25
Nightingale unlocked the front door of Gosling Manor and flicked the light switch. The massive chandelier glowed with more than two dozen bulbs. He had paid the bill on Friday and the electricity company had promised to have the power reconnected over the weekend. ‘Excellent,’ he said. He switched off the light. It wasn’t yet noon and the hallway was flooded with natural light from a skylight in the double-height ceiling. He walked through to the main drawing room and flicked the light switches there to check that they were working, then went back into the hall and looked up at the CCTV camera that covered the main entrance. A small red light on the side glowed weakly.
He went back into the drawing room and saw, out of the window, something move by the trees, a shadow that slipped behind a massive oak. Nightingale stared at it, wondering what it was. It was too tall to have been a dog or a fox, too small for a man. It might have been a child, but what would a child be doing in the grounds? He lit a cigarette and continued to stare at the tree. The grounds of Gosling Manor would be a magnet for local kids, he realised. Lots of trees to climb, places to build dens, and with the house empty, there’d be no one to chase them away. If it had been in a city it would have been vandalised already, windows smashed and graffiti sprayed across the doors and walls. Even though country children were different from their inner-city counterparts, Nightingale knew it would be a matter of time before someone broke in. An empty house was just too tempting a target, even when it was in the middle of nowhere. He needed either a night watchman or a security company making regular visits. If squatters moved in, the house would be that much harder to sell. The grounds needed maintaining, too. The lawns were still immaculate but grass grew and it would need cutting before long. And someone would have to rake up all the dead leaves.
Nightingale sighed. It would cost him a small fortune to carry out even basic maintenance on the huge house, money he didn’t have. And there was bound to be a sizeable inheritance-tax bill. Even if he were to sell the house quickly, he reckoned he’d be lucky to see more than a few thousand pounds once he’d paid off the mortgage, the taxman and the estate agent. He blew smoke and briefly considered setting fire to the building and claiming on the insurance. Except there probably wasn’t any insurance. Gosling hadn’t insured his mortgage payments, so he almost certainly hadn’t insured the house against fire.
There was no further movement around the oak tree and Nightingale turned away from the window. He went back into the hall and pulled open the panel that led down into the basement. He flicked the switch at the top of the stairs and the fluorescent lights kicked into life. He heard a scratching sound upstairs and froze, his hand still on the switch. For a few seconds there was only the sound of his own breathing. Then he heard a miaow and more scratching. ‘Hey, cat, get down here and I’ll let you out!’ shouted Nightingale. His voice echoed in the hallway.
The scratching stopped. Nightingale had never been a great fan of cats. He didn’t like the way they stared at people, the disdainful way they looked down their noses as if there was no doubt in their minds that cats were the superior species. But if cats were so smart, they’d be able to open their own cans of food. ‘Or you can stay up there and starve – the choice is yours,’ he shouted. Starvation wasn’t an option, Nightingale knew, as there would almost certainly be a large rodent population calling Gosling Manor home. Cats, unlike humans, were natural survivors.
Nightingale went slowly down the stairs. The basement didn’t look quite so large now that the lights were on, but it was still bigger than most small-town libraries. The exhibits in the display cases didn’t look quite so eerie under the stark lights. For the first time Nightingale noticed the bare brick walls and the uneven tiled floor.
The six LCD screens at the far end of the basement were blank, but as Nightingale got closer to them he could see small green lights that showed they were switched on. He sat down in front of the stainless-steel console and pushed the button labelled ‘Main Entrance’ but nothing happened. Next he tried ‘Study’ but that didn’t work either. He frowned. Then he noticed six buttons at the top right of the console. He pressed them and, one by one, the screens flickered into life. The two in the middle showed full-screen views while the others were divided into four, giving a total of eighteen shots of the house and its grounds.
The two full screens showed an upstairs corridor and the master bedroom. Nightingale started with the ‘Study’ button, then worked his way methodically through all twenty-eight cameras. There was no sign of the cat. He noticed a cupboard to the left of the desk and opened it to find a computer with slots for six DVDs. He pressed ‘eject’ but all were empty. If recordings had been made of the CCTV feeds, they weren’t there now.
Nightingale returned to the view of the master bedroom and leaned back in the chair. He could just make out the rust-coloured stain where Gosling’s body had lain after he’d pulled the trigger. Had there been anyone in the basement when Gosling had killed himself? Probably not: he wouldn’t have wanted any witnesses. A shotgun in the mouth wasn’t a cry for help. He’d just wanted to end it all. He must have dismissed the staff before he did it.
Nightingale stared at the bed, the chair and the candles surrounding the circle, which had presumably offered some form of magical protection. Gosling must have believed he was safe if he stayed inside it, which implied that he would have had to remain there all the time. But there was no food in the room, and no way of getting to the bathroom without leaving the circle, so if Gosling had been inside it for any length of time he must have had someone in the house to help him, to bring him food and deal with his waste. He took out his wallet and flicked through it until he found the Neighbourhood Watch card given to him by the policeman he’d met the first time he’d come to the house. He tapped out the number on his mobile.
‘Sergeant Wilde? This is Jack Nightingale – I own Gosling Manor. You were around with your colleague earlier this week.’
‘You can call me Harry, Jack. You outranked me when you were in the job, so it’s only fair.’
‘Can you talk?’
‘I just got home and my wife’s burning my dinner as we speak so, yes, fire away. How can I help you?’
‘You said that Gosling’s driver let you into the house after he’d found the body.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Was there anyone else in the house?’
‘At the time he killed himself? No. He’d sent what staff there were home the night before.’
‘So there were people still working at the house? Even though the furniture had all gone?’
‘There was a skeleton staff, I think. An old woman who did the cooking and a bit of cleaning, and her husband tidied the garden. The driver doubled as butler.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got their phone numbers, have you?’
‘Why? Is there a problem?’
‘No, I just need someone to keep the place clean, I thought the old staff might be the best bet,’ lied Nightingale. ‘I’m not that handy with the old mop and brush, to be honest.’
‘You and me both.’ The policeman laughed. ‘Let me have a look through my old notes. Can I call you on this number?’
‘Day or night,’ said Nightingale, and ended the call.
He wandered past the bookshelves, running his fingers along the spines. He stopped at one titled The Devil and His Works and pulled it out. It was a large leather-bound volume by Sir Nicholas Weatherby, published in 1924. Nightingale wondered what a knight was doing writing a book about the devil. He flicked to the index. There were four references to ‘summoning the devil’. The first mentioned it in passing, the second and third were biblical quotes about Satan, but the fourth took up half a dozen pages in the final chapter. Nightingale carried the book to Gosling’s desk and sat down to read.
Sir Nicholas began with a stern warning about the dangers of any sort of interaction with Satanic forces. Many who tried ended up dead or deranged, and only highly experienced Satanists should ever attempt to make contact with the devil or his demons. Nightingale laughed at the author’s flowery language – his style seemed more suited to a Barbara Cartland romance than a serious treatise on the dark arts.
In the next paragraph Sir Nicholas detailed a spell that he said guaranteed an appearance by Satan himself. ‘It is,’ said Sir Nicholas, ‘only to be used by a level-nine Satanist with the protection of a magic circle fortified by holy water blessed by the Pontiff.’
Nightingale couldn’t see how repeating a few words, none of which made any apparent sense, could achieve anything, let alone summon the devil. He stood up and, in a loud voice, slowly recited the first sentence. ‘Bagabi laca bachabe Lamc cahi achababe Karrelyos,’ he said. He stopped and listened but all was still. He smiled to
