Evans nodded. ‘Barry O’Brien,’ he said. ‘He lives out in Hammersmith. He was fully insured, clean licence and everything, so I don’t see there’ll be any problems.’
‘How is he?’
‘Physically fine – he was wearing his seatbelt – but he’s really shaken.’
‘He should be,’ said Nightingale.
‘I’m serious,’ said Evans. ‘He was in a right mess when we saw him. He’d never had an accident before, and he’s been driving a cab for over thirty years. He’s taking it really badly.’
Nightingale thanked them and headed for the exit. Jenny linked her arm through his. ‘You just lied to him, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘There are no insurance papers.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just know. You can’t lie to the police, Jack.’
‘Yes, you can. It’s practically a national pastime,’ said Nightingale. ‘Everyone lies to the cops.’
‘But why do you need to know who the driver was?’
‘I want to talk to him.’
‘Because?’
Nightingale sighed. ‘Because he killed my best friend and I want to know what happened.’
‘They told you what happened. It was an accident. Robbie was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘Yeah, well, cops don’t always tell the truth,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need to hear it from the horse’s mouth.’ They walked out of the graveyard. ‘I can’t work, Jenny, not today. Let’s go and get drunk.’
‘I’ve a better idea,’ said Jenny. ‘Why don’t you show me Gosling Manor?’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Why not?’ said Jenny. ‘I want to see if it’s as big as you say it is.’
Nightingale grinned. ‘Jenny, size isn’t everything, you know.’
‘Actually,’ she smiled, ‘it is, pretty much.’
41
Jenny climbed out of the MGB. ‘You weren’t joking – it is a mansion,’ she said. ‘How many rooms?’
‘A lot,’ said Nightingale.
‘I expected gargoyles and turrets and stuff but it’s really nice,’ she said. ‘And the gardens are spectacular.’ She stood with her hands on her hips, admiring the house. ‘It’s chocolate-box pretty, isn’t it? Not the sort of house you’d expect a Satanist to live in.’
‘It was built by the local squire, apparently.’
‘What is it – seventeenth century?’
‘Sixteenth, the cops said. But it’s been added to over the years. You should have a look around the back – there’s a lake. And stables. How does it compare to the McLean ancestral pile?’
Jenny smiled. ‘Ah, now you’re talking,’ she said. ‘My parents’ place is a bit special.’
‘As special as this?’
‘I’m not playing the who’s-got-the-biggest-house game, Jack, but this is lovely, really lovely. You’re very lucky to have it.’
‘Yeah, but I can’t see how I can keep it,’ said Nightingale. He walked over to the garage, which was to the right of the main building. There were four metal doors that opened upwards but all were locked. CCTV cameras at either end covered all the doors and the area in front of them.
‘He was big on security,’ observed Jenny.
‘Inside and out,’ said Nightingale. He went to the far side of the garage. There were two windows, dusty and covered with cobwebs. He peered through the first but all he could see was a bare concrete floor, discoloured from years of spilled oil. He moved to the second, cupped his hand over his forehead and squinted through the glass. There was a long wooden workbench but no tools. A pulley and chains hung from a metal girder running the full length of the interior and there was a dark area at the far end, which looked like a pit.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Jenny, joining him at the window.
‘A Bentley,’ said Nightingale. ‘Apparently that’s what Gosling drove. Or, rather, that’s what he was driven around in.’ He moved away from the window. ‘Empty,’ he said. ‘Just like the house.’
‘Maybe he sold it,’ said Jenny.
‘He seems to have sold everything else.’
‘Except the books,’ said Jenny.
‘Except the books,’ agreed Nightingale. ‘Come on, I’ll give you the tour.’
They walked to the front door and Nightingale unlocked it. He bowed and waved her inside. ‘Wow, would you look at that chandelier!’ she said. ‘And this floor is Italian marble, right?’
‘Only the best for Ainsley Gosling,’ said Nightingale, closing the door.
‘And there’s no furniture?’
‘Just a bed and a chair in the master bedroom.’
‘That’s where he…?’
‘Killed himself? Yeah. But you wouldn’t know by looking at the room – it’s been cleaned. Not a speck of blood.’ He waved his hand around the hall. ‘So, can you see the secret panel?’
‘The what?’
‘The secret panel. Gosling was the only one who knew how to get down to the basement.’
Jenny walked slowly along the length of the hallway, running her hand along the wooden panelling. ‘How did you find it, if it’s so secret?’
Nightingale waxed an imaginary moustache and did his best Hercule Poirot impersonation. ‘Because I am ze great detective,’ he said.
‘Robbie found it, right?’
‘It was a joint effort,’ said Nightingale. He pressed the panel that led down to the basement and it clicked open. He flicked the light switch. ‘Be careful, the stairs are quite steep,’ he said. ‘And keep hold of the handrail.’
He followed her down the stairs. ‘This is amazing,’ said Jenny. ‘There must be thousands of books here. Are they all witchcraft and devil stuff?’
‘Seem to be.’
‘Are you going to sell them all?’ she asked, as she pulled one out of the middle of a shelf. ‘Ah,’ she said, before he could answer. ‘Perhaps not.’
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
She held up the book so that he could see the title. Dissecting Humans.
‘No way,’ he said.
Jenny leafed through it. ‘Complete with illustrations,’ she said. ‘I think it’s a medical text. At least, I hope it is.’ She put it back on the shelf and started walking through the display cases. ‘It’s half library, half museum.’
Nightingale went to Gosling’s desk. He sat down, opened the top drawer and pulled out a leather file. Inside, plastic folders held business cards – lawyers, businessmen, politicians, showbiz personalities, even high-ranking policemen. Ainsley Gosling had had some very important friends.
‘Have you seen these crystal balls?’ asked Jenny. ‘Was he a fortune-teller as well?’
‘Get away from there!’ shouted Nightingale, leaping out of the chair.
Jenny jumped backwards. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.
Nightingale hurried over to her. ‘Just don’t touch them,’ he said.
‘Why? Are they valuable?’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.’
‘It’s not that,’ he said. His shoe crunched on a piece of broken glass. ‘It’s just…’ He tailed off, not sure if he could explain what he was worried about without appearing to be a complete idiot.
‘Tell me, Jack.’
‘The last time Robbie was here he saw himself in one of the balls.’
‘His reflection, you mean?’
