‘You don’t believe in this devil nonsense, do you?’
‘I wish I did,’ said Nightingale, ‘because at least that would explain what’s happening to me. Because if it isn’t the devil screwing with my life then maybe I’m doing it myself.’
‘You’re not a killer, Jack.’
‘I might be, Jenny. I might be. And that’s what scares me.’
60
‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said Simon Underwood, his eye blazing with hatred.
‘How do you know my name?’ asked Nightingale. ‘I didn’t tell you my name. How do you know who I am?’ Underwood was wearing a dark pinstripe suit that fitted so well it could only have been made to measure. There was a gold Rolex on his left wrist, a gold signet ring on his right hand and a pair of designer glasses on his nose. He was in his forties with a touch of grey at the temples. He was holding a mobile phone and pointing it at Nightingale as if it was a gun. ‘How do you know my name?’ repeated Nightingale.
Underwood turned towards the window behind him. It ran from the floor to the ceiling and gave a panoramic view of the tower blocks of Canary Wharf, home to some of the world’s biggest financial institutions.
‘No!’ said Nightingale, knowing what would come next. ‘No!’ he screamed.
The phone that Underwood was holding began to ring. It was a regular ringtone, an insistent bell, and it got louder and louder until the sound was deafening. Nightingale opened his eyes and groaned as he groped for the phone on his bedside table and squinted at his bedside clock. It was eight o’clock in the morning. ‘Mr Nightingale, this is Alice Steadman. I didn’t wake you, did I?’
Nightingale sat up. His head was throbbing. He had drunk three double whiskies in the pub with Jenny and she’d driven him home where he’d finished off half a bottle of Macallan malt. ‘Who, sorry?’
‘Alice Steadman. From the Wicca Woman store in Camden.’
‘Right,’ said Nightingale.
‘I did wake you, didn’t I? I’m so sorry, I’m an early riser and I was asked to call you first thing to see if you’d be interested.’
‘Interested in what?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not explaining this at all well, am I? I’ve sold two of your books for you, Mr Nightingale, at a very good price. The gentleman concerned is interested in another volume Mr Gosling has in his collection.’
‘Who is this mystery buyer?’
‘An American,’ she said, ‘from Texas. His name is Joshua Wainwright. Like your father, he’s a collector. And apparently he was at several auctions where your father outbid him. Now he wonders whether you’d be prepared to sell at least one of the volumes to him. For more than your father paid, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ said Nightingale. ‘Which book is it?’
‘It’s called The Formicarius, and it’s a first edition. Apparently your father bought it from a dealer in Germany.’
‘I’ve seen the receipt,’ said Nightingale. ‘Sure, I’ll be happy to sell it to him.’
‘If you’re agreeable, he’ll fly over to meet you. He’ll pay you in cash.’
‘I’m certainly agreeable to that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Tell him to give me a call when he gets here.’
‘Mr Wainwright said that if you were prepared to sell he’d fly over this afternoon.’
‘Tell him I’ll have the book ready for him.’
‘And don’t forget my commission, Mr Nightingale.’
‘Heaven forbid.’
He put down the receiver and rolled onto his back. His alarm wasn’t due to go off for another fifteen minutes and he was just wondering whether he was tired enough to doze when the phone rang again. Nightingale sighed and reached for it, assuming that it was Mrs Steadman again. It was Jenny.
‘Jack…’ She sounded shaky as if she was close to tears.
‘Jenny, what’s wrong?’
‘Jack, I’m at home – I’ve been robbed. Can you come, please?’
‘Of course,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll be right there.’
‘They had guns, Jack. They said they’d kill me.’
61
Jenny lived in a three-bedroom mews house in Chelsea, just off the King’s Road. The street was quaintly cobbled and the house bedecked with window-boxes. Outside the front door two massive concrete urns contained six-foot conifers. Nightingale parked his MGB in front of the yellow garage door and climbed out. Even after the property crash, Jenny’s house must have been worth close to two million pounds. He had never asked her if it was hers or if she rented it, but either way he knew she couldn’t have afforded it on the salary he paid her.
He pressed the bell, and a few seconds later the door opened on a security chain. He caught a glimpse of unkempt hair and then she closed the door to unhook the chain. She was wearing a dark green Cambridge University sweatshirt and baggy cargo pants and her eyes were red and puffy. ‘What happened?’
She ushered him into the hallway, closed the door and bolted it. ‘I was robbed, Jack. Three men broke in and took the diary.’
‘Mitchell’s?’
‘Of course Mitchell’s diary? Do you think they’d break in to steal my bloody Filofax?’
‘Big men, black suits, sunglasses?’
Jenny nodded. ‘Do you know who they are?’
‘They’re Mitchell’s men, bodyguards, protectors – his house was full of them. Jenny, did they hurt you?’
She went through to the sitting room and dropped onto a flower-print sofa. ‘No, but they scared the life out of me.’
Nightingale sat down opposite her. ‘What happened?’
‘I was leaving for work,’ she said. ‘I opened the front door and they were there. They just pushed me inside, one put his hand over my mouth and brought me in here, while the other two looked for the diary – not that they needed to do much searching. It was in my bag.’
‘Did they say anything?’
‘Not while they were looking for the diary. But when they found it, one pointed a gun at my face and said that if I called the police they’d come back and shoot me.’
‘I’m sorry, baby.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Jack,’ she said.
‘I should have figured that Mitchell would try to get it back. I should have warned you. He told me Gosling had stolen it from him.’ Jenny’s hands began to shake. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
Nightingale went to the kitchen, all stainless steel with state-of-the-art German appliances. He made the tea, stirred in three sugars and a splash of milk, and took it to her. She sipped it and winced. ‘I don’t take sugar,’ she said. ‘You know I don’t.’
‘It’s good for shock,’ he said, sitting down again.
‘I’m not in shock,’ she insisted.
‘You are – you just don’t know it,’ he said. ‘Do as you’re told and drink it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘What do you think, Jack? Should I call the police?’
‘I’m not sure what they’d do, to be honest,’ said Nightingale. ‘There are no witnesses, no forensics, and they’ll be back in the Mitchell house, which is like a fortress. I doubt they’ll open the gates without a warrant.’
‘They pointed a gun at me, Jack.’
‘I know. You want me to have them shot? I know people.’
Jenny laughed uneasily. ‘You’re mad.’
