24
Jenny was sitting at her desk, using a small mirror to read the handwritten diary, when Nightingale walked in. He opened the door to his office. ‘Coffee would be nice,’ he said. He flopped onto his chair and put his feet on the desk. A small spider had set up home in the corner by the window and there was a layer of dust on the blinds. ‘When’s the cleaner in next?’ he called.
‘She was here on Friday morning,’ Jenny replied, as she poured his coffee, ‘and she’ll be in again tomorrow.’
‘Then she’s doing a shit job,’ said Nightingale. ‘She’s Polish, right?’
‘Romanian,’ said Jenny. ‘I’ll talk to her.’
‘Tell her to give the blinds a wipe.’
‘I hear and obey,’ said Jenny, appearing at the door with a steaming mug. ‘Just like your women – hot and black.’
Nightingale frowned.
‘What?’
‘I was joking,’ she said, putting the mug on his desk and sitting down opposite him. ‘Trying to lighten the moment.’
‘But I’ve never had a black girlfriend,’ said Nightingale, reaching for the mug.
‘That’s what makes it funny. What’s wrong, Jack? You look like-’
‘Like I’ve seen a ghost?’
‘Well, yes, actually.’
Nightingale sipped his coffee. ‘My uncle killed himself yesterday – killed himself and murdered my aunt.’
Jenny’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’
‘My uncle Tommy. He hanged himself.’
‘Why?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘He didn’t leave a note. I spoke to him during the week and said I’d drive up to Altrincham for Sunday lunch so they were expecting me. He sounded fine then. But when I got there, they were dead.’
‘Jack, that’s terrible. That’s…’ She sat down. ‘I don’t… it doesn’t…’ She shook her head. ‘This is unreal.’
‘It’s real, all right,’ said Nightingale. ‘I spent yesterday talking to the Manchester cops.’
‘The cops?’
‘It was a murder-suicide, Jenny. The cops have to investigate, but it’s open and shut. My aunt’s blood was all over him and she’d scratched his face. There was no one else involved.’
‘But why? Why would he kill his wife?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’d told them I wanted to talk about my parents, whether I was adopted or not.’
‘And they were okay on the phone?’
‘They sounded a bit nervous, but they invited me for lunch.’
‘I can’t believe this,’ said Jenny.
‘I’m having trouble coming to terms with it myself,’ said Nightingale.
‘They weren’t having problems or anything?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Jack, you don’t think this is connected to Gosling, do you?’
‘It didn’t occur to me, Jenny.’ Actually, that was a lie because as soon as Nightingale had seen the bloody letters on Uncle Tommy’s bathroom mirror he had known that he was in some way connected to the death of his aunt and uncle. But he couldn’t figure out what that connection was. When he’d first seen the words scrawled in blood he’d thought he was dreaming. He’d stared at the message in horror, imagining that at any minute he’d be in Underwood’s office and the man would crash through the window and fall to his death. But it was no dream, he didn’t wake up, the words were real and his uncle and aunt were dead. Nightingale had no idea why he was hearing people telling him he was going to hell, and even less why his uncle would write it on the bathroom mirror before killing himself. But until he had worked out what was going on, he didn’t intend to worry Jenny.
‘Did you tell the police about Gosling?’ she asked.
‘I thought it would just make a complicated situation even more so.’ Nightingale swung his legs off his desk. ‘It was one hell of a weekend,’ he said. ‘I spent Friday night in the cells.’
‘You what?’
‘I was done for drink-driving on Friday night.’
‘Oh, Jack… You said you weren’t going to drive.’
‘And I wasn’t. Swear to God, when I left the wine bar I had no intention of getting behind the wheel. I don’t know what came over me.’
‘So now what happens?’
Nightingale took another sip of his coffee. ‘I didn’t hit anyone but I’m going to lose my licence so I’ll need to find somewhere to keep the MGB.’
‘I’ll look after it for you,’ said Jenny.
‘Have you got a garage?’
‘I can leave it with my parents. My dad can take it out every week, keep the battery charged. Those old cars seize up if you don’t drive them.’
Nightingale smiled. ‘We call them classics rather than old cars,’ he said. ‘Does he know what he’s doing?’
‘He’s got two old Jags and a frog-eyed Sprite. Sorry, classic Jags. And a Jensen-Healey.’
‘You never told me that.’
‘You never asked, Jack. My dad used to work for Jaguar. He was an accountant and until he retired he was on the board.’
Nightingale put down his mug. ‘You constantly amaze me,’ he said.
‘Mutual,’ said Jenny.
‘How goes the translation?’
Jenny shuddered. ‘It’s full of some very weird stuff.’
‘How weird?’
Jenny leaned forward. ‘Have you got a tattoo?’
‘A tattoo? What – “I love Mum”, that sort of thing?’
‘A pentagram. Either a tattoo or a mark that looks like a pentagram.’ She sat back in her chair. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous but, according to Mitchell’s diary, anyone whose soul belongs to the devil has a mark, a pentagram, hidden somewhere on their body.’
‘You’re right, it sounds ridiculous,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m thirty-two years old, and if I had a tattoo I’d know about it.’
‘So you’ve nothing to worry about, then,’ said Jenny. She started to get up but Nightingale waved her back into her chair.
‘Whoa, horsey,’ he said. ‘Are you saying that if I do have a mark I should worry?’
‘You said you haven’t.’
‘But if I had, do you think I’d have something to worry about?’
‘I think I’m reading the ramblings of a deeply disturbed mind. That of a sad bastard with too much time on his hands.’
Nightingale raised his mug in salute. ‘That’s my girl,’ he said. ‘You had me worried for a moment.’
‘Worried about what?’
‘That you were starting to take this nonsense seriously.’ He took another sip of coffee. ‘Do you still have that pal at the Department for Work and Pensions?’
‘Sure. Why?’
‘Can you get her to run a check and see if Sebastian Mitchell’s still alive and kicking?’
‘If he is, he’ll be in his eighties. Maybe older.’
‘Be nice to know if he’s still around. Or if he met a sticky end, too.’
