‘Keeping it in the family,’ said Nightingale.
‘She’s a trained book-keeper, and makes the perfect cup of tea,’ said Turtledove. ‘I’d be lost without her.’
The door opened and Mrs Turtledove looked at her husband over the top of her gold-rimmed spectacles and smiled. ‘You yelled?’ she said.
‘I’m sorry, my love,’ said Turtledove. ‘The envelope we were sent for Mr Nightingale — I can’t find the letter that came with it.’
‘I haven’t filed it yet, so it should still be in the in tray,’ said Mrs Turtledove.
The solicitor began rifling through papers in a wire tray. His wife sighed. ‘The other in tray, dear,’ she said.
The solicitor pulled a face and started sorting through another stack of papers.
‘It was delivered by a courier, was it?’ Nightingale asked Mrs Turtledove.
‘A motorcycle courier,’ she said.
‘A local firm?’
‘I hadn’t seen him before,’ said Mrs Turtledove. ‘In fact, he didn’t take his helmet off and he had a black visor so I don’t actually know what he looked like. But it wasn’t a firm we’ve used before, I know that.’
‘I don’t suppose you remember the name? Of the company?’
‘It had courier in it, but I suppose they all do, don’t they?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘I suppose they do.’
Mr Turtledove produced a sheet of paper and waved it triumphantly. ‘Found it,’ he said.
‘Told you so,’ said his wife. She closed the door as Turtledove handed the letter to Nightingale. There was no letterhead, no company name, no address or phone number, and no signature at the bottom. It was typewritten and comprised a simple set of instructions, which Mr Turtledove had carried out impeccably.
‘I’m assuming that you will be paid for this?’
‘The bank in Brighton that handled your late father’s finances has already transferred the money to our company account.’
‘This is all very irregular, isn’t it, Mr Turtledove?’
‘Mr Nightingale, nothing about your case has been the least bit regular from the start.’ He coughed again and dabbed his lips with his handkerchief.
Nightingale gave the sheet of paper back to the solicitor. ‘Would you by any chance know anything about my sister?’ he asked.
‘Your sister?’
‘Gosling had another child two years after I was born. A girl. Like me, she was adopted at birth.’
Turtledove shook his head. ‘My only involvement with Mr Gosling has been the administration of his estate and passing on that envelope. I know nothing of any other relative.’ He scratched his forehead. ‘Not that having a sibling would affect the will, of course. Mr Gosling was quite clear that you are his sole beneficiary.’
‘How is the work going on the will?’
‘Slowly but surely,’ said Turtledove. ‘I think it should all be tied up in another month or so.’
‘What’s the hold-up?’ asked Nightingale.
‘No hold-up,’ said Turtledove. ‘These things just take time, that’s all.’ He gestured at the envelope that Nightingale was holding. ‘I do hope that’s good news,’ he said.
Nightingale scowled. ‘Considering what I’ve been through in the last three weeks, I very much doubt it,’ he said.
7
N ightingale pushed open the door to the office, waving the padded envelope that Turtledove had given him. ‘Great, you’re still here,’ he said. ‘Got any popcorn?’
Jenny looked up from her computer, frowning quizzically. ‘I was just about to go home. How did it go?’
Nightingale slid a DVD out of the envelope. ‘If I’m right this is another home movie from my dear departed daddy.’
‘That’s what Turtledove wanted to give you?’ She followed him through to his office and watched as he slotted the DVD into the player.
‘Yeah, he said he had only just received it. And here’s the kicker — he had to prove that I was alive before he could hand it over.’
Jenny picked up the remote. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Sure about what?’
‘That you want to know what’s on that DVD?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Because if it’s anything like the last message, it won’t be good news. And maybe you’d be better off not knowing what he’s got to say to you.’
Nightingale sat down and lit a Marlboro. ‘Press “play”, Jenny,’ he said.
‘Do you ever listen to a word I say?’ she said, sitting down on the sofa by the door.
‘With bated breath, but if it was important enough for me to drive all the way down to Hamdale for, it’s important enough for me to watch, whether or not we’ve got popcorn.’
‘We haven’t,’ she said. ‘But there are some chocolate Hobnobs in my drawer.’
‘I’ll pass,’ he said. He waved at the television. ‘Please, the suspense is killing me.’
Jenny pressed ‘play’ and sat with the remote in both hands as the screen flickered into life.
There was no mistaking the face of the bald elderly man that filled the screen as he adjusted the lens. Ainsley Gosling grunted and took a step back, frowning as he studied the camera. His scalp was dotted with liver spots and scabs, and he was wearing the same crimson dressing gown he’d had on for the first DVD they had watched. Gosling turned his back on the camera and waddled over to his bed, then grunted as he sat down, wrapping the gown around his massive stomach. He was holding an opened bottle of brandy in his left hand.
‘This was made at the same time as the other video he sent you,’ said Jenny.
‘I guess it’s a PS,’ said Nightingale, flicking ash into the crystal ashtray by his computer terminal.
Gosling took a long pull at his brandy bottle, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘I don’t know why I’m doing this,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘There’s no way you can possibly be alive to see this. By now you’re burning in Hell and cursing the day you were born.’ He took another drink, then held the bottle out in front of him. ‘Half empty or half full? What do you think, Jack? Are you an optimist, or a pessimist?’ He laughed harshly. ‘Not that it matters, not if you’re in Hell.’ He ran his hand over his scalp. ‘So, are you dead or alive, Jack? If you’re dead then this is a waste of time and the DVD will have been destroyed. But maybe, just maybe, you managed to find a way to survive.’ He leaned forward and stared at the camera with watery eyes. ‘Maybe you’re a chip off the old block,’ he growled. ‘Are you, Jack? You’ve got my genes, have you got my guile? Did you manage to pull a rabbit out of the hat at the last minute?’
‘I did, actually,’ said Nightingale.
Gosling took another gulp of brandy. ‘Okay, if you are watching this, Jack, then you did the impossible. You did what I couldn’t do. Somehow you managed to beat Proserpine.’ Gosling chuckled. ‘Even as I say that, I realise how stupid I sound.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m rambling. Sorry.’ He forced a smile at the camera. ‘I’ve been under a bit of pressure, as you can imagine. Here’s what happened. Proserpine gave me knowledge. That was the deal I struck. Access to Satanic secrets in exchange for your soul. She kept her side of the bargain and most of what I achieved in my life stemmed from the deal I did with her.’ He took a swig from the bottle. ‘Hindsight is a wonderful thing, isn’t it?’ he continued. ‘Of course now I know that everything I have, everything I had, is worthless compared with what I lost. I tried to get out of the deal, I tried to get your soul back, but she wouldn’t have it. A deal is a deal, and once done cannot be undone.’ He threw the bottle at the wall behind the camera and they heard it smash. Gosling sat on the bed, his head in his hands, then he slowly looked up at the camera again. ‘So, Jack, did you find some way of saving your soul?’ He leaned to the side and as he moved his dressing gown fell open to reveal a huge belly, with skin the colour of boiled chicken. Gosling sat up again and cradled a shotgun in his lap. ‘You can never win when you do a deal with the dark side, Jack. I know that now. It’s like when you go into a casino, you know. At the end of the day, the house always wins.’ He laughed again and his paunch jiggled. Gosling pulled his robe closed with his left hand and stared up at the ceiling. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. I’m so, so sorry for what I did to you and your sister.’