‘Kitchen door. It wasn’t bolted and I didn’t damage the lock. You can lock it from the inside and leave by the front door and no one will be the wiser. Or are you planning on staying until he gets here?’
‘Why do you say that?’
Morris finished fixing the burglar alarm console and picked up his holdall. ‘Let’s just say that either you’re very pleased to see me or that’s a gun in your pocket.’
Nightingale’s hand went instinctively to his pocket. The gun was weighing down his coat on that side. ‘Thanks for getting me in, Eddie. You can head off now.’
‘What’s going on, Jack?’
‘Just go, Eddie.’
‘I’ve known you a long time. Since you were a copper, remember? I know that you’re not a cop any more but you’ve always played by the rules. That’s why I put business your way. People trust you because they know you’re a straight shooter.’ He grinned. ‘Now isn’t that an unfortunate choice of words?’
‘This is personal, Eddie, and you don’t know the background.’
‘I know that guns don’t solve anything.’
‘I think the army might beg to differ.’
‘Yeah, but you’re not in the army. And you’re not a cop. You’re Joe Soap, just like the rest of us. And just carrying a firearm will get you ten years. And you pull the trigger in anger and they’ll throw away the key.’
‘I can’t believe you’re lecturing me on the law,’ said Nightingale. ‘It seems to be my day for receiving advice.’ He nodded at the door. ‘I know what I’m doing, Eddie. I’ll be fine.’
Morris shrugged, clearly not convinced. He forced a smile and headed out of the door. Nightingale closed it and waited until he heard the Saab drive away before taking out the gun and clicking the safety off.
63
Nightingale walked up the stairs, the gun in his hand. At the top of the stairs was a hallway off which there were four doors. One was to a wet room, all grey marble, stainless steel and glass. Next to it was a bedroom with a Japanese theme; it contained a futon bed, black lacquered chests with brightly coloured birds on the sides, and a framed kimono on one wall. The door next to the Japanese bedroom was locked. Nightingale bent down and squinted through the keyhole but the room beyond was in darkness. He straightened up then stiffened as he heard a car horn. He hurried back into the Japanese room and carefully peered through the slatted wooden blinds, but the driveway was empty. The horn sounded again and he saw a white van in the road trying to overtake a Volvo towing a caravan.
Nightingale reached for his cigarettes but then realised that smoking in the house wouldn’t be a good idea. Fairchild was a cigar smoker but even so he’d probably smell the cigarette smoke as soon as he opened the front door. He went back to the landing. The final door led through to the master bedroom. This room had thick beams running overhead, a large picture window looking over the garden and a small orchard, a big-screen plasma television on one wall and a king-size bed with leopard-print duvet and pillows. To the right was a door leading to another bathroom; this one had a large roll-top bath with clawed feet. One wall was mirrored and Nightingale stared at his reflection. His hair was unkempt and his face looked strained. He tried smiling but it felt more like a snarl. ‘Are you looking at me?’ he said to his reflection in a passable attempt at a Robert de Niro impersonation, and took aim with the gun. ‘Because I don’t see anyone else standing here.’ He grinned and winced as he realised that he appeared even more manic.
He went back into the main bedroom. There were black wooden cabinets on either side of the bed, and standing on the top of each one was a modern chrome lamp. He went over to the cabinet on the right side and pulled open a drawer. Inside were several packs of Viagra and a bottle of massage oil. Nightingale chuckled and closed the drawer.
He went back downstairs feeling less apprehensive now that he was more familiar with the layout of the house. He walked through the sitting room, which was an interesting mix of old and modern. The furniture was Italian — low, white leather sofas and black leather and chrome chairs — and there was a huge plasma screen on one wall with a state-of-the-art sound system. The bare floorboards had been polished like glass, but overhead were old blackened beams dotted with woodworm holes, and there were various rusting agricultural implements on the walls, including a ploughshare and an enormous scythe. The walls were criss-crossed with more original beams, blackened with age. In one wall was a huge brick fireplace that was big enough to walk into and there was a metal grate piled high with logs.
As he stood in the middle of the room he realised that there was nothing of a personal nature to be seen. No photographs, no souvenirs, no books or magazines. It was as if he was standing in a show house that had yet to be occupied. The sensation was so strong that he went back upstairs and slid open the wardrobe door. There were suits and shirts lined up on hangers and a rack of ties; in the drawers there were socks and underwear. He closed the door, satisfied that Fairchild did actually live there.
Downstairs again he found that opposite the sitting room was a door that opened into a study. It had a low ceiling, with half a dozen parallel beams, and a small fireplace with ashes in the grate that suggested it had been used recently. Dark wooden bookshelves lined the walls, and in front of the old desk was a captain’s chair. For the first time since he’d set foot in the house Nightingale saw personal items: framed certificates for educational and professional qualifications on the wall behind the desk, a humidor on a table. He opened the humidor and inhaled the heady aroma of top-quality cigars. There was a green-leather winged armchair next to the fireplace and on the mahogany table by the side of it was a crystal ashtray containing a couple of cigar butts.
Nightingale ran his finger along a line of books. They were mainly concerned with criminal law, psychology and politics. He checked all the shelves but couldn’t find any volumes about witchcraft or devil-worship.
He went back to the hallway and along to the kitchen. There were more beams across the ceiling but the appliances and units were all of stainless steel and the worktops of black marble. There was a door leading to the rear garden, and another one next to the large double-fronted fridge. Nightingale frowned as he wondered where the second door led, then realised that it could only open into the double garage. He tried to open it but it was locked. Glancing around the kitchen he saw a row of keys on a rack close to the back door. There were several that looked as if they might fit the lock to the garage door so he took them and tried them one by one. The third one that he tried worked. He put the keys down on a worktop and pushed the door open.
The double garage had been filled with metal trunks, dozens and dozens of them, and Nightingale knew immediately what they contained. He went over to the nearest trunk and saw it had catches on either side of the lid and a lock in the middle. Selecting a hammer from the rows of tools hanging on one of the walls, he used it to smash the lock, then he undid the catches. He pulled open the lid to find the trunk filled with leather-bound books. The first one he picked up and opened had a woodcut of a devil holding a pitchfork and standing in front of a woman with long hair; above it was the title
He jumped as his phone rang. It was Jenny.
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘Fairchild’s house,’ he said. ‘The books are here. All of them. In dozens of metal trunks. He must have had a small army helping him.’
‘What are you going to do? Call the police?’
‘The police won’t do anything, kid. I can’t even prove that the books are mine and anyway I’d have to explain how I got into the house.’
‘Did you break in?’
‘No, he left a key under the mat.’ He laughed. ‘Of course I broke in.’
‘So are you coming back now?’
‘Soon,’ he said. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I’m going to lie down. Don’t be too late.’
Nightingale ended the call and went back to the sitting room. He put the gun on the coffee table and sat down on one of the chrome and leather chairs. It wasn’t comfortable but that was a good thing because he didn’t
