Jack Nightingale 03 - Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  ‘It was an RTA.’

  ‘It was a traffic accident when he died, but the guy took a flyer off his balcony while you were talking to him.’

  ‘He jumped, Dan.’

  ‘And then you go to Wales claiming that some woman was your sister and she hangs herself.’

  Nightingale shrugged and said nothing.

  ‘You go to see the guy who used to drive Gosling around and he decapitates himself in front of you. Oh, and let’s not forget the gamekeeper who blew his head off with a shotgun while he was talking to you.’

  ‘You’re starting to sound like Chalmers.’

  ‘I’ve got to be honest, he’s got a point. All this is going on around you and you’re acting like it’s no big thing.’

  ‘It’s a huge bloody thing, but what can I do?’

  ‘You can tell me what you think is going on.’

  Chelsea scored and the fans went wild, hugging each other and punching the air in triumph.

  Nightingale sipped his drink while his mind raced. He liked Evans and he was a good detective, but there was no way he was ever going to believe what was really happening to Nightingale and the people around him. Evans lived in the real world, a world of criminals and victims, where crimes were solved by examining physical evidence and questioning suspects. Nightingale had come to realise that there was a separate world beyond the physical, a world where demons held the power and where magic and witchcraft were tools as effective as any DNA analysis or fingerprint records. In the car park of the police station he had opened the door to the truth but Evans hadn’t even listened. Nightingale knew that if he really tried to explain what was going on, Evans would think that Nightingale was crazy. And he might well be right. ‘Dan, if I knew, I’d tell you.’

  ‘It’s a series of coincidences, is that it?’

  ‘What’s the alternative? Someone’s going around killing everyone close to me? Because if they are, you’re going to have to watch yourself.’ Nightingale realised what he’d said and he closed his eyes. ‘Shit,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, like Robbie, you mean?’

  Nightingale opened his eyes. The Chelsea fans were still celebrating even though the game had restarted and the Chelsea defence was under pressure. ‘Stupid thing to say, sorry.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Evans. ‘You have a habit of firing from the hip; it’s part of your charm.’

  ‘What happened to Robbie was so bloody stupid. Stepping in front of a cab the way he did.’ Nightingale shuddered. ‘Makes you realise just how precarious life is.’

  ‘Not getting all philosophical on me, are you?’

  Nightingale sipped his Corona. ‘You know what I mean. You’ve seen how easily life can be snatched away. That’s a big part of the job. Dealing with death.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  ‘And the line between dead and not dead is such a fine one. If Robbie had just turned his head and seen the cab he’d be with us now.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Evans. ‘If Robbie was here it’d be him you’d be asking for help and not me.’

  Nightingale grinned. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ He clinked his bottle against Evans’s glass. ‘That makes you my fallback position, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t bother sweet-talking me, Nightingale. Just tell me what it is you want.’

  ‘I need a vehicle registration checked. And then a name put to the vehicle.’

  ‘And this vehicle was involved in this morning’s shooting?’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Black Range Rover, tinted windows. MAC-10s. Two shooters wearing Puffa jackets and ski masks. Drove off on Kawasaki trail bikes, one red, one black.’

  ‘And they were definitely shooting at you?’

  ‘The black teenager was standing outside a shop. Wrong place, wrong time.’

  ‘And you got the registration number?’

  ‘Of the Range Rover, yeah. But not the bikes. I was head down by the time they turned up.’ Nightingale took a piece of paper from his pocket and slipped it to the detective.

  Evans put it away without looking at it. ‘Why didn’t you just tell the cops at the scene?’

  ‘Because I think I know who it was. Dwayne Robinson’s gang. Someone must have told them what happened at the hospital.’

  Evans frowned. ‘Chalmers?’

  ‘I’m not saying that he’s got a direct line to Robinson’s gang, but someone must have put the word out. That’s what I want you to check, see if that car is connected to Robinson’s people.’

  ‘And you saw the shooters?’

  ‘I got a glimpse of the guy in the back and a pretty good look at the one in the front passenger seat. Show me pictures and I should be able to make an ID. But I can’t say for sure who the shooters were because of the ski masks.’

  ‘I’ve got to ask you again, why didn’t you just wait at the crime scene and talk to the responding officers?’

  ‘What? Deal with a couple of box-ticking woodentops? Have you taken a look at the average beat cop these days?’

  Evans chuckled. ‘Standards aren’t what they were, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Even when I was in the job they’d dropped the height and weight restrictions and now it seems they’ve dropped the requirement to have a brain.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, but you could have spoken to the detectives on the case.’

  ‘And the first thing they’d have done is put my name into the PNC and I’m pretty damn sure that Chalmers has had me red-flagged.’

  Evans shrugged. ‘All roads lead to Rome,’ he said.

  ‘At least this way I get to stay under the radar,’ said Nightingale. ‘If it was Robinson’s men then I can ID them for you; if it wasn’t, well, I don’t want them knowing that I’m a witness because I’m in enough trouble as it is.’ He drank from his bottle, then moved closer to the detective and lowered his voice. ‘And we both know that the powers-that-be monitor all PNC checks these days. If I ask anyone else to run the number and it’s been flagged then I’ll be dropping them in the shit. But you’re on the Dwayne Robinson investigation so you can just say that you saw the vehicle near the hospital or close to Robinson’s place.’

  ‘You mean that in addition to breaching the Data Protection Act, I lie to my bosses and put my job on the line? Thanks, pal.’

  ‘It’s a white lie. In the grand scheme of things, anyway.’

  Evans drained his glass and handed it to Nightingale. ‘Get me another lager while I think about it,’ he said. ‘And some crisps. Smoky bacon, if they’ve got them.’

  13

  Jenny was already at her desk when Nightingale arrived. He held out a brown paper bag. ‘Croissants and banana chocolate-chip muffins,’ he said. ‘The breakfast of champions.’

  Jenny’s eyes narrowed as she looked up from her computer monitor. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You’re so suspicious,’ he said, putting the bag down on her desk. ‘What makes you think I want anything?’ He nodded over at the coffee-maker. ‘Want a coffee?’

  ‘Now my spidey-sense is definitely tingling, but I’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so yes, please. Milky with one sugar.’

  Nightingale busied himself at the coffee-maker. ‘Did you drive in today?’ he asked.

  Jenny sighed. ‘Your car’s stopped working again, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Battery’s dead,’ said Nightingale. ‘Must be a short somewhere.’

  ‘And you want a lift?’

  ‘Your Audi is a lovely car,’ said Nightingale, stirring in a spoonful of sugar. ‘If I didn’t like classic cars so much I’d probably go for an A4 myself.’

  ‘There’s a world of difference between a classic car and an old banger,’ said Jenny, opening the brown paper bag. She smiled as she took out a muffin. ‘These are my favourites,’ she said.

  ‘I know that,’ said Nightingale, taking two coffees over to her desk. He gave her one of the mugs and sipped from the other.

  ‘Where do you need to go, Jack?’


  ‘Gosling Manor. I promised to meet a building guy. He’s going to give me an estimate for the repairs.’

  ‘How much damage did the fire do?’

  ‘The upstairs hall is gutted but the fire brigade were there before the structure was damaged.’

  ‘It was insured, wasn’t it? I mean, it was arson so it wasn’t as if it was your fault or anything.’

  ‘I haven’t checked. I hope so.’

  ‘Jack! Are you serious? How can you not have checked already?’

  ‘I’ve had a lot on my plate. Anyway, there’s a huge mortgage on the place and they usually come with insurance.’

  ‘You should check, and soon.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m more worried about water damage. The firemen used a hell of a lot of water and I haven’t looked down in the basement yet. Water and books aren’t a good mix.’

  ‘When do you want to go?’

  Nightingale looked at his watch. ‘You’ve got time for your breakfast and I’ve got time for a fag and a quick read of the Sun.’ He grinned. ‘Now that is the breakfast of champions.’

  14

  Jenny brought her Audi to a stop in front of Gosling Manor. It was a sunny day but bitterly cold and Nightingale turned up the collar of his raincoat after he climbed out of the car to open the gates. Jenny drove through and he pulled them closed, then realised that the builder would be arriving shortly so he left them open and got back into the passenger seat.

  ‘You still haven’t done anything about a gardener, have you?’ said Jenny as she drove slowly along the driveway to the house.

  ‘It’s winter. You don’t cut grass in the winter,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘There’re always things need doing in a garden, and you’ve got acres here.’

  ‘I’ll get it sorted once the builders are out,’ said Nightingale.

  Jenny parked next to a massive stone fountain where a tousle-haired stone mermaid was surrounded by leaping fish and dolphins. They got out of the car and looked up at the two-storey mansion. The lower floor was built of stone, the upper floor of weathered bricks, and the roof was tiled, with four massive chimney stacks that gave it the look of an ocean-going liner. ‘Every time I look at this house, it seems to cry out for a family. You know what I mean?’ said Jenny. ‘It just seems so wrong that your father lived here alone. And now it’s yours and . . .’ She shrugged.

  ‘And I’m a sad lonely bastard too – is that what you were going to say?’

  Jenny laughed. ‘That’s not what I meant at all,’ she said. ‘But this is a family home, Jack. No offence, but it’s wasted on you.’

  They walked together towards the ivy-covered entrance. Nightingale had been the owner of Gosling Manor for almost three months but it didn’t feel like it was his house. He’d inherited it from his father, Ainsley Gosling. Gosling was Nightingale’s biological father, who’d given him away at birth, and Nightingale felt as little attachment to the man as he did to the house. He pulled his keys from his pocket. The oak door was massive but it moved easily on well-oiled hinges and opened onto the wood-panelled hall.

  Jenny wrinkled her nose at the smell of smoke and then groaned when she saw the state of the hall. The marble floor was half an inch deep in mud and the wooden staircase was scorched. The massive multi-layered chandelier that looked like an upside-down crystal wedding cake was now caked in a thick layer of ash. ‘Oh Jack,’ she said.

  ‘It’s worse upstairs,’ said Nightingale. ‘The arsonist spread petrol all along the upstairs hall so the fire did far more damage up there. I don’t want to go up until the builder’s here. I don’t know if there’s been any structural damage or not.’

  ‘And you were upstairs when it happened?’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Yeah, it was pretty hairy. But the fire brigade got here quickly.’ He walked carefully across the mud to the section of the wooden panelling that concealed the entrance to the basement library. The wood was still damp from where the firemen had been spraying water, and as he pulled the panel open it pushed back a layer of thick black mud. There was a light switch just inside the panel and he flicked it, half expecting the electricity to be off but the fluorescent lights below flickered into life. Jenny tiptoed through the mud towards him, her face screwed up in disgust.

  ‘It’s not that bad, kid,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You’re a smoker,’ she said, putting her hand over her mouth. ‘Trust me, it’s bad.’

  Nightingale went down the stairs and Jenny followed him, holding on to the brass banister with her left hand as she kept her right cupped over her mouth.

  The basement ran the full length of the house and was lined with laden bookshelves. Down the centre of the basement were two parallel lines of tall display cases which were packed with items that Ainsley Gosling had collected during a lifetime of devil-worship. At the bottom of the stairway were two overstuffed red leather Chesterfield sofas, one on either side of a claw-footed teak coffee table that was piled high with books.

  A smile spread across Nightingale’s face as he realised that there was no major water damage. The ceiling was stained in places and water had trickled down the wall by the stairs but other than that the basement was in exactly the same condition as when he’d last been there. ‘Finally, some good news,’ he said. ‘I half expected it to be flooded.’

  Jenny took her hand away from her mouth and sniffed the air cautiously. ‘No smoke down here either. The panel must be a tight fit.’

  Nightingale took off his raincoat and tossed it on the back of one of the sofas. He looked at his watch. ‘Shouldn’t be long. I’d offer you coffee but I haven’t got anything in the fridge.’

  ‘Well, it’s not like you live here, is it?’ said Jenny, sitting on one of the sofas. ‘Seriously, what are you going to do with this place?’

  ‘I haven’t decided,’ said Nightingale, sitting on the other sofa.

  ‘You can’t live here, can you? What would you do if you needed milk? Or bread?’

  ‘Or duck noodles?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Where’s the nearest shop? How do you get a newspaper? It’d take a paperboy half an hour just to get down the drive.’

  ‘Now you’re exaggerating.’

  ‘And could you put up with a commute like that every day?’

  ‘We could work from here. There’s plenty of room.’

  ‘So I’d be the one commuting? Every day from Chelsea?’

  ‘That’s the beauty of having an Audi A4.’

  ‘You’re not seriously considering it, are you? How would clients get here?’

  Nightingale grinned. ‘I’m joking,’ he said. ‘Of course we can’t work from here. But there’s something about the place that pulls me here, you know. It’s like I belong.’

  ‘That’s a freaky thing to say, Jack, considering that it’s where your father killed himself. Doesn’t that worry you?’

  ‘Why should it?’

  Jenny shrugged. ‘It sort of taints it, don’t you think?’

  ‘Are you worried about ghosts? Is that it?’

  ‘It’s not about ghosts. It’s just knowing that in that room upstairs he put a shotgun under his chin and pulled the trigger. Doesn’t that give you the willies?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it,’ he said.

  ‘Could you sleep in that room, knowing that happened?’ She shuddered. ‘I couldn’t.’

  The doorbell rang and she jumped, then sighed and patted her chest. ‘I nearly gave myself a heart attack then.’

  ‘That’ll be the builder,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do you want stay down here or do you want to come upstairs with me?’

  ‘I’m okay here,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep looking for titles on the list of books that your pal Wainwright wants.’

  ‘He’s hardly a pal. But yeah, he’s keen to buy and it’s not as if I need a Satanic library, is it?’ He grinned over at her. ‘Not scared, being here on your own?’ He made a ghostly moaning sound and waggled his fingers at her.

 
; ‘Behave, Jack.’

  ‘I’m just saying . . . Satanic library, things that go bump in the night . . .’

  ‘Me being a girl and all?’ Jenny picked up a leather-bound book and threw it at him, missing his head by inches.

  ‘That’s no way to treat an antique,’ he said. ‘And before you say anything, I meant the book.’

  Jenny picked up a second book to throw at him but he ran up the stairs and back into the hall. The doorbell rang again as he closed the panel and carefully walked across the muddy floor.

  He opened the front door. There was a man in his thirties standing on the steps. He had short blond hair and an impish smile and was wearing dusty blue overalls. He was holding a clipboard and he looked at it and then grinned up at Nightingale. ‘You Mr Nightingale?’

  ‘Jack,’ said Nightingale. ‘Domino’s Pizza? You’re an hour late so we get them free, right?’

  The man looked confused and then realised that he was joking. ‘Chris Garner. I’m here to give you a quote.’ He stuck out his hand and Nightingale shook it. ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, well, wait until you see inside,’ said Nightingale, holding the door open. ‘It’s a bit of a mess.’

  Garner walked across the threshold and whistled softly. ‘You’re not joking,’ he said, taking a pen from the pocket of his overalls. ‘What happened? Leak?’

  ‘Firemen,’ said Nightingale. ‘There was a fire. The firemen were enthusiastic.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the way they are,’ said Garner. ‘They do love their hoses.’ He looked down at the floor. ‘That’s marble, though. Should clean up okay.’

  ‘What about the clean-up? Can you handle that as well?’ said Nightingale.

  Garner nodded. ‘Can do,’ he said. He looked up at the chandelier and pointed his pen at it. ‘That’s a professional job, though. You don’t want amateurs messing around with that. It needs to be taken down and done properly.’

  ‘Do you know somebody?’

  ‘Let me ask around. So where was the fire?’

  ‘Upstairs,’ said Nightingale. ‘Most of the damage on the ground floor is from the smoke and water.’

  Garner walked over to the panelling by the stairs and ran his finger along it, then tapped it. He was only a few feet from the panel that led down to the basement. He rapped the wood with his knuckles. ‘The wood’s basically sound,’ he said. ‘But you’d be best sanding it all down and revarnishing.’ He made a note on his clipboard.