‘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.
