He went back into the main bedroom. There were black wooden cabinets on either side of the bed, and standing on the top of each one was a modern chrome lamp. He went over to the cabinet on the right side and pulled open a drawer. Inside were several packs of Viagra and a bottle of massage oil. Nightingale chuckled and closed the drawer.
He went back downstairs feeling less apprehensive now that he was more familiar with the layout of the house. He walked through the sitting room, which was an interesting mix of old and modern. The furniture was Italian — low, white leather sofas and black leather and chrome chairs — and there was a huge plasma screen on one wall with a state-of-the-art sound system. The bare floorboards had been polished like glass, but overhead were old blackened beams dotted with woodworm holes, and there were various rusting agricultural implements on the walls, including a ploughshare and an enormous scythe. The walls were criss-crossed with more original beams, blackened with age. In one wall was a huge brick fireplace that was big enough to walk into and there was a metal grate piled high with logs.
As he stood in the middle of the room he realised that there was nothing of a personal nature to be seen. No photographs, no souvenirs, no books or magazines. It was as if he was standing in a show house that had yet to be occupied. The sensation was so strong that he went back upstairs and slid open the wardrobe door. There were suits and shirts lined up on hangers and a rack of ties; in the drawers there were socks and underwear. He closed the door, satisfied that Fairchild did actually live there.
Downstairs again he found that opposite the sitting room was a door that opened into a study. It had a low ceiling, with half a dozen parallel beams, and a small fireplace with ashes in the grate that suggested it had been used recently. Dark wooden bookshelves lined the walls, and in front of the old desk was a captain’s chair. For the first time since he’d set foot in the house Nightingale saw personal items: framed certificates for educational and professional qualifications on the wall behind the desk, a humidor on a table. He opened the humidor and inhaled the heady aroma of top-quality cigars. There was a green-leather winged armchair next to the fireplace and on the mahogany table by the side of it was a crystal ashtray containing a couple of cigar butts.
Nightingale ran his finger along a line of books. They were mainly concerned with criminal law, psychology and politics. He checked all the shelves but couldn’t find any volumes about witchcraft or devil-worship.
He went back to the hallway and along to the kitchen. There were more beams across the ceiling but the appliances and units were all of stainless steel and the worktops of black marble. There was a door leading to the rear garden, and another one next to the large double-fronted fridge. Nightingale frowned as he wondered where the second door led, then realised that it could only open into the double garage. He tried to open it but it was locked. Glancing around the kitchen he saw a row of keys on a rack close to the back door. There were several that looked as if they might fit the lock to the garage door so he took them and tried them one by one. The third one that he tried worked. He put the keys down on a worktop and pushed the door open.
The double garage had been filled with metal trunks, dozens and dozens of them, and Nightingale knew immediately what they contained. He went over to the nearest trunk and saw it had catches on either side of the lid and a lock in the middle. Selecting a hammer from the rows of tools hanging on one of the walls, he used it to smash the lock, then he undid the catches. He pulled open the lid to find the trunk filled with leather-bound books. The first one he picked up and opened had a woodcut of a devil holding a pitchfork and standing in front of a woman with long hair; above it was the title Spells To Repel A Curse And Other Magiks. Nightingale flicked through the book. It had been handwritten in copperplate script, the ink fading in places. Nightingale put the book back into the trunk. ‘Got you, you bastard,’ he muttered under his breath.
He jumped as his phone rang. It was Jenny.
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘Fairchild’s house,’ he said. ‘The books are here. All of them. In dozens of metal trunks. He must have had a small army helping him.’
‘What are you going to do? Call the police?’
‘The police won’t do anything, kid. I can’t even prove that the books are mine and anyway I’d have to explain how I got into the house.’
‘Did you break in?’
‘No, he left a key under the mat.’ He laughed. ‘Of course I broke in.’
‘So are you coming back now?’
‘Soon,’ he said. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I’m going to lie down. Don’t be too late.’
Nightingale ended the call and went back to the sitting room. He put the gun on the coffee table and sat down on one of the chrome and leather chairs. It wasn’t comfortable but that was a good thing because he didn’t want to fall asleep.
64
Jenny woke up to the sound of buzzing and she groped for her alarm clock. As she fumbled for the off switch she realised that it wasn’t her clock; it was the door intercom, buzzing in the kitchen. She blinked as she stared at the clock. It was just after nine. She pulled on her robe and hurried downstairs. As she reached the bottom she remembered that she hadn’t checked the intercom. She turned to go back upstairs but then the buzzer rang again, longer this time. It was probably Nightingale. ‘Okay, okay,’ she said, hurrying across the hall to the front door. She opened it but froze when she saw who was standing on her doorstep. It was Marcus Fairchild. He was wearing a double-breasted blazer, beige slacks and shiny brown shoes. He smiled and his eyes sparkled.
‘Good evening, darling,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise you went to bed so early.’
Jenny took a step back, clutching her robe around her neck. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.
His smile broadened. ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ he said, stepping towards her. ‘There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.’ Jenny backed down the hallway. She could feel the strength draining from her legs. ‘Now listen to me, darling, listen to me very carefully.’
65
Nightingale groaned and stretched and slapped his right cheek a couple of times, trying to wake himself up. He was sitting on one of Fairchild’s sofas, his feet on a glass coffee table that was balanced on three large marble spheres. At just after ten o’clock he’d raided the fridge and found some cheese, tomatoes and celery and he’d eaten them with a couple of slices of bread and butter, and a can of Carlsberg. By his feet was a crystal ashtray with half a dozen cigarette butts in it. Once he’d found all the books in the trunks in Fairchild’s garage he’d decided that there was no point in keeping a low profile. One way or another it would all be over by morning, so he’d sat and he’d smoked and he’d waited.
Every book from the basement of Gosling Manor had been packed into the trunks and transported to Epping. It would have needed a huge truck and quite a bit of manpower. Nightingale hadn’t even considered calling the police. He wasn’t sitting there in the dark because he wanted to talk to Fairchild about stolen books. He wanted to talk to Fairchild, that much was true. But Nightingale wanted to know exactly what the man had done to Jenny, and why. And he was sure that Fairchild would tell him, not because of the gun that Nightingale would be pointing at his chest but because the lawyer was arrogant, one of life’s boasters. He’d want to tell Nightingale everything, to revel in his superiority. Nightingale would listen to Fairchild, he’d hear everything that the man had to say, and then he’d pull the trigger.