Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (12 page)

23

N
ightingale parked the MGB in the street in front of his uncle’s house, a neat three-bedroom semi-detached in a tidy, predominantly middle-class area of Altrincham to the south of Manchester. It had taken him the best part of three hours to drive from London. He climbed out, stretched, and lit a cigarette. His aunt and uncle were both ex-smokers, had been for twenty years, and wouldn’t let anyone light up anywhere near them. His uncle’s black Renault Mégane was parked in the driveway. Nightingale locked his car and walked slowly down the path to the front door, knowing he had to extinguish the cigarette before he rang the bell. The garden was well tended, with two large rhododendron bushes at either side of a neatly mown lawn. There was also a small water feature with a twee stone wishing-well and a bearded gnome holding a fishing rod. The gnome had been there for as long as Nightingale could remember; as a child he’d always been a little scared of it, half convinced that it moved whenever he took his eyes off it. He flicked ash at it. ‘Are they biting?’ he asked. The gnome stared fixedly at the hook on the end of its line. ‘Maybe you should try somewhere else.’ He tossed his cigarette into a flowerbed, then went up to the front door and reached out to press the bell.

He heard a rustle behind him and his heart raced, his childhood fears flooding back. He spun around, half expecting to see the gnome behind him, but it was only Walter, his aunt’s Persian cat. The cat brushed itself against the back of Nightingale’s legs and miaowed. Nightingale bent down to rub it behind the ears. ‘Long time no see, Walter,’ he said. The cat arched its back and purred loudly.

Nightingale straightened and rang the bell. He heard it chime inside the house. The cat continued to purr and wind himself round Nightingale’s legs. ‘What’s wrong, Walter? You starved of affection?’ asked Nightingale. After thirty seconds he rang again, but no one came to the door. ‘Where are they, Walter?’ said Nightingale. ‘Are they in the back garden?’

Nightingale walked around the side of the house and opened a wooden gate that led to the rear, where his uncle had a vegetable patch and grew his prize-winning roses. As Nightingale closed the gate behind him, he noticed a red smudge on his hand. He held it up, frowning. It looked like blood, but there was no cut. He checked both hands, and then the latch on the gate, but there was only the one smear.

He walked down the path to the garden. ‘Uncle Tommy?’ he called.

There was no answer. He knocked on the kitchen door. ‘Auntie Linda, it’s me – Jack.’

Walter miaowed again. Nightingale knelt down and stroked the back of the cat’s neck. ‘What’s going on, Walter?’ he said. There was a glistening red smudge on the cat’s nose. Sudden panic gripped Nightingale and his heart began to pound. He looked at the kitchen door. Set into the bottom there was a cat flap, which Walter used to get into and out of the house. There were red smudges on it.

Nightingale stood up and banged on the door. ‘Auntie Linda! Uncle Tommy! Are you in there?’ He pressed his ear to the wood but heard nothing. He hit the door again, then moved to the kitchen window and stood on tiptoe to peer through it. Beyond the sink he could see a bare leg, a broken plate and a pool of blood. Nightingale hammered on the window. ‘Auntie Linda!’

He looked around, wondering to do, spotted his uncle’s shed and ran to it, throwing open the door and grabbing a spade. He dashed back to the house and used the spade to smash the window, then climbed inside. His aunt was on the kitchen floor, her head shattered, brains and blood congealing on the tile-patterned lino. Her mouth was wide open and her eyes stared glassily at the ceiling. Nightingale knew immediately that there was no point in checking for signs of life.

He walked carefully around the pool of blood. There was no sign of a murder weapon and the back door had been locked, which meant that the attacker had either left by the front entrance or was still in the house. There was a knife block by the fridge and Nightingale pulled out a large wood-handled blade. ‘Uncle Tommy, are you in the house?’ he shouted.

He went through to the sitting room. There was an unopened copy of the
News of the World
on the coffee-table, and an untouched cup of tea. Nightingale went over to the table and touched the cup. It was cold and there was a thick scum on the surface.

He moved slowly back into the hallway, listening intently. He started up the stairs, taking them one at time, craning to look up at the landing above. Halfway up he found an axe, the blade covered with blood. He didn’t touch it but stepped carefully over it. As he reached the top he heard a soft creak and froze, the knife out in front of him. He took another step.

Something was moving on the landing. Something just out of sight. He crept up, his mouth bone dry, his heart thudding. He stopped again when he heard another gentle creak. Then he saw something move. It was a foot – a naked foot – suspended in the air. Nightingale took another step and saw two feet, then pyjama bottoms, and as he reached the top he saw his uncle hanging from the trapdoor that led to the attic. There was a rope around his throat and, from the unnatural angle of the head, it was obvious that the neck had snapped. Nightingale realised that his uncle must have sat in the trapdoor and dropped. He was naked from the waist up and there were drops of blood across his chest. Nightingale could see no wounds on him so the blood could only have been his wife’s. He must have battered her to death in the kitchen, then come upstairs and killed himself.

The rope creaked as the body moved slightly. He was dead but the fluids within him were shifting as the organs settled. The pyjamas were wet at the groin and there was a pool of urine on the floor. Nightingale took out his mobile phone and dialled 999. As he waited for the operator to answer, he turned. The bathroom door was wide open and through it he saw the mirror above the sink. Scrawled across it in bloody capital letters were seven words: YOU ARE GOING TO HELL, JACK NIGHTINGALE.

24

J
enny was sitting at her desk, using a small mirror to read the handwritten diary, when Nightingale walked in. He opened the door to his office. ‘Coffee would be nice,’ he said. He flopped onto his chair and put his feet on the desk. A small spider had set up home in the corner by the window and there was a layer of dust on the blinds. ‘When’s the cleaner in next?’ he called.

‘She was here on Friday morning,’ Jenny replied, as she poured his coffee, ‘and she’ll be in again tomorrow.’

‘Then she’s doing a shit job,’ said Nightingale. ‘She’s Polish, right?’

‘Romanian,’ said Jenny. ‘I’ll talk to her.’

‘Tell her to give the blinds a wipe.’

‘I hear and obey,’ said Jenny, appearing at the door with a steaming mug. ‘Just like your women – hot and black.’

Nightingale frowned.

‘What?’

‘I was joking,’ she said, putting the mug on his desk and sitting down opposite him. ‘Trying to lighten the moment.’

‘But I’ve never had a black girlfriend,’ said Nightingale, reaching for the mug.

‘That’s what makes it funny. What’s wrong, Jack? You look like—’

‘Like I’ve seen a ghost?’

‘Well, yes, actually.’

Nightingale sipped his coffee. ‘My uncle killed himself yesterday – killed himself and murdered my aunt.’

Jenny’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’

‘My uncle Tommy. He hanged himself.’

‘Why?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘He didn’t leave a note. I spoke to him during the week and said I’d drive up to Altrincham for Sunday lunch so they were expecting me. He sounded fine then. But when I got there, they were dead.’

‘Jack, that’s terrible. That’s . . .’ She sat down. ‘I don’t . . . it doesn’t . . .’ She shook her head. ‘This is unreal.’

‘It’s real, all right,’ said Nightingale. ‘I spent yesterday talking to the Manchester cops.’

‘The cops?’

‘It was a murder-suicide, Jenny. The cops have to investigate, but it’s open and shut. My aunt’s blood was all over him and she’d scratched his face. There was no one else involved.’

‘But why? Why would he kill his wife?’

‘I’ve no idea. I’d told them I wanted to talk about my parents, whether I was adopted or not.’

‘And they were okay on the phone?’

‘They sounded a bit nervous, but they invited me for lunch.’

‘I can’t believe this,’ said Jenny.

‘I’m having trouble coming to terms with it myself,’ said Nightingale.

‘They weren’t having problems or anything?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Jack, you don’t think this is connected to Gosling, do you?’

‘It didn’t occur to me, Jenny.’ Actually, that was a lie because as soon as Nightingale had seen the bloody letters on Uncle Tommy’s bathroom mirror he had known that he was in some way connected to the death of his aunt and uncle. But he couldn’t figure out what that connection was. When he’d first seen the words scrawled in blood he’d thought he was dreaming. He’d stared at the message in horror, imagining that at any minute he’d be in Underwood’s office and the man would crash through the window and fall to his death. But it was no dream, he didn’t wake up, the words were real and his uncle and aunt were dead. Nightingale had no idea why he was hearing people telling him he was going to hell, and even less why his uncle would write it on the bathroom mirror before killing himself. But until he had worked out what was going on, he didn’t intend to worry Jenny.

‘Did you tell the police about Gosling?’ she asked.

‘I thought it would just make a complicated situation even more so.’ Nightingale swung his legs off his desk. ‘It was one hell of a weekend,’ he said. ‘I spent Friday night in the cells.’

‘You what?’

‘I was done for drink-driving on Friday night.’

‘Oh, Jack . . . You said you weren’t going to drive.’

‘And I wasn’t. Swear to God, when I left the wine bar I had no intention of getting behind the wheel. I don’t know what came over me.’

‘So now what happens?’

Nightingale took another sip of his coffee. ‘I didn’t hit anyone but I’m going to lose my licence so I’ll need to find somewhere to keep the MGB.’

‘I’ll look after it for you,’ said Jenny.

‘Have you got a garage?’

‘I can leave it with my parents. My dad can take it out every week, keep the battery charged. Those old cars seize up if you don’t drive them.’

Nightingale smiled. ‘We call them classics rather than old cars,’ he said. ‘Does he know what he’s doing?’

‘He’s got two old Jags and a frog-eyed Sprite. Sorry, classic Jags. And a Jensen-Healey.’

‘You never told me that.’

‘You never asked, Jack. My dad used to work for Jaguar. He was an accountant and until he retired he was on the board.’

Nightingale put down his mug. ‘You constantly amaze me,’ he said.

‘Mutual,’ said Jenny.

‘How goes the translation?’

Jenny shuddered. ‘It’s full of some very weird stuff.’

‘How weird?’

Jenny leaned forward. ‘Have you got a tattoo?’

‘A tattoo? What – “I love Mum”, that sort of thing?’

‘A pentagram. Either a tattoo or a mark that looks like a pentagram.’ She sat back in her chair. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous but, according to Mitchell’s diary, anyone whose soul belongs to the devil has a mark, a pentagram, hidden somewhere on their body.’

‘You’re right, it sounds ridiculous,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m thirty-two years old, and if I had a tattoo I’d know about it.’

‘So you’ve nothing to worry about, then,’ said Jenny. She started to get up but Nightingale waved her back into her chair.

‘Whoa, horsey,’ he said. ‘Are you saying that if I do have a mark I should worry?’

‘You said you haven’t.’

‘But if I had, do you think I’d have something to worry about?’

‘I think I’m reading the ramblings of a deeply disturbed mind. That of a sad bastard with too much time on his hands.’

Nightingale raised his mug in salute. ‘That’s my girl,’ he said. ‘You had me worried for a moment.’

‘Worried about what?’

‘That you were starting to take this nonsense seriously.’ He took another sip of coffee. ‘Do you still have that pal at the Department for Work and Pensions?’

‘Sure. Why?’

‘Can you get her to run a check and see if Sebastian Mitchell’s still alive and kicking?’

‘If he is, he’ll be in his eighties. Maybe older.’

‘Be nice to know if he’s still around. Or if he met a sticky end, too.’

25

N
ightingale unlocked the front door of Gosling Manor and flicked the light switch. The massive chandelier glowed with more than two dozen bulbs. He had paid the bill on Friday and the electricity company had promised to have the power reconnected over the weekend. ‘Excellent,’ he said. He switched off the light. It wasn’t yet noon and the hallway was flooded with natural light from a skylight in the double-height ceiling. He walked through to the main drawing room and flicked the light switches there to check that they were working, then went back into the hall and looked up at the CCTV camera that covered the main entrance. A small red light on the side glowed weakly.

He went back into the drawing room and saw, out of the window, something move by the trees, a shadow that slipped behind a massive oak. Nightingale stared at it, wondering what it was. It was too tall to have been a dog or a fox, too small for a man. It might have been a child, but what would a child be doing in the grounds? He lit a cigarette and continued to stare at the tree. The grounds of Gosling Manor would be a magnet for local kids, he realised. Lots of trees to climb, places to build dens, and with the house empty, there’d be no one to chase them away. If it had been in a city it would have been vandalised already, windows smashed and graffiti sprayed across the doors and walls. Even though country children were different from their inner-city counterparts, Nightingale knew it would be a matter of time before someone broke in. An empty house was just too tempting a target, even when it was in the middle of nowhere. He needed either a night watchman or a security company making regular visits. If squatters moved in, the house would be that much harder to sell. The grounds needed maintaining, too. The lawns were still immaculate but grass grew and it would need cutting before long. And someone would have to rake up all the dead leaves.

Nightingale sighed. It would cost him a small fortune to carry out even basic maintenance on the huge house, money he didn’t have. And there was bound to be a sizeable inheritance-tax bill. Even if he were to sell the house quickly, he reckoned he’d be lucky to see more than a few thousand pounds once he’d paid off the mortgage, the taxman and the estate agent. He blew smoke and briefly considered setting fire to the building and claiming on the insurance. Except there probably wasn’t any insurance. Gosling hadn’t insured his mortgage payments, so he almost certainly hadn’t insured the house against fire.

There was no further movement around the oak tree and Nightingale turned away from the window. He went back into the hall and pulled open the panel that led down into the basement. He flicked the switch at the top of the stairs and the fluorescent lights kicked into life. He heard a scratching sound upstairs and froze, his hand still on the switch. For a few seconds there was only the sound of his own breathing. Then he heard a miaow and more scratching. ‘Hey, cat, get down here and I’ll let you out!’ shouted Nightingale. His voice echoed in the hallway.

The scratching stopped. Nightingale had never been a great fan of cats. He didn’t like the way they stared at people, the disdainful way they looked down their noses as if there was no doubt in their minds that cats were the superior species. But if cats were so smart, they’d be able to open their own cans of food. ‘Or you can stay up there and starve – the choice is yours,’ he shouted. Starvation wasn’t an option, Nightingale knew, as there would almost certainly be a large rodent population calling Gosling Manor home. Cats, unlike humans, were natural survivors.

Nightingale went slowly down the stairs. The basement didn’t look quite so large now that the lights were on, but it was still bigger than most small-town libraries. The exhibits in the display cases didn’t look quite so eerie under the stark lights. For the first time Nightingale noticed the bare brick walls and the uneven tiled floor.

The six LCD screens at the far end of the basement were blank, but as Nightingale got closer to them he could see small green lights that showed they were switched on. He sat down in front of the stainless-steel console and pushed the button labelled ‘Main Entrance’ but nothing happened. Next he tried ‘Study’ but that didn’t work either. He frowned. Then he noticed six buttons at the top right of the console. He pressed them and, one by one, the screens flickered into life. The two in the middle showed full-screen views while the others were divided into four, giving a total of eighteen shots of the house and its grounds.

The two full screens showed an upstairs corridor and the master bedroom. Nightingale started with the ‘Study’ button, then worked his way methodically through all twenty-eight cameras. There was no sign of the cat. He noticed a cupboard to the left of the desk and opened it to find a computer with slots for six DVDs. He pressed ‘eject’ but all were empty. If recordings had been made of the CCTV feeds, they weren’t there now.

Nightingale returned to the view of the master bedroom and leaned back in the chair. He could just make out the rust-coloured stain where Gosling’s body had lain after he’d pulled the trigger. Had there been anyone in the basement when Gosling had killed himself? Probably not: he wouldn’t have wanted any witnesses. A shotgun in the mouth wasn’t a cry for help. He’d just wanted to end it all. He must have dismissed the staff before he did it.

Nightingale stared at the bed, the chair and the candles surrounding the circle, which had presumably offered some form of magical protection. Gosling must have believed he was safe if he stayed inside it, which implied that he would have had to remain there all the time. But there was no food in the room, and no way of getting to the bathroom without leaving the circle, so if Gosling had been inside it for any length of time he must have had someone in the house to help him, to bring him food and deal with his waste. He took out his wallet and flicked through it until he found the Neighbourhood Watch card given to him by the policeman he’d met the first time he’d come to the house. He tapped out the number on his mobile.

‘Sergeant Wilde? This is Jack Nightingale – I own Gosling Manor. You were around with your colleague earlier this week.’

‘You can call me Harry, Jack. You outranked me when you were in the job, so it’s only fair.’

‘Can you talk?’

‘I just got home and my wife’s burning my dinner as we speak so, yes, fire away. How can I help you?’

‘You said that Gosling’s driver let you into the house after he’d found the body.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Was there anyone else in the house?’

‘At the time he killed himself? No. He’d sent what staff there were home the night before.’

‘So there were people still working at the house? Even though the furniture had all gone?’

‘There was a skeleton staff, I think. An old woman who did the cooking and a bit of cleaning, and her husband tidied the garden. The driver doubled as butler.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got their phone numbers, have you?’

‘Why? Is there a problem?’

‘No, I just need someone to keep the place clean, I thought the old staff might be the best bet,’ lied Nightingale. ‘I’m not that handy with the old mop and brush, to be honest.’

‘You and me both.’ The policeman laughed. ‘Let me have a look through my old notes. Can I call you on this number?’

‘Day or night,’ said Nightingale, and ended the call.

He wandered past the bookshelves, running his fingers along the spines. He stopped at one titled
The Devil and His Works
and pulled it out. It was a large leather-bound volume by Sir Nicholas Weatherby, published in 1924. Nightingale wondered what a knight was doing writing a book about the devil. He flicked to the index. There were four references to ‘summoning the devil’. The first mentioned it in passing, the second and third were biblical quotes about Satan, but the fourth took up half a dozen pages in the final chapter. Nightingale carried the book to Gosling’s desk and sat down to read.

Sir Nicholas began with a stern warning about the dangers of any sort of interaction with Satanic forces. Many who tried ended up dead or deranged, and only highly experienced Satanists should ever attempt to make contact with the devil or his demons. Nightingale laughed at the author’s flowery language – his style seemed more suited to a Barbara Cartland romance than a serious treatise on the dark arts.

In the next paragraph Sir Nicholas detailed a spell that he said guaranteed an appearance by Satan himself. ‘It is,’ said Sir Nicholas, ‘only to be used by a level-nine Satanist with the protection of a magic circle fortified by holy water blessed by the Pontiff.’

Nightingale couldn’t see how repeating a few words, none of which made any apparent sense, could achieve anything, let alone summon the devil. He stood up and, in a loud voice, slowly recited the first sentence. ‘
Bagabi laca bachabe Lamc cahi achababe Karrelyos
,’ he said. He stopped and listened but all was still. He smiled to himself. What had he expected? The stench of brimstone? A flash of lightning? It was nonsense. ‘
Lamac lamec Bachalyas
,’ he continued. He paused again. Nothing had changed. It hadn’t got colder or hotter, lighter or darker. There was no sign that the words were having any effect at all. His heart was racing and his mouth had dried even though he knew it was a charade. He kept his finger on the page so that he wouldn’t lose his place, and continued: ‘
Cabahagy sabalyos Baryolas Lagoz atha cabyolas Samahac et famyolas Harrahya
.’

When he reached the end he put down the book and stood up. ‘Is anybody there?’ he said. His voice echoed around the basement. ‘Anybody?’ He grinned. ‘I thought not. The whole thing’s bollocks.’ He held the book above his head. ‘If it isn’t bollocks, and if there really is a devil, then strike me down now – do your worst. Come on you bastard! Do your worst!’

He caught sight of himself in an ornate gilt mirror and realised how ridiculous he was being to even entertain the idea that a few mumbled words would summon a demon from hell. He winked at his reflection. ‘Only joking,’ he said.

He turned away and walked down to the bank of surveillance monitors. Something moved on one of the small screens. A car at the entrance to the estate. Nightingale leaned over the console and pressed the button to bring up the picture on one of the big screens. He doubted that the devil would turn up in a Ford Mondeo. He watched Robbie Hoyle climb out of his car and walk over to the speakerphone. A handset on the left of the console buzzed and Nightingale picked it up. ‘Hi, Robbie,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

‘How did you know it was me?’ said Hoyle.

‘Smile, you’re on
Candid Camera
.’

Hoyle looked around until he spotted the camera and waved. ‘Are you going to let me in or what?’

‘You’re not trying to sell me something?’

‘No.’

‘And you’re not a Mormon or a Jehovah’s Witness?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘You’re not the devil, are you?’

‘What?’

‘The devil. Can you prove that you really are Robbie Hoyle and you’re not the devil in disguise?’

‘Don’t be a prick, Jack. Jenny told me you were here and said we should talk.’

‘I’ll take that as a no.’

Nightingale couldn’t see a button that operated the gates. He took the handset away from his head. There was a single button below the mouthpiece and he pushed it. On the screen the gates began to open. ‘Thank you so much,’ said Hoyle, and walked back to the car.

Hoyle was still just halfway down the drive when Nightingale opened the front door. He parked in front of the house next to the MGB and climbed out. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘What did the lovely Miss McLean tell you?’

‘That your uncle killed his wife then topped himself.’

‘That’s pretty much it.’

‘Bloody hell, Jack. What happened?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. I spoke to them on the phone and they were okay. When I drove up on Sunday she was dead in the kitchen and he was hanging from the attic trapdoor.’

Hoyle walked into the hall. ‘Jack, you look like shit.’

‘Thanks.’ Nightingale shut the door behind them. ‘There was something weird, Robbie. Something I didn’t tell Jenny.’ Nightingale sighed. ‘My uncle wrote a message on the bathroom mirror. In blood.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ He took a deep breath. ‘He wrote that I’d be going to hell.’

‘You specifically?’

‘“You are going to hell, Jack Nightingale.”’

‘In blood?’

‘In blood,’ repeated Nightingale. ‘In my aunt’s blood.’

‘He wrote that in blood and then hanged himself?’

Nightingale nodded.

‘That’s sick.’

‘The whole thing is sick.’

‘Why would he write that?’

‘I don’t know, Robbie. But . . .’

‘But what?’

Nightingale had been about to tell his friend about the dreams he’d been having and that the message written in blood had been Simon Underwood’s last words before he went through his office window, but he knew how crazy that would sound so he bit his tongue. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

‘And what did the police say about it?’

‘They didn’t see it. I cleaned the mirror before they got there.’

‘Bloody hell, Jack. Are you mad? Tampering with evidence in a murder case? They’ll throw away the key.’

‘Only if they find out. And you’re the only person I’ve told. No one else knows.’

‘Even so. You can’t do that. It’s evidence.’

‘He killed her, Robbie, there’s no doubt about it. The axe was on the stairs and there was blood spatter all over his chest. He was a big man so I don’t see that anyone else could have hanged him. The message on the mirror would have muddied the waters.’ He jerked a thumb at the entrance to the basement. ‘Come on.’ He headed for the basement and Hoyle followed.

They reached the bottom of the stairs where Hoyle stood with his hands on his hips. ‘It’s a lot less intimidating with the lights on, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, and the CCTV’s running, too, so you can check out every room without leaving your seat. You still haven’t said why you’re here, Robbie.’

‘Don’t get paranoid, mate. Jenny said you were coming out here so I said I’d swing by and see what you were up to. Check that you were all right. Oh, and the DNA results came back,’ said Hoyle. ‘Ainsley Gosling is definitely your father.’