Nightingale went to Gosling’s desk. He sat down, opened the top drawer and pulled out a leather file. Inside, plastic folders held business cards – lawyers, businessmen, politicians, showbiz personalities, even high-ranking policemen. Ainsley Gosling had had some very important friends.

‘Have you seen these crystal balls?’ asked Jenny. ‘Was he a fortune-teller as well?’

‘Get away from there!’ shouted Nightingale, leaping out of the chair.

Jenny jumped backwards. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

Nightingale hurried over to her. ‘Just don’t touch them,’ he said.

‘Why? Are they valuable?’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.’

‘It’s not that,’ he said. His shoe crunched on a piece of broken glass. ‘It’s just…’ He tailed off, not sure if he could explain what he was worried about without appearing to be a complete idiot.

‘Tell me, Jack.’

‘The last time Robbie was here he saw himself in one of the balls.’

‘His reflection, you mean?’

Nightingale took a deep breath. ‘This is going to sound crazy, but he saw himself being hit by a taxi.’

Jenny’s face hardened. ‘That’s not funny, Jack,’ she said.

‘I’m not joking,’ said Nightingale. He pointed at the shards of glass on the floor. ‘He was so shocked that he dropped it.’

‘Jack, listen to yourself. You’re saying Robbie saw his future. You know that’s impossible.’

‘I’m only telling you what he told me, Jenny. And if you’d seen the look on his face, you’d know how serious he was.’

‘He saw himself being hit by a cab?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘It’s crazy.’

‘Everything about this is crazy,’ said Nightingale. ‘This basement is crazy, the DVD Gosling left me is crazy – killing yourself in a magic circle isn’t exactly a sign of sanity.’

Jenny flopped down onto a leather sofa. ‘Are you okay?’

‘In what sense?’

‘You’ve just found out your parents weren’t your real parents, that your real father killed himself with a shotgun and your birth-mother has spent most of her life in a psychiatric institution. Your uncle and aunt are dead and you’ve just buried your best friend.’

Nightingale lit a cigarette and sat down beside her. ‘Yeah. It’s been a stressful few days,’ he said sarcastically.

‘And how are you going to deal with it all?’

Nightingale held up the cigarette. ‘Nicotine and alcohol, same as usual,’ he said.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘With a therapist?’

Jenny laughed. ‘With me, you idiot.’

‘I’m okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m in bits about Robbie, but I’m an adult, I can deal with it. The parents thing is confusing me a bit, but I’m not the first person to discover they were adopted, and I can deal with it.’

‘And your mother?’

‘She’s not my mother, Jenny. She’s…’

‘She’s what?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Yes, she gave birth to me, I’m sure of that now, but she’s nothing to me and never will be. My mother was Irene Nightingale and she’s been dead almost fifteen years. And Bill was my father. Nothing will ever change that.’

‘And the DVD? Gosling’s message to you?’

‘The ramblings of a suicidal madman.’

She looked at him earnestly. ‘You’re sure that’s how you feel?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because what you’ve been through is traumatic. And you seem to be taking it all very calmly.’

‘I was a cop for almost ten years, Jenny. It takes a lot to faze me.’ He blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘Trust me, I’m fine.’

When Nightingale woke on Friday morning he lay in bed for almost half an hour staring up at the ceiling. He had acted on impulse when he’d asked the detective inspector for the name of the man who had killed Robbie Hoyle, but once he had it he knew that nothing would stop him going to talk to him. Nightingale wanted to know if Hoyle had died immediately or if he had lain in a pool of blood, begging to be saved. He wanted to know why O’Brien hadn’t stopped or swerved, why he had just mown Hoyle down. He wanted to know what had happened, even though that knowledge wouldn’t change anything. Hoyle’s death didn’t make any sense but, in Nightingale’s experience, few deaths did.

He booted up his laptop and logged on to Tracesmart, an online service that provided access to electoral rolls around the country. There was only one Barry O’Brien living in Hammersmith. He made a note of the address and called Jenny to tell her he’d be late in. ‘I’ve things to do at Gosling Manor,’ he lied. ‘I’ll be with you during the afternoon. If there’s anything important, I’ll be on the mobile.’ He ended the call, feeling suddenly guilty. He didn’t like lying to Jenny, but telling her what he was really doing would only worry her. Nightingale had always been much more comfortable asking questions than answering them.

He shaved, showered and put on a clean shirt and a dark blue suit that had just come back from the drycleaner’s. He made himself a cup of black coffee, smoked a Marlboro, then drove to Hammersmith.

O’Brien’s house was in a terraced street and a black cab was parked in front of it. Nightingale found a space for the MGB about fifty yards away. He climbed out and walked over to the cab. There was no damage to the front, no blood, not even a scratch – nothing to show that the vehicle had ended the life of Robbie Hoyle. Nightingale wasn’t surprised. A London cab weighed more than 1600 kilograms and flesh was no match for that amount of steel moving at speed.

A middle-aged housewife walked by with a white poodle on a lead. She was holding a screwed-up plastic bag and cajoling the animal to do its business. Nightingale flashed her a smile and she glared at him as if he was a child-molester.

A flight of half a dozen stone steps led up to the front door of O’Brien’s house. Nightingale pressed the bell and heard it buzz in the hallway. He went back to the pavement and looked up at the bedroom windows. The curtains were drawn. Nightingale wondered if O’Brien had worked through the night and was now sleeping. He rang the bell again. When there was no answer, he took out his mobile phone and dialled the number he’d been given by Directory Enquiries. He heard the phone ring inside the house. He let it continue for a full thirty seconds, then ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket.