An owl hooted. ‘That doesn’t cut it either, Robbie. Give me something bigger. What about those nuns who see statues bleed or make the lame walk or hear voices? If they can hear voices, why the hell can’t you talk to me? Just whisper to me, Robbie – no one else need know. And if it’s against the rules, sod it, because you and I are the same, we can bend the rules when we have to if it’s for the greater good. Just whisper my name.’
The wind picked up and the conifers swished back and forth, murmuring like assassins.
‘The trees don’t count either, Robbie. Stop pissing around.’
The wind died down. Nightingale closed his eyes and listened to the sound of his own breathing. It became deathly still. There was no wind, no traffic noise, no hooting owls or barking foxes. Just silence. Maybe that was what death was like, he thought. Just nothing. Perfect silence, perfect blackness, nothing for all of eternity. He took a deep breath and held it. No sound, no light, no feelings, no thoughts. Nothing. He slowly exhaled.
‘I don’t understand what’s happening, Robbie. I don’t understand why you died. I don’t understand why my uncle Tommy smashed his wife’s head in with an axe and then hanged himself. I don’t understand why my mother slashed her wrists. I don’t understand any of it.’ He sighed. ‘So this is the way I see it, Robbie. If death is the end, if there’s nothing beyond this life, there really is no point, right? Death sucks, Robbie, you know that. Anna’s in bits and it’ll be a long, long time before she’s anywhere near okay. And what about your kids? The twins still think you’re coming back – they’ve no idea what “dead” means. Shit, Robbie, all you had to do was look both ways when you crossed the road. It’s the Green Cross Code, for God’s sake.’
Nightingale opened his eyes and stared up at the moon. ‘If you could, you’d talk to Anna, wouldn’t you? You’d tell her not to worry, to give the kids a kiss from you. And I’m sure my mum and dad would have done the same for me. But you didn’t and they didn’t, so that means you can’t, and the reason you can’t is because you’re dead and gone for ever.’
He closed his eyes again. ‘So, if dead is dead and there’s nothing after it, then all this nonsense about Gosling selling my soul is just that. Nonsense. There are no souls to be sold. There’s no God and no devil and no heaven and no hell so I should just stop worrying about what Gosling did or didn’t do because the only thing I really have to worry about is that one day, sooner or later, I’m going to be dead and buried the same as you.’ He smiled. ‘Well, not buried. I’ll either be scattered across Manchester United’s pitch or sitting in an egg-timer in Jenny’s kitchen. To be honest, Robbie, I don’t know which is worse – to know I’m going to hell, or to know there’s no such a place and that death is the end of everything.’
Nightingale heard music. The Rolling Stones, ‘Paint It Black’. It was his mobile phone ringing in his coat pocket. Nightingale smiled to himself. ‘If that’s you calling, Robbie, I’ll be well impressed.’ He groped around for the phone and pressed the green button to take the call.
‘Jack? Jack Nightingale?’
Nightingale didn’t recognise the voice but it definitely wasn’t Hoyle. ‘Yeah?’
‘This is Harry Wilde. I’m sorry to disturb you on a Saturday night and I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, but I had a hell of a time trying to find my notebook. I’d left it at home and the wife had tidied it up, bless her.’
Harry Wilde. The police sergeant he’d spoken to at Gosling Manor. ‘No problem, Harry,’ said Nightingale. ‘Any joy with the phone numbers?’
‘The husband and wife lived in. They were given the day off on the night Gosling killed himself, but they turned up for work the next day and were interviewed at the house. There wasn’t much they could say, obviously. They were paid off a couple of days later and moved out. I’m afraid we don’t know where they went.’
‘No need, because it was open and shut, right?’
‘Exactly,’ said Wilde. ‘Once it was clearly suicide everyone throttled back. I’ve got their names, though. Millie and Charlie Woodhouse. Millicent and Charles. I had more luck with the driver. He discovered the body so he was of more interest, but again it was obviously suicide so we were just going through the motions. Have you got a pen there?’
Nightingale fished his Parker out of his pocket, along with a receipt from his local Tesco. ‘Yup,’ he said.
‘His name’s Alfie Tyler.’ Wilde gave him an address and mobile-phone number and Nightingale scribbled them down.
‘I shouldn’t be talking out of school, but Alfie was a bit of a lad back in the day,’ said Wilde. ‘He used to work as a debt-collector for one of the north London mobs and did four years for GBH.’
Nightingale thanked him and put the phone away. ‘Bloody hell, Robbie, I need a real drink,’ he said. He stood up and poured the last of the wine over the grave. ‘Red wine always gives me a rotten hangover,’ he said, and tossed the empty bottle towards the conifers.
50
Alfie Tyler’s home wasn’t what Nightingale had expected. It was a six-bedroom mock Tudor house with tall chimneys on the outskirts of Bromley, with a double garage and a rock-lined pool in the front garden. A gleaming black Bentley was parked in front of the garage. Nightingale had checked the electoral roll and there was no Mrs Tyler. From a cursory look at the house Nightingale was fairly sure that no little Tylers were in residence. He’d driven down on Sunday morning, assuming it would be the best time to catch him at home.
Nightingale dropped the cigarette he’d been smoking onto the pavement and stamped on it. He’d phoned the land line and knew that Tyler was in. Unlike Gosling Manor, there didn’t appear to be any CCTV cameras. The large black wrought-iron gates weren’t locked so he pushed them open and walked up the driveway to the front door. It was painted black with a large brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head in the centre. A brass bell-push was set in the brickwork to the right.
Nightingale pressed it and a musical chime kicked into life. It sounded as if it might once have been classical. Then Nightingale heard footsteps on a wooden floor, and the door opened. ‘Who is it?’ growled the man, in a south London accent.
‘Alfie Tyler?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Who wants to know?’ asked Tyler, pulling the door wide. He was a big man, at least three inches taller than Nightingale, and Nightingale was a little over six feet. He had big forearms that strained at the sleeves of his polo shirt, and a trim but solid waist. He was sporting a gold Rolex on his left wrist, a thick gold chain on the right, and a full sovereign ring on the second finger of his right hand. As he stood on the threshold of his two-million-pound house with his arms folded across his barrel chest, Nightingale caught a whiff of very expensive aftershave.