‘The place was empty.’
‘That’s lucky,’ said the builder, making a note on his clipboard. He went back to the hall and stamped down on the boards in several places. ‘All the boards are going to have to be replaced,’ he said. ‘Until we’ve taken them up we won’t be able to see how much damage has been done to the joists. But the wood is so old that it’s as hard as metal, so you should be all right. All the panelling’s going to need replacing.’ He gestured at the ceiling. ‘All the plaster’s going to have to come down. It’s been soaked and even if you let it dry out it’s never going to be right.’
He took out an electronic tape measure and measured up the hallway, then nodded at Nightingale. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mr Nightingale. I’ll give you two estimates. I’ll give you a basic one where I’ll put it back in as-new condition. New panelling, new floorboards, new joists, whatever needs doing, but using new materials. And I’ll give you a proper restoration estimate, where it’ll be put back to the condition it was before the fire. As if the fire never happened, if you get my drift.’
‘Okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘But do you have a ballpark figure?’
The builder looked pained and scratched his ear with his pen. ‘Difficult to say off the cuff,’ he said. ‘There’re a lot of materials to price. But for a basic repair job you won’t be getting much change from twenty-five thousand pounds. That’s assuming there’s no major damage to the joists. And that we don’t uncover anything else when we start pulling panels off.’
‘Like what?’
‘Dry rot, wet rot, insect infestation. Panelling can hide a multitude of sins. But if we do find anything then we’re best dealing with it there and then.’
‘And the restoration budget?’
Garner exhaled through pursed lips in the same way the mechanics did when they were about to give an estimate for work on Nightingale’s MGB. ‘A hundred grand. More maybe. We need craftsmen carpenters and they’re not cheap.’ He put away his pen. ‘You’re insured, yeah?’
‘I hope so.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I’m assuming I am. I’ll check.’ He handed the builder a business card. ‘Send the estimates to me at the office.’
They walked together down the stairs, across the muddy hall and outside. The builder looked up at the house. ‘They don’t build them like this any more,’ he said. ‘Did you just buy it?’
‘My father left it to me.’
‘Are you going to live here? Or are you planning to sell it?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’ve not decided.’
‘Let me know if you want to sell. I’m doing some work for a Russian who lives a few miles away who’s always complaining about his place being too small. He keeps putting in plans to extend but the local council don’t like him so he’s not getting anywhere. He’d love this place.’
‘Let me think about it,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ll let you know once I’ve seen your estimates.’
They shook hands, then Garner climbed into his van and drove off. Nightingale lit a cigarette and was just about to go inside when Jenny came out.
She shook her head when she saw that he was smoking. ‘How many do you smoke a day?’ she asked.
‘A pack. Two, sometimes.’
‘Even though you know the dangers?’
‘Of smoking?’
‘Of course of smoking. Is everything a joke to you, Jack?’
Nightingale blew smoke up at the sky. ‘Everybody dies,’ he said. ‘Life is a zero sum game. The best you can do is to enjoy yourself as you go along.’
‘But smoking shortens your life.’
‘Maybe. But it only takes the years from the end of your life. Not the beginning or the middle.’
Jenny looked at him, confused. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you mean.’
Nightingale took another drag on his cigarette before continuing. ‘Say I live until I’m seventy-five without smoking. And say I die at seventy if I do smoke. I lose five years. But really, Jenny, what am I going to be doing during those five years? Sitting in a bedsit somewhere watching the football, assuming I’ve enough of a pension to be able to afford Sky Sport?’
‘That’s how you envisage your final years, is it? What about grandchildren? What about family?’
Nightingale laughed. ‘To have grandkids I’d need kids and to have kids I’d need a wife or at least a steady girlfriend, and that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen any time soon. Here’s the thing, Jenny. It’s not about how long you live, it’s about enjoying the life you have. And I’m happy smoking.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘Maybe. It’s like my car. My MGB.’
‘The car that you can’t use because the battery’s flat again?’
‘It’s a classic,’ said Nightingale.
‘You keep saying that. But it’s not. It’s an old banger.’
‘It makes me happy. I enjoy driving it. It’s got a history and I like the way it handles.’
‘On the few occasions that it’s actually on the road, you mean?’
‘I’m not saying that your Audi isn’t a great car. But driving your Audi is a totally different experience to being at the wheel of a classic car. You feel connected to the road. You really feel the speed when you’re in the MGB, even though the Audi is faster. Driving it could well shorten my life. There’re no airbags, the seatbelts are crap, the brakes aren’t smart like they are in the Audi, so if I get into a smash I’ll probably come off worst. But does knowing that stop me driving it? No. Because I enjoy it. The pleasure outweighs the risks.’ He held up the cigarette. ‘Smoking makes me feel good. It relaxes me, it helps me concentrate.?.?.’
‘It gives you something to do with your hands.’
‘What?’
‘Everyone knows that cigarettes help people get through awkward social situations.’
‘Jenny, really, I just enjoy smoking.’
Jenny threw her hands in the air. ‘I give up,’ she said. ‘So how did it go with Bob the Builder?’
‘His name’s Chris,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’s going to send me an estimate.’
‘You’re going to get more than one, right?’
‘We’ll see,’ said Nightingale. ‘First thing I’ve got to do is get some cash.’ He tossed his keys to her. ‘Can you lock up? I want to make a call.’
As Jenny went up the steps to the front door, Nightingale took out his mobile phone and called the number of Joshua Wainwright. The American had bought several volumes from the basement library and if Nightingale was going to have any hope of paying the builder he was going to have to sell him quite a few more.
‘Jack, my man, how the hell are you?’ said Wainwright. Nightingale could hear the hum of engines and figured that the American was probably on his Gulfstream jet.
‘All good,’ said Nightingale.
‘How was your Christmas?’
‘Quiet,’ lied Nightingale. He’d spent Christmas Day at Jenny’s parents’ house and the fact that one of the gamekeepers had blown his head off with a shotgun had taken the gloss off the festive season, somewhat.
‘Well, I hope you have one hell of a new year,’ said Wainwright.
‘You too,’ said Nightingale. ‘Where are you?’
‘Cruising at thirty-one thousand feet.’
‘Going anywhere nice?’
‘Private island in the Caribbean, as it happens. You should drop by if you get the chance. There’re some very interesting people on the guest list — a couple of former prime ministers, a vice-president, three Oscar winners. And a couple of Russian billionaires.’
‘I’ll have to take a rain check on that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Hey, the reason I’m calling is to see if I can send you another list of books. We’ve inventoried another couple of hundred.’
‘Sure thing,’ said Wainwright. ‘Look, Jack, how many books do you have in this library of yours?’
‘Thousands,’ said Nightingale. ‘I haven’t counted but there’re a lot.’
‘So why don’t I call in one day and have a look-see? Be easier that way.’
‘Sure,’ said Nightingale. ‘When are you in the UK again?’
‘I’ll be with Richard for two or three days, then I’m heading over to China. I could stop off on the way. I’ll call you and fix up a time.’