She flashed him an uninterested smile and watched the numbers as they winked on and off. When they reached the floor she walked quickly down the corridor. Nightingale followed, keeping well back. She had a room in the middle of the corridor so he walked past her, tilting the case to keep her in the camera’s view. He heard her unlock the door and close it. He walked to the end of the corridor, turned and stepped around the corner, keeping the briefcase aimed at the room where Mrs McBride was. He didn’t have to wait long. He heard the lift doors open and took out his phone, held it to his ear with his left hand and aimed the attache case down the corridor with the right.
Mrs McBride’s lover walked briskly down the corridor, tapping a copy of the Evening Standard against his leg. He was wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit that had the look of Savile Row and carrying a cashmere coat over one arm.
Nightingale walked towards him slowly, muttering into his phone, keeping the case pointing towards the man as he knocked on Mrs McBride’s door. She opened it and kissed him, then dragged him inside just as Nightingale drew level with the door. His timing was perfect.
He went back outside and sat in the Audi. Two hours later he videoed the man leaving on his own and walking along the street towards the tube station. Five minutes after that he got a nice shot of Mrs McBride walking out of the hotel, looking like the cat that had got the cream.
28
Jenny looked up from her computer when Nightingale walked in, swinging his attache case. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.
‘Perfect,’ said Nightingale. He put the case on her desk, clicked the double locks and opened it. He removed the memory card from the side of the camera and gave it to Jenny. ‘Run off a couple of DVDs, might need a bit of editing.’
‘No problem,’ said Jenny. ‘How’s my car, by the way?’
‘I had a bit of a run-in with a delivery van, scraped the side.’
‘You did not!’
Nightingale grinned. ‘Joke,’ he said. ‘Would I take any risks with your pride and joy? Now, did you get the credit-card records? They were obviously regulars at the Hilton. Be handy to show how often they go there.’
‘Yes, but my contact’s asking for more money.’
‘Because?’
‘Because he says they’re clamping down – Data Protection Act and all that. Now he wants three hundred a go.’
‘There’s enough in petty cash, right?’ said Nightingale, lighting a cigarette.
Jenny flashed him a sarcastic smile. ‘We haven’t had any petty cash for the last three months. I paid him myself.’
‘Put it on Mr McBride’s bill,’ he said.
‘My DWP pal wants more too.’
‘What is it with these people?’ Nightingale sighed. ‘They shouldn’t even be selling us information in the first place.’
‘I think that’s why the price keeps going up,’ said Jenny.
‘But she came through, did she?’
‘She managed to track down Rebecca Keeley. She’s in a nursing home, apparently. But nothing on Mitchell. He isn’t on any of the databases. Never paid tax, never been on the electoral roll, never seen a doctor. The original invisible man.’
‘Well, I hope we’re not paying for that,’ said Nightingale.
‘We’re paying for the checks, Jack, not the results.’
‘So what’s the story on Keeley? It’s an old folks’ home, is it?’
‘Hardly,’ said Jenny. ‘She’s only fifty.’
Nightingale’s brow furrowed. ‘Fifty? That means she was seventeen when she gave birth.’
‘You’re assuming she’s your mother, Jack. And that’s a very big assumption. All you have is that Gosling gave her some money at about the time you were born.’
‘Twenty thousand pounds was a lot of money back then,’ said Nightingale. ‘He must have been paying her for something important.’
‘She could have sold him a painting. Or a piece of furniture.’
‘He was meticulous with his records. Every cheque stub was filled in with either a reference number or a description of what he’d paid for. But the one for Keeley just had the amount with no explanation.’
‘I’m just saying, don’t get too excited. It might turn out to be nothing.’
‘Message received and understood,’ said Nightingale. ‘So why’s she in a home if she’s only fifty?’
‘I don’t know, but I’ve got an address,’ she said, handing him a sheet of paper. ‘Shall I get Mr McBride in so that you can give him the bad news – and his bill?’
‘Might as well,’ said Nightingale, studying the piece of paper she’d given him. The Hillingdon Home was in Hampshire, and there was no indication of what sort of outfit it was. Underneath the address there was a phone number, and the name of the administrator, a Mrs Elizabeth Fraser.
‘His wife paid for the hotel room, did you realise that?’ asked Jenny.
‘Yeah, I saw her handing over her card. Unbelievable, isn’t it? She sleeps with the boss and pays for it. What’s he got that I haven’t?’
‘Charm for a start,’ said Jenny.
29
‘Go on, number five!’ bellowed Nightingale, waving his betting slip. ‘Go on, my son!’
‘His name’s Red Rover,’ said Hoyle, at his shoulder.
‘He doesn’t know his name,’ said Nightingale. ‘Go on, number five!’
The greyhounds reached the second bend in a tight pack with number five somewhere in the middle. Nightingale had put twenty pounds on it to win for no other reason than that he’d liked the way the dog seemed to be smiling as it was walked around by its trainer.
Hoyle had put fifty pounds on number six, and as the dogs sped into the final stretch he cursed: number six was bringing up the rear.
‘Come on, number five!’ shouted Nightingale.
A black dog, its tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth, seemed to hit a second wind and hurtled into the lead. It crossed the finishing line just yards behind the mechanical hare. Number five came in third. Nightingale screwed up his betting slip. They were at Wimbledon Stadium in south London. It had been Hoyle’s idea – he had been a regular visitor before he was married but now he barely managed two or three evenings a year. ‘Which do you fancy in the next race?’ asked Nightingale, studying his race card.
‘Old Kentucky,’ said Hoyle.
‘I think having the word “old” in his name isn’t a great start,’ said Nightingale.
‘Won his last four races,’ said Hoyle. ‘Come on, drinks are on me if he loses.’
They joined a queue to place their bets. ‘I got an address for that woman, the one Gosling gave twenty grand to,’ said Nightingale. ‘Some sort of home in Hampshire.’
‘You really think she might be your mother?’
‘She’s the only lead I’ve got.’
‘Are you going to see her?
‘I’ve got to, Robbie.’
‘You don’t have to, you could let sleeping dogs lie.’ He grinned. ‘No pun intended.’
Nightingale kept his eyes on the list of runners.
‘Are you going to see her because she’s your mother? Or because of this devil’s contract thing?’ asked Hoyle, lowering his voice to a whisper.
‘I just want to meet her.’
‘What if she doesn’t want to meet you?’
Nightingale frowned at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She gave you up for adoption thirty-three years ago. She hasn’t made any attempt to contact you during that time, and the last thing she’s going to expect is you turning up on her doorstep.’
Nightingale reached the front of the queue and handed a twenty-pound note to the cashier, a rotund woman in her fifties with blue-rinsed hair and green eye-shadow. ‘Old Kentucky in the next race,’ he said.