Nightingale shrugged. ‘Yeah, give or take.’
‘And most of them don’t even have titles on their spines.’
‘The longest journey starts with a single step,’ said Nightingale.
‘Did you get that piece of wisdom from a Christmas cracker?’
‘From Mrs Ellis at my primary school, as it happens. We don’t have to do them all at once.’ He put his feet up onto the coffee table. ‘What do you think’s the best way of doing it?’
‘Not sitting on your backside would be a good start,’ she replied. ‘How about we take a shelf each and work along it? We can write the details down and if either of us spots a book on devils we can flick through it and see if Frimost is mentioned.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Nightingale. He stood up and went over to a huge oak desk that was piled high with books. He pulled open a drawer and found a couple of unused notepads. There were a dozen or so ballpoint pens in an old pint pot and he took two. ‘There we go,’ he said, giving Jenny a pen and a pad. ‘Race you.’
‘You’re so competitive,’ she said.
Nightingale pointed at the bookcase next to the stairs that led down from the hall. ‘Might as well be methodical and start there,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the top shelf, you take the one underneath.’
‘I’ve just had a thought,’ said Jenny. ‘Have you actually looked for a list yet?’
‘A list?’
‘With this many books, he must have had some sort of inventory. How else would he know if he already had a particular volume?’
Nightingale nodded thoughtfully. ‘Okay, that makes sense. But where would he keep it?’
‘That’s the question, isn’t it?’ said Jenny. ‘He could have put it on a computer or his BlackBerry, if he had one. Or he could have written the list down in a book. Or filed it away.’
‘Or maybe he didn’t have a list in the first place.’
‘Oh ye of little faith,’ she said. ‘There isn’t a computer down here, is there?’
Nightingale gestured at the far end of the basement. ‘There’s one down there linked to the CCTV feeds but I’m pretty sure it’s just for recording. And I haven’t seen a laptop.’
‘Have you checked the desk?’
Nightingale shook his head.
‘Why don’t I go through the desk while you make a start on the books?’
‘Go for it,’ said Nightingale. He took went over to the bookcase, where he started taking books down. They were mostly leather-bound and dusty but they had all been read and had been annotated in the same cramped handwriting. Passages were underlined and there were exclamation marks and question marks in red ink in the margins.
There didn’t appear to be any logic to the order that the books were in. There was a book on plant biology next to a book on Greek mythology, then a first edition of Lord of the Rings next to a book on fairies. There were historical books, works of fiction, books of photographs and books written by hand. In turn, Nightingale noted down the title and the author and a number corresponding to its position on the shelf.
A bell rang somewhere upstairs. ‘Who’s that?’ asked Nightingale.
Jenny smiled sarcastically. ‘I’m not psychic,’ she said.
‘Yeah, that was just about the only thing missing from your CV,’ said Nightingale. He stood up and walked the length of the basement to where half a dozen LCD screens were fixed to the wall in two banks of three. Nightingale tapped a button on a stainless-steel console in front of the screens and they flickered into life. There was a man in a dark overcoat standing in front of the main door, his hands in his pockets.
‘Who is it?’ called Jenny.
‘The last person I want to see just now,’ said Nightingale.
9
N ightingale pulled open the front door. Superintendent Chalmers was standing in the driveway, his hands in the pockets of his cashmere overcoat. He looked more like a Conservative politician than a policeman in his dark pinstriped suit and perfectly knotted blue and cream striped tie. Behind him was a hard-faced woman in a beige belted raincoat, her hair cut short and dyed blonde. She was in her early thirties, probably a detective sergeant, with dark patches under her eyes as if she hadn’t slept well the previous night.
‘What are you doing working so late?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Superintendents don’t get paid overtime.’
‘Thought I’d check out the new Nightingale residence,’ said the superintendent. ‘Nice. Very nice. Bit off the beaten trail, though.’ He looked around, nodding slowly. ‘Missed you at the office, couldn’t find you at the flat in Bayswater, so thought I’d check out your inheritance.’
‘How can I help you?’ asked Nightingale. He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to get back to London.’
The superintendent ignored the question. ‘What are you going to do when they take away your licence for drunk-driving? Not very well served by public transport, are you, and a minicab’s going to set you back about a hundred quid from London.’
‘That’s why you’re here, is it? To check up on my drink-driving case? Haven’t you got better things to do with your time?’
‘I’m just saying. You were over the limit so you’ll get a twelve-month ban at least, plus a fine. Of up to five grand and maybe even a few months behind bars.’ Chalmers looked up at the roof. ‘Must be a ton of lead up there. What’s security like out here in the sticks? Surrey Police keep an eye on the place, do they?’
‘What do you want?’ asked Nightingale. He took out his pack of Marlboro and lit one.
‘A bit of respect for a start,’ said Chalmers.
Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’m not in the Job now, and even when I was I had precious little respect for you. You’re on private property and unless you’ve got some sort of warrant then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’ He blew smoke up at the sky.
‘I’m told you inherited this place,’ said Chalmers. Nightingale shrugged but didn’t reply. ‘And the guy who left it to you blew his head off with a shotgun. Is that true?’
‘You know it’s true,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s my property now and I want you off it.’
‘This Ainsley Gosling was your long-lost father, right?’
‘My biological father,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was adopted at birth.’
‘I wish I had a rich father to leave me a big house,’ said Chalmers.
Nightingale looked pointedly at his watch. ‘I’ve got things to do,’ he said.
‘I had a call from my opposite number in Abersoch. Seems you were at another murder scene.’
‘It was a suicide,’ said Nightingale.
‘There seem to be a lot of deaths around you these days,’ said Chalmers. ‘Your uncle and aunt. Robbie Hoyle. Barry O’Brien, who was driving the cab that ran over Hoyle. And of course good old Simon Underwood, who took a flyer through his office window while you were talking to him.’
Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette but didn’t say anything.
‘Your mother killed herself, too, didn’t she?’
‘My parents died in a car crash years ago.’
‘You know what I mean, Nightingale. Your birth mother. Genetic mother. Rebecca Keeley. Whatever you want to call her. She slashed her wrists after you paid her a visit, didn’t she? Did you think I wouldn’t find out about that?’
‘She was a troubled woman,’ said Nightingale. ‘You can talk to the people at the home.’
‘Troubled why?’
‘She was on medication, Chalmers. She was a sick woman. Yes, I went to see her, twice, but she wasn’t able to say much. I don’t think she even knew I was there.’
‘Why did she put you up for adoption?’
Nightingale shrugged again. ‘I don’t know,’ he lied. There was no way that he was going to tell Chalmers that Keeley had been forced to give up her new-born baby to fulfil a deal that Ainsley Gosling had made with a demon from Hell.
