Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘What I mean is, if you’re going to hell and you die within the protective pentagram, do you still go to hell?’

‘Yes, but you’d be going in under your own terms.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Nightingale.

‘I wouldn’t expect you to,’ said Wainwright.

‘You see, I can’t work out why my father, my genetic father, went to all the trouble of protecting himself with the pentagram and then he goes and kills himself.’

‘Because he wanted it to be his decision,’ said Wainwright. ‘He wanted to choose the time and place of his passing. That’s not unusual.’

‘And if my soul was sold, what are my options?’

‘Zero. But, like I said, if there’s no mark on you, your soul’s your own.’

Nightingale ran a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck. He could feel the tendons there, as taut as steel wires. ‘I need to talk to this Proserpine.’

‘No, you don’t, Jack. She’s a devil. She’d eat you for breakfast.’

A middle-aged man in a crisp white shirt with black-and-yellow epaulettes opened the cockpit door. ‘We’re about to fire up the engines, Mr Wainwright,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have to get our wheels off the ground within the next ten minutes or we’ll lose our slot.’

‘Ready when you are, Ed,’ said Wainwright. He smiled at Nightingale. ‘Looks like our time’s up, Jack,’ he said.

The pilot went back into the cockpit and closed the door behind him. Wainwright stood up and held out his hand. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

They shook. ‘Have a safe trip,’ said Nightingale.

‘You too, man,’ said Wainwright. ‘But remember, if there’s no mark there’s no deal and you have nothing to worry about.’

As Nightingale walked away from the plane towards the waiting Mercedes, he heard the stairs retract, the door thump shut and the engines start to whine. The chauffeur already had the door open for him. ‘Shall I put that in the boot, sir?’ asked the chauffeur, indicating the metal suitcase.

‘I think I’ll keep it with me,’ said Nightingale. He climbed into the back and put it on the seat next to him.

The bank manager rubbed his chin as he stared at the suitcase full of money. ‘Mr Nightingale, this is very, very unorthodox,’ he said.

‘Tell me about it,’ said Nightingale.

‘There are money-laundering regulations, customer-identification protocols, procedures.’

‘I understand that, Mr Collinson, but that’s how the money came to me and that’s how I’m giving it to you.’

‘But no one carries around two million euros in cash,’ said the bank manager, dropping into his high-backed executive chair. ‘My head office is going to be asking all sorts of questions. You’re not even a customer of the bank.’

‘But my father was, and I’m his sole heir. And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that I’m responsible for the mortgage on Gosling Manor.’

Collinson pursed his fleshy lips, like a toddler about to burst into tears. ‘Very irregular,’ he said. ‘We’re not even geared up for having this much cash on the premises.’

‘It’s perfectly legitimate,’ said Nightingale. ‘I sold some of the books in my father’s collection.’

‘For cash?’

‘For cash,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was as surprised as you are.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and took out two sheets of paper. He gave them to the bank manager. ‘There’s the receipt that the buyer gave me. And the invoice from the bookstore in Hamburg that sold the book to my father.’

Collinson scrutinised both pieces of paper. ‘A substantial profit.’

‘Especially when you consider how much the euro has risen in value,’ said Nightingale.

‘You do understand that if you lodge these funds with our branch, we’ll be duty-bound to inform the Inland Revenue?’ said Collinson.

‘I didn’t, but I do now.’

‘There will probably be a capital-gains tax liability, and you’ll have to fill out a form explaining where the money came from.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Nightingale.

‘So, tell me, what do you want to do with the money?’ said the bank manager, running the fingers of his right hand along the bundles.

‘I’d like to open an account with you, convert this to pounds and pay it into the account, then use that account to continue paying the mortgage my father took out. Does that make sense?’

Collinson nodded.

‘I’ll get my accountant to give you a call to arrange any paperwork.’

‘We’ll need a copy of your passport, two recent utility bills, and a reference from your current bank,’ said Collinson.

‘Easy peasy,’ said Nightingale.

‘Will you be planning to sell more of your father’s books, Mr Nightingale?’ asked the bank manager.

‘Possibly,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m going to draw up an inventory and see what there is.’

‘They must be very interesting volumes,’ said Collinson. ‘Perhaps you could show me some time.’

‘They’re an acquired taste, Mr Collinson,’ said Nightingale. ‘I wouldn’t have thought they’d be of much interest to you.’

Next door to the bank an optician was offering free eye tests and fifty per cent off all frames. A young woman in a white coat with long black hair tied back in a ponytail was standing behind the counter, showing a range of frames to a housewife with two small children. There was an eye-test chart behind her and Nightingale read the letters all the way down to the bottom line. He’d always had perfect vision. A buzzer sounded as he pushed open the door and went inside.

Nightingale was already at his desk when Jenny walked into the office. He had his feet on the desk, his keyboard on his lap, and was staring intently at his screen. ‘You’re in bright and early,’ she said, then noticed the bottle of whisky next to the overflowing ashtray. ‘Or did you not go home last night?’

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ said Nightingale. ‘You okay?’

‘I had new locks fitted to the doors and windows and Banhams are putting in a motion-sensor alarm system later this week.’

‘They won’t be back, Jenny. They only wanted the diary.’

‘I’d feel more secure.’ She took off her coat and hung it on the back of the door. Nightingale picked up the whisky and took a long swig. ‘What’s wrong, Jack?’

‘Why should anything be wrong?’

‘It’s half past eight in the morning and you’re drinking whisky.’

‘Do you believe in hell, Jenny?’

‘Of course not.’ She sat down opposite him and moved the whisky out of his reach.

‘Because?’

‘Because how can there be a place called hell? Where would it be? We’re mapping the universe and there’s nowhere that hell could be. It can’t be a planet or a star or a black hole.’

‘So you don’t believe in heaven either?’

‘As a place, of course not. Angels sitting on clouds playing harps. How ridiculous is that?’

‘So when we’re dead, we’re dead, is that it? Just nothingness? The great abyss?’

‘Life will go on, whether I’m here or not, so it’s not blackness. What’s wrong, Jack?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘I guess I want to know what happens when we die, and it’s the one question no one can answer. That’s the paradox, isn’t it? We all die, it’s the one thing we have common, yet no one knows what it really means.’

‘It depends on what you believe, Jack. Some people truly believe that when they die they go to heaven. Others believe they’ll be reborn, that our time here is just part of a process.’

‘Reincarnation?’

‘I guess. Atheists think there’s nothing. We’re born, we live, we die, it’s over.’