‘But she came through, did she?’
‘She managed to track down Rebecca Keeley. She’s in a nursing home, apparently. But nothing on Mitchell. He isn’t on any of the databases. Never paid tax, never been on the electoral roll, never seen a doctor. The original invisible man.’
‘Well, I hope we’re not paying for that,’ said Nightingale.
‘We’re paying for the checks, Jack, not the results.’
‘So what’s the story on Keeley? It’s an old folks’ home, is it?’
‘Hardly,’ said Jenny. ‘She’s only fifty.’
Nightingale’s brow furrowed. ‘Fifty? That means she was seventeen when she gave birth.’
‘You’re assuming she’s your mother, Jack. And that’s a very big assumption. All you have is that Gosling gave her some money at about the time you were born.’
‘Twenty thousand pounds was a lot of money back then,’ said Nightingale. ‘He must have been paying her for something important.’
‘She could have sold him a painting. Or a piece of furniture.’
‘He was meticulous with his records. Every cheque stub was filled in with either a reference number or a description of what he’d paid for. But the one for Keeley just had the amount with no explanation.’
‘I’m just saying, don’t get too excited. It might turn out to be nothing.’
‘Message received and understood,’ said Nightingale. ‘So why’s she in a home if she’s only fifty?’
‘I don’t know, but I’ve got an address,’ she said, handing him a sheet of paper. ‘Shall I get Mr McBride in so that you can give him the bad news – and his bill?’
‘Might as well,’ said Nightingale, studying the piece of paper she’d given him. The Hillingdon Home was in Hampshire, and there was no indication of what sort of outfit it was. Underneath the address there was a phone number, and the name of the administrator, a Mrs Elizabeth Fraser.
‘His wife paid for the hotel room, did you realise that?’ asked Jenny.
‘Yeah, I saw her handing over her card. Unbelievable, isn’t it? She sleeps with the boss and pays for it. What’s he got that I haven’t?’
‘Charm for a start,’ said Jenny.
29
‘Go on, number five!’ bellowed Nightingale, waving his betting slip. ‘Go on, my son!’
‘His name’s Red Rover,’ said Hoyle, at his shoulder.
‘He doesn’t know his name,’ said Nightingale. ‘Go on, number five!’
The greyhounds reached the second bend in a tight pack with number five somewhere in the middle. Nightingale had put twenty pounds on it to win for no other reason than that he’d liked the way the dog seemed to be smiling as it was walked around by its trainer.
Hoyle had put fifty pounds on number six, and as the dogs sped into the final stretch he cursed: number six was bringing up the rear.
‘Come on, number five!’ shouted Nightingale.
A black dog, its tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth, seemed to hit a second wind and hurtled into the lead. It crossed the finishing line just yards behind the mechanical hare. Number five came in third. Nightingale screwed up his betting slip. They were at Wimbledon Stadium in south London. It had been Hoyle’s idea – he had been a regular visitor before he was married but now he barely managed two or three evenings a year. ‘Which do you fancy in the next race?’ asked Nightingale, studying his race card.
‘Old Kentucky,’ said Hoyle.
‘I think having the word “old” in his name isn’t a great start,’ said Nightingale.
‘Won his last four races,’ said Hoyle. ‘Come on, drinks are on me if he loses.’
They joined a queue to place their bets. ‘I got an address for that woman, the one Gosling gave twenty grand to,’ said Nightingale. ‘Some sort of home in Hampshire.’
‘You really think she might be your mother?’
‘She’s the only lead I’ve got.’
‘Are you going to see her?
‘I’ve got to, Robbie.’
‘You don’t have to, you could let sleeping dogs lie.’ He grinned. ‘No pun intended.’
Nightingale kept his eyes on the list of runners.
‘Are you going to see her because she’s your mother? Or because of this devil’s contract thing?’ asked Hoyle, lowering his voice to a whisper.
‘I just want to meet her.’
‘What if she doesn’t want to meet you?’
Nightingale frowned at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She gave you up for adoption thirty-three years ago. She hasn’t made any attempt to contact you during that time, and the last thing she’s going to expect is you turning up on her doorstep.’
Nightingale reached the front of the queue and handed a twenty-pound note to the cashier, a rotund woman in her fifties with blue-rinsed hair and green eye-shadow. ‘Old Kentucky in the next race,’ he said.
The woman smiled at him through the protective Perspex screen. ‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale.’
‘What?’ said Nightingale, his fingers gripping the race card so tightly that his knuckles whitened. ‘What did you say?’ He knew what she’d said – he’d heard her quite distinctly. There was no mistake.
‘Win or place?’ said the woman.
Nightingale was sure he hadn’t misheard the first time – she hadn’t mumbled and had looked him right in the eye as she’d spoken. Her voice had been flat and cold, the voice of something not quite alive. But, like everyone else who had told him he was going to hell, she didn’t seem to be aware that she’d said it.
‘Win or place, young man,’ said the cashier. ‘I don’t have all day.’
‘Win,’ said Nightingale. Had he imagined it? Was his subconscious playing tricks on him? It had started with the dreams of Simon Underwood falling to his death, but maybe now his subconscious had decided that the dreams weren’t enough, that it wanted to torment him while he was awake. Or maybe he was going crazy.
The cashier handed him a betting slip and Nightingale walked away.
‘Jack, are you okay?’ Hoyle called.
Nightingale reached for his cigarettes. No, he wasn’t okay. He was a long, long way from it. He lit a cigarette but had taken only one drag when an official in a blazer tapped him on the shoulder and told him that smoking wasn’t allowed. ‘But we’re outside,’ he said, waving at the sky.
‘It’s a place of work,’ said the man. ‘Health and safety.’
‘It’s bloody nonsense,’ said Nightingale.
‘It’s the law,’ said the man. He had short, wiry hair and its dark brown hue was so uniform that it had to have been dyed. His cheeks were threaded with burst veins and he had the look of a former sergeant major hankering for the days when he could make life a misery for men who couldn’t answer back. ‘Don’t give me a hard time, sonny.’
‘You’re not going to tell me I’m going to hell, are you?’
‘I don’t have to use bad language,’ said the man, holding up a small transceiver. ‘All I have to do is call Security.’
Nightingale dropped the cigarette onto the ground, stamped on it and headed for the bar. He was about to order a beer but changed his mind and asked for a whisky instead. It had just arrived when Hoyle appeared at his shoulder. Nightingale handed the barman a ten-pound note and ordered Hoyle a glass of red wine.
‘What’s wrong, mate?’ asked Hoyle.
‘Nothing,’ said Nightingale. He downed his whisky in one gulp, and when the barman returned with Hoyle’s wine, he pointed at his empty glass and asked for a refill.
‘Clearly,’ said Hoyle. ‘Since when have you been knocking back the whisky like that?’
