Midnight: The Second Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (22 page)

47

N
ightingale arrived outside Jenny’s house at eight o’clock the next morning. He parked behind her Audi and rang her doorbell. She opened the door wearing a white Aran sweater and faded blue jeans. ‘You’re bright and early,’ she said.

Nightingale held up a brown paper bag. ‘A low-fat latte and two banana choc-chip muffins,’ he said.

‘I think I let you off lightly,’ she said.

‘And a croissant.’

She waved for him to go through to the kitchen and followed him down the hallway. ‘So Wainwright is up for more books?’

‘Definitely.’

He put the bag down on the counter and took out her latte and the Americano he’d bought for himself. She gave him a plate for the muffins and croissant and then sat down at the kitchen table. He sat down opposite her and sipped his coffee.

‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ asked Jenny.

‘When is it?’

‘Are you serious? How can you not know when Christmas is? Saturday. This coming Saturday. What plans have you got?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘Same as usual,’ he said.

‘Stuck in front of the TV with a microwaved dinner and a bottle of Corona?’

‘You make it sound more fun than it is.’ He raised his cup of coffee to her. ‘Don’t worry about me – I’m not into Christmas in a big way.’

‘Why don’t you come to the country and have Christmas with my parents?’

‘Christmas is for families, kid,’ he said. ‘I don’t think your parents will want me intruding.’

‘You don’t know Mummy and Daddy,’ she said. ‘It’s practically open house over the holidays. My brother’s away in Shanghai but there’re half a dozen people coming already. And Mummy and Daddy keep asking after you. I’ve been working for you for over a year and they’ve never met you. They’re starting to wonder if you actually exist.’

‘I’m starting to wonder that myself,’ said Nightingale. ‘Okay, I’d love to come. What should I get them?’

‘A bottle of wine would be fine. Or, if you really want to impress Daddy, get him a decent bottle of Scotch. I’m going down on Friday, assuming that you’re not going to make me work on Christmas Eve. Why not come with me?’

‘Okay, it’s a date,’ he said.

‘No, it’s not a date,’ said Jenny. ‘It’s me taking pity on a sad man who thinks that chicken tikka masala is suitable fare for Christmas.’

Nightingale ran a finger around the lip of his coffee cup. ‘I’ve never understood why you stay with me. You’re way overqualified, I don’t pay you enough and I smoke too much.’

‘You’ve got your good points, Jack.’

‘Yeah, but if I have they’re few and far between. Whatever the reason, I’m glad you’re working for me and I’ll try not to be so self-absorbed in future.’

She raised her latte in salute. ‘You’re not so bad,’ she said. ‘And your heart’s in the right place.’ She picked up a muffin and popped a piece into her mouth.

Nightingale took a folded sheet of paper from his jacket and put it on the table. ‘Wainwright gave me his shopping list,’ he said. ‘He’s marked the ones that he wants and given me a few other titles he wants me to look out for.’

‘That’d be great for our cash flow,’ she said. ‘Assuming there’s anything left after you’ve paid the mortgage. Have you heard from the lawyer about your father’s estate?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’ll give him a call after New Year if he doesn’t get in touch soon.’ He sipped his coffee again. ‘Remember Mitchell’s diary?’

She nodded. ‘How could I forget it?’

‘The number of devils in Hell, remember that? You said there were three billion.’

‘I think so, yeah.’

‘Well, Wainwright said that it’s much less than that. Still millions, but not three billion.’

‘So Mitchell got it wrong?’

‘It sounds like it. You know, I’d really like another look at that diary.’

‘Why?’

‘To check if he was wrong on the number of devils. And also to see what else is in there. It explained how to summon Proserpine. There might be other demons mentioned.’

‘Yeah, well, last time I had the bloody thing men with guns took it away from me, if you remember.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘I think it’s best that you let sleeping dogs lie. Mitchell got his diary back. That’s the end of it.’

‘Mitchell’s dead,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m guessing it’s still in his house in Wivenhoe.’

Jenny rubbed the left side of her head as if she was getting a headache. ‘Jack, please tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking that you’re thinking about breaking and entering, and I’m thinking that if you are thinking that then it’s a very, very bad idea.’

‘Mitchell’s not there any more. The house will probably be empty.’

‘Empty or not, it’d still be breaking and entering. Forget it, Jack. Bad things happen when you break into houses. And by you I mean you.’

Nightingale’s mobile rang. He didn’t recognise the number but he took the call while Jenny devoured the rest of the chocolate muffin. It was Alistair Sutton.

‘You were asking about her parents,’ said the detective, getting straight to the point. ‘I’ve got an address if you want it.’

‘You’re a star,’ said Nightingale, reaching for a pen.

‘Just don’t tell anyone where you got it from,’ said Sutton. ‘They pretty much went into hiding when their daughter was arrested. They changed their names after the court case – they’re now known as Adrian and Sandra Monkton.’ The detective gave Nightingale an address in Slough and Nightingale wrote it down on a sheet of paper.

‘Have you got a phone number?’

‘They’re not listed. We did have a mobile but that’s been disconnected.’

‘I owe you one,’ said Nightingale.

‘Put it on the tab,’ said Sutton. ‘If you’re like most of the PIs I know, it won’t be the last time you ask me for something.’ He ended the call.

‘What?’ asked Jenny, breaking a piece off the second muffin.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Nightingale.

‘You’ve got that look.’

‘What look?’

‘The look that says you’re onto something. Or somebody.’

‘My sister’s adoptive parents. The ones that took her from Gosling. They live in Slough.’

‘Somebody has to, I suppose.’

‘So do you fancy a trip?’

‘To Slough?’

Nightingale nodded.

‘No.’

‘Come on.’

‘You said you wanted to sort out the books in the basement.’

‘That can wait. Come on, it’ll be fun.’

‘Driving to Slough to see the adoptive parents of a serial killer? In what universe would that be considered fun?’

‘I’ll pay you overtime.’

‘You’ll pay me to go to Slough?’ she asked.

‘Sure.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t want to go on my own.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll buy you dinner.’

‘In Slough?’

‘When we get back to London.’

‘Can I choose the restaurant?’

‘Within limits,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do we have a deal?’

Jenny grinned. ‘Yes, we do,’ she said.

‘Great,’ said Nightingale. ‘We’ll take your car.’

48

J
enny brought her Audi to a halt across the road from the bungalow. The curtains were open and there was a Renault saloon parked in the driveway.

‘Looks like they’re in,’ said Nightingale.

‘What are you going to say to them?’ Jenny asked.

Nightingale shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ll probably wing it.’ He pulled his pack of Marlboro from his raincoat pocket.

‘Not in the car,’ she said.

‘It’s a non-smoking car?’

‘Jack . . .’

‘I was joking,’ said Nightingale. He opened the door and climbed out. He lit a cigarette as Jenny got out of the car and locked it. Nightingale blew smoke up at the sullen grey sky. ‘I want to know if they knew Gosling, or if they got my sister through an intermediary. And if there was an intermediary, I need to know who it was.’

‘And if there wasn’t?’

‘Then I want to know if Gosling said anything to them.’

‘Like what?’

Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette, held it deep in his lungs, and then exhaled slowly. ‘That’s where the winging it comes in. It’s like any good interrogation: you go where it takes you. If you go in with a fixed line of questioning you can miss the point.’

‘They’re not going to want to talk to you, you know that?’

‘They might. I’m her brother, remember?’

‘The brother of the woman who murdered five children,’ said Jenny. ‘Remember?’

‘I’m sensing a lot of negativity,’ said Nightingale. ‘Does this mean that you don’t want to come with me?’

‘Jack, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ she said. She nodded at the house. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing the master at work.’

‘Watch and learn,’ said Nightingale, flicking what was left of his cigarette into the road. ‘Watch and learn.’

Jenny followed Nightingale to the front door and watched as he pressed the doorbell. There was a buzzing sound inside the house.

Nightingale stamped his feet on the doorstep. ‘It’s bloody cold, isn’t it? he said, his breath feathering in the air.

‘They’re saying it might snow over the next few days.’ Nightingale grinned. ‘So much for global warming.’ He pressed the doorbell again. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered. ‘We’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses.’ He pressed the doorbell again and kept his finger on it.

‘Jack!’ said Jenny, jabbing him in the ribs. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘If they’re not in, it doesn’t matter; if they are in, they shouldn’t be ignoring us.’

‘I said we should have called first. At least we’d have known they were in.’

Nightingale took his finger off the doorbell. He pushed the door but it was locked.

‘Jack, you can’t do that.’

Nightingale grinned. ‘Just checking,’ he said. He stepped back from the house and sighed through pursed lips. ‘Let’s have a look around the back.’

‘Let’s not,’ said Jenny.

‘Just a look,’ said Nightingale. ‘What harm can it do?’

49

T
he rear garden was meticulously laid out with a perfect square of lawn leading onto two rockeries laden with ferns and, beyond them, a vegetable patch and a small creosoted shed with a tarred roof. Nightingale reached for the handle of the kitchen door.

‘Jack, this is so wrong,’ said Jenny, folding her arms and shivering.

He turned to look at her. ‘I’m just checking to see if it’s locked,’ he said. ‘It’s a Neighbourhood Watch thing.’

‘It’s a breaking-and-entering thing,’ she said.

‘Jenny, I haven’t broken anything,’ he said. He reached into his raincoat and pulled out a pair of black leather gloves.

‘Why do you need gloves?’ asked Jenny.

‘It’s cold.’

‘So you won’t leave fingerprints. Because you know that what we’re doing is wrong.’

‘Do you have any?’

She glared at him. ‘No, Jack, I left my burgling gloves at home,’ she said, frostily.

‘We’re not burgling. We’re visiting,’ said Nightingale. He twisted the door handle and pushed it. ‘Anyway, the door’s open.’

‘Jack!’

‘It’s okay,’ said Nightingale. He leaned into the kitchen. ‘Mr Monkton!’ he called. ‘Mrs Monkton? Is anybody there?’

‘If there was, they’d have answered the doorbell,’ said Jenny. ‘Let’s go, Jack.’

Nightingale stepped into the kitchen. There were dirty dishes in the sink and two coffee mugs sitting by a chrome kettle. He took off one of his gloves and gingerly touched the kettle with his knuckles. It was warm but not hot. Instant coffee had been spooned into both mugs.

Jenny stood on the threshold. ‘Jack, this is wrong on so many levels,’ she said. ‘You don’t know these people. You can’t just walk into their house. And . . .’

‘And what?’

She gritted her teeth. ‘You make me so bloody angry sometimes,’ she hissed.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, putting his glove back on.

‘Damn you, Jack. We rang the bell, they’re not here – let’s just go.’

‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’

‘I’m scared that I’m going to be arrested for burglary.’

‘It’s only burglary if we steal something,’ said Nightingale. ‘But that’s not what’s worrying you, is it?’

‘Please, Jack, let’s just go.’

‘The kettle’s warm, the back door was unlocked. I know what you’re thinking, Jenny.’

‘Then you know why we have to go,’ she said.

‘If they’re dead, we have to know.’

Jenny closed her eyes. ‘Why did you have to go and say that?’ she whispered.

‘Because that’s what you’re thinking. I went to see my aunt and uncle and they were dead. I went to Abersoch and the woman there was dead. You think they’re dead too.’

She opened her eyes and shivered. ‘I don’t want to know if they’re dead or not. I don’t care. I just want to go.’

‘If something’s happened, I want to know,’ said Nightingale quietly.

‘We can read about it in the paper,’ she said. ‘We don’t have to go inside.’

‘You can wait in the car. You don’t have to be here.’ He walked across the kitchen to a door that led to the hallway. He opened it. ‘Mr Monkton!’ he shouted. ‘Are you in? Mrs Monkton? Hello? My name’s Jack Nightingale and I’m here about your daughter!’

‘If they could answer, they would have done by now,’ said Jenny.

Nightingale walked down the hall. The front door was at the far end. To the right of the door was a wooden table with a telephone on it. ‘Mr Monkton! Hello?’

The carpet was red with streaks in the pile as if it had only just been vacuumed. There were two doors leading off the hall to the right and two to the left. All were closed.

Jenny called to him from the kitchen. ‘Jack, are you okay?’

Nightingale didn’t reply. He wasn’t okay. He knew she was right, that the best thing was to leave the house and never come back. The Monktons wouldn’t have left the house with the back door unlocked, and if they were alive they would have answered when he rang the bell. He opened the first door to his right. It was a bedroom with a pine double bed and a matching wardrobe and dressing table. The room looked as if it had never been slept in, and there was nothing personal in it, no trinkets or books or photographs. Nightingale realised it was probably the guest bedroom and that the Monktons didn’t have many guests. He closed the door.

The door opposite opened into another bedroom. From where he was standing Nightingale could see that the duvet was rumpled and there was an open book and a pair of reading glasses on one bedside table and a box of tissues and an asthma inhaler on the other.

‘Mr Monkton! Hello!’ shouted Nightingale, pushing the door wider.

There was a door next to a double-fronted wardrobe facing the bed and Nightingale could hear running water.

Jenny came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘There’s someone in the shower,’ he said.

She tried to pull him away from the door. ‘We can’t stay,’ she hissed. ‘They’ll have a heart attack if they come out of the bathroom and see us standing here.’

‘They can’t both be in the shower,’ said Nightingale.

‘You don’t know that,’ she said. ‘But that’s not the point. We should wait outside and keep ringing the bell.’

‘Stay here,’ said Nightingale. ‘Let me check the rest of the house.’

‘Jack!’ whispered Jenny, but he was already heading down the hall.

The door at the end of the hall opened into a large sitting room. In one corner a television set was showing a chat show with the sound muted. On a table next to the sofa was a packet of cigarettes and an ashtray in which there were three lipstick-smeared butts. Nightingale smiled. Mrs Monkton was obviously the smoker in the family. To his left was a fireplace with a modern mantelpiece. There was a framed wedding photograph next to a vase of dried flowers. Nightingale walked over to the fireplace and picked up the picture. The man was tall and looked like a young Sean Connery in a dark blue suit with large lapels; the woman, who barely came up to his shoulders, was plump with a cheeky smile and long blonde hair. He put the picture back. It was the only photograph in the room.

There were shelves lined with books to the right of the fireplace. The top two shelves were filled with books on military history, the lower three contained romances and books of crossword puzzles and Sudoku.

A car alarm burst into life in the road outside and Nightingale walked over to the window but before he could see anything he heard Jenny scream in terror.