‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘They say she tied a washing line to the banister and jumped off the landing.’ She shuddered again. ‘I could never do anything like that.’
‘Me neither,’ agreed Nightingale.
‘I’d use tablets or something. I couldn’t face trying to hang myself. Can you imagine what it must be like?’
‘I can’t,’ said Nightingale, even though he knew exactly what it had been like for Connie Miller. He jumped as the phone rang.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said the redhead, and she closed the door behind her as she left.
Nightingale picked up the receiver, frowning because nobody knew that he was in Abersoch.
‘Jack, it’s me.’ It was Jenny. ‘I’ve been ringing your mobile but it keeps going through to voicemail.’
Nightingale fished his phone out of his raincoat pocket and looked at the screen. ‘I haven’t got a signal,’ he said.
‘Well, I’ve got you now,’ she said. ‘And I’ve got an address for Connie Miller’s parents.’ Nightingale picked up a pen. ‘Are you sure about this, Jack?’
‘Depends what you mean.’
‘You’re planning to talk to them, right?’
‘Sure.’ He sat on the bed. There was a copy of the New English Bible on the side table and he picked it up.
‘You’re thinking of going up to complete strangers and asking them if a Satanist gave them their daughter?’
‘Well, I intend to be a bit more tactful than that,’ he said. ‘I’ll play it by ear.’
‘Go easy on them, please,’ said Jenny. ‘They’ve just lost their daughter.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ said Nightingale. ‘Cross my heart. Now give me the address.’ Jenny read it out and Nightingale scribbled it down on a sheet of hotel notepaper. ‘Don’t suppose you’d do me another favour, would you?’
‘What, exactly?’
‘Would you mind going back to Gosling Manor and getting stuck into the inventory? I really do need to know what books are there.’
‘Jack, it’s miles from anywhere.’
‘The way things are going, I’ll never get it done,’ he said.
‘You’re the one who decided to run off to Wales.’
‘Pretty please?’
‘Jack…’
‘Pretty please with sugar on top?’
‘I’m not sure that I want to be out in the depths of Surrey on my own,’ she said. ‘And you know how spooky that basement is.’
‘Gosling Manor is right out of Country Homes and Gardens,’ said Nightingale.
‘The house is lovely; it’s the basement that gives me the heebie-jeebies.’
‘What are you, twelve?’ laughed Nightingale.
‘And let’s not forget that your father blew his head off in the master bedroom,’ said Jenny.
‘So now you’re scared of ghosts?’
‘It’s not a question of being scared.’ She sighed. ‘Well, maybe it is. Maybe I could ask Barbara to come with me. Would that be okay?’
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘You might not want a stranger traipsing through your house, that’s all.’
‘It’s my house in name only,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve no personal attachment to it. And Barbara’s not a stranger. She’s your psychologist friend who I met last month, yes?’
‘Psychiatrist. That’s right.’
‘Sure, take her along. I’ll call you later.’
After he ended the call he went downstairs. The redhead at reception was happy to supply him with a street map of the village and he took it through to the Front Door bar and ordered a Corona and a club sandwich. He took his beer over to a corner table and while he waited for his food he studied the map. Connie Miller’s house was a couple of hundred yards from the hotel and her parents lived on the edge of the village.
A young barman with his blond hair tied back in a ponytail brought him his sandwich and Nightingale ate it slowly as he mulled over what he was going to do next. He knew he was taking a risk, a stupid risk at that, and there were a dozen reasons why he should just get into his MGB and drive back to London. But he also knew that he wouldn’t be able to rest until he was certain whether or not Connie Miller was his sister.
14
N ightingale took his hands out of his raincoat and lit a cigarette as he stared at Connie Miller’s house. From the outside there was no sign that someone had died there. It was like every other house in the road, though it was the only one in total darkness. It was just after eleven o’clock at night and the pavements were deserted. Abersoch wasn’t the sort of village where people stayed out late, especially in the middle of winter. A cold wind ruffled his hair and he turned up the collar of his raincoat. The forecast had been for temperatures just above freezing with the threat of snow to come.
He smoked his cigarette as he walked past the house to the end of the street, and then dropped the butt down a drain. He took out a pair of black leather gloves and put them on. The only sound was from the occasional car in the distance. He walked back to the house, not too quickly, not too slowly, looking casually left and right to reassure himself that no one was watching, then opened the gate. He grimaced as the hinges squeaked, then closed it behind him and walked quietly down the paved path that led to the back of the semi-detached house.
He reached the kitchen door and paused. The last time he’d been there the kitchen door was open but this time it was locked. He checked the kitchen window and that was also locked, and when he stood back and looked up he could see that the windows on the first floor were all securely closed. There were French windows leading into the sitting room. He pushed them with his gloved hands. There was some movement but they were locked. He put a hand up against the window and peered inside. There were no signs of any alarm sensors, and no alarm box on the outside of the house.
Nightingale turned around and looked at the garden. At the far end, backing onto a neatly clipped head-high privet hedge, was a wooden garden shed with a pitched bitumen-coated felt roof. He walked down the garden, keeping close to the hedge on his left and watching the house next door. The shed door wasn’t locked but, like the front gate, it squeaked as he opened it. There was a petrol mower inside and a selection of old gardening tools, including a spade. He took the spade back to the house and used it to prise open the French windows. He slid back the door and stepped inside. The only sound was his breathing and he made a conscious effort to calm down. He put the spade on the floor and closed the French windows.
He walked across the dining room and opened the door to the hallway. Although he had a small torch in his pocket he didn’t use it; he didn’t want to risk anyone outside seeing the beam and there was enough moonlight to see by. He stepped into the hallway.
Apart from the stains on the carpet, there was no trace of Connie Miller or her suicide. The shoe that had been at the bottom of the stairs had gone, as had the washing line that she’d used to hang herself. He stood for a while staring up at where he’d first seen her, the body gently swaying in the air. He felt his heart start to race and took a deep breath to steady himself.
He went into the sitting room. It was neat and tidy, with an Ikea futon and an Ikea coffee table and a small television on an Ikea cupboard. Tucked away in one corner was a computer on an Ikea desk. He sat down in front of the computer and switched it on. He took out his mobile. He smiled when he saw that he had a signal and he phoned Jenny. ‘I need your help,’ he said.
‘I’m in bed, Jack.’
‘Okay, but I still need your help,’ he said. ‘I’m sitting at Connie Miller’s computer. I want to copy her files and stuff — can you talk me through it?’
Jenny groaned. ‘You really are computer illiterate, aren’t you?’
‘I have other skills,’ he said. ‘What do I do?’
‘What are you going to copy the files onto?’
‘I was hoping you’d tell me.’
‘Do you have a thumb drive on you?’
Nightingale laughed. ‘Yeah, it’s in my pocket next to my personal jet pack. Of course I don’t have a thumb drive.’