Free Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller by Stephen Leather Page B

a devil there’d be a God, and I’ve seen nothing over the past thirty-two years that’s convinced me there is. No God, no devil, end of story.’
    ‘There you go, then. It’s bollocks.’
    ‘He’s left me a huge bloody house in the sticks, Robbie. A mansion.’
    ‘So you’re going up in the world.’
    ‘Why would he do that if I wasn’t his flesh and blood? It’s one hell of an expensive joke, don’t you think?’
    ‘Okay, show it to me.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘The house. Spooky Towers.’
    ‘At night?’
    ‘You are jumpy.’ Hoyle grinned and finished his wine.
    ‘The power’s off. Gosling stopped paying his bills a month before he died.’
    ‘I’ve got torches in the car. You scared?’
    ‘Don’t be stupid. And it’s not in the least bit spooky. It’s bloody gorgeous in fact.’
    ‘I double dare you,’ said Hoyle, grinning. He waggled his fingers and made a ghostly wailing sound.
    ‘Screw you,’ said Nightingale again.

11
    I t was just before nine o’clock when they pulled up outside Gosling Manor in Hoyle’s Ford Mondeo. Hoyle climbed out of the car. ‘Bloody hell, Jack, it’s huge. It’s got to be worth millions.’
    ‘It would have been worth a lot more before the property crash,’ said Nightingale. ‘And it’s mortgaged to the hilt, apparently.’
    ‘How many bedrooms?’
    ‘A lot.’
    ‘And four garages. How cool is that?’ Hoyle walked around to the boot of the car, his feet squelching on dead leaves. He opened it, took out two torches and tossed one to Nightingale. ‘Come on, give me the tour, then.’
    Nightingale took out his key and opened the front door. ‘Wipe your feet,’ he said.
    ‘You sound just like my wife,’ said Hoyle.
    ‘I just don’t want you walking dead leaves around my house,’ said Nightingale.
    ‘Now you definitely sound like her.’ Hoyle laughed and wiped his feet on the large mat in front of the door. ‘Happy now?’
    They walked inside, playing their beams around the hallway. Nightingale led the way to the huge drawing room and pointed his at the massive fireplace. ‘That’s where the envelope was,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t there when the cops came so someone else must have a key.’
    ‘Where’s all the furniture?’ asked Hoyle.
    ‘He must have sold it,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m guessing he sold everything before he died, except the furniture in the bedroom.’
    ‘You could have some great parties in here.’
    ‘You could have a half-decent game of five-a-side football,’ said Nightingale.
    Something scraped across the floor upstairs and both men jumped. ‘What the hell was that?’ said Hoyle.
    ‘Probably a cat,’ said Nightingale. ‘There was a cat upstairs last time I was here.’
    ‘Didn’t sound like a cat,’ said Hoyle.
    ‘Do you want to leave?’
    ‘Hell, no, we’re here now,’ said Hoyle. ‘Show me where he topped himself.’
    Nightingale led him back into the hallway and up the staircase. ‘What are you going to do with the place?’ asked Hoyle.
    ‘Sell it, I guess,’ said Nightingale. ‘Pay off the mortgage, see what’s left. Why – do you want to make me an offer?’
    ‘You could think about developing it,’ said Hoyle. ‘Turn it into flats. There’s a big market for these old buildings when they’re done right.’
    ‘It’d be sacrilege to split it into flats, a beautiful house like this,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t know how easy it’ll be to find a buyer, though.’
    ‘The rich are always rich,’ said Hoyle. ‘Recession or boom, they always have money. Sell it to a Russian oligarch or a Saudi prince and let them enjoy it.’
    ‘I was thinking, back in the bar, it might be a con.’
    ‘A con?’
    ‘They’re setting me up for something. Telling me the house is mine, then hitting me for money somehow.’
    ‘Have you got any money?’
    Nightingale laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But maybe they don’t know that. Can you do me a favour and check out the solicitor for me? His name’s