‘Devil-worshippers, you mean?’
‘It’s more complicated than that, but they do have a track record of dealing with the dead. It’s up to you.’
‘What would I have to do?’
Wainwright chuckled. ‘You wouldn’t have to sell your soul, if that’s what you mean. I know one of the guys in a London group and I could put you in touch.’
‘And it’s safe?’
‘It’s a hell of a lot safer than what you were trying to do in the basement,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I’ll talk to them and get back to you with the details if they’re cool about it.’
Wainwright ended the call. Nightingale decided that there was no point in trying to get back to sleep so he shaved and showered and put on his second-best suit, a dark blue pinstripe. He had a meeting with a solicitor in Earl’s Court and wanted to make a good impression. Solicitors were a good source of work and Nightingale was trying to get more legal firms on his books.
He was in the kitchen frying bacon, wearing a blue-and-white-striped apron over his suit, when he heard his phone beeping to let him know that he’d received a text message. It was from Wainwright, with a name, a mobile phone number and a brief message: ‘You can trust him.’
‘I hope that’s true,’ muttered Nightingale, putting the phone on the coffee table and heading back to finish frying his bacon.
43
The meeting with the solicitor in Earl’s Court went really well. He was a middle-aged Bangladeshi wearing what seemed to be a Savile Row made-to-measure suit that probably cost ten times as much as Nightingale’s pinstripe, a gold Rolex wristwatch and handmade shoes that put Nightingale’s Hush Puppies to shame. The solicitor did a lot of immigration work and needed a private detective to do the legwork on cases where failed asylum seekers were being threatened with deportation. Most of the work appeared to be computer-based and Nightingale was confident that Jenny would be able to handle it in her sleep, so after an hour he shook the man’s expensively manicured hand and headed back to his MGB. He’d parked in a multi-storey car park not far from the Exhibition Centre.
He lit a cigarette, blew smoke, then put the key in the ignition and turned it. There was a dull clunking sound from under the bonnet, then silence. He cursed and tried again. This time there wasn’t even a clunk. He got out of the car and phoned Jenny.
‘Dial-A-Cab,’ she said when she answered.
‘Is the whole world psychic?’ he asked.
‘You drove your MGB; it’s an hour since your meeting started so I’m guessing you’ve just left the solicitor; I doubt that he’s told you anything that merits an immediate phone call, so I’m guessing your car has died again.’
‘You should be a detective,’ said Nightingale.
‘And you should buy yourself a decent car,’ said Jenny.
‘I know, I know,’ said Nightingale. ‘I hang my head in shame. But I’ve got a problem.’
‘I know. You’ve to get to Gosling Manor.’
‘Can you pick me up?’
‘I can. But Jack, you really can’t keep using me as a taxi service. I’ve got a stack of accounts to deal with here and I was going to go to the bank to pay in those cheques that arrived today.’
‘Pretty please?’
‘You’re the one who’s going to be paying my expenses, so you can do whatever you want. I just think that you could be making better use of my time, that’s all.’
‘So you’ll come and get me?’
‘Yes, master.’
‘I’ll be in the Starbucks close to the Exhibition Centre. Give me a bell when you’re in the area and I’ll bring you a coffee.’
‘Make it a mocha,’ she said. ‘I could do with giving my blood sugar a boost.’
‘And a muffin?’
‘Banana choc-chip.’
‘You’re a sweetheart.’
Nightingale locked up the MGB and finished smoking his cigarette as he walked to Starbucks. Jenny phoned when she was ten minutes away and by the time she drove up in her Audi he was standing outside with a large mocha and a muffin in a paper bag.
‘Did you call the AA?’ she asked as he slotted her drink into a cup holder and put the muffin on the dashboard.
‘What’s my drink problem got to do with anything?’
She laughed as she pulled away from the kerb. ‘Idiot. The AA. For what you laughingly call a car.’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ he said. He nodded at the Starbucks bag. ‘Do you want that now?’
‘I’ll save it for later,’ she said. ‘How did it go with Mr Deepak?’
‘Great. Nice guy, very professional. Says he can put a lot of work our way.’
‘Can I ask you something?’
Nightingale looked across at her, surprised by the question. ‘Sure.’
‘Wainwright’s going to buy the library, right?’
‘Fingers crossed.’
‘Probably for a lot of money?’
‘Fingers and toes crossed, sure.’
‘He paid you a stack for those books you sold him last year. Two million euros.’
‘Which went straight to the bank, if you’re thinking about a pay rise.’
‘What I’m thinking is that if he’s going to buy the entire library from you, he’s going to pay millions.’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘So you’ll be able to pay off the bank and have a small fortune left.’
‘Maybe a big fortune,’ said Nightingale.
‘And then what?’
Nightingale frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
She sighed and shook her head. ‘Sometimes you can be so obtuse.’
‘What?’ said Nightingale, genuinely confused.
‘What happens to Jack Nightingale Investigations?’
‘It’ll take the pressure off,’ he said.
‘Jack, you’ll be a very wealthy man. You’re not going to want to work, are you?’
‘I’m not old enough for a pipe and slippers.’
‘No, but you’ll be rich enough to buy a villa in Spain or a go-go bar in Bangkok, or pretty much anything you want.’
Nightingale grinned. ‘A go-go bar? Where did that come from?’
‘It’s an example of what guys do when they come into money,’ she said. ‘And you’re coming into a lot of money.’
‘And you think I’ll just up sticks and run off to the sun?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Jenny. ‘But if that’s what you’re going to do I’d appreciate some advance notice so that I can make plans.’
‘You don’t want to help me run the go-go bar, then?’
Jenny flashed him an exasperated look. ‘I’m serious. I don’t want to turn up for work one day to find you’ve done a runner.’
‘Is that what you think’s going to happen?’
