Stephen Leather - Nightfall

Nightingale fished his Parker out of his pocket, along with a receipt from his local Tesco. ‘Yup,’ he said.

‘His name’s Alfie Tyler.’ Wilde gave him an address and mobile-phone number and Nightingale scribbled them down.

‘I shouldn’t be talking out of school, but Alfie was a bit of a lad back in the day,’ said Wilde. ‘He used to work as a debt-collector for one of the north London mobs and did four years for GBH.’

Nightingale thanked him and put the phone away. ‘Bloody hell, Robbie, I need a real drink,’ he said. He stood up and poured the last of the wine over the grave. ‘Red wine always gives me a rotten hangover,’ he said, and tossed the empty bottle towards the conifers.

Alfie Tyler’s home wasn’t what Nightingale had expected. It was a six-bedroom mock Tudor house with tall chimneys on the outskirts of Bromley, with a double garage and a rock-lined pool in the front garden. A gleaming black Bentley was parked in front of the garage. Nightingale had checked the electoral roll and there was no Mrs Tyler. From a cursory look at the house Nightingale was fairly sure that no little Tylers were in residence. He’d driven down on Sunday morning, assuming it would be the best time to catch him at home.

Nightingale dropped the cigarette he’d been smoking onto the pavement and stamped on it. He’d phoned the land line and knew that Tyler was in. Unlike Gosling Manor, there didn’t appear to be any CCTV cameras. The large black wrought-iron gates weren’t locked so he pushed them open and walked up the driveway to the front door. It was painted black with a large brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head in the centre. A brass bell-push was set in the brickwork to the right.

Nightingale pressed it and a musical chime kicked into life. It sounded as if it might once have been classical. Then Nightingale heard footsteps on a wooden floor, and the door opened. ‘Who is it?’ growled the man, in a south London accent.

‘Alfie Tyler?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Who wants to know?’ asked Tyler, pulling the door wide. He was a big man, at least three inches taller than Nightingale, and Nightingale was a little over six feet. He had big forearms that strained at the sleeves of his polo shirt, and a trim but solid waist. He was sporting a gold Rolex on his left wrist, a thick gold chain on the right, and a full sovereign ring on the second finger of his right hand. As he stood on the threshold of his two-million-pound house with his arms folded across his barrel chest, Nightingale caught a whiff of very expensive aftershave.

‘Jack Nightingale,’ he said, slowly and carefully, watching for any reaction. There was none, no sign that Tyler had ever heard of him.

Tyler glared at him down his twice-broken nose. ‘Are you a cop?’ he asked.

‘No, not any more,’ said Nightingale.

‘Then get the hell off my property before I throw you off,’ said Tyler. His greying hair, with the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, suggested he was in his fifties but his body was more in keeping with that of a thirty-something boxer and Nightingale was in no doubt that he was more than capable of carrying out his threat.

Tyler started to shut the door but Nightingale put his foot over the threshold. ‘I just need a chat with you, Alfie,’ he said. He took out his wallet and gave him one of his business cards.

Tyler held it between his thumb and forefinger and scowled as he read it. ‘A private dick?’ he said. ‘I’m going to count to five, and if you haven’t got the hell off my property I’m going to tear you a new arsehole,’ he said, and tossed the card over Nightingale’s shoulder.

‘I’ll take my car with me, shall I?’

Deep frowns furrowed Tyler’s forehead. ‘What?’

Nightingale gestured at the Bentley. ‘That’s my motor,’ he said.

Tyler put a bear-like paw on his shoulder and squeezed, digging his thumb into the pressure point near the socket. ‘You’re starting to piss me off, private dickhead.’

‘I’m the sole beneficiary of Ainsley Gosling’s estate,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve seen the will, Alfie, and there’s no mention of you or the Bentley. So, if I go along to the cops, the car will be back in my garage and you’ll be back behind bars. Prisons are a lot more crowded than they were when you were last there, and I’m told the food’s worse.’

Tyler squinted at Nightingale. ‘How did you know I’d been in prison?’

‘I don’t care about your criminal record, I don’t care about whose legs you did or didn’t break, I just want to know about Ainsley Gosling.’

‘Mr Gosling said the car was mine after he’d gone.’

‘He came back from the grave to tell you that, did he?’ said Nightingale.

Tyler frowned. ‘What?’ He released his grip on Nightingale’s shoulder.

‘When did he tell you the car was yours?’

‘All the time. He knew how much I liked it, and he said I could have it. After… you know.’

‘So he told you he was going to top himself, did he?’

‘What? No, he bloody well didn’t. What are you trying to do here? You trying to say I had something to do with him killing himself? That’s bollocks.’ He put his fists on his hips and glowered at Nightingale.

Nightingale lit a cigarette. He saw Tyler’s nostrils flare and offered him the packet.

‘I’m trying to give up,’ said Tyler.

‘One won’t hurt,’ said Nightingale. Tyler shrugged and helped himself. Nightingale lit it for him. ‘Okay, here’s the thing, Alfie. I’m not going to have much use for a car over the next year or two, and, anyway, I’m a fan of convertibles. I like the feel of the wind in my hair.’

‘What?’

‘What I’m saying is, I’m more than happy to let you keep the Bentley, free, gratis, whatever, but in return I want you to tell me what Gosling was up to in the weeks before his death.’

Tyler’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s the catch?’

‘No catch, Alfie. I’ll even sign a piece of paper here and now saying it’s yours.’

Tyler’s brow furrowed again. ‘Give me another of them cards, yeah?’

‘Only if you promise not to throw it away,’ said Nightingale.

‘What?’

‘You say “what” a lot – you know that?’ Nightingale gave him another business card.

Tyler pursed his lips as he read the card. ‘Why did Mr Gosling make you his heir?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Give me the short version.’

‘I’m his son.’

‘Mr Gosling never told me he had a kid.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m the family secret,’ said Nightingale. ‘But Gosling Manor’s mine now. And so’s the Bentley. So, are you and I going to have a chat or what?’

Tyler took a long drag on his cigarette and nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘It’s going to take a while,’ said Nightingale. ‘Why don’t you ask me in and we can talk over a drink? Or two.’

Tyler sighted down his cue, smacked the white ball against the number five and grinned as it shot into a corner pocket. ‘That’s another tenner you owe me,’ he said, holding out his hand.

Nightingale took out his wallet and gave him a ten-pound note. ‘That’s the sign of a misspent youth,’ he said.

Tyler had built a bar in his basement, complete with a full range of optics, draught-beer pumps, a pool table, a jukebox and half a dozen fruit machines. On one wall there were dozens of framed photographs of a younger Tyler with well-known villains, movie stars and even a few members of the Metropolitan Police. Nightingale recognised two senior officers from the Flying Squad, both of whom had left the force on medical grounds and now lived in palatial villas in Spain. Most of the villains had either retired or died, but as far as Nightingale could recall, none had served time behind bars.