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

on Friday morning with Simon Underwood’s words ringing in his ears. It was the second night in a row that he’d had the dream. He sat up and ran his hands through his hair, then caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored door of the wardrobe on the far wall. His face was bathed in sweat and there were dark patches under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept for a week. He groaned and lit a cigarette, smoked it all the way down, then showered and padded to the kitchen naked to make himself a black coffee. As he sipped it, he phoned his uncle Tommy. It was just after six thirty but his aunt and uncle had always been early risers.
    His aunt answered again but she didn’t say anything to him, just called for her husband.
    Uncle Tommy sounded hesitant. ‘Yes, Jack, how’s things?’
    ‘Everything’s fine, Uncle. I called you a couple of days ago.’
    ‘Aye, I’m sorry, lad, I’ve been busy.’
    ‘I need to talk to you about Mum and Dad.’
    ‘Aye, Linda said. But it’s complicated, and I’m not sure your dad would want me talking about it.’
    ‘He’s dead, so I can’t ask him or Mum, but I have to know the truth. You can understand that, can’t you?’
    His uncle sighed but didn’t answer.
    ‘We have to talk about this, Uncle Tommy,’ said Nightingale.
    ‘Aye, lad. I guess so.’
    ‘How about I drive up to Altrincham on Sunday? About ten in the morning?’
    His uncle put his hand over the receiver and said something to his wife. ‘Linda says come for lunch, Jack. She’ll do one of her roasts.’
    ‘Lunch it is.’
    ‘Jack, look . . . I’m sorry about all this.’
    ‘Let’s talk on Sunday, Uncle Tommy. It’ll be easier face to face.’
    Nightingale was already at his desk when Jenny walked in. She waved through the doorway as she dropped her bag onto her desk, slipped off her trainers and changed into a pair of Chanel high heels with pretty bows on the back. ‘The early worm,’ she said.
    He was studying the book he’d taken from the basement in Gosling Manor and looked disapprovingly over the top. ‘A bit of respect would be nice,’ he said, ‘me being management and all. I couldn’t sleep. Came back to watch the DVD again.’
    ‘Are you worrying about it?’
    ‘My father tells me he’s sold my soul to a devil and blows his head? Don’t you think I should be a bit concerned?’
    ‘He was probably deranged.’
    ‘And I’m his offspring. What if it’s hereditary?’
    ‘What if what’s hereditary?’
    ‘He went mad. Maybe he was schizophrenic. Manic-depressive. I don’t know. But if he was my father then maybe I’ll go crazy too.’
    Jenny gestured at the dirty mugs on his desk. ‘I think you might be suffering from an excess of caffeine, Jack.’
    ‘It’s not the coffee,’ said Nightingale. ‘The more I look at the man in the DVD the more I see myself in him.’
    ‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Jenny.
    ‘It’s the eyes. I look into his eyes and it’s like staring into a mirror.’
    ‘He doesn’t look anything like you.’
    ‘You don’t know what I’ll look like when I’m his age.’
    ‘He was fat, he looked like he’d spent a lifetime boozing and taking God knows what drugs, and he looked sick.’
    ‘And bald,’ said Nightingale.
    ‘And bald. Though I don’t see what that’s got to do with it.’
    ‘Gosling was bald. That means I’ll go bald, too.’
    Jenny grinned. ‘No, it doesn’t,’ she said. ‘The baldness gene crosses the sexes. Didn’t you do biology at school?’
    ‘I must have been off on the day we did baldness. How does it go again?’
    Jenny sighed and picked up the dirty mugs. ‘You’ll inherit the hair of your mother’s father,’ she said.
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Do you have any idea who your real mum was? If what Gosling said is true, she might be out there.’
    ‘I know,’ said Nightingale, ‘but I wouldn’t have the first idea how to find her. I doubt he went through an agency.’
    ‘We could try