and suspenders and the wife wouldn’t.’
‘Jack…’ Jenny shook her head.
‘I’m just saying, you can’t go feeling sorry for the clients. They’re just jobs.’
‘Speaking of which, a solicitor in Surrey wants to see you.’ She handed him a scribbled note.
Nightingale studied it. ‘Can’t he just email us the info?’
‘He said he wants to see you in his office. He’s got gout so he has trouble getting about. I figured you wouldn’t mind as you don’t have much on at the moment.’
Nightingale flashed her a tight smile. He didn’t need reminding of how light his caseload was. ‘This place, Hamdale. Never heard of it.’
‘I’ve got the postcode – you can use the GPS on your phone.’
‘You know I can never get it to work.’
Jenny grinned and held out her hand. ‘I’ll do it for you, you Luddite.’ Nightingale gave her his Nokia and she programmed in the location. ‘You’ll be fine,’ she said.
‘And how do I get back?’
‘Leave a trail of breadcrumbs,’ she said, sliding off the desk. ‘If you go now you should be there by two o’clock.’
4
Nightingale cursed as he squinted at his phone’s GPS display. The autumn sun was glinting off the screen and he couldn’t make out which way he was supposed to go. He peered through the windscreen and saw a signpost ahead. He braked. It said, ‘Hamdale 5’, and pointed to the left.
He slid the phone into his pocket and followed the sign. Hamdale was a tiny village, a cluster of houses around a thatched pub and a row of half a dozen shops. The solicitor’s office was wedged between a cake shop and a post office. There were double yellow lines along both sides of the road so Nightingale did a U-turn and left the MGB in the pub’s car park.
When he pushed open the door, a bell dinged and a grey-haired secretary looked up from an electric typewriter. She peered at him over gold-framed spectacles. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘Jack Nightingale.’ He looked at the piece of paper Jenny had given him. ‘I’m here to see a Mr Turtledove.’
‘Ah, he’s expecting you,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
She placed both hands on her desk and grunted as she pushed herself up, but a door to the inner office opened and she sank down again into her chair. ‘I was just going to show Mr Nightingale in,’ she said.
The man who had appeared was in his sixties, almost bald with heavy jowls and watery eyes. He was wearing a heavy tweed suit and leaning on a wooden walking-stick. He was a good head shorter than Nightingale and he smiled, showing yellowing teeth, as he held out his hand. Nightingale shook it gently, afraid he might break the bones, but Turtledove’s grip was deceptively strong. ‘Come in, please,’ he said.
The office was little more than a box with a small window overlooking a back yard. The room was lined from floor to ceiling with legal books and there was a damp, dusty smell that reminded Nightingale of the shed he’d used for a den when he was a kid. There were two chairs in front of the desk, both buried under piles of dusty files, all tied up with red ribbon. ‘Please put them on the floor,’ said the solicitor, as he limped around his desk and sat down in a high-backed leather chair. He placed his stick against the window-sill behind him, then turned sombrely to Nightingale. ‘First let me say how sorry I am for your loss,’ he said.
Nightingale moved the files as instructed and sat down. ‘My loss?’ he said.
‘Your father.’
‘My father?’ Nightingale had no idea what he was talking about. He took out his wallet and gave Turtledove one of his business cards. ‘I’m Jack Nightingale. I’m here about a job.’
Turtledove frowned, looked around for his spectacles, then realised they were perched on top of his head. He pushed them down and read the card, then smiled amiably at Nightingale. ‘There’s no job, Mr Nightingale. I’m sorry about the confusion. I’m the executor of your late father’s will.’
Nightingale raised his eyebrows. Now he was even more confused. ‘My parents’ estate was finalised more than a decade ago.’
Turtledove tutted. He rifled through a stack of files on his desk and pulled one out. ‘Your father passed away three weeks ago,’ he said.
‘My parents died in a car crash a couple of days after my nineteenth birthday,’ said Nightingale. It had been a senseless accident. They had stopped at a red traffic-light and a truck had ploughed into the back of them. The car was crushed and burst into flames and, according to the young constable who had broken the news to Nightingale, they had died instantly. Over the years, he’d grasped that the officer had said that to make the news more bearable. In all probability they had died in the flames, screaming in agony. Policemen had to lie – or at least bend the truth – to make bad news less painful. He knew from experience that people rarely died instantly in accidents. There was, more often than not, a lot of pain and blood and screaming involved.
‘Your adoptive parents,’ said Turtledove, nodding sagely. ‘Bill and Irene Nightingale.’
‘I wasn’t adopted,’ said Nightingale. ‘They were my parents – their names are on my birth certificate. And they never said I was adopted.’
‘That may well be, but they were not your biological parents.’ He opened the file and slid out a sheet of paper, which he passed across the desk. ‘These are your details, aren’t they? Correct date of birth, national insurance number, schools attended, your university?’
Nightingale scanned the sheet. ‘That’s me,’ he said.
‘Then your father was Ainsley Gosling, and it has fallen to me to administer his last will and testament.’ He smiled. ‘It’s just occurred to me that I’m a Turtledove, you’re a Nightingale and your father was a Gosling. What a coincidence.’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Nightingale. ‘But I’ve never heard of this Ainsley Gosling. And I’m damn sure I wasn’t adopted.’
‘You were adopted at birth, which is why I assume your adoptive parents’ names went down on the certificate. It would never happen these days, of course.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Nightingale.
Turtledove’s lips tightened. ‘There’s no need for profanity, Mr Nightingale. I understand that this has come as a shock to you, but I am only the messenger. I was never given to understand you were unaware that Mr Gosling was your biological father.’
‘I apologise,’ said Nightingale. ‘If he’s my father, then who is my mother?’
‘I’m not privy to that information, I’m afraid.’
Nightingale fished out his packet of Marlboro. ‘Can I smoke?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Turtledove. ‘It’s against the law, you know, to smoke in a place of employment.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Nightingale. He put away the cigarettes. ‘How did he die, this Gosling?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Turtledove. ‘The case came to me from another lawyer, a firm in the City. I was told that Mr Gosling had passed away and that I was to act as executor to the will.’
‘That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?’
‘Very,’ said Turtledove. ‘I had no dealings with Mr Gosling, and I never met the man. I was merely sent his last will and testament and your details and told to contact you as his sole heir and beneficiary.’
‘But usually wouldn’t the solicitor who drew up the will also administer it?’
‘Of course,’ said Turtledove. ‘But I suppose my being local meant it would be easier for me to deal with the house. But, as you say, it is unusual.’
‘House? What house?’
Turtledove took the will out of the file and gave it to Nightingale. ‘There isn’t much in the way of money, I’m afraid, but there is a substantial property, a country house, by the name of Gosling Manor. It’s about six miles outside Hamdale.’ He opened a drawer and gave Nightingale a key-ring with two keys on it. ‘I’ve some paperwork
