‘That can wait. Come on, it’ll be fun.’
‘Driving to Slough to see the adoptive parents of a serial killer? In what universe would that be considered fun?’
‘I’ll pay you overtime.’
‘You’ll pay me to go to Slough?’ she asked.
‘Sure.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t want to go on my own.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll buy you dinner.’
‘In Slough?’
‘When we get back to London.’
‘Can I choose the restaurant?’
‘Within limits,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do we have a deal?’
Jenny grinned. ‘Yes, we do,’ she said.
‘Great,’ said Nightingale. ‘We’ll take your car.’
48
J enny brought her Audi to a halt across the road from the bungalow. The curtains were open and there was a Renault saloon parked in the driveway.
‘Looks like they’re in,’ said Nightingale.
‘What are you going to say to them?’ Jenny asked.
Nightingale shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ll probably wing it.’ He pulled his pack of Marlboro from his raincoat pocket.
‘Not in the car,’ she said.
‘It’s a non-smoking car?’
‘Jack…’
‘I was joking,’ said Nightingale. He opened the door and climbed out. He lit a cigarette as Jenny got out of the car and locked it. Nightingale blew smoke up at the sullen grey sky. ‘I want to know if they knew Gosling, or if they got my sister through an intermediary. And if there was an intermediary, I need to know who it was.’
‘And if there wasn’t?’
‘Then I want to know if Gosling said anything to them.’
‘Like what?’
Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette, held it deep in his lungs, and then exhaled slowly. ‘That’s where the winging it comes in. It’s like any good interrogation: you go where it takes you. If you go in with a fixed line of questioning you can miss the point.’
‘They’re not going to want to talk to you, you know that?’
‘They might. I’m her brother, remember?’
‘The brother of the woman who murdered five children,’ said Jenny. ‘Remember?’
‘I’m sensing a lot of negativity,’ said Nightingale. ‘Does this mean that you don’t want to come with me?’
‘Jack, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ she said. She nodded at the house. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing the master at work.’
‘Watch and learn,’ said Nightingale, flicking what was left of his cigarette into the road. ‘Watch and learn.’
Jenny followed Nightingale to the front door and watched as he pressed the doorbell. There was a buzzing sound inside the house.
Nightingale stamped his feet on the doorstep. ‘It’s bloody cold, isn’t it? he said, his breath feathering in the air.
‘They’re saying it might snow over the next few days.’ Nightingale grinned. ‘So much for global warming.’ He pressed the doorbell again. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered. ‘We’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses.’ He pressed the doorbell again and kept his finger on it.
‘Jack!’ said Jenny, jabbing him in the ribs. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘If they’re not in, it doesn’t matter; if they are in, they shouldn’t be ignoring us.’
‘I said we should have called first. At least we’d have known they were in.’
Nightingale took his finger off the doorbell. He pushed the door but it was locked.
‘Jack, you can’t do that.’
Nightingale grinned. ‘Just checking,’ he said. He stepped back from the house and sighed through pursed lips. ‘Let’s have a look around the back.’
‘Let’s not,’ said Jenny.
‘Just a look,’ said Nightingale. ‘What harm can it do?’
49
T he rear garden was meticulously laid out with a perfect square of lawn leading onto two rockeries laden with ferns and, beyond them, a vegetable patch and a small creosoted shed with a tarred roof. Nightingale reached for the handle of the kitchen door.
‘Jack, this is so wrong,’ said Jenny, folding her arms and shivering.
He turned to look at her. ‘I’m just checking to see if it’s locked,’ he said. ‘It’s a Neighbourhood Watch thing.’
‘It’s a breaking-and-entering thing,’ she said.
‘Jenny, I haven’t broken anything,’ he said. He reached into his raincoat and pulled out a pair of black leather gloves.
‘Why do you need gloves?’ asked Jenny.
‘It’s cold.’
‘So you won’t leave fingerprints. Because you know that what we’re doing is wrong.’
‘Do you have any?’
She glared at him. ‘No, Jack, I left my burgling gloves at home,’ she said, frostily.
‘We’re not burgling. We’re visiting,’ said Nightingale. He twisted the door handle and pushed it. ‘Anyway, the door’s open.’
‘Jack!’
‘It’s okay,’ said Nightingale. He leaned into the kitchen. ‘Mr Monkton!’ he called. ‘Mrs Monkton? Is anybody there?’
‘If there was, they’d have answered the doorbell,’ said Jenny. ‘Let’s go, Jack.’
Nightingale stepped into the kitchen. There were dirty dishes in the sink and two coffee mugs sitting by a chrome kettle. He took off one of his gloves and gingerly touched the kettle with his knuckles. It was warm but not hot. Instant coffee had been spooned into both mugs.
Jenny stood on the threshold. ‘Jack, this is wrong on so many levels,’ she said. ‘You don’t know these people. You can’t just walk into their house. And…’
‘And what?’
She gritted her teeth. ‘You make me so bloody angry sometimes,’ she hissed.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, putting his glove back on.
‘Damn you, Jack. We rang the bell, they’re not here — let’s just go.’
‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’
‘I’m scared that I’m going to be arrested for burglary.’
‘It’s only burglary if we steal something,’ said Nightingale. ‘But that’s not what’s worrying you, is it?’
‘Please, Jack, let’s just go.’
‘The kettle’s warm, the back door was unlocked. I know what you’re thinking, Jenny.’
‘Then you know why we have to go,’ she said.
‘If they’re dead, we have to know.’
Jenny closed her eyes. ‘Why did you have to go and say that?’ she whispered.
‘Because that’s what you’re thinking. I went to see my aunt and uncle and they were dead. I went to Abersoch and the woman there was dead. You think they’re dead too.’
She opened her eyes and shivered. ‘I don’t want to know if they’re dead or not. I don’t care. I just want to go.’
‘If something’s happened, I want to know,’ said Nightingale quietly.
‘We can read about it in the paper,’ she said. ‘We don’t have to go inside.’
‘You can wait in the car. You don’t have to be here.’ He walked across the kitchen to a door that led to the hallway. He opened it. ‘Mr Monkton!’ he shouted. ‘Are you in? Mrs Monkton? Hello? My name’s Jack Nightingale and I’m here about your daughter!’
‘If they could answer, they would have done by now,’ said Jenny.
Nightingale walked down the hall. The front door was at the far end. To the right of the door was a wooden table with a telephone on it. ‘Mr Monkton! Hello?’
The carpet was red with streaks in the pile as if it had only just been vacuumed. There were two doors leading off the hall to the right and two to the left. All were closed.
Jenny called to him from the kitchen. ‘Jack, are you okay?’
Nightingale didn’t reply. He wasn’t okay. He knew she was right, that the best thing was to leave the house and never come back. The Monktons wouldn’t have left the house with the back door unlocked, and if they were alive they would have answered when he rang the bell. He opened the first door to his right. It was a bedroom with a pine double bed and a matching wardrobe and dressing table. The room looked as if it had never been slept in, and there was nothing personal in it, no trinkets or books or photographs. Nightingale realised it was probably the guest bedroom and that the Monktons didn’t have many guests. He closed the door.