Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (4 page)

4

N
ightingale cursed as he squinted at his phone’s GPS display. The autumn sun was glinting off the screen and he couldn’t make out which way he was supposed to go. He peered through the windscreen and saw a signpost ahead. He braked. It said, ‘Hamdale 5’, and pointed to the left.

He slid the phone into his pocket and followed the sign. Hamdale was a tiny village, a cluster of houses around a thatched pub and a row of half a dozen shops. The solicitor’s office was wedged between a cake shop and a post office. There were double yellow lines along both sides of the road so Nightingale did a U-turn and left the MGB in the pub’s car park.

When he pushed open the door, a bell dinged and a grey-haired secretary looked up from an electric typewriter. She peered at him over gold-framed spectacles. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

‘Jack Nightingale.’ He looked at the piece of paper Jenny had given him. ‘I’m here to see a Mr Turtledove.’

‘Ah, he’s expecting you,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

She placed both hands on her desk and grunted as she pushed herself up, but a door to the inner office opened and she sank down again into her chair. ‘I was just going to show Mr Nightingale in,’ she said.

The man who had appeared was in his sixties, almost bald with heavy jowls and watery eyes. He was wearing a heavy tweed suit and leaning on a wooden walking-stick. He was a good head shorter than Nightingale and he smiled, showing yellowing teeth, as he held out his hand. Nightingale shook it gently, afraid he might break the bones, but Turtledove’s grip was deceptively strong. ‘Come in, please,’ he said.

The office was little more than a box with a small window overlooking a back yard. The room was lined from floor to ceiling with legal books and there was a damp, dusty smell that reminded Nightingale of the shed he’d used for a den when he was a kid. There were two chairs in front of the desk, both buried under piles of dusty files, all tied up with red ribbon. ‘Please put them on the floor,’ said the solicitor, as he limped around his desk and sat down in a high-backed leather chair. He placed his stick against the window-sill behind him, then turned sombrely to Nightingale. ‘First let me say how sorry I am for your loss,’ he said.

Nightingale moved the files as instructed and sat down. ‘My loss?’ he said.

‘Your father.’

‘My father?’ Nightingale had no idea what he was talking about. He took out his wallet and gave Turtledove one of his business cards. ‘I’m Jack Nightingale. I’m here about a job.’

Turtledove frowned, looked around for his spectacles, then realised they were perched on top of his head. He pushed them down and read the card, then smiled amiably at Nightingale. ‘There’s no job, Mr Nightingale. I’m sorry about the confusion. I’m the executor of your late father’s will.’

Nightingale raised his eyebrows. Now he was even more confused. ‘My parents’ estate was finalised more than a decade ago.’

Turtledove tutted. He rifled through a stack of files on his desk and pulled one out. ‘Your father passed away three weeks ago,’ he said.

‘My parents died in a car crash a couple of days after my nineteenth birthday,’ said Nightingale. It had been a senseless accident. They had stopped at a red traffic-light and a truck had ploughed into the back of them. The car was crushed and burst into flames and, according to the young constable who had broken the news to Nightingale, they had died instantly. Over the years, he’d grasped that the officer had said that to make the news more bearable. In all probability they had died in the flames, screaming in agony. Policemen had to lie – or at least bend the truth – to make bad news less painful. He knew from experience that people rarely died instantly in accidents. There was, more often than not, a lot of pain and blood and screaming involved.

‘Your adoptive parents,’ said Turtledove, nodding sagely. ‘Bill and Irene Nightingale.’

‘I wasn’t adopted,’ said Nightingale. ‘They were my parents – their names are on my birth certificate. And they never said I was adopted.’

‘That may well be, but they were not your biological parents.’ He opened the file and slid out a sheet of paper, which he passed across the desk. ‘These are your details, aren’t they? Correct date of birth, national insurance number, schools attended, your university?’

Nightingale scanned the sheet. ‘That’s me,’ he said.

‘Then your father was Ainsley Gosling, and it has fallen to me to administer his last will and testament.’ He smiled. ‘It’s just occurred to me that I’m a Turtledove, you’re a Nightingale and your father was a Gosling. What a coincidence.’

‘Isn’t it?’ said Nightingale. ‘But I’ve never heard of this Ainsley Gosling. And I’m damn sure I wasn’t adopted.’

‘You were adopted at birth, which is why I assume your adoptive parents’ names went down on the certificate. It would never happen these days, of course.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Nightingale.

Turtledove’s lips tightened. ‘There’s no need for profanity, Mr Nightingale. I understand that this has come as a shock to you, but I am only the messenger. I was never given to understand you were unaware that Mr Gosling was your biological father.’

‘I apologise,’ said Nightingale. ‘If he’s my father, then who is my mother?’

‘I’m not privy to that information, I’m afraid.’

Nightingale fished out his packet of Marlboro. ‘Can I smoke?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Turtledove. ‘It’s against the law, you know, to smoke in a place of employment.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Nightingale. He put away the cigarettes. ‘How did he die, this Gosling?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Turtledove. ‘The case came to me from another lawyer, a firm in the City. I was told that Mr Gosling had passed away and that I was to act as executor to the will.’

‘That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?’

‘Very,’ said Turtledove. ‘I had no dealings with Mr Gosling, and I never met the man. I was merely sent his last will and testament and your details and told to contact you as his sole heir and beneficiary.’

‘But usually wouldn’t the solicitor who drew up the will also administer it?’

‘Of course,’ said Turtledove. ‘But I suppose my being local meant it would be easier for me to deal with the house. But, as you say, it is unusual.’

‘House? What house?’

Turtledove took the will out of the file and gave it to Nightingale. ‘There isn’t much in the way of money, I’m afraid, but there is a substantial property, a country house, by the name of Gosling Manor. It’s about six miles outside Hamdale.’ He opened a drawer and gave Nightingale a key-ring with two keys on it. ‘I’ve some paperwork for you to sign and then it’s all yours. I’ve a map here with the house marked on it.’

‘Burglar-alarm code?’

The solicitor shook his head. ‘I assume there isn’t one.’

Nightingale put the key and the map into his coat pocket. ‘You said there was cash?’

‘A few hundred pounds,’ said Turtledove. ‘We’ll have to get the house valued in case there are inheritance tax issues.’

‘You mean I’ll have to pay for it?’

‘It depends on its value. But once the tax liability has been assessed, yes, you will most certainly have to pay it. Death and taxes are the only two certainties in life, as Mark Twain once said. Or was it Benjamin Franklin?’ He put a hand to his forehead. ‘My memory just isn’t what it was.’

‘You don’t know what the house is worth?’

The solicitor looked over the rims of his glasses at Nightingale. ‘I’m just the middle man, I haven’t seen the house. I was just told that it’s substantial.’

‘Mr Turtledove, this is all very unusual, isn’t it?’

‘Mr Nightingale,’ said the solicitor, ‘I’ve never had a case like it.’

5

N
ightingale drove slowly down the narrow country road. The sky had darkened while he had been in the solicitor’s office, and it was starting to rain. He switched on the wipers, which swished back and forth leaving greasy streaks on the glass. He glanced down at the map Turtledove had given him. When he looked up he saw a tractor pulling out in front of him and jammed on the brakes. The tyres couldn’t grip the wet road and the car slid to the right. Nightingale took his foot off the brake pedal, then pumped it and brought the skid under control, managing to stop just inches from the back of the tractor. The driver was wearing headphones, his head bobbing up and down in time to whatever music he was listening to, totally oblivious to how close he’d come to killing Nightingale. As Nightingale sat with his hands on the steering-wheel, heart pounding, the tractor roared off, leaving a plume of black smoke behind it. His mind hadn’t been on the road, he realised. He’d been too busy thinking about his meeting with the solicitor.

It didn’t make sense. Nightingale had never suspected that Bill and Irene Nightingale weren’t his real parents. Even the phrase ‘real parents’ sounded wrong. Of course they were his real parents. In every childhood memory he had, they were there – his mum teaching him the alphabet, his father helping him ride his bike for the first time, clapping as he blew out birthday candles, the pride on their faces when he’d told them he’d been accepted by King’s College, London. There had been tears in his father’s eyes when he’d told Nightingale that he was the first member of the family ever to go to university. Nightingale was sure that if he really had been adopted, his parents would have said something.

Nightingale took deep breaths to steady himself, then put the car into first gear and headed off. To the right there was a field that had been recently ploughed, to the left a six-foot-high stone wall. Ahead, he saw a break in it and a large circular metal mirror attached to a tree. He slowed the car. He saw metal gates and a sign: Gosling Manor. He pulled up alongside the gates and climbed out of the MGB. On the other side of them a narrow paved road curved to the right through thick woodland, mainly deciduous trees that had lost most of their leaves, their bare branches outlined like skeletons against the grey November sky. A thick chain linked the gates, with a brass padlock. Nightingale took out the keys Turtledove had given him. One fitted the padlock. He unravelled the chain, pushed open the gates and got back into his car.

He drove slowly as the road curved to the right, then to the left. When the trees thinned he saw the house and brought the car to a halt. It was a stunning mansion, the sort of grand house you’d see on the cover of
Country Life
magazine or on a box of chocolates you’d give to an elderly relative at Christmas. The main part of the house was built of sandstone with upper façades of weathered bricks. It was two-storeys high, topped with a steepled tiled roof that was almost the same colour as the bricks, and four towering chimney stacks, which gave it the impression of an ocean-going liner. Vibrant green ivy had been trained to climb the walls, reaching from the ground to the roof, the main vines as thick as a man’s wrist. The entrance, too, was shrouded in ivy, a massive oak door with ornate black hinges. The window-frames were painted white, and to the left of the main building there was a brick garage with four doors, also painted white, and a matching tiled roof. To the left of the house, a magnificent conservatory and, beyond it, another wing seemed to have been added as an afterthought. The house appeared somehow to have grown out of the ground rather than having being built, as if it had pushed itself out of the earth as a living, breathing entity.

Nightingale drove slowly towards it. The paved road merged into a parking area large enough for several dozen vehicles, now littered with dead leaves, and in the middle stood a massive stone fountain, whose centrepiece was a weathered stone mermaid surrounded by dolphins and fish. There was no water in it. He parked the MGB and climbed out. He looked back down the road that disappeared into the woodland. There was no sign of the main road, no sound other than birdsong and the occasional bark of a far-off dog. He turned back to the house. ‘And it’s mine, all mine,’ he muttered to himself. When Turtledove had given him the keys Nightingale had assumed there had been some mistake, but as he stood looking at the grand house he realised such mistakes didn’t happen – people weren’t accidentally handed multimillion-pound mansions. Checks would have been carried out, assurances given, and the only way that the house could be his was if Ainsley Gosling really had been his father.

The thought that his parents had lied to him so completely made his head spin. If he really had been adopted, they couldn’t have kept the secret to themselves, surely. Other members of the family must have known – babies didn’t just appear from nowhere. He took out his mobile phone, scrolled through his address book and called his uncle Tommy. He hadn’t spoken to him since the previous Christmas when he’d driven up to Altrincham to spend the day with him and his aunt.

His aunt answered the phone. ‘Auntie Linda? It’s Jack.’

There was a moment’s hesitation as if she wasn’t sure who Jack was, then she almost yelped: ‘Jack!’

‘Hi, how’s things?’

‘Jack, it’s so good to hear from you. Is everything okay?’

‘Everything’s fine. And Uncle Tommy, how is he?’ He looked around as he talked, and frowned when he saw a CCTV camera half hidden in the ivy over the front door.

‘He’s taken the dog out for a walk. He’ll be so sorry that he missed you. How’s work? Are you married yet?’

‘No, I’m not married yet.’ Jack laughed. ‘Look, I know this is a strange thing to ask out of the blue, but do you by any chance know if I was adopted?’ He spotted another CCTV camera on the side of one of the chimneys, and a third atop the conservatory. There was a long silence and Nightingale thought for a moment he’d lost the connection. ‘Aunty Linda, did you hear me?’

‘What a question, Jack. We don’t hear from you for almost a year and you ask a question like that.’

‘I know, I’m sorry, but something very strange has happened. You’d know, wouldn’t you? You’d know if I was adopted?’

‘Jack, I can’t . . .’

‘You can’t what, Aunty Linda?’

There was another long silence.

‘Aunty Linda?’

‘Jack, this is really something you’d have to talk to your uncle about.’

‘Why can’t you tell me?’

‘Because Uncle Tommy was your father’s brother – he’s blood. I’m just Tommy’s wife. You have to talk to him.’

‘Aunty Linda?’

‘I have to go, Jack. I’ll get your uncle to call you. Goodbye now.’ The line went dead.

Nightingale put away the phone. She’d sounded nervous, scared even, and he’d never known his aunt to be scared of anything before. He stood back and scrutinised the front of the house. He spotted another three CCTV cameras. He took out the keys Turtledove had given him and walked up to the door. There were two locks, which opened with the same key. The door creaked as he pushed it open. He stepped into a hallway with wood-panelled walls and a marble floor, dominated by a massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He looked around for a burglar-alarm console but couldn’t see one and there was no beeping to suggest that a system was working. There was no furniture and no pictures or mirrors on the wall. The house had been cleared but he had no way of knowing if professional burglars or a removal firm had taken everything away. There was a light switch by the door but nothing happened when Nightingale flicked it. He walked across the hallway, his black leather shoes squeaking on the marble, and tried another switch but that didn’t work either.

Three oak doors led off the hallway. Nightingale pushed one open and stepped into a room the size of a basketball court with a vaulted ceiling and a massive white marble fireplace. The room was also devoid of furniture and the carpets had been taken up to reveal oak floorboards. Patches of underlay were stuck to them, like flaking skin, and around the edge, close to the skirting-board, he noted the metal tacks that had been used to keep the carpet in place. Whoever had lifted the carpets had simply ripped them up.

Along one wall a line of windows looked over ornamental gardens with bushes that had been trained into the shapes of exotic animals. Nightingale saw a giraffe, an elephant and a line of horses, and beyond them what looked like a hedge maze. The curtains had been removed but the brass rods from which they had hung were still in place. Nightingale frowned when he saw a small CCTV camera in one corner of the room, aimed at the windows. He could understand the need for security on the exterior of the building but having them inside seemed like overkill.

He saw something on the mantelpiece and walked over to it, the floorboards creaking underfoot. It was an envelope, with his name printed on it in slightly uneven typing. As he reached for it he heard a bang upstairs and flinched. He listened intently but heard nothing. He picked up the envelope. Something shifted inside it. He was about to open it when he heard another noise from the upper floor, this time a scratching sound that lasted a second or two. He put the envelope into his jacket pocket and walked on tiptoe to the door. He listened, but heard nothing.

The staircase that curved upwards was marble and he made no sound as he crept up it. He put his hand on the wooden banister as he craned his neck to look around the curve. The wall to the left was panelled and there were brass picture hooks from which large paintings had once hung.

The stairway opened onto a landing that ran the length of the building. There were small chandeliers hanging every twelve feet or so, miniature replicas of the one in the downstairs hallway. To the left the landing would be above the large room he had been into so that was where he headed, still on tiptoe. There were CCTV cameras at either end and doors to left and right. He eased open the first on the left. The room was empty and, as in the room downstairs, the curtains had been removed. He closed the door quietly and opened the one opposite. That room, too, was empty.

He pulled the door closed and moved silently down the corridor. He listened carefully at the next door before he put his hand on the brass handle and turned it. Inside this room there was furniture: a large four-poster bed and a green leather winged armchair. Dark green curtains were tied back with gold ropes. The bed was made, and didn’t appear to have been slept in, and the bathroom was spotless.

He checked another nine bedrooms, all of which were empty, then went back downstairs. There was a large dining room, a study, another reception room, a huge kitchen, from which all the appliances had been removed, and a walk-in larder with bare shelves. Even the conservatory had been stripped. Nightingale looked out across a sweeping lawn to a small lake and a stable beside a large paddock. He shivered. There were cast-iron radiators dotted around the house but the heating system wasn’t working.

He tried opening the conservatory door but it was locked and he could see no key for it. He walked slowly back through the kitchen and into the main hallway. He heard a soft scratching upstairs. ‘If you want to get out before I lock up, now’s the time,’ he called. The scratching stopped immediately. ‘Stupid cat,’ Nightingale muttered, under his breath. He pulled open the front door and gasped when he saw two men standing there. He took a step back as they came towards him.

They were wearing uniforms, he realised, police uniforms, and the older man was a sergeant. The younger of the two grabbed his arm. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. Nightingale was too surprised to speak and he just shook his head. The policeman tightened his grip. ‘Right. Come on, in the car.’

‘It’s my house,’ said Nightingale.

The policeman let go of him, He was in his early twenties, skinny, with a rash of acne across his forehead. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Jack Nightingale,’ he said. ‘Look, I used to be in the job, and now I’m a private investigator.’

‘Let’s see your ID, then.’

Nightingale took out his wallet, showed them his licence and gave them one of his business cards. He patted his chest and sighed. ‘You scared the shit out of me,’ he said.

‘The house has been locked up since old man Gosling died,’ said the sergeant. He had grey hair and broken veins across his cheeks. An old scar under his chin looked as if it had been caused by a broken bottle. ‘We were told the house was going up for auction.’

‘He left it to me,’ said Nightingale. ‘A solicitor in Hamdale’s handling probate or whatever they call it. I’m the sole heir.’

‘Are you a relative?’

‘Apparently,’ said Nightingale. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how did you know I was here? The power’s off so I assume the alarm’s not working.’

‘There’s no alarm link to our station. Gosling had his own security arrangements. We saw the gate open as we were driving past, that’s all. What’s the name of the solicitor?’

‘Turtledove.’ He took the business card out of his wallet and showed it to them. ‘You guys local?’

‘Depends what you mean,’ said the sergeant. ‘There used to be a police house in Hamdale but that went in the seventies. The nearest station now is in Hastings. But we took the call when it happened. Well, I did anyway. Gosling killed himself. Blew his head off with a shotgun in the master bedroom.’

‘There’s no doubt it was suicide?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Shotgun was still in his hands. And there was some weird stuff in the room that suggested he was a bit not right in the head, if you get my drift.’

‘I don’t,’ said Nightingale. ‘What do you mean?’

‘There were lots of candles burning. And he was in some sort of magic circle, one of those star things.’

‘There’s no sign of it now,’ said Nightingale.

‘A team of cleaners went in. Crime-scene specialists. They do a good job, those guys. You wouldn’t get me doing it for love or money.’

‘How did you get in the house?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Security seems pretty tight.’

‘Gosling’s driver found the body. He let us in.’

‘But there was no note?’