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

minions. A nasty piece of work.’
    ‘This is a joke, right?’ said Jenny. ‘Somebody’s messing with you?’
    ‘The deal was simple enough,’ continued Gosling. ‘I got power, almost unlimited power – power over women, power to amass money, more money than a man could spend in a dozen lifetimes. The only thing I couldn’t get was immortality. That wasn’t up for negotiation.’ He forced a smile, showing uneven teeth. ‘Even a newborn’s soul wouldn’t buy me that.’
    ‘He’s insane,’ said Jenny. ‘Look how his hands are shaking. Look at his eyes. He’s mad as a hatter, Jack.’
    Nightingale ignored her and blew smoke at the television screen.
    ‘In exchange for your immortal soul, I got the keys to the kingdom here on earth. And now it’s time to pay the piper.’ He took another swig of brandy and looked at his wristwatch. ‘I’ve tried to put this right, Jack. I’ve tried to renegotiate, but there’s nothing I can do. What’s done is done. Your soul and your sister’s soul are forfeit.’
    Jenny frowned in confusion. ‘You don’t have a sister,’ she said. She turned to him. ‘Do you?’
    ‘Not that I know of,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I’m getting a lot of surprises this week.’
    ‘You said you were an only child.’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘Your sister was born two years after you,’ growled Gosling, almost as if he was answering Jenny’s question. ‘Another child, another deal. Another soul. I tried to trace her but she’s vanished.’ Gosling tried to smile at the camera but it came across as a snarl – the snarl of an animal that knew it was trapped. ‘I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry, Jack. Sorry for what I did, sorry for what happened, and sorry for what’s going to happen to you.’ Gosling got to his feet unsteadily. His dressing-gown flapped open and he grabbed at it with his free hand as he lurched over to the camera, still clutching the bottle. His swollen belly filled the screen and then it went blank.
    ‘Jack, what the hell is going on?’
    Nightingale put his hands behind his neck. ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he said. And that was the truth. Jack Nightingale didn’t believe he had a soul, and he certainly didn’t believe that a soul was something to be bartered or traded like a sack of beans. He reached for his cigarettes.
    ‘You smoke too much,’ admonished Jenny.
    ‘Can’t argue with you there,’ said Nightingale, taking one out and lighting it.
    ‘Your birthday’s the week after next, isn’t it?’ she said.
    ‘Friday the twenty-seventh,’ he said. ‘What is it today?’
    ‘Thursday the fifth.’
    ‘Three weeks, then. But you don’t need to get me anything.’
    ‘I wasn’t planning to,’ she said. ‘What are you going to do?’
    ‘Few beers and a curry,’ said Nightingale. ‘Same as I do every year. Birthdays are no big deal.’
    Jenny jerked her thumb at the DVD player. ‘You know what I mean.’
    ‘It’s a wind-up, Jenny. Some sort of practical joke.’
    ‘He left you his house. And his money. He made you his sole heir, according to the solicitor.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So why would he do that unless you were his son?’
    ‘Maybe he is my father, maybe he isn’t. I’ll talk to Robbie, see if he can run a DNA check for me. But even if he is my biological father . . .’ He gestured at the television. ‘. . . even if what he just said is true, that was nonsense.’ He flicked ash into the ashtray. ‘Did you hear what he said? He sold my soul for the keys to the kingdom. He was mad, Jenny. Deranged.’ He checked his watch. ‘Tell you what, can you hold the fort? I’m going to have a chat with Turtledove.’

8
    T urtledove was dipping a digestive biscuit into a cup of tea when Nightingale burst into his office. His jaw dropped and a chunk of biscuit fell into his tea.
    ‘Mr Turtledove, I need you tell me what’s going on,’ said Nightingale.
    Turtledove’s glasses were perched on top of his head but now they