‘This whole devil thing, I’m not sure what I believe and what I don’t.’
‘But, after last night, you know she means it? She’s going to have you killed?’
Nightingale gingerly touched the wound on his scalp. ‘The bang on the head shows she’s serious,’ he said. ‘One down, two to go.’
‘It’s not funny,’ said Jenny.
‘I’m just trying to lighten the moment.’
‘Yeah, well, you’re failing miserably.’ She sighed and went back into her office.
Nightingale took out his wallet and found the receipt on which Joshua Wainwright had written his mobile phone number. He tapped out the number and the American answered almost immediately.
‘How’re things, Jack?’ he said.
‘Are you psychic?’ asked Nightingale. ‘How did you know it was me?’
Wainwright laughed. ‘Caller ID,’ he said. ‘Technology, not witchcraft.’
‘I didn’t give you my number,’ said Nightingale.
‘I stored it last time you called,’ said Wainwright. ‘You sound mighty suspicious, Jack. Someone giving you a hard time?’
‘No more than usual,’ said Nightingale. ‘Where are you?’
‘Here and there,’ said the American. ‘What’s up?’
‘That diary you wanted. The special one. I found it.’
‘You did, huh? You remember what I said?’
‘About not selling? Sure. Hardly likely to forget something like that. I thought you’d want to see it straight away. You said you might be in London this week.’
‘Darn tooting I’d like it. I’ll be in the Ritz tomorrow. Come round, but you’ll have to ask for Bert Whistler.’
‘Bert Whistler?’
‘Low profile,’ said Wainwright. ‘So what do you want for it?’
‘Why do you think I want something?’
Wainwright chuckled. ‘Maybe I am psychic, after all,’ he said. ‘But I figure that if you can’t sell it then you’ll have come up with a trade. A barter. A quid pro quo.’
‘You’re right,’ said Nightingale. ‘But all I want is some information. Advice.’
‘I’ll see you at the Ritz,’ said Wainwright. ‘I should be there by noon. We can talk then.’
Nightingale ended the call and went through to Jenny’s office. ‘Wainwright’s in London tomorrow and I’m going to take the books round to him.’
‘Jack, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.’
‘I don’t think Satanists are big on Christmas.’
She shook her head in exasperation. ‘You know what I mean. We’re going to my parents tomorrow. Remember? I’m driving you to Norfolk in the morning.’
Nightingale groaned. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Completely slipped my mind.’
‘Yeah, I can see how high up I am on your list of priorities,’ she said.
‘It’s not that,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s just…’
‘That there are more important things on your mind,’ she said. ‘I understand.’
‘He’ll be at the Ritz. I’ll drop off the books and then I’ll drive up myself. I’ll be there in the afternoon. It’s no biggie.’ The look of disappointment stayed on her face. ‘Jenny, I’ve already bought your dad a bottle of eighteen- year-old Laphroaig and some lemongrass shower gel for your mum.’
‘Shower gel?’
‘I’m not good at buying gifts for women,’ said Nightingale. ‘But the salesgirl said that it makes your skin go all tingly, so that’s got to be good, right?’
‘Okay, but you’d better be there, Jack. I told them you were coming.’
‘I won’t let you down, I promise.’
61
N ightingale arrived at the Ritz Hotel at noon. He unbuttoned his raincoat as he walked across the marble floor towards the reception desk, swinging his Sainsbury’s carrier bag.
The receptionist was a man in his mid-thirties with a fifty-pound haircut and a made-to-measure suit that was probably worth as much as Nightingale’s MGB. He smiled professionally at Nightingale and tapped in the name Whistler on a discreetly hidden keyboard. ‘Who shall I say is here to see him?’
‘Tell him it’s his mother,’ said Nightingale.
The receptionist frowned.
‘Whistler’s mother,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s a joke.’ The receptionist continued to stare impassively at him and Nightingale flashed back to when he was at school, explaining to a teacher why he had a packet of Marlboro and a box of matches in his schoolbag. ‘Then again, maybe it isn’t,’ he said. ‘Nightingale. Jack Nightingale.’
The smile reappeared and the receptionist tapped again on the keyboard. ‘Mr Whistler hasn’t checked in yet.’
‘He was supposed to be here at twelve,’ said Nightingale.
‘That’s our understanding too, sir, but, as I said, he’s yet to arrive. Would you like to leave a message?’
‘I’ll wait,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do me a favour and leave a message that I’m in reception.’
Nightingale left the receptionist typing away and walked over to an armchair. He sat down and waited. From where he was sitting he could see the main door and all of the reception area, but an hour passed and there was no sign of the American. He called Wainwright’s mobile phone but it just rang out and didn’t go through to voicemail. At one o’clock he went back to the desk and spoke to another receptionist, this one a pretty blonde girl. She confirmed that Wainwright still hadn’t checked in.
Nightingale sat down again and continued waiting. It was another hour before a man in a black suit, crisp white shirt and black tie appeared in front of him. He had a head that was completely shaved and a small scar under his left ear. At first Nightingale thought he was a hotel employee but then he spotted a discreet clear-plastic earpiece.
‘Mr Nightingale?’ he said, in a soft American accent.
‘That’s me.’
‘Mr Wainwright will see you now,’ he said.
‘I didn’t see him come in,’ said Nightingale.
‘Mr Wainwright uses a private entrance,’ said the man. ‘He prefers it that way.’
Nightingale stood up as the man headed for the lifts. ‘What floor are we going to?’ he asked.
‘Sixth,’ said the man.
‘Room six six six, by any chance?’
The man frowned and shook his head. ‘Six three two,’ he said. ‘He always stays in the same suite.’
‘I know this is going to sound crazy, but can we use the stairs?’
‘Absolutely,’ said the man. ‘I’m no fan of elevators myself.’
They took the stairs to the sixth floor and then Nightingale followed the man along a plush corridor. The door to Wainwright’s suite was opened by a gorgeous blonde in a tight-fitting suit the skirt of which ended a good ten inches above her knees. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Nightingale,’ she said. ‘Do come in. Mr Wainwright is expecting you.’ She had an Afrikaans accent and the bluest eyes that Nightingale had ever seen.
She took him through to a sitting room where Wainwright was sprawled on a sofa reading a copy of the Wall Street Journal. He was wearing a blue denim shirt, black 501 jeans and a pair of gleaming lizard-skin cowboy boots.
‘Jack, good to see you,’ said the American. He stood up, shook hands with Nightingale and then waved him to an armchair before sitting down again. ‘Sorry I’m late. I had a thing at Westminster and the guy I was there to see was tied up with your PM.’
Nightingale gave Wainwright the carrier bag and sat down.
