‘Jack Nightingale,’ he said, slowly and carefully, watching for any reaction. There was none, no sign that Tyler had ever heard of him.
Tyler glared at him down his twice-broken nose. ‘Are you a cop?’ he asked.
‘No, not any more,’ said Nightingale.
‘Then get the hell off my property before I throw you off,’ said Tyler. His greying hair, with the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, suggested he was in his fifties but his body was more in keeping with that of a thirty-something boxer and Nightingale was in no doubt that he was more than capable of carrying out his threat.
Tyler started to shut the door but Nightingale put his foot over the threshold. ‘I just need a chat with you, Alfie,’ he said. He took out his wallet and gave him one of his business cards.
Tyler held it between his thumb and forefinger and scowled as he read it. ‘A private dick?’ he said. ‘I’m going to count to five, and if you haven’t got the hell off my property I’m going to tear you a new arsehole,’ he said, and tossed the card over Nightingale’s shoulder.
‘I’ll take my car with me, shall I?’
Deep frowns furrowed Tyler’s forehead. ‘What?’
Nightingale gestured at the Bentley. ‘That’s my motor,’ he said.
Tyler put a bear-like paw on his shoulder and squeezed, digging his thumb into the pressure point near the socket. ‘You’re starting to piss me off, private dickhead.’
‘I’m the sole beneficiary of Ainsley Gosling’s estate,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve seen the will, Alfie, and there’s no mention of you or the Bentley. So, if I go along to the cops, the car will be back in my garage and you’ll be back behind bars. Prisons are a lot more crowded than they were when you were last there, and I’m told the food’s worse.’
Tyler squinted at Nightingale. ‘How did you know I’d been in prison?’
‘I don’t care about your criminal record, I don’t care about whose legs you did or didn’t break, I just want to know about Ainsley Gosling.’
‘Mr Gosling said the car was mine after he’d gone.’
‘He came back from the grave to tell you that, did he?’ said Nightingale.
Tyler frowned. ‘What?’ He released his grip on Nightingale’s shoulder.
‘When did he tell you the car was yours?’
‘All the time. He knew how much I liked it, and he said I could have it. After… you know.’
‘So he told you he was going to top himself, did he?’
‘What? No, he bloody well didn’t. What are you trying to do here? You trying to say I had something to do with him killing himself? That’s bollocks.’ He put his fists on his hips and glowered at Nightingale.
Nightingale lit a cigarette. He saw Tyler’s nostrils flare and offered him the packet.
‘I’m trying to give up,’ said Tyler.
‘One won’t hurt,’ said Nightingale. Tyler shrugged and helped himself. Nightingale lit it for him. ‘Okay, here’s the thing, Alfie. I’m not going to have much use for a car over the next year or two, and, anyway, I’m a fan of convertibles. I like the feel of the wind in my hair.’
‘What?’
‘What I’m saying is, I’m more than happy to let you keep the Bentley, free, gratis, whatever, but in return I want you to tell me what Gosling was up to in the weeks before his death.’
Tyler’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s the catch?’
‘No catch, Alfie. I’ll even sign a piece of paper here and now saying it’s yours.’
Tyler’s brow furrowed again. ‘Give me another of them cards, yeah?’
‘Only if you promise not to throw it away,’ said Nightingale.
‘What?’
‘You say “what” a lot – you know that?’ Nightingale gave him another business card.
Tyler pursed his lips as he read the card. ‘Why did Mr Gosling make you his heir?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Give me the short version.’
‘I’m his son.’
‘Mr Gosling never told me he had a kid.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m the family secret,’ said Nightingale. ‘But Gosling Manor’s mine now. And so’s the Bentley. So, are you and I going to have a chat or what?’
Tyler took a long drag on his cigarette and nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘It’s going to take a while,’ said Nightingale. ‘Why don’t you ask me in and we can talk over a drink? Or two.’
51
Tyler sighted down his cue, smacked the white ball against the number five and grinned as it shot into a corner pocket. ‘That’s another tenner you owe me,’ he said, holding out his hand.
Nightingale took out his wallet and gave him a ten-pound note. ‘That’s the sign of a misspent youth,’ he said.
Tyler had built a bar in his basement, complete with a full range of optics, draught-beer pumps, a pool table, a jukebox and half a dozen fruit machines. On one wall there were dozens of framed photographs of a younger Tyler with well-known villains, movie stars and even a few members of the Metropolitan Police. Nightingale recognised two senior officers from the Flying Squad, both of whom had left the force on medical grounds and now lived in palatial villas in Spain. Most of the villains had either retired or died, but as far as Nightingale could recall, none had served time behind bars.
‘Not much else to do in prison,’ said Tyler.
‘How long did you get?’ asked Nightingale.
‘I did two stretches, eighteen months and four years,’ said Tyler. ‘It was when I came out the second time that I started working for Mr Gosling. He knew my probation officer and I went to see him. We got on like a house on fire.’
‘Did you ever go into the basement at Gosling Manor?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Didn’t know there was one,’ said Tyler, as he racked up the balls again. ‘How about twenty quid a game? Give you a chance to win your money back.’
‘You conning me, Alfie?’ he said.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Tyler. ‘So, you’re really Mr Gosling’s boy?’
‘He had me adopted at birth,’ said Nightingale. ‘How long did you work for him?’
‘Fifteen years, pretty much,’ said Tyler.
‘And he paid you well, did he? Because this is one expensive place you’ve got here.’
Tyler grinned. ‘I had this place long before I worked for Mr Gosling. I was pretty productive in my glory days.’
‘So what were you doing driving for him if you weren’t short of a bob or two?’
‘He was a character, your dad,’ said Tyler, putting the white ball in position. He reached for Nightingale’s Marlboro and took a cigarette. ‘Could charm the birds from the trees. And the people he knew! Film stars, businessmen, sportsmen. Everyone liked Ainsley Gosling. They were like moths to a flame. He was on first-name terms with half a dozen prime ministers. We had Mrs Thatcher around three times at Gosling Manor. She was a real lady. Took a shine to your dad, she did.’
‘If he was that popular, why did I never read anything about him? And Googling him doesn’t throw up anything. There’s never been a newspaper article about him and there are no photographs. He’s the original invisible man.’
‘He had a team of spin doctors who did nothing but keep his name out of the papers. And if someone did start getting too close, well, let’s just say that Mr Gosling had a way of helping people to forget things.’
‘Now it’s my turn to look puzzled and say, “What?”’
‘You never met him, right?’
‘I only found out he was my father recently,’ said Nightingale.
‘He wasn’t like other men, your dad,’ said Tyler. ‘He had a way with him. A strength.’
‘You know he was a Satanist, don’t you?’
Tyler shrugged. ‘I’m not one for putting labels on people.’
‘He studied the occult – he spent millions buying books on witchcraft and devil-worship.’
‘Can’t argue with that.’
‘Did you ever see him do stuff?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like summoning devils,’ said Nightingale.
‘You on drugs, Nightingale?’ asked Tyler.
‘He was a Satanist and that’s what Satanists do, right? They serve the devil.’