studied the licence and card and then waved at Nightingale to come up the stairs. He held out his hand to shake hers but she just gave him his licence and card. ‘My name is Sylvia, Mr Nightingale. There are certain house rules that must be followed to the letter if you are to meet with Mr Mitchell.’
‘I understand.’
‘No, you don’t,’ she said. ‘You will do everything I ask or you will not be permitted to speak with him.’ She turned and walked back inside the house. Two more men in black suits and dark glasses were standing in the large white-marble hallway, their hands clasped over their groins. Two stainless-steel CCTV cameras covered the area.
A marble spiral staircase, also covered by a CCTV camera, led to the upper floors, and a glass-feature light, which looked like a waterfall that had frozen mid-flow, hung from the centre of the ceiling. Half a dozen jet black doors with glossy white handles led off the hall. Sylvia walked to the middle, her heels clicking on the marble, and stopped under the glass waterfall. She turned to him and pointed to a door. ‘In there is a bathroom. You will remove all your clothing and you will shower, using the gel provided. You will use the same gel to wash your hair twice. You will use the brush provided to clean under your toe- and fingernails. There are no towels but there is an electric dryer in which you stand. When you are dry you will put on the robe provided and come back here. Do not touch your clothes once you have showered. Do you have any questions?’
‘Just one,’ said Nightingale. ‘I said I was the son of Ainsley Gosling, but my name is Nightingale. Yet you showed no surprise at the different names.’
‘Apparently Mr Mitchell was expecting you,’ said Sylvia. She motioned at the door to the bathroom. ‘Please, if you will.’
53
There were two stainless-steel CCTV cameras in the bathroom, which Nightingale thought overkill, considering the men with guns in the hallway. He was sure that the cameras were being monitored but didn’t bother trying to protect his modesty. There were white plastic hangers on a set of stainless-steel hooks. He stripped off his clothes and placed them on the hangers. A pristine white cotton robe was hanging on one of the hooks. He rolled up his socks and put them into his shoes, took off his watch and stood facing one of the cameras, his arms held out from his sides. ‘Happy?’ he said.
The camera stared back at him. He walked into the glass-sided shower. There were multiple jets all around it and when he turned the control dial water squirted at him from every direction. There was a soap dispenser full of a bright green gel. Nightingale rubbed it into his hair and lathered it over his body. It smelled of mint and tingled on his skin. There was a brand new plastic nailbrush on a wire tray under the soap dispenser with which he methodically cleaned his nails. Then he rinsed off the lather and repeated the process.
The dryer was a stainless-steel box of the same size as the shower with a rubber floor. As soon as he stepped inside, warm air blew all over his body, caressing him like a soft summer wind. Nightingale raised his arms and let it play over his skin. In less than three minutes he was dry. He put on the robe, which reached almost to his ankles. There was no comb or brush so he stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror and tidied his hair as best he could with his fingers.
Sylvia was waiting for him in the hall, flanked by two of the men in dark suits. ‘Show me your hands,’ she said. He held them out and she scrutinised his nails, then nodded. ‘There are procedures that must be followed at all times,’ she said. ‘If at any time you break any of the rules I will give you, the meeting will end.’
‘I’ll be a good boy,’ said Nightingale.
She ignored his attempt at levity. ‘You will see that Mr Mitchell is inside a pentagram. You must not get within six feet of the perimeter.’
‘Because?’
‘There is no because, Mr Nightingale. There are only rules that have to be followed. If you make any attempt to get closer than six feet, my associates here will stop you.’
‘Stop me how?’
‘By whatever means necessary.’
‘They’ll shoot me if I try to get inside the circle?’
‘By whatever means necessary,’ repeated Sylvia. ‘You must make no move to touch Mr Mitchell or to give him anything.’
‘So, no kissing, then?’
‘This is not a laughing matter, Mr Nightingale,’ said Sylvia, disdainfully. ‘If you refuse to take this seriously I will have to ask you to leave.’
Nightingale’s face hardened. ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen, Sylvia darling,’ he said. ‘Because the way I see it, you’re the hired help here. You dance for Mr Mitchell and Mr Mitchell has decided that he wants to see me. When I was outside you were all for calling the cops and having me hauled away, but you changed your tune when Mr Mitchell learned who I was. He told you to get me in here, which means he wants to see me, which means you’re not going to ask me to leave. So, do your job and let me in to see him and stop playing the hard arse with me, because I’ve dealt with some very hard people over the years and, believe me, you don’t even come close.’
Sylva’s jaw tightened and if looks could kill Nightingale would have burst into flames on the spot, but he could see in her eyes that he was right. She didn’t have the authority to keep him from the man he’d come to see. She walked past him, so close that he caught the delicate scent of her perfume. ‘Follow me,’ she said.
54
Sebastian Mitchell was in a ground-floor room overlooking the gardens at the rear of the house. The floor was of the same white marble that had been used in the entrance hall and the walls were painted white. He was sitting in a winged green leather armchair, an oxygen mask covering the lower part of his face and connected by a thin clear tube to a tall cylinder behind him to his left. To his right a heart monitor was connected to a sensor on his chest. He was an old man, at least ninety, with wisps of white hair and skin that was greying and speckled with liver spots. He was wearing a robe similar to the one that Nightingale had on, open at the front, and white cotton boxer shorts. There were pale blue slippers on his feet.
The room was large, almost as big as the main room in Gosling Manor. There were french windows leading out to a stone-flagged patio, which in turn led to lawns as smooth as a billiard table. A bodyguard stood at each corner of the room. Unlike the men outside they had taken off their jackets but kept on their sunglasses. Two had nylon shoulder holsters with Glock automatics, one an Ingram submachine pistol in a sling and the fourth was holding a shotgun across his chest. They were staring impassively into the middle distance.
Nightingale walked towards Mitchell, his bare feet slapping on the marble floor. Sylvia followed him, her high heels clicking like an overwound metronome. ‘Not too close, remember, Mr Nightingale,’ she warned.
A black circle had been etched into the floor, its edge bordering a five-pointed star. At first Nightingale thought that the design had been painted onto the marble but as he got closer he realised it was actually set into the white marble. There were other designs within the circle, strange markings and letters from an alphabet he didn’t recognise. At each point of the star a large white candle burned, but there was no smoke, just a pure yellow flame. The only other furniture in the room was a hospital bed, in the centre of the circle next to the armchair.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ said Nightingale.
Mitchell coughed, then pulled the oxygen mask away from his face. ‘You have your father’s eyes,’ he said, ‘and his jaw.’
‘I don’t think anyone else sees a family resemblance,’ said Nightingale.
‘He sent you?’ asked Mitchell.
‘He’s dead,’ said Nightingale.
Mitchell’s eyes narrowed and he put up a hand to adjust the oxygen mask. ‘How?’
