Midnight: The Second Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller by Stephen Leather Page B

internet was to blame and that the Church of England would be revamping its website in a bid to win back worshippers. Nightingale put down the paper as he finished his coffee. He couldn’t think of any of his close friends who went to church regularly. For marriages and funerals, certainly, but not to worship.
    He went through to the hall and took his tatty address book from his raincoat. He flicked through it, looking for Alfie Tyler’s number. Nightingale didn’t trust phones and rarely stored numbers in his mobile. Phones broke down and SIM cards mysteriously lost their data for no apparent reason, but, in Nightingale’s experience, once a number was written down in an address book it tended to stay there.
    Tyler answered, his voice thick from sleep. ‘Who the hell is this?’
    ‘Jack Nightingale, Alfie. Wakey, wakey, rise and shine.’
    ‘What time is it?’
    ‘Just after nine-thirty.’
    Tyler groaned. ‘What do you want, Nightingale?’
    ‘Had a late one last night, did you? Out hustling pool?’
    ‘Snooker. And I’ve got to do something for cash now that I’m no longer gainfully employed.’ He groaned and coughed. ‘Call me back later, I’m sleeping.’
    ‘Hang on, hang on,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need a chat. Can I come round?’
    ‘I’m all chatted out,’ said Tyler.
    ‘Why don’t I come round to your place with a wad of notes and I’ll play you for a monkey a game?’ said Nightingale. ‘We can talk while you beat me.’
    Tyler chuckled. ‘You’re a persistent bastard,’ he said. ‘Okay, there’s a Starbucks on the way. Bring me a large Mocha and two chocolate croissants.’
    ‘You got a sweet tooth, Alfie?’
    ‘Just bring my breakfast and your money and we’ll talk,’ said Tyler, and he ended the call.
    Tyler lived on the outskirts of Bromley in south London. The Saturday morning traffic was light and Nightingale got there just after eleven o’clock. The large black wrought-iron gates that fronted the driveway leading to the six-bedroom, mock-Tudor house, complete with tall chimneys, were locked. Chained and locked with a massive brass padlock. Nightingale frowned as he held the padlock. The last time he’d visited Tyler the gates hadn’t been locked. He looked around for a bell or an intercom but there was no way of announcing his presence. He leaned against his car and lit a cigarette, then took out his mobile phone and called Tyler’s number. It rang out, unanswered.
    Nightingale cursed and put the phone away, then went back to the gates, wondering whether or not to try climbing over them. They were a good nine feet tall and topped with fleur-de-lys points. He peered through the bars. Tyler’s black Bentley was parked in front of the double garage. As Nightingale blew a tight plume of smoke through the gate, the front door opened and Tyler appeared, wearing blue and white striped pyjamas.
    Nightingale waved at him. ‘Alfie, over here!’ he shouted. ‘The gates are locked.’
    Tyler ran a hand through his hair, walked out of the house and headed towards the garage.
    ‘I’ve got your Mocha and your croissants!’
    Tyler ambled into the garage and reappeared a few seconds later holding a coil of rope.
    ‘Hey, come on! Stop pissing about.’
    Tyler showed no signs of having heard Nightingale. He went over to the front door and tied one end of the rope to the door knocker, a large brass lion’s head with a thick metal ring gripped in its jaws.
    ‘Alfie! What are you playing at?’
    Tyler walked slowly to the Bentley, playing out the length of rope. Nightingale dropped what was left of his cigarette onto the tarmac and ground it with the heel of his shoe. He grabbed the metal gates and shook them. They rattled but the chain held firm.
    ‘Alfie, come on, this isn’t funny!’
    Tyler stood next to the driver’s door of the Bentley and began to fashion the rope into a noose.
    Nightingale cursed under his breath. He jammed his right foot against one of the bars and pulled