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frankly, I’m starting to wish that I’d never heard of Ainsley Gosling.’
    ‘You and me both, Mr Turtledove,’ said Nightingale.

9
    T he bank manager was a middle-aged man in a dark blue pinstriped suit. His office was a windowless cube in a featureless block a stone’s throw from the Brighton seafront. ‘My name’s Mr Collinson,’ he said. ‘I’m the manager here, but I’m not sure how I can help you.’
    Nightingale never trusted men who introduced themselves as ‘Mr’. It suggested that they wanted to impose their authority on you from the start. There was a brass nameplate on the desk that announced his full name – Phillip Collinson – but even that was preceded by ‘Mr’. Collinson waved him to a small, uncomfortable plastic chair with metal legs while he himself took the massive leather executive model, with large arms and a high back, the type favoured by shaven-headed villains in James Bond films.
    The bank manager was balding but had artfully combed his hair across the top of his head and used gel to keep it in place. He leaned back and pursed his thin lips as he scrutinised Nightingale’s business card. ‘Mr Nightingale, if you are Ainsley Gosling’s son, why the different surname?’
    ‘I was adopted, apparently,’ said Nightingale. ‘But surely you know that. Didn’t you instruct Turtledove?’
    ‘I didn’t actually instruct him,’ said Collinson, placing the card on his desk and steepling his fingers under his chin. ‘The instructions regarding the execution of the will came from a law firm in the City. I’ll be paying Mr Turtledove for his work, but that’s the end of my involvement.’
    ‘But you met Mr Gosling?’
    ‘Of course, several times. He was a valued customer.’
    ‘Did he come here or did you go out to Gosling Manor?’
    ‘We went to his house,’ said Collinson. ‘Mr Gosling was reluctant to travel so either I or the deputy manager would go to see him.’
    ‘Do you do that for all of your customers?’ asked Nightingale. ‘My bank manager won’t even see me to talk about my overdraft.’
    Collinson smiled without warmth. ‘As I said, Mr Gosling was a valued customer.’
    ‘Rich, you mean?’
    ‘Rich is relative,’ said Collinson. ‘But let’s just say it was worth our while to keep him happy. But I don’t understand why you’re here now, Mr Nightingale. Mr Turtledove will be handling the will and the distribution of assets. It’s nothing to do with the bank.’
    ‘Did he ever mention me?’
    ‘No, he didn’t.’
    ‘He didn’t mention that he had a son?’
    ‘Never.’
    ‘You said he was a valued customer,’ said Nightingale. ‘Exactly how much was he worth?’
    Collinson sat back in his executive chair and patted his hair, as if he was checking that the comb-over was still in place. ‘That’s confidential, I’m afraid. I can’t reveal details of a client’s account.’
    Nightingale reached into his jacket pocket, took out a photocopy of Ainsley Gosling’s will and gave it to him. ‘I’m his sole beneficiary, so anything he has will come to me.’
    Collinson licked his upper lip as he studied the document. Then he put it on the desk and leaned back in his chair again. ‘To be honest, Mr Nightingale, I don’t think there will be much coming your way. During the last years of his life, Mr Gosling spent most of his funds.’
    ‘On what?’
    Collinson chuckled. ‘We don’t ask our customers what they spend their money on,’ he said.
    ‘The house is worth a lot.’
    ‘It’s heavily mortgaged,’ said the bank manager.
    ‘But you said Gosling was rich.’
    ‘That’s what you inferred, Mr Nightingale,’ said Collinson.
    ‘All right, a valued customer, you said. But you’re saying he died penniless?’
    ‘Not penniless, no,’ said Collinson. ‘But last year he took out a large mortgage on the house and during the two years prior to that he withdrew the bulk of the funds he was holding with us. The credit crunch didn’t help,