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

Gosling was your father?’
    ‘According to the solicitor, yes. My biological father. I was adopted at birth. He killed himself a few weeks ago. I’ve asked Robbie to get me the case file.’
    He pointed the remote at the DVD player and pressed ‘play’. ‘He left me this, too, in a safe-deposit box.’
    The screen flickered into life. A bald, elderly man, his scalp flecked with liver spots and scabs, was frowning and cursing as he adjusted the lens of the camera. Then he went to sit on a bed – it was the one in the master bedroom at Gosling Manor, Nightingale noticed. Where Ainsley Gosling had killed himself.
    The man was overweight, with heavy jowls and a swollen belly that strained at the crimson dressing-gown he was wearing. He adjusted it and Nightingale caught a glimpse of milky-white skin, blue-veined like ripe Stilton. There were dark patches under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days. He took a deep breath to compose himself, then forced a smile and began to speak. ‘Hello, Jack,’ he said, his voice a deep, wheezy growl. ‘I wish this could have been under more fortuitous circumstances but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘As you will probably already know I’m Ainsley Gosling, your father.’ He readjusted the dressing-gown. ‘Your biological father, that is.’ Gosling sighed. ‘I’ve not been much of a father, obviously. And there’s not much I can do to rectify that now.’ He held up his hands. ‘ Mea culpa , Jack. It’s all my fault.’
    ‘What’s his fault?’ asked Jenny. ‘What’s he talking about?’
    Nightingale didn’t answer but motioned for her to be quiet as he stared intently at the screen. Gosling was in his seventies and grossly overweight, but he had Nightingale’s slightly hooked nose and the same frown lines across his forehead.
    Gosling sighed again, then coughed. Nightingale recognised a smoker’s cough and smiled. His adoptive parents had never smoked and they couldn’t understand why their son had taken up the habit. Maybe it was in his genes.
    ‘So, to business,’ Gosling continued. ‘The fact that you’re watching this means that I’m dead and that you’ve been to the house. Nothing that I can say will ever make up for what I’ve condemned you to.’
    ‘What does he mean, Jack?’ said Jenny.
    ‘Sssh,’ hissed Nightingale.
    ‘But you must believe me, Jack,’ Gosling continued, ‘I do regret my actions, and if I could turn back time . . . But even I can’t do that. What’s done is done.’ Gosling took a deep breath, then coughed. The cough turned into a splutter. Belly trembling and shoulders shaking, he fought to control it. ‘I’m your father, Jack. Not that my being your father means anything in the traditional sense. I’ve given you nothing over the last thirty-three years. Not even your name.’
    Gosling bent down. When he straightened he was holding a bottle of brandy. He took a swig, then wiped his fleshy mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I gave you away when you were a few hours old, Jack, to a man who passed you on to the Nightingales. He knew they were good people and that they were desperate for a baby so they’d take you, no questions asked.’ He took another swig, then cleared his throat. ‘So, where do I start?’ he said, looking at the bottle in his hand as if he was seeing it for the first time. ‘At the beginning or at the end? Do I tell you what’s happened, or what’s going to happen?’ He had another slug of brandy, then closed his eyes. He shuddered, opened his eyes again and looked straight into the lens. He took a deep breath and licked his lips.
    ‘Get on with it,’ Nightingale muttered.
    ‘On your thirty-third birthday, Jack, a demon from hell is coming to claim your soul.’ Gosling closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed. When he opened them, they were burning with a fierce intensity and he began to speak faster. ‘I did a deal with a devil thirty-three years ago. Not the devil. A devil. One of his