Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller by Stephen Leather Read Free Book Online Page A

conservatory door but it was locked and he could see no key for it. He walked slowly back through the kitchen and into the main hallway. He heard a soft scratching upstairs. ‘If you want to get out before I lock up, now’s the time,’ he called. The scratching stopped immediately. ‘Stupid cat,’ Nightingale muttered, under his breath. He pulled open the front door and gasped when he saw two men standing there. He took a step back as they came towards him.
    They were wearing uniforms, he realised, police uniforms, and the older man was a sergeant. The younger of the two grabbed his arm. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. Nightingale was too surprised to speak and he just shook his head. The policeman tightened his grip. ‘Right. Come on, in the car.’
    ‘It’s my house,’ said Nightingale.
    The policeman let go of him, He was in his early twenties, skinny, with a rash of acne across his forehead. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
    ‘Jack Nightingale,’ he said. ‘Look, I used to be in the job, and now I’m a private investigator.’
    ‘Let’s see your ID, then.’
    Nightingale took out his wallet, showed them his licence and gave them one of his business cards. He patted his chest and sighed. ‘You scared the shit out of me,’ he said.
    ‘The house has been locked up since old man Gosling died,’ said the sergeant. He had grey hair and broken veins across his cheeks. An old scar under his chin looked as if it had been caused by a broken bottle. ‘We were told the house was going up for auction.’
    ‘He left it to me,’ said Nightingale. ‘A solicitor in Hamdale’s handling probate or whatever they call it. I’m the sole heir.’
    ‘Are you a relative?’
    ‘Apparently,’ said Nightingale. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how did you know I was here? The power’s off so I assume the alarm’s not working.’
    ‘There’s no alarm link to our station. Gosling had his own security arrangements. We saw the gate open as we were driving past, that’s all. What’s the name of the solicitor?’
    ‘Turtledove.’ He took the business card out of his wallet and showed it to them. ‘You guys local?’
    ‘Depends what you mean,’ said the sergeant. ‘There used to be a police house in Hamdale but that went in the seventies. The nearest station now is in Hastings. But we took the call when it happened. Well, I did anyway. Gosling killed himself. Blew his head off with a shotgun in the master bedroom.’
    ‘There’s no doubt it was suicide?’ asked Nightingale.
    ‘Shotgun was still in his hands. And there was some weird stuff in the room that suggested he was a bit not right in the head, if you get my drift.’
    ‘I don’t,’ said Nightingale. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘There were lots of candles burning. And he was in some sort of magic circle, one of those star things.’
    ‘There’s no sign of it now,’ said Nightingale.
    ‘A team of cleaners went in. Crime-scene specialists. They do a good job, those guys. You wouldn’t get me doing it for love or money.’
    ‘How did you get in the house?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Security seems pretty tight.’
    ‘Gosling’s driver found the body. He let us in.’
    ‘But there was no note?’
    The sergeant shook his head. ‘They don’t always leave notes.’
    ‘They usually do,’ said Nightingale. ‘They want to explain themselves, maybe ask for forgiveness.’
    ‘You know a lot about suicides, then?’ said the PC.
    ‘I was a negotiator, back in the day,’ said Nightingale.
    The sergeant frowned. ‘Jack Nightingale? Aren’t you the guy who killed that paedophile?’
    ‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. He took out his packet of Marlboro. The PC shook his head as if Nightingale was trying to sell him a wrap of heroin, but the older man took one. Nightingale lit it, and one for himself.
    ‘Mr Nightingale here’s a bit of a legend,’ said the sergeant. ‘Threw a banker out of a window down Canary Wharf.’
    ‘Allegedly,’