opened with the same key. The door creaked as he pushed it open. He stepped into a hallway with wood-panelled walls and a marble floor, dominated by a massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He looked around for a burglar-alarm console but couldn’t see one and there was no beeping to suggest that a system was working. There was no furniture and no pictures or mirrors on the wall. The house had been cleared but he had no way of knowing if professional burglars or a removal firm had taken everything away. There was a light switch by the door but nothing happened when Nightingale flicked it. He walked across the hallway, his black leather shoes squeaking on the marble, and tried another switch but that didn’t work either.
Three oak doors led off the hallway. Nightingale pushed one open and stepped into a room the size of a basketball court with a vaulted ceiling and a massive white marble fireplace. The room was also devoid of furniture and the carpets had been taken up to reveal oak floorboards. Patches of underlay were stuck to them, like flaking skin, and around the edge, close to the skirting-board, he noted the metal tacks that had been used to keep the carpet in place. Whoever had lifted the carpets had simply ripped them up.
Along one wall a line of windows looked over ornamental gardens with bushes that had been trained into the shapes of exotic animals. Nightingale saw a giraffe, an elephant and a line of horses, and beyond them what looked like a hedge maze. The curtains had been removed but the brass rods from which they had hung were still in place. Nightingale frowned when he saw a small CCTV camera in one corner of the room, aimed at the windows. He could understand the need for security on the exterior of the building but having them inside seemed like overkill.
He saw something on the mantelpiece and walked over to it, the floorboards creaking underfoot. It was an envelope, with his name printed on it in slightly uneven typing. As he reached for it he heard a bang upstairs and flinched. He listened intently but heard nothing. He picked up the envelope. Something shifted inside it. He was about to open it when he heard another noise from the upper floor, this time a scratching sound that lasted a second or two. He put the envelope into his jacket pocket and walked on tiptoe to the door. He listened, but heard nothing.
The staircase that curved upwards was marble and he made no sound as he crept up it. He put his hand on the wooden banister as he craned his neck to look around the curve. The wall to the left was panelled and there were brass picture hooks from which large paintings had once hung.
The stairway opened onto a landing that ran the length of the building. There were small chandeliers hanging every twelve feet or so, miniature replicas of the one in the downstairs hallway. To the left the landing would be above the large room he had been into so that was where he headed, still on tiptoe. There were CCTV cameras at either end and doors to left and right. He eased open the first on the left. The room was empty and, as in the room downstairs, the curtains had been removed. He closed the door quietly and opened the one opposite. That room, too, was empty.
He pulled the door closed and moved silently down the corridor. He listened carefully at the next door before he put his hand on the brass handle and turned it. Inside this room there was furniture: a large four-poster bed and a green leather winged armchair. Dark green curtains were tied back with gold ropes. The bed was made, and didn’t appear to have been slept in, and the bathroom was spotless.
He checked another nine bedrooms, all of which were empty, then went back downstairs. There was a large dining room, a study, another reception room, a huge kitchen, from which all the appliances had been removed, and a walk-in larder with bare shelves. Even the conservatory had been stripped. Nightingale looked out across a sweeping lawn to a small lake and a stable beside a large paddock. He shivered. There were cast-iron radiators dotted around the house but the heating system wasn’t working.
He tried opening the conservatory door but it was locked and he could see no key for it. He walked slowly back through the kitchen and into the main hallway. He heard a soft scratching upstairs. ‘If you want to get out before I lock up, now’s the time,’ he called. The scratching stopped immediately. ‘Stupid cat,’ Nightingale muttered, under his breath. He pulled open the front door and gasped when he saw two men standing there. He took a step back as they came towards him.
They were wearing uniforms, he realised, police uniforms, and the older man was a sergeant. The younger of the two grabbed his arm. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. Nightingale was too surprised to speak and he just shook his head. The policeman tightened his grip. ‘Right. Come on, in the car.’
‘It’s my house,’ said Nightingale.
The policeman let go of him, He was in his early twenties, skinny, with a rash of acne across his forehead. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Jack Nightingale,’ he said. ‘Look, I used to be in the job, and now I’m a private investigator.’
‘Let’s see your ID, then.’
Nightingale took out his wallet, showed them his licence and gave them one of his business cards. He patted his chest and sighed. ‘You scared the shit out of me,’ he said.
‘The house has been locked up since old man Gosling died,’ said the sergeant. He had grey hair and broken veins across his cheeks. An old scar under his chin looked as if it had been caused by a broken bottle. ‘We were told the house was going up for auction.’
‘He left it to me,’ said Nightingale. ‘A solicitor in Hamdale’s handling probate or whatever they call it. I’m the sole heir.’
‘Are you a relative?’
‘Apparently,’ said Nightingale. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how did you know I was here? The power’s off so I assume the alarm’s not working.’
‘There’s no alarm link to our station. Gosling had his own security arrangements. We saw the gate open as we were driving past, that’s all. What’s the name of the solicitor?’
‘Turtledove.’ He took the business card out of his wallet and showed it to them. ‘You guys local?’
‘Depends what you mean,’ said the sergeant. ‘There used to be a police house in Hamdale but that went in the seventies. The nearest station now is in Hastings. But we took the call when it happened. Well, I did anyway. Gosling killed himself. Blew his head off with a shotgun in the master bedroom.’
‘There’s no doubt it was suicide?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Shotgun was still in his hands. And there was some weird stuff in the room that suggested he was a bit not right in the head, if you get my drift.’
‘I don’t,’ said Nightingale. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There were lots of candles burning. And he was in some sort of magic circle, one of those star things.’
‘There’s no sign of it now,’ said Nightingale.
‘A team of cleaners went in. Crime-scene specialists. They do a good job, those guys. You wouldn’t get me doing it for love or money.’
‘How did you get in the house?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Security seems pretty tight.’
‘Gosling’s driver found the body. He let us in.’
‘But there was no note?’
The sergeant shook his head. ‘They don’t always leave notes.’
‘They usually do,’ said Nightingale. ‘They want to explain themselves, maybe ask for forgiveness.’
‘You know a lot about suicides, then?’ said the PC.
‘I was a negotiator, back in the day,’ said Nightingale.
The sergeant frowned. ‘Jack Nightingale? Aren’t you the guy who killed that paedophile?’
‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. He took out his packet of Marlboro. The PC shook his head as if Nightingale was trying to sell him a wrap of heroin, but the older man took one. Nightingale lit it, and one for himself.
‘Mr Nightingale here’s a bit of a legend,’ said the sergeant. ‘Threw a banker out of a window down Canary Wharf.’
‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke into sky.
‘The bastard was fiddling with his daughter,’ said the sergeant. ‘She topped herself, right?’
‘Right,’ said Nightingale. He shivered and took another drag on his cigarette.
‘The bastard got what was coming to him.’ The sergeant flicked ash onto the ground.
‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale.
‘So, are you going to be moving in?’ asked the younger man.
Nightingale laughed and looked up at the imposing facade. ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he said. ‘I’d rattle around in a place this big.’
‘Must be worth a fortune. What do you think, Sarge?’
