‘Your logic sounds irrefutable.’

  ‘So here’s my question,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I kill myself, do I go straight to Hell?’

  ‘Without passing Go and without collecting two hundred pounds?’

  ‘Well, do I?’

  Proserpine’s eyes narrowed. ‘What is it you want, Nightingale? You want me to tell you if killing yourself is a good idea or not?’

  ‘I want to know what the rules are? Do suicides burn in Hell, like the church says?’

  ‘Like the Catholic Church says,’ she corrected him. ‘Let me say this: you don’t want to be using the Catholics as the sole arbiter of Heaven and Hell. They have their own axes to grind.’

  ‘So not all suicides go to Hell?’

  ‘There are worse things than taking your own life,’ said Proserpine. ‘Have you put this question to your friend Mrs Steadman?’

  ‘She wasn’t very helpful,’ admitted Nightingale.

  ‘And you’re surprised at that? Have you learnt nothing?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She shook her head sadly. ‘You don’t understand, do you? Mrs Steadman and I are the same. We don’t play favourites, we’re not here to offer you a helping hand. We observe and we maintain order. Yes, I’m one of the Fallen and she isn’t, but other than that we are the same.’

  ‘You’re an angel?’

  ‘I’m a fallen angel.’ She lowered her eyes and fluttered her long eyelashes. ‘I’ve been a bad, bad girl.’ She began to laugh and the walls shook again. ‘If you’re looking to Mrs Steadman for help, you’re looking in the wrong place.’

  ‘But you can help me, is that what you mean?’

  ‘Are you ready to sell your soul? Because that’s the only thing of value you have.’

  ‘If I do that, you’ll put a stop to this?’

  ‘Are you ready to deal, Nightingale? Are you ready to offer me your soul?’

  Nightingale stared at her for several seconds and then slowly shook his head. ‘I’ll find another way,’ he said.

  ‘Well, good luck with that,’ she said. ‘Are we done?’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Yes, we’re done.’ He spoke the Latin words that ended the spell, there was an ear-splitting crack, space folded in on itself and she and the dog were gone. The strength suddenly drained from Nightingale’s legs and he fell to his knees. He felt something wet trickle over his lips and he touched them with his hand. The fingers came away glistening with blood and he realised his nose was bleeding. He tried to get up but felt as weak as a kitten and he had to put both hands on the concrete floor to steady himself. The swirling fog began to disperse and he found it easier to breathe. Gradually his strength returned and he staggered to his feet. He pulled open the door to the lock-up and walked unsteadily into the sunlight. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and then took out his cigarettes and lit one. As he blew smoke up at the sky the irony that he was replacing one foul atmosphere with another wasn’t lost on him, but the nicotine craving overruled any sense of embarrassment.

  55

  Nightingale phoned Jenny as he walked back to Whiteleys shopping centre. She told him she was already at her parents’ house and they were heading out to walk the dogs. ‘Have you got a number for Eddie Morris?’ Nightingale asked.

  ‘The housebreaker?’

  ‘Alleged housebreaker,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’s never been convicted.’

  ‘Only because you keep helping him get off,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Horses for courses,’ said Nightingale. ‘Eddie breaks into places and I keep him out of prison. It’s the nicest bit of osmosis you’ll find.’

  ‘I think you mean symbiosis,’ said Jenny. ‘What do you need Eddie for?’

  ‘Best you don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘You want him to break into somewhere, that’s the only reason you ever call Eddie.’

  Nightingale grinned. ‘Allegedly.’

  ‘So Eddie is the friend you’re going to be hanging out with? I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’

  ‘You worry too much.’

  ‘I’ll text you the number,’ she said.

  ‘Can you do something else for me? I need a number for a guy called Joshua Wainwright. He’s an American billionaire but keeps a low profile. I’m hoping you can Google or whatever it is you do and get me a number.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said.

  ‘He’s from Texas, I think. Black and youngish. Thirty, maybe. Flies around in his own personal Gulfstream jet.’

  ‘Nice work if you can get it,’ she said. Nightingale ended the call and two minutes later his phone buzzed to let him know the promised text had arrived. It was Eddie’s number, along with a promise that she would get back to him about Wainwright. He phoned Eddie and was relieved when he answered on the third ring. ‘I need a favour,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I guessed that,’ said Eddie. ‘Let’s face it, that’s pretty much the only time I hear from you.’

  ‘So that’s a yes, is it?’

  Eddie laughed. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Spot of breaking and entering, I suppose?’

  ‘Just entering, I doubt that any breaking will be involved.’

  ‘Where and when?’

  ‘The where is Surrey. I’ll meet you in a village called Hamdale. The house is about six miles from there so you can follow me in your car from there.’

  ‘You’re still driving that piece of crap, are you?’

  ‘My classic MGB, you mean? Yes.’

  ‘So you’ll be easy to spot, then. You’ll be the guy standing by the repair truck.’

  ‘Soon as you can, Eddie.’

  ‘Anything I should know about the place?’

  ‘It’s empty. Not overlooked. No burglar alarm. I just need you to get me inside.’

  ‘And what’s the name of this place?’

  ‘Gosling Manor,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll see you in Hamdale’s main street.’

  As he ended the call his phone buzzed gain. It was a text from Jenny with Joshua Wainwright’s number. He sent her a text back. YOU’RE A STAR.

  She replied almost instantly. I KNOW.

  56

  Nightingale drove slowly down the narrow country road. He took a quick look in his driving mirror to check that Eddie Morris was still behind him in his Jaguar. The road behind him was clear but as he braked the Jaguar came into view and Eddie flashed his headlights. Morris had got to Hamdale first and had been waiting when Nightingale pulled up in his MGB. As the two men had driven out of the village the sky had darkened and there were flecks of rain on Nightingale’s windscreen. He flicked the wiper switch and the wipers groaned into life. He checked the driving mirror again and this time the Jaguar was close enough for him to make out the features of the man behind the wheel. Eddie was in his late twenties but looked almost a decade younger, with an acne-spotted forehead and spiky gelled blond hair. Eddie had a mobile phone pressed to his ear and was nodding animatedly.

  Something flashed across Nightingale’s vision and he stamped on the brake pedal as he realised a tractor was pulling out in front of him. The MGB’s wheels shuddered and he swung the steering wheel to the left. The tractor accelerated away and the MGB’s front bumper missed its back wheels by inches before the car skidded to a halt inches from a five-bar fence and stalled. Nightingale cursed, his heart racing.

  The Jaguar pulled up behind him and Eddie beeped the horn. Nightingale wound down his window and waved before restarting the MGB and heading off down the road.

  The rain grew heavier as he drove by a field of cabbages. There was a high stone wall to his left and he slowed, knowing that he was approaching the main entrance. Ahead of him he saw a large circular metal mirror attached to a tree and he indicated a left turn. He pulled up in front of black metal gates and a sign that said GOSLING MANOR, leaving room for Eddie to park next to him.

  As the Jaguar drew up alongside the MGB, Nightingale reached over and pulled a pair of bolt-cutters from under the passenger seat. As he climbed out of the car, Eddie wound down his window. ‘Looks like you don’t need me,’ he said, nodding at the bolt-cutters.

  ‘This is the easy part,’ said Nightingale. There was a thick chain linking the two gates and a brass padlock. He used the cutters to cut the hasp of the padlock and unravelled the chain before pushing the gates open. On the other side of the gates a narrow paved road curved to the right through thick woodland.

  He waved Eddie to drive on to the house and then got back into the MGB and put the chain and the bolt cutters under the passenger seat. He restarted the engine and followed Eddie. The paved road merged into a parking area large enough to park several dozen vehicles, and in the middle stood a massive stone fountain. There was no water in the fountain, the centrepiece of which was a weathered stone mermaid surrounded by dolphins and fish. By the time Nightingale had parked next to the fountain, Eddie was already out of his Jaguar, looking up at the roof with his hands on his hips. The rain had stopped but there were still heavy grey rain clouds overhead. The house was built of local stone with upper facades of weathered bricks two stories high, topped by a tiled roof almost the same colour as the bricks and with four towering chimney stacks. The walls were covered with a thick layer of ivy that had been growing for decades, with some of the vines as thick as a man’s wrist. The main entrance was shrouded in ivy around a massive oak door that gleamed in the sunlight.

  Nightingale took a torch from the glove compartment and joined Eddie. Together they looked up at the house. ‘How much lead do you think is up there?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, Eddie,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Who owns it?” asked Eddie. ‘Must be worth what, three million? Four?’

  Nightingale feigned disinterest. ‘Not sure,’ he said.

  ‘Like you said, no alarm,’ said Eddie. ‘Plenty of CCTV though.’ He nodded at a camera covering the front door, and another up by one of the chimneys that covered the main driveway. ‘In fact it looks like we’re on Candid Camera already.’

  ‘There are cameras inside as well but there’s no need to worry about them. There’s no external feed. Just a hard drive and I can wipe that.’

  Eddie looked across at Nightingale. ‘You seem to know a lot about the place.’

  ‘Mate, I just need you to get me inside without causing any damage.’ He took out his cigarettes and lit one, before gesturing at the door. ‘Front or back?’

  ‘It’s not as if we’re overlooked, is it?’ said Eddie. He reached into his bomber jacket and took out a small leather case. He unzipped it to reveal a dozen metal picks of varying shapes and sizes. ‘And just to be sure – there’s no rotting corpse in there?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said Nightingale. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  As Eddie jogged up the stone steps to the front door, Nightingale blew smoke up at the roof. Next to the main building was a single brick block with four garage doors, painted white to match the house’s window frame. There was a conservatory that looked as if it had been added as an afterthought, and a wing beyond the conservatory that was at right angles to the main building.

  Eddie bent over the lock, his head cocked to one side as he worked on it. He hummed to himself, then Nightingale heard the lock click. There was a second lock, close to the door handle, and that one opened in less than a minute. Eddie stepped back, grinning. ‘Easy, peasy,’ he said, slotting the picks back into the case.

  ‘You’re a star, Eddie,’ said Nightingale.

  Eddie pushed open the door. ‘You’re sure there’s no alarm?’

  ‘Positive,’ said Nightingale.

  Eddie stepped into the wood-panelled hallway, his shoes squeaking on the marble floor. He looked up at a massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling. ‘That’s worth a pretty penny,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, Eddie,’ said Nightingale. He flicked the light switch by the door but nothing happened.

  ‘Power must be off,’ said Eddie. He walked across the hallway and pushed open an oak door. It opened into a large room with a vaulted ceiling and a huge white marble fireplace. Along one wall was a line of windows that looked over ornamental gardens with bushes that had been trained into the shapes of exotic animals. Eddie pointed at what looked like a giraffe. ‘Someone with too much time on their hands,’ he said.

  ‘Eddie, it’s time for you to push off,’ said Nightingale.

  He looked out of the window. The sky was darkening as the sun dipped down below the horizon.

  ‘There’s a letter for you here, Jack,’ said Eddie, reaching for an envelope on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Put it back,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘It’s addressed to you,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Eddie, will you just do as you’re told,’ said Nightingale. ‘Put the bloody thing back where you found it.’ He watched Eddie walk back to the mantelpiece and replace the envelope. Nightingale took out his wallet and gave Eddie a handful of fifty-pound notes.

  Eddie grinned as he took the money. ‘Always a pleasure doing business with you,’ he said.

  ‘Now listen to me, Eddie, and listen good,’ said Nightingale. ‘Get back in your car and drive away from here. Don’t ever come back. And you need to forget you ever knew me.’

  Eddie’s forehead creased into a frown. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘As cancer, Eddie.’

  ‘Are you in trouble?’

  ‘Nothing you can help me with.’

  ‘I know people, Jack.’

  ‘Yeah, I know people too, Eddie. But I have to handle this myself. And you need to put a lot of distance between us. Get rid of your phone. Get a new phone and new SIM card. Don’t ever call me again. Don’t ever tell anyone that you know me. If anyone ever asks you about me, you know nothing.’

  ‘Who’s going to be asking about you?’

  ‘Are you listening to me? It doesn’t matter who asks. You don’t know me.’ He dropped what was left of his cigarette on the floor and stamped it out. ‘I’m bad news, Eddie. The worst possible news. Now get the hell out of here and don’t look back.’

  Eddie opened his mouth to protest but Nightingale pointed a warning finger at his face. ‘Just piss off,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no need to be a prick about it,’ said Eddie. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room. Nightingale took his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. He was holding the smoke deep in his lungs when he heard Eddie drive off in his Jaguar.

  57

  Nightingale walked back into the main hall and blew smoke as he stared at the panelled wall. He stepped forward, reached out with his left hand and gripped a section of carving. He pulled it and the panel swung open smoothly. There was a light switch just inside the doorway and Nightingale clicked it on. Nothing happened. He switched on his torch, seized a brass banister with his left hand and slowly went down the wooden stairs. The basement ran the length of one of the wings of the house. The walls were lined with book-filled shelves and down the middle of the space were two lines of display cases. At the bottom of the stairs were two large red leather Chesterfield sofas either side of a coffee table piled high with books, and a huge desk that was covered in newspapers. There was an antique globe that was almost four feet high and a massive oak table with more than a dozen candles on it. Molten wax had dripped from the candles down the legs of the table and pooled on the floor.

  Despite the cigarette in his hand, Nightingale wrinkled his nose at the bitter, acrid smell that pervaded the basement. His stomach lurched and for a moment he tasted bile at the back of his mouth and came close to throwing up. He swallowed and grimaced. He walked past a display case filled with skulls, then by a cabinet filled with knives, some of which were spotted with what appeared to be dried blood. The next display case was full of crystal balls, and the one after that was full of what seemed to be shrunken heads, leathery fist-sized lumps with straggly hair and pig-like noses.

  He found a trunk full of black candles and took out a dozen, spacing them around the basement and lighting them. The flickering flames cast strange shadows on all the surfaces, moving like living things.

  There were half a dozen LCD screens on the wall in two banks of three. In front of the screens was a black wooden desk with a straight-backed chair. There was a large stainless-steel console dotted with labelled buttons on the desk. Nightingale sat down and lit a cigarette and studied the console. There was no sign of the power being on and no matter what he did the screens stayed blank so it looked as if the cameras weren’t recording.

  He stood up and walked back along the bookshelves. Most of the books were leather-bound and clearly very old. It took him the best part of an hour to find the three volumes that he was looking for and he took them over to the coffee table by the stairs before flopping down on one of the sofas. He took out his mobile phone and tapped out the US number that Jenny had given him. It was just after nine so he figured it was early afternoon in the United States.

  The woman who answered had a no-nonsense clipped tone that suggested he was wasting her valuable time by just calling her. ‘Joshua Wainwright’s office. This is Elizabeth speaking.’

  ‘Hello, Elizabeth. Is Joshua there?’

  ‘Who’s calling?’ she asked.

  ‘My name’s Jack Nightingale.’

  ‘Does he know you, Mr Nightingale?’ she asked, though her tone suggested that she knew the answer already.

  ‘Not in this life, no,’ said Nightingale, immediately regretting the flippancy. ‘No. But it is important.’

  ‘Can you tell me what it is in connection with?’

  ‘It’s personal,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Wainwright doesn’t have personal conversations with people he doesn’t know,’ said the woman, briskly. ‘Thank you for calling.’ She ended the call.

  Nightingale grinned, lit a cigarette and swung his feet up on to the coffee table before redialling.

  ‘Joshua Wainwright’s office. This is Elizabeth speaking.’