‘You had a phone call from that solicitor in Hamdale. Ernest Turtledove.’
Nightingale frowned. Turtledove was the man who had turned his life upside down when he broke the news that William and Irene Nightingale weren’t Jack’s real parents and that he was actually the son of a Satanist and devil-worshipper, who committed suicide after naming Nightingale as his sole heir. ‘What did he want? Is it about the estate?’
‘Said he needed to see you. I asked but he wouldn’t say what it was about. He said that it was private.’
‘I’m not schlepping all the way out to Hamdale on a whim,’ said Nightingale. ‘Can you get him on the phone for me?’
Jenny went through to her office to make the call. A few minutes later she shouted that Turtledove was on the line.
‘Mr Nightingale?’ said the solicitor hesitantly, as if he was expecting someone else.
‘Yes,’ said Nightingale. ‘My assistant said that you needed to see me.’
‘That’s right. Something has come up.’
‘What, exactly?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t go into details over the phone,’ said the solicitor. ‘I really need to see you in person.’
‘You’re more than welcome to come to my office, Mr Turtledove.’
The solicitor sighed. ‘I don’t travel, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘My leg, you know. I can’t drive, and you know what public transport is like.’
‘It’s a long trip either way, Mr Turtledove. Can you at least tell me what it is that’s so important that you need to see me in person?’
‘I have to give you something.’
‘Why didn’t you give it to me three weeks ago when I first came to see you?’
‘Because it has only recently come into my possession,’ said the solicitor. ‘I do apologise for this, Mr Nightingale, but I have been given strict instructions and I have to follow them.’
‘What is it you have to give me?’
‘It’s an A4 envelope.’
‘Why not courier it to me?’
‘I really can’t, I’m afraid. As I said, I do have strict instructions.’
‘This is connected to Ainsley Gosling, I assume?’
‘I assume so, too,’ said Turtledove. ‘Can you be here this afternoon?’
6
H amdale was just a dot on the map and it wasn’t much bigger in real life: a cluster of houses around a thatched pub and a row of shops that would have been out of business if Tesco or Asda opened up within twenty miles. Nightingale left his green MGB in the pub car park and smoked a Marlboro as he walked to Turtledove’s office, which was wedged between a post office and cake shop. He stood outside the cake shop as he finished his cigarette. The cakes were works of art, birthday cakes in the shapes of football pitches and teddy bears, layered wedding cakes with ornate icing, cakes shaped like cartoon characters. A sign in the window announced the shop’s internet address and the fact that they could do next-day delivery anywhere in the United Kingdom but not Northern Ireland. A pretty brunette in a black and white striped apron smiled at him and Nightingale smiled back. He tossed his cigarette butt into the street and pushed open the door to the solicitor’s office. A bell dinged and Turtledove’s grey-haired secretary looked up from her old-fashioned electric typewriter.
‘Mr Nightingale, Mr Turtledove’s expecting you,’ she said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he said.
She started to get up but Nightingale waved for her to stay put. ‘I know the way,’ he said.
He opened the door to Turtledove’s inner sanctum. The solicitor was sitting behind a large oak desk piled high with files, all of them tied up with red ribbon. There was no sign of a computer in the office, or of anything that had been manufactured within the last fifty years. There was a single telephone on the desk, a black Bakelite model with a rotary dial, and a rack of fountain pens with two large bottles of Quink ink, one black and one blue.
‘Mr Nightingale, so good of you to come,’ said Turtledove, pushing himself up out of his high-backed leather chair.
‘I just hope it’s worth my while,’ said Nightingale.
Turtledove extended a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand. It might have been Nightingale’s imagination, or poor memory, but the solicitor looked a good ten years older than the last time they’d met. The lines on his face seemed deeper, his eyes more watery and his teeth yellower. He used a wooden walking stick with a brass handle in the shape of a swan’s head to steady himself as he shook hands with Nightingale. Even his tweed suit seemed older and shabbier, the elbows almost worn through and the trousers baggy at the knees. ‘Please, sit down,’ said the solicitor as he limped back around to his chair.
‘What do you have for me, Mr Turtledove?’ asked Nightingale.
The solicitor lowered himself into his chair with a soft groan. ‘I’m afraid I have to ask you for some form of photo identification,’ he said.
‘You know who I am, Mr Turtledove. I was here just three weeks ago. I’m Ainsley Gosling’s sole heir, remember?’
‘Please, Mr Nightingale, bear with me. I am instructed to confirm your identity before I give you the envelope.’
‘Where did this envelope come from?’ asked Nightingale, pulling his wallet from his trouser pocket.
‘From the same law firm that sent me your late father’s will,’ said Turtledove.
Nightingale fished out his driving licence and gave it to the solicitor. Turtledove studied it for a few seconds and then handed it back. He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and took out an A4 manila padded envelope.
‘I don’t understand why you couldn’t just post or courier it to me,’ said Nightingale. He took it from the solicitor. There was a typewritten receipt clipped to one corner.
‘Please sign and date the receipt,’ asked Turtledove, handing Nightingale one of his fountain pens. He sat back in the chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘It wasn’t so much your identity that I was asked to confirm,’ he said. ‘It was more that I had to check that you were still…’ He winced before finishing the sentence. ‘… alive,’ he said. ‘My instructions were that I was to confirm that you were still living and hand you the envelope personally.’
Nightingale signed the receipt and slid it, and the pen, across the desk towards the solicitor.
‘And if I wasn’t alive?’ said Nightingale. ‘What then?’
‘Then I was told to put the envelope and the DVD through a shredder and burn the shreddings.’ He frowned. ‘Is that what they call the waste that has gone through a shredder? Shreddings?’
Nightingale was surprised the elderly solicitor even knew what a shredder was. ‘I’ve no idea, Mr Turtledove,’ he said. He looked at the padded envelope. ‘There must have been a covering letter, because if there wasn’t you wouldn’t have known about the stipulation that you had to confirm that I was still in the land of the living.’
Turtledove nodded. ‘Yes, yes of course, there was a covering letter. Now let me see, where did I put it?’ He frowned again and began rearranging the files on his desk. Little puffs of dust burst into the air like miniature explosions and he began to cough. He took a handkerchief from the top pocket of his jacket and coughed into it. Nightingale saw flecks of blood on the white linen before Turtledove slipped the handkerchief back into his pocket.
‘Are you all right, Mr Turtledove?’ asked Nightingale.
The solicitor forced a smile. ‘I’m fine, Mr Nightingale,’ he said. ‘Just old.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Angela!’ he called. ‘Come in here, please.’ Turtledove gestured with his hand at the door. ‘My wife and secretary,’ he said.