Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page B

work.’
    Jenny grinned and held out her hand. ‘I’ll do it for you, you Luddite.’ Nightingale gave her his Nokia and she programmed in the location. ‘You’ll be fine,’ she said.
    ‘And how do I get back?’
    ‘Leave a trail of breadcrumbs,’ she said, sliding off the desk. ‘If you go now you should be there by two o’clock.’

4
    N ightingale cursed as he squinted at his phone’s GPS display. The autumn sun was glinting off the screen and he couldn’t make out which way he was supposed to go. He peered through the windscreen and saw a signpost ahead. He braked. It said, ‘Hamdale 5’, and pointed to the left.
    He slid the phone into his pocket and followed the sign. Hamdale was a tiny village, a cluster of houses around a thatched pub and a row of half a dozen shops. The solicitor’s office was wedged between a cake shop and a post office. There were double yellow lines along both sides of the road so Nightingale did a U-turn and left the MGB in the pub’s car park.
    When he pushed open the door, a bell dinged and a grey-haired secretary looked up from an electric typewriter. She peered at him over gold-framed spectacles. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
    ‘Jack Nightingale.’ He looked at the piece of paper Jenny had given him. ‘I’m here to see a Mr Turtledove.’
    ‘Ah, he’s expecting you,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here. Would you like a cup of tea?’
    ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
    She placed both hands on her desk and grunted as she pushed herself up, but a door to the inner office opened and she sank down again into her chair. ‘I was just going to show Mr Nightingale in,’ she said.
    The man who had appeared was in his sixties, almost bald with heavy jowls and watery eyes. He was wearing a heavy tweed suit and leaning on a wooden walking-stick. He was a good head shorter than Nightingale and he smiled, showing yellowing teeth, as he held out his hand. Nightingale shook it gently, afraid he might break the bones, but Turtledove’s grip was deceptively strong. ‘Come in, please,’ he said.
    The office was little more than a box with a small window overlooking a back yard. The room was lined from floor to ceiling with legal books and there was a damp, dusty smell that reminded Nightingale of the shed he’d used for a den when he was a kid. There were two chairs in front of the desk, both buried under piles of dusty files, all tied up with red ribbon. ‘Please put them on the floor,’ said the solicitor, as he limped around his desk and sat down in a high-backed leather chair. He placed his stick against the window-sill behind him, then turned sombrely to Nightingale. ‘First let me say how sorry I am for your loss,’ he said.
    Nightingale moved the files as instructed and sat down. ‘My loss?’ he said.
    ‘Your father.’
    ‘My father?’ Nightingale had no idea what he was talking about. He took out his wallet and gave Turtledove one of his business cards. ‘I’m Jack Nightingale. I’m here about a job.’
    Turtledove frowned, looked around for his spectacles, then realised they were perched on top of his head. He pushed them down and read the card, then smiled amiably at Nightingale. ‘There’s no job, Mr Nightingale. I’m sorry about the confusion. I’m the executor of your late father’s will.’
    Nightingale raised his eyebrows. Now he was even more confused. ‘My parents’ estate was finalised more than a decade ago.’
    Turtledove tutted. He rifled through a stack of files on his desk and pulled one out. ‘Your father passed away three weeks ago,’ he said.
    ‘My parents died in a car crash a couple of days after my nineteenth birthday,’ said Nightingale. It had been a senseless accident. They had stopped at a red traffic-light and a truck had ploughed into the back of them. The car was crushed and burst into flames and, according to the young constable who had broken the news to Nightingale, they had died instantly. Over the years,