‘And what did you do with your letter?’
‘Burned it. That was what he told me to do.’
‘And what else did it say?’
‘Said I could keep the Bentley, for one. Apologised for the mess. Told me to call the cops. And there was some cash for the Woodhouses.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘No idea. They just went. I think they had a place in the Lake District.’ Tyler finished setting up the table and picked up his cue.
‘He was buying a lot of books over the year or so before he died, right?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Tell me about it,’ said Tyler. ‘He had me driving him all over the country and to and from the airport every week or so.’
‘What about a diary written by a guy called Sebastian Mitchell? Did you ever see that? Big leather-bound book, written in Latin, back to front. I think it was the last thing he read.’
‘Like I said, he didn’t show me his books. But I went to Mitchell’s house a few times.’
Nightingale’s jaw dropped. ‘You met him?
‘Never met him but drove to his house. Place up near Wivenhoe, in Essex. Big place, very heavy security.’
52
Nightingale drove up to a set of high, wrought-iron gates set into a ten-foot brick wall. He climbed out of the MGB, went up to a small brass speakerphone set into the gatepost on the left and pressed it. It buzzed, then there was static but no one spoke. Nightingale leaned closer to the grille. ‘Hello,’ he said. There was no reply, just static. There was a CCTV camera on a metal post on the other side of the wall, covering the gate. Nightingale grinned and held up his driving licence to it. ‘Jack Nightingale,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see Mr Mitchell.’ He had no way of knowing if anyone was watching him so he put it away and went back to the speakerphone. ‘Jack Nightingale,’ he repeated. ‘I’m here to see Mr Mitchell.’
The static stopped abruptly and a woman spoke, her voice curt and official. ‘Mr Mitchell doesn’t see visitors. Please remove yourself from outside our property. Thank you.’ The speakerphone went dead.
Nightingale pressed the button again and the static returned. ‘My name is Jack Nightingale and I want to see Mr Mitchell. Mr Sebastian Mitchell.’
‘Mr Mitchell does not receive visitors,’ said the woman.
‘Can you tell him it’s about the book he wrote? His diary.’
‘Mr Mitchell never sees visitors,’ said the woman. ‘If you don’t go away immediately, the police will be called.’
There was more static. Nightingale leaned towards the speakerphone. ‘Tell him my father was Ainsley Gosling.’ The static ended and there was only the sound of birdsong from the trees on the far side of the road. The lock buzzed and the gates swung open. He turned and looked up at the CCTV, threw it a mock salute, then climbed back into the MGB and drove through the gates. The drive curved to the right in front of a three-storey concrete and glass cube. A flight of white marble steps led up to a white double-height door that was already opening as he got out of the car. Two men in black suits, wearing impenetrable sunglasses, walked down the steps towards him.
Nightingale knew instinctively that they were going to pat him down so he smiled amiably and raised his arms. One of the men, burly with a shaved head, slowly and methodically squeezed his legs and arms, then worked his way down from his neck to his groin. He found Nightingale’s phone and examined it carefully before handing it back. ‘Photo ID,’ he said. He wasn’t English, Nightingale realised. Serbian, maybe, or Bosnian.
Nightingale gave the man his driving licence.
‘Business card.’ The man held out his other hand. Nightingale took out his wallet and gave him one.
The second man was walking slowly around the car, checking it inside and out. Nightingale smiled and nodded but was ignored.
The heavy with his ID went back up the steps to where a woman had emerged from the house. She was wearing a black suit, the skirt ending just above her knees, a crisp white shirt and black high heels. Her blonde hair was tied back with a black ribbon.
As the man gave the driving licence and business card to her, a gust lifted the back of his jacket and Nightingale caught a glimpse of a black automatic in a leather and nylon holster. It looked like a Glock. The woman studied the licence and card and then waved at Nightingale to come up the stairs. He held out his hand to shake hers but she just gave him his licence and card. ‘My name is Sylvia, Mr Nightingale. There are certain house rules that must be followed to the letter if you are to meet with Mr Mitchell.’
‘I understand.’
‘No, you don’t,’ she said. ‘You will do everything I ask or you will not be permitted to speak with him.’ She turned and walked back inside the house. Two more men in black suits and dark glasses were standing in the large white-marble hallway, their hands clasped over their groins. Two stainless-steel CCTV cameras covered the area.
A marble spiral staircase, also covered by a CCTV camera, led to the upper floors, and a glass-feature light, which looked like a waterfall that had frozen mid-flow, hung from the centre of the ceiling. Half a dozen jet black doors with glossy white handles led off the hall. Sylvia walked to the middle, her heels clicking on the marble, and stopped under the glass waterfall. She turned to him and pointed to a door. ‘In there is a bathroom. You will remove all your clothing and you will shower, using the gel provided. You will use the same gel to wash your hair twice. You will use the brush provided to clean under your toe- and fingernails. There are no towels but there is an electric dryer in which you stand. When you are dry you will put on the robe provided and come back here. Do not touch your clothes once you have showered. Do you have any questions?’
‘Just one,’ said Nightingale. ‘I said I was the son of Ainsley Gosling, but my name is Nightingale. Yet you showed no surprise at the different names.’
‘Apparently Mr Mitchell was expecting you,’ said Sylvia. She motioned at the door to the bathroom. ‘Please, if you will.’
53
There were two stainless-steel CCTV cameras in the bathroom, which Nightingale thought overkill, considering the men with guns in the hallway. He was sure that the cameras were being monitored but didn’t bother trying to protect his modesty. There were white plastic hangers on a set of stainless-steel hooks. He stripped off his clothes and placed them on the hangers. A pristine white cotton robe was hanging on one of the hooks. He rolled up his socks and put them into his shoes, took off his watch and stood facing one of the cameras, his arms held out from his sides. ‘Happy?’ he said.
The camera stared back at him. He walked into the glass-sided shower. There were multiple jets all around it and when he turned the control dial water squirted at him from every direction. There was a soap dispenser full of a bright green gel. Nightingale rubbed it into his hair and lathered it over his body. It smelled of mint and tingled on his skin. There was a brand new plastic nailbrush on a wire tray under the soap dispenser with which he methodically cleaned his nails. Then he rinsed off the lather and repeated the process.
The dryer was a stainless-steel box of the same size as the shower with a rubber floor. As soon as he stepped inside, warm air blew all over his body, caressing him like a soft summer wind. Nightingale raised his arms and let it play over his skin. In less than three minutes he was dry. He put on the robe, which reached almost to his ankles. There was no comb or brush so he stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror and tidied his hair as best he could with his fingers.
Sylvia was waiting for him in the hall, flanked by two of the men in dark suits. ‘Show me your hands,’ she said. He held them out and she scrutinised his nails, then nodded. ‘There are procedures that must be followed at all times,’ she said. ‘If at any time you break any of the rules I will give you, the meeting will end.’