had been done for shoplifting.’
Nightingale ended the call and then phoned Jenny, but her mobile went straight through to voicemail. He left a message asking her to call him and then went back to his curry. He spent the evening watching an episode of Midsomer Murders in which a portly John Nettles wandered around a picturesque village asking aged gentlemen where they were on the night of the fifteenth and if they had bludgeoned a gay antiques dealer to death. It bore, he knew, no relation to the real world. Even before the advent of DNA, the vast majority of murders were solved within twenty-four hours. Death at the hands of a stranger was rare. Nine times out of ten victims died at the hands of spouses, relatives or neighbours. And in most cases either the perpetrator was caught in the act or they gave themselves up to the police. In the rare cases where a victim didn’t know their assailant, the murderer almost certainly had a criminal record and would be in the system. Only once in a blue moon would detectives go around knocking on doors and looking for clues.
Jenny rang back just as Nettles had gathered the most likely suspects in the church hall. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked before he could say anything.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘It’s Sunday, Jack. You said you wanted me to call you, so I thought something had happened.’
‘I just wanted a chat.’
‘A chat?’
‘See how you were. How the family were.’
‘We’re all fine. We’ve just finished dinner, as it happens.’
‘Yeah? Me too.’
‘Curry?’
‘How did you know?’
‘It’s Sunday night. Chicken tikka masala?’
‘I really am that predictable, aren’t I?’
‘I’m afraid so. What did you do today?’
‘I went to see Wainwright. Flying visit. He gave me a shopping list of books that he wanted.’
‘That’s good news.’
‘I figured I’d have a root through the basement tomorrow morning.’
‘Good luck with that,’ she said.
‘Is there any way I could persuade you to give me a hand?’
‘In the basement?’
‘Just for a few hours.’
‘You are joking, right?’
‘No funny business, I promise. We’ll leave the lights on. It was the Ouija board that caused the problems last time. And I won’t be doing that again.’
‘Jack…’
‘Please, Jenny. I’ll pick you up and I’ll bring breakfast. Coffee and croissants.’
She sighed. ‘Banana choc-chip muffins. Two.’
‘Deal,’ he said.
‘Any falling books or cold winds and I’m out of there like a bat out of hell.’
‘You and me both,’ said Nightingale.
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.’
