Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘You don’t think? Don’t you know?’

Tyler sighed. ‘You had to know him to understand what it was like. He had a way of, I don’t know, looking at you that made you either forget or change your mind about something. Like, I’d be really tired and I’d tell him and he’d say something to me and it was like I’d just done a line of coke. Or I’d say I couldn’t work on such and such a day because I had to do something and the next minute I’d forget what was so important and agree to drive him around.’

‘He hypnotised you – is that what you’re saying?’

‘Nah, I was never in a trance and he never did any wavy-hand stuff or swung a watch.’ He sat down on a bar stool. ‘It was weird, though. Sometimes he’d mumble something that didn’t sound like it was English. But then he’d smile and I’d forget about it.’ He put a hand to his forehead. ‘Even talking about it sounds stupid. Like I was imagining it. But I’ll tell you, Jack, I would have taken a bullet for Ainsley Gosling, or a knife, or stepped in front of a train.’

‘But have you never asked yourself why you felt that way? How he inspired that sort of loyalty?’

‘It was just his way,’ said Tyler.

‘Charisma,’ said Nightingale.

‘Yeah, charisma.’ Tyler put down his pint and potted the rest of his balls. He grinned and held out his hand. Nightingale sighed and gave him twenty pounds. ‘Double or nothing?’ enquired Tyler.

‘Yeah, why not?’ said Nightingale, and watched as Tyler set up the balls again. He’d asked for a Corona but the best Tyler could provide was Budweiser. ‘You were the one who found him, weren’t you?’

‘Yeah. One hell of a mess.’

‘He was alone in the house?’

Tyler nodded. ‘He’d given the Woodhouses the night off.’

‘The Woodhouses? That was the couple who took care of the house, right?’

‘Millie and Charlie. They were with him even longer than I was. He had a big staff up until a few years ago but he let them all go.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘He was running out of cash. He always paid me and he never seemed short of cash for books, but I think he lost a lot when the stock market crashed.’

‘How did you get into the house?’

‘I had a key. I went to the kitchen, like I always did, for a coffee with Millie but she wasn’t there. I waited until about ten and then I went up and found him.’

‘Was there a note?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘You calling me a liar?’

‘It’s just that you and he were close, Alfie. Suicides usually want to explain themselves – to say why they did what they did. If he was going to say anything to anybody, it would have been to you, right?’

Tyler sighed and straightened up. ‘There was a letter, but it didn’t explain anything.’

‘And you really didn’t leave an envelope for me on the mantelpiece in the main room?’

Tyler shuffled uncomfortably.

‘Alfie, you might as well tell me everything. It couldn’t have been anyone but you. You found the body, and the police didn’t see any envelope when they were there.’

Tyler nodded slowly. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘There was a letter for me and an envelope for you. In the letter Mr Gosling told me to wait until the police and everyone had gone, then leave your envelope on the mantelpiece and lock up.’

‘And what did you do with your letter?’

‘Burned it. That was what he told me to do.’

‘And what else did it say?’

‘Said I could keep the Bentley, for one. Apologised for the mess. Told me to call the cops. And there was some cash for the Woodhouses.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘No idea. They just went. I think they had a place in the Lake District.’ Tyler finished setting up the table and picked up his cue.

‘He was buying a lot of books over the year or so before he died, right?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Tell me about it,’ said Tyler. ‘He had me driving him all over the country and to and from the airport every week or so.’

‘What about a diary written by a guy called Sebastian Mitchell? Did you ever see that? Big leather-bound book, written in Latin, back to front. I think it was the last thing he read.’

‘Like I said, he didn’t show me his books. But I went to Mitchell’s house a few times.’

Nightingale’s jaw dropped. ‘You met him?

‘Never met him but drove to his house. Place up near Wivenhoe, in Essex. Big place, very heavy security.’

Nightingale drove up to a set of high, wrought-iron gates set into a ten-foot brick wall. He climbed out of the MGB, went up to a small brass speakerphone set into the gatepost on the left and pressed it. It buzzed, then there was static but no one spoke. Nightingale leaned closer to the grille. ‘Hello,’ he said. There was no reply, just static. There was a CCTV camera on a metal post on the other side of the wall, covering the gate. Nightingale grinned and held up his driving licence to it. ‘Jack Nightingale,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see Mr Mitchell.’ He had no way of knowing if anyone was watching him so he put it away and went back to the speakerphone. ‘Jack Nightingale,’ he repeated. ‘I’m here to see Mr Mitchell.’

The static stopped abruptly and a woman spoke, her voice curt and official. ‘Mr Mitchell doesn’t see visitors. Please remove yourself from outside our property. Thank you.’ The speakerphone went dead.

Nightingale pressed the button again and the static returned. ‘My name is Jack Nightingale and I want to see Mr Mitchell. Mr Sebastian Mitchell.’

‘Mr Mitchell does not receive visitors,’ said the woman.

‘Can you tell him it’s about the book he wrote? His diary.’

‘Mr Mitchell never sees visitors,’ said the woman. ‘If you don’t go away immediately, the police will be called.’

There was more static. Nightingale leaned towards the speakerphone. ‘Tell him my father was Ainsley Gosling.’ The static ended and there was only the sound of birdsong from the trees on the far side of the road. The lock buzzed and the gates swung open. He turned and looked up at the CCTV, threw it a mock salute, then climbed back into the MGB and drove through the gates. The drive curved to the right in front of a three-storey concrete and glass cube. A flight of white marble steps led up to a white double-height door that was already opening as he got out of the car. Two men in black suits, wearing impenetrable sunglasses, walked down the steps towards him.

Nightingale knew instinctively that they were going to pat him down so he smiled amiably and raised his arms. One of the men, burly with a shaved head, slowly and methodically squeezed his legs and arms, then worked his way down from his neck to his groin. He found Nightingale’s phone and examined it carefully before handing it back. ‘Photo ID,’ he said. He wasn’t English, Nightingale realised. Serbian, maybe, or Bosnian.

Nightingale gave the man his driving licence.

‘Business card.’ The man held out his other hand. Nightingale took out his wallet and gave him one.

The second man was walking slowly around the car, checking it inside and out. Nightingale smiled and nodded but was ignored.

The heavy with his ID went back up the steps to where a woman had emerged from the house. She was wearing a black suit, the skirt ending just above her knees, a crisp white shirt and black high heels. Her blonde hair was tied back with a black ribbon.

As the man gave the driving licence and business card to her, a gust lifted the back of his jacket and Nightingale caught a glimpse of a black automatic in a leather and nylon holster. It looked like a Glock. The woman studied the licence and card and then waved at Nightingale to come up the stairs. He held out his hand to shake hers but she just gave him his licence and card. ‘My name is Sylvia, Mr Nightingale. There are certain house rules that must be followed to the letter if you are to meet with Mr Mitchell.’