Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘Right,’ said Nightingale.

‘I did wake you, didn’t I? I’m so sorry, I’m an early riser and I was asked to call you first thing to see if you’d be interested.’

‘Interested in what?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not explaining this at all well, am I? I’ve sold two of your books for you, Mr Nightingale, at a very good price. The gentleman concerned is interested in another volume Mr Gosling has in his collection.’

‘Who is this mystery buyer?’

‘An American,’ she said, ‘from Texas. His name is Joshua Wainwright. Like your father, he’s a collector. And apparently he was at several auctions where your father outbid him. Now he wonders whether you’d be prepared to sell at least one of the volumes to him. For more than your father paid, obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ said Nightingale. ‘Which book is it?’

‘It’s called The Formicarius, and it’s a first edition. Apparently your father bought it from a dealer in Germany.’

‘I’ve seen the receipt,’ said Nightingale. ‘Sure, I’ll be happy to sell it to him.’

‘If you’re agreeable, he’ll fly over to meet you. He’ll pay you in cash.’

‘I’m certainly agreeable to that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Tell him to give me a call when he gets here.’

‘Mr Wainwright said that if you were prepared to sell he’d fly over this afternoon.’

‘Tell him I’ll have the book ready for him.’

‘And don’t forget my commission, Mr Nightingale.’

‘Heaven forbid.’

He put down the receiver and rolled onto his back. His alarm wasn’t due to go off for another fifteen minutes and he was just wondering whether he was tired enough to doze when the phone rang again. Nightingale sighed and reached for it, assuming that it was Mrs Steadman again. It was Jenny.

‘Jack…’ She sounded shaky as if she was close to tears.

‘Jenny, what’s wrong?’

‘Jack, I’m at home – I’ve been robbed. Can you come, please?’

‘Of course,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll be right there.’

‘They had guns, Jack. They said they’d kill me.’

Jenny lived in a three-bedroom mews house in Chelsea, just off the King’s Road. The street was quaintly cobbled and the house bedecked with window-boxes. Outside the front door two massive concrete urns contained six-foot conifers. Nightingale parked his MGB in front of the yellow garage door and climbed out. Even after the property crash, Jenny’s house must have been worth close to two million pounds. He had never asked her if it was hers or if she rented it, but either way he knew she couldn’t have afforded it on the salary he paid her.

He pressed the bell, and a few seconds later the door opened on a security chain. He caught a glimpse of unkempt hair and then she closed the door to unhook the chain. She was wearing a dark green Cambridge University sweatshirt and baggy cargo pants and her eyes were red and puffy. ‘What happened?’

She ushered him into the hallway, closed the door and bolted it. ‘I was robbed, Jack. Three men broke in and took the diary.’

‘Mitchell’s?’

‘Of course Mitchell’s diary? Do you think they’d break in to steal my bloody Filofax?’

‘Big men, black suits, sunglasses?’

Jenny nodded. ‘Do you know who they are?’

‘They’re Mitchell’s men, bodyguards, protectors – his house was full of them. Jenny, did they hurt you?’

She went through to the sitting room and dropped onto a flower-print sofa. ‘No, but they scared the life out of me.’

Nightingale sat down opposite her. ‘What happened?’

‘I was leaving for work,’ she said. ‘I opened the front door and they were there. They just pushed me inside, one put his hand over my mouth and brought me in here, while the other two looked for the diary – not that they needed to do much searching. It was in my bag.’

‘Did they say anything?’

‘Not while they were looking for the diary. But when they found it, one pointed a gun at my face and said that if I called the police they’d come back and shoot me.’

‘I’m sorry, baby.’

‘It wasn’t your fault, Jack,’ she said.

‘I should have figured that Mitchell would try to get it back. I should have warned you. He told me Gosling had stolen it from him.’ Jenny’s hands began to shake. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

Nightingale went to the kitchen, all stainless steel with state-of-the-art German appliances. He made the tea, stirred in three sugars and a splash of milk, and took it to her. She sipped it and winced. ‘I don’t take sugar,’ she said. ‘You know I don’t.’

‘It’s good for shock,’ he said, sitting down again.

‘I’m not in shock,’ she insisted.

‘You are – you just don’t know it,’ he said. ‘Do as you’re told and drink it.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘What do you think, Jack? Should I call the police?’

‘I’m not sure what they’d do, to be honest,’ said Nightingale. ‘There are no witnesses, no forensics, and they’ll be back in the Mitchell house, which is like a fortress. I doubt they’ll open the gates without a warrant.’

‘They pointed a gun at me, Jack.’

‘I know. You want me to have them shot? I know people.’

Jenny laughed uneasily. ‘You’re mad.’

‘Tell me about it.’ He stood up. ‘Leave it with me, Jenny. I haven’t finished with Mitchell yet.’

‘I was so scared,’ said Jenny. Tea slopped over the side of her cup into the saucer.

‘Are you okay to go to work or do you want to stay home? We don’t have much on, work-wise.’

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

‘I’ve got to pick up a book from Gosling Manor and take it out to the airport later today. There’s a buyer flying in from the States.’

‘You’re really okay if I don’t go into the office?’

‘Not a problem,’ said Nightingale.

‘I want to get a security company in,’ she said, ‘and have the locks changed.’

‘They won’t be back. They got what they wanted.’

‘I’d just feel safer – you know?’

‘I’m sorry, Jenny. It was my fault. I should never have given you the diary.’

‘You weren’t to know,’ said Jenny.

Nightingale leaned over and kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

‘A pay rise?’

‘I was thinking a bunch of flowers.’ He ruffled her hair and headed for the door. ‘Seriously, though, put all the bills through the office. The least I can do is to pay for your locks. And an alarm if you want it.’

‘Thanks, Jack. But we’re in the red as it is.’

‘Not for long, hopefully,’ he said, and winked. ‘Wish me luck.’

If you’d asked Jack Nightingale what he thought Joshua Wainwright would look like as he climbed the stairs to the hatch in the Gulfstream jet, he’d probably have frowned and said that he never prejudged people but, if pressed, he’d have hazarded a guess that the man would be old, wearing cowboy boots and a Stetson and smoking a cigar, probably with a bodyguard or two in attendance.

He was wrong on all counts, except for the cigar. Joshua Wainwright was smoking a foot-long Cuban that would have had to be rolled on an especially large thigh, and was wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap. He was sitting in a white leather armchair with his bare feet on a matching leather footstool and looked as if he was barely out of his twenties.

Wainwright grinned when he saw the surprise on Nightingale’s face. ‘I’m guessing you were expecting someone older,’ he said, his voice a lazy Texan drawl. ‘And maybe whiter. That happens a lot. Take a seat.’

‘Just don’t tell me you’re really two hundred years old,’ said Nightingale, placing his briefcase on the table next to him. ‘Or that you’ve a picture slowly going bad in your attic.’