‘I’m assuming they’ll phone me if she does get out because I’m down as next of kin,’ said Nightingale. ‘What about your Welshman? Caernarfon Craig?’
‘He’s emailing me through Facebook again, fishing for personal stuff, but I’m still ducking and diving,’ she said. ‘I’ve logged onto some of the suicide sites that he’s told me about. There’re a lot of very depressed people out there, Jack.’
‘State the economy’s in, I’m not surprised. But you be careful, Jenny. If this guy is behind the Welsh deaths then you could be playing with fire.’
‘I know what I’m doing,’ she said. ‘I’m copying everything he’s sent me and once I can identify him I’ll pass it all onto the cops.’
She ended the call and Nightingale showered again, then shaved and changed into a clean denim shirt and jeans, made himself another mug of coffee and lay on the sofa watching television. At some point he must have fallen asleep because he was woken by the sound of his door intercom buzzing. He went to answer it.
‘Open the bloody door, Nightingale, or by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin I’ll blow the thing down.’ It was Superintendent Chalmers.
‘What do you want?’ asked Nightingale.
‘I want you to open the door now. If you don’t there are two big men here who’re going to kick it in.’
‘Big men? Are you trying to scare me, Chalmers? Because it’s not working.’
‘I’ve got a warrant, Nightingale. And I’m counting down from ten.’
‘Yeah, using all your fingers, I’ll bet.’
‘One way or the other we’re coming in, Nightingale.’
Nightingale pressed the button to open the downstairs door. He switched off the television and then opened his front door. Chalmers was wearing a dark raincoat and a sour expression as he clumped up the stairs followed by two uniformed officers.
‘Where’s the warrant?’ asked Nightingale.
Chalmers handed Nightingale an envelope and pushed him to the side. He walked into the sitting room and looked around while the uniforms checked Nightingale’s bedroom.
‘Nothing here, sir,’ shouted one.
‘Check the bathroom,’ said Chalmers. ‘Count the bloody toothbrushes.’
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Nightingale.
Chalmers gestured at the envelope. ‘Not what,’ he said. ‘Who. It’s in the warrant. Your sister.’
‘Robyn?’
‘How many sisters do you have?’
‘She’s in Rampton.’
Chalmers sneered at him. ‘Not as of today, she isn’t,’ he said.
‘She escaped?’
‘No one knows what happened,’ said Chalmers. ‘Her room was checked this morning and she wasn’t there. But she’d left a whole lot of weird stuff behind.’
‘So what’s that got to do with me?’ asked Nightingale.
The superintendent pointed a finger at Nightingale’s face. ‘See, there’s a funny thing. Most people would have asked what sort of weird stuff. But not you.’
‘Okay, I’ll humour you. What weird stuff?’
‘You know what weird stuff. There was a pentagram on the floor, candles, a bowl of herbs. And according to the security logs, you’re the one who took it in to her.’
‘I took her a few things that her psychiatrist said might help her. The guards checked everything I took in. Even had a sniffer dog go over it.’
‘You helped her escape. I know you did.’
‘Yeah, and what exactly did I do? I smuggled in a hacksaw so that she could saw through the bars, did I?’
‘The bars were fine, all the doors were locked, there’s nothing on the CCTV. She didn’t walk out, she just vanished.’
‘And you think I had a hand in that?’
‘Where were you last night?’
‘I was in Gosling Manor until about midnight.’
‘You had a party there, did you?’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘I was alone.’
‘On New Year’s Eve?’
‘I just wanted some quiet contemplation,’ he said. ‘I was making my New Year resolutions, if you must know.’
‘Can anyone confirm that you were there?’
‘I told you, I was alone. Then I came back here.’
‘What time?’
‘About two o’clock.’
‘Still alone?’
Nightingale nodded.
‘So no witnesses?’ said Chalmers.
‘Chalmers, if I was up to something I’d have sorted out an alibi for myself, wouldn’t I? I was in the Job, remember? I know how it works. But I drove, so I’m sure you’ll be able to catch me on CCTV somewhere.’
‘What’s going on, Nightingale?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said.
‘Where is she?’
Nightingale put his hand on his heart. ‘I have no idea. And that’s the truth. Scout’s honour.’
‘You know who her last visitor was?’
‘I’m guessing that would be me.’
‘Yeah, well, you guess right. On Thursday you go in to see her. Saturday morning and she vanishes. I don’t believe in coincidences, Nightingale. Let’s go.’
‘Go where?’
‘Gosling Manor.’
‘Not without a warrant,’ said Nightingale.
Chalmers reached into pocket and took out a second envelope, which he thrust at Nightingale. ‘Get your coat,’ he said.
88
G raham Kerr lit a match as he watched. He was standing in a clump of trees overlooking the house and had seen the MGB, patrol car and police van arrive. He breathed in the fragrance of the match and shivered with anticipation. At his feet was a can of petrol. He wasn’t happy about using petrol. Petrol was the blunt instrument in an arsonist’s armoury, the equivalent of a sawn-off shotgun or a machete. Kerr preferred subtlety, but in Jack Nightingale’s case there was no time to be clever. Mistress Proserpine wanted him dead and she always got what she wanted.
Kerr loved to watch his victims. Watching them going about the business not knowing that their days were numbered was part of the pleasure. It was almost as satisfying as the setting of the fires that took their lives. Almost, but not quite.
Kerr let the match burn down almost to his fingers before blowing it out and slipping it into his back pocket. He didn’t like using petrol but at least he could use his Swan Vestas matches. First he’d have to wait for the police to leave. If Nightingale stayed in the house, that’s where he would die. If he went back to his flat in Bayswater, he’d die there. But one way or another, Jack Nightingale would die.
89
N ightingale climbed out of his MGB. ‘Nice of you to let me use my own car,’ he said to Chalmers, who was walking towards the front door.
A Surrey Police van with half a dozen uniformed officers had been waiting for them at the gates and had followed them in.
‘We’ve got better things to do on New Year’s Day than run a taxi service for you,’ said the superintendent. ‘Now open the front door.’
‘Anything to stop you doing the chinny-chin-chin thing.’ Nightingale took out his keys and opened the front door as the uniforms piled out of the van. They were led by a bruiser of a sergeant, who glared at Nightingale as if blaming him personally for having to work on New Year’s Day.
Chalmers put a hand on Nightingale’s shoulder. ‘You hang on outside with me while the men give it the once-over. If she’s in there you’d best tell me now.’
‘She isn’t,’ said Nightingale.
The uniforms filed through into the hallway. Two of them went upstairs and the rest spread out on the ground floor.
Nightingale tapped out a Marlboro and lit it. ‘Happy New Year, by the way,’ he said.
‘What’s going on, Nightingale?’ asked Chalmers. ‘What’s this all about? You inherit this house from a mystery man who blows his own head off. People around you have a nasty habit of coming to a sticky end. A serial killer tries to slit your throat. And your long-lost sister escapes from the most secure mental hospital in the country a couple of days after you pay her a visit. And all this happens over — what, four weeks?’
‘It’s been an eventful month, that’s true.’ He blew smoke towards the mermaid fountain.