‘Everything okay, Darren?’ she asked.
‘No worries, Mrs Fraser,’ he said. He had an Australian accent. He was in his late twenties, well over six feet tall, with wavy blond hair, a fading tan and a small diamond earring in his right lobe.
‘We’re here to see Miss Keeley. Is she okay?’
The man smiled. ‘She never changes,’ he said. ‘I wish they were all as amenable.’
Mrs Fraser took Nightingale along the corridor and stopped outside a door on which a clear plastic box contained a white card. She took it out and looked at it, then put it back and knocked on the door. She opened it. ‘It’s only me, Miss Keeley,’ she said. ‘I have a visitor for you.’
As she opened the door wide, Nightingale saw a hospital bed, neatly made, and a bedside table with a water glass and a paperback book. It was the New English Bible, he realised, and it was well thumbed.
‘This is Jack Nightingale,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘He’s come to have a chat with you. That’s nice, isn’t it?’
The woman was sitting in an armchair. Her hair was grey and tied back in a ponytail. She was wearing a shapeless pale blue dress and fluffy pink slippers. Her hands were clasped in her lap and she was staring out of the window, her lips pursed as if she was about to blow a kiss.
Nightingale stepped into the room and Mrs Fraser closed the door. ‘He’s just come to say hello, and he’s brought you some flowers,’ said Mrs Fraser.
Nightingale held them out but the woman didn’t react. Her face was lined, there were dark patches under her eyes and her hands were wrinkled and hooked, like claws. ‘She’s only fifty, right?’ said Nightingale.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Fraser.
‘But she looks so… so old.’
‘The drugs can have that effect, I’m afraid.’
‘Drugs?’
‘She’s had a lifetime of tranquillisers, anti-depressants and anti-schizophrenia medication.’
‘But she’s not on medication now?’
‘She’s still on anti-depressants, and she has developed diabetes so she has to have regular insulin injections. There’s also a high-cholesterol problem and she takes medication for low blood pressure.’ She patted the woman’s arm. ‘I’ll leave you alone with Jack for a while, Miss Keeley,’ she said. She smiled at Nightingale. ‘I did warn you not to expect too much,’ she said. ‘They’ll bring her a meal at four o’clock, and you’re welcome to stay until then. Just let Darren know that you’re leaving.’
‘Thank you,’ said Nightingale. Mrs Fraser let herself out and he sat on the bed, the flowers beside him, facing the woman. She continued to gaze out of the window, across the road to the discount carpet warehouse opposite. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked quietly.
The woman showed no sign that she had heard him.
‘My name’s Jack – Jack Nightingale.’ He smiled. ‘Though my name probably won’t mean anything to you.’
She continued to stare outside, as if she was alone.
‘Rebecca, did you have a baby thirty-three years ago? Because if you did, I’m your son. I’m the baby you gave away.’ Nightingale smiled again, but this time it was more of a grimace. ‘Or sold. Did you sell me, Rebecca? Did you sell me for twenty thousand pounds?
The woman’s hands moved. She scratched her left wrist with the yellowed fingernail of her right index finger. Nightingale could hear the sound, a dry rasp like two sticks being rubbed together.
Nightingale tried to see in her some sort of resemblance to himself. She had a tight, pinched face and a sharp, almost pointed nose. She was nothing like him.
‘Are you my mother?’ he asked. ‘Just answer me that. Did you give birth to me thirty-three years ago?’ He smiled. ‘It’s Friday,’ he said. ‘Friday the thirteenth. That’s funny, isn’t it? Of all the days I should come to see you, it’s Friday the thirteenth. And two weeks today I’ll be thirty-three years old. Do you know what’s supposed to happen to me on my thirty-third birthday, Rebecca? Do you?’
He couldn’t tell if she’d heard a single word he’d said to her. He stood up and walked to the door. He grabbed the handle, but before he pulled it open he turned to look at her.
‘Can’t you even say goodbye to me?’ he said.
The woman didn’t move.
‘Mum?’ The word felt strange on his lips. ‘If you are my mum, can’t you even say goodbye? This will be the last time you see me.’ He thought he detected a slight movement of her head, but then she was perfectly still again. He went to her chair and squatted so that his head was level with hers. He noticed she was wearing a small gold crucifix around her neck on a fine gold chain. ‘Mum, can you hear me?’
Her eyes were glistening with tears but her cheeks were dry, as dry and wrinkled as old parchment.
‘Why did you do it? Why did you sell me to Ainsley Gosling? I know he gave you twenty thousand pounds. Did he buy me from you?’
The woman’s right hand twitched and her eyes widened. It was the first reaction she’d shown since he’d walked into the room. Her mouth opened and he saw she had no teeth, just ulcerated gums.
‘Ainsley Gosling, you know that name, don’t you?’
The woman’s mouth opened wider. Her tongue was coated with white fur and he could smell her breath, sour and vinegary, like stale vomit.
‘Ainsley Gosling,’ repeated Nightingale. ‘He was the man you sold me to, wasn’t he? Tell me.’
The woman’s hands bunched into arthritic fists and she stared at Nightingale, seeing him for the first time. She took a deep breath, opened her mouth and began to scream as if she was being burned at the stake.
32
Robbie Hoyle sipped his coffee and flicked through the file he had taken from the basement at Gosling Manor. Ainsley Gosling seemed never to have thrown away a single receipt or invoice. There were travel inventories that showed he had travelled the world, invoices from antiques shops and auction houses that showed he had been an avid collector, and one with a Harley Street address, written in an almost illegible scrawl. Hoyle screwed up his eyes and made out some of the words but not all. It related to treatment at a private clinic, and one word was quite clear – ‘ultrasound’.
He looked at the heading again. ‘Dr Geoffrey Griffith, paediatrician’. It was dated twenty months after Nightingale had been born. ‘Got you,’ he whispered. He couldn’t see the name of the patient but he was fairly sure it involved Nightingale’s missing sister. He took out his mobile phone and scrolled through the address book until he found his friend’s number. The call connected but after half a dozen rings it went to voicemail. Hoyle looked at his watch. His shift was due to start in fifteen minutes so he drained his cup, paid his bill and headed out of the coffee shop. The Starbucks was across the road from the police station. He looked left and right. A double-decker bus drove past, then an Evening Standard delivery van. Cars rushed by on both sides of the road. He pressed redial but the call went to Nightingale’s voicemail again. A Tesco truck drove past, a motorcycle courier, then a line of cars, bumper to bumper. ‘Jack, it’s Robbie. I’m just heading into work but I’ve found something in Gosling’s file about your sister.’ There was a gap in the traffic and Hoyle stepped off the pavement. ‘I’ll give you a call when my shift’s over…’
A girl in Goth clothes was standing in the doorway of a florist’s. Her Border collie was sitting next to her, its ears pricked. She ran a hand through her spiky jet black hair as she watched Hoyle step off the pavement.
‘Hey, Robbie!’ she shouted. Her voice cut through the hum of the traffic and Hoyle stopped in his tracks. ‘Hey, Robbie, have you got a light?’ she called.
Hoyle turned, frowning, the phone still at his ear. The girl waved and blew him a kiss. He took a step towards her and the black cab hit him full on at thirty-five miles an hour, breaking his legs, hip and spine, bursting his spleen and splintering his ribs, which punctured his lungs. The driver said later that he’d been distracted by something in the back of his cab, which was empty at the time. Something had been fluttering around like a trapped bird, he told police, but when he’d turned there was nothing. He hadn’t had time to brake before the impact.