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.’
‘Terrific,’ said Nightingale.
‘Is that good news or bad?’
‘I’d put it at about fifty-fifty,’ said Nightingale. ‘Why would my uncle kill himself, Robbie? And why would he batter his wife to death? He loved her. They were peas in a pod, joined at the hip. Same as my parents.’ He grimaced. ‘I suppose I should start saying “adoptive parents” now that I know Gosling was my real father.’
‘What did the Manchester cops say?’
‘Murder-suicide, which is obviously what it was. The doors were locked, her blood was on the axe, along with his fingerprints, and there was blood spatter all over him. Open and shut.’
‘Except no motive.’
‘They reckon he just snapped. It happens.’
‘And what about what he wrote?’
Nightingale ran his hands through his hair. ‘I don’t know, Robbie. I just don’t know.’
‘He must have written it for a reason,’ said Hoyle. ‘I understand why you didn’t want the cops to see it, but you can’t pretend it wasn’t there.’
‘I don’t know why he would have written it. He was fine when I last spoke to him.’
‘And why are you here? Jenny said you’ve a couple of cases that need work.’
‘Nothing that can’t wait a day or two,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m trying to find my mother. My real mother – my birth mother. I wanted to talk to my uncle about the adoption but that avenue’s been closed so I thought I’d try to track her down. If Ainsley Gosling was my genetic father, he must have known who my she was. Is.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t even know if she’s alive.’ He sat down on one of the chesterfields. ‘In a way, she might be the only family I’ve got left. And maybe she can tell me what’s going on.’
Hoyle looked around. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a coffee machine down here?’
‘Everything but,’ said Nightingale.
‘There must be adoption records, right? If your parents adopted you there’d have to be paperwork.’
‘My birth certificate has Bill and Irene Nightingale down as my parents. There’s nothing to say I was adopted. And, according to the DVD Gosling left me, I was given to them at birth. I don’t think any agency was involved.’
<
br /> ‘That’s illegal.’
‘It was thirty-three years ago. I don’t think everything was computerised as it is now. And I get the feeling that Gosling wasn’t too concerned about the legality of what he was doing. I think he just got the baby, his baby – me – gave him to the Nightingales and they passed him off as their own.’ He waved his arm around the basement. ‘I think the answer’s somewhere here. Gosling must have kept records and this is his hidey-hole so I want to see what I can find.’ He pointed to the middle of the basement. ‘I’m going to start with those filing cabinets but I’ll go through every book in the place if I have to.’
‘Looking for what, exactly?’
‘I don’t know, Robbie. But he was a rich man so he must have kept a track of what he was spending. Everyone does, right? You keep receipts and bank statements and bills.’
‘Anna looks after the finances,’ said Hoyle. ‘But, yeah, I know what you mean.’
‘So, I think Gosling must have paid someone to help him with the adoption. He couldn’t have done the whole thing himself. If I can find his records for the year I was born, I might turn up a clue as to who my real mother was.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I keep saying that. “Real mum”. As if Irene Nightingale was some sort of fake. She wasn’t. She was my mum and she’ll always be my mum, no matter how this pans out.’ He flicked ash onto the floor. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’
‘Late shift,’ said Hoyle.
‘Do you want to make yourself useful?’
‘That’s why I’m here.’
26
Nightingale found Ainsley Gosling’s financial records in six beechwood filing cabinets between a display case of ivory carvings and a seaman’s chest with a lock that had rusted with age and defied his attempts to open it. Gosling had been methodical with his record-keeping and there were separate files for each quarter going back to 1956. Nightingale pulled out the three most recent ones and took them to a desk where Hoyle was poring over a huge leather-bound book filled with newspaper clippings. He looked up. ‘He was interested in serial killers – Fred West, the Yorkshire Ripper, Harold Shipman. He followed all the cases.’
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