Unleashed: this summer's must-read crime thriller

by Karl Hill

  A manic scream cut the air. Gaunt Face, one arm flapping like a tube of rubber, slashed wildly at him, but with little focus. Black dodged, saw an opening, kicked his knee, which folded backwards. Gaunt Face howled, face contorted. Black hacked at his neck. Gaunt Face collapsed to the ground. Black crouched, dealt him a final blow, hard to the throat. He felt something snap. Gaunt Face rolled on his side, choking, body convulsing.

  Black turned. The Boxer was still dazed, propped on one elbow, trying to get to his feet. Black loomed over him, stamped on his chest, his face. He heard the jaw break. The Boxer groaned. Black stamped again, then again, until the groaning stopped.

  In less than thirty seconds, he had neutralised three armed men.

  Black took a step back, tempted for a millisecond to melt into the darkness of the park. But the temptation passed. A young woman emerged from the pub, and saw him in the middle of the road, standing beside three men lying on the ground, and reacted as any normal human being would react.

  She screamed.

  “Call the police!” shouted Black. “Now!”

  7

  Don’t stop to think; you attempt to rationalise and you’ll die. You do exactly what you’re trained to do. Thinking kills.

  Staff Sergeant’s message to new recruits of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment.

  The interview room was bare of any furniture, except a table and four chairs. No windows, the walls pale yellow, the colour of old puke, the floor dark-grey linoleum. The room was ferociously bright from a single strip light on the ceiling. On one side of the table against the wall was a tape-recording device, and a microphone. The only other item on the table was an empty plastic coffee cup.

  Black was sitting on one of the chairs, and had been for twenty minutes, a uniformed policeman standing at the door. Neither of them spoke. Black was in no mood for idle conversation. He had been given a brown sweat top and loose brown jogging trousers, which he was wearing. He was allowed to keep his socks. His original running gear had been photographed, samples had been taken by forensic analysts with surgical gloves, and then the clothing was bagged and taken away. He could still smell his own sweat. They had allowed him to wash off the blood from his face. Blood, he recalled, from men who’d attacked him less than two hours ago.

  The door opened. Two men entered, non-uniform. One was bald and twenty-five pounds too heavy; small pinched features in a round bland face. The other was taller, wearing black-rimmed spectacles, hair growing an inch from his scalp like a dark bristle, a file tucked under his arm. Could have passed for an accountant instead of a police officer, Black thought. The uniformed policeman nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

  The two sat opposite. The one with glasses placed the folder on the table, opened it to reveal a pad of white paper with handwritten notes. He took a pen from a pocket of his jacket, and started clicking the top.

  “Just a few questions, Mr Black,” he said. “A few details need clarification. You’ve phoned your solicitor, I understand?”

  “Was there a need? But yes, I have. Shouldn’t he be here before you start with your few questions? Legal representation, and all that. Not that I need one.”

  The policeman with the glasses did all the talking. He gave Black a thin-lipped smile, Black didn’t detect a great deal of friendliness in it.

  “Of course not. My name is DI Patterson, and this is DS Lomond. Just a few loose ends to tie up. We’re asking for a little cooperation, Mr Black. That’s all.”

  Black nodded.

  “Your full name is Adam Black. And I believe you’re a lawyer?”

  Black nodded again. “Exactly what I told the duty sergeant. Exactly what’s written in your notes.”

  “Okay. So, going through the series of events. You told the officer at the scene that you were out running?”

  “Correct.”

  “Just running?”

  Black looked levelly at the man wearing glasses.

  “What’s this about? I’m here cooperating. But I’m in an interview room without the recorder on, and without a lawyer, and you’ve taken my clothes. What do you mean, ‘just running’? I don’t get the question.”

  “There’s nothing to get, Mr Black. We need to fill in some blanks.”

  “There are no blanks. There’s nothing to fill in. It happened exactly as I said. It shouldn’t be me here answering questions, but the bastards who attacked me.”

  There was a five second silence. And then DS Lomond cleared his throat.

  “That won’t be possible, Mr Black.”

  “Why is that?”

  DS Lomond regarded him with a fixed stare.

  Black waited.

  “Two of the alleged attackers are dead.” A pause. “Found dead at the scene. The other is in intensive care. For all I know he might be dead too. And the only witness is you, covered in blood. And not your own, as far as we can gather.”

  Black digested this information. He hadn’t realised he’d killed them. Too bad.

  The other one, DI Patterson, resumed his thin-lipped smile. As welcoming as a fucking alligator, thought Black.

  “So, we have to be thorough, you understand. Every avenue needs to be pursued. You’re a lawyer. You’ll understand the need for us to explore this…. situation, as far as we can. You were running. You weren’t out to meet anyone?”

  “Nope.”

  “And you weren’t carrying any weapons?” chimed DS Lomond. Unlike DI Patterson, he was not smiling. His face was expressionless, deadpan. Inscrutable.

  “Of course not. When I run in the evening, I’m not inclined to get tooled up.”

  “You run a lot?”

  “I do. You should try it.”

  Black thought he detected a flicker of annoyance on the face of DS Lomond. He was human, after all.

  “And one of the individuals attacked you, unprovoked?” continued DI Patterson, ignoring the remark, studying the notes before him. “This is what you’re saying.”

  “What I’m saying? Exactly right,” replied Black. “With a knife. Followed by his two pals, who were also carrying knives. And a knuckleduster, if memory serves me correctly. That’s right. You didn’t mishear. A knuckleduster. And the funny thing about memory is this. When you’re facing death, and it’s close up, real close, right in your face, then everything suddenly appears in sharp relief, and the memory’s usually pretty good about the detail. Wasn’t there CCTV?”

  “And you didn’t know these men? This was a completely random attack?”

  “Correct, and correct. Shouldn’t you be writing all this down?”

  “These men attacked you, for no good reason, and what happened then?”

  “I defended myself.”

  Another silence fell. Both officers stared intently at Black, who stared right back.

  “Have you any connection with the Grant family?” asked DS Lomond, suddenly. In the bright luminescence of the strip light, Black noticed he was not actually bald, but balding, with fine, almost invisible blond hair.

  Black held his stare for three seconds.

  “I’m not following the train of conversation. Who the hell are the Grant family?”

  “What about the name Damian Grant? Or Tommy ‘Teacup’ Thomson?”

  “Teacup who?”

  DI Patterson scratched the back of his ear with his pen. He pursed his lips, as if measuring his next words, then spoke.

  “There are some things which don’t add up, Mr Black.”

  “Like what?”

  Patterson frowned.

  “Point number one – why on earth would three men, all apparently armed, suddenly attack a stranger in the street outside a busy pub, in a quiet village like Eaglesham. It doesn’t make sen–”

  “Unless they had a score to settle?” interrupted DS Lomond. “Maybe bad blood?”

  Black shook his head. “Point number one is duly noted. But there’s no point at all. You have this completely wrong. I had never met these men before. There’s no bad bl
ood. There’s nothing. Sometimes the simplest theory really is the most plausible.”

  “Which is?” asked DI Patterson.

  “That I was attacked for no reason by three psychopaths.”

  “But then there’s point number two,” said DS Lomond. “Which is what I’m trying to get my head round.”

  Black waited, but he had a good idea what point number two was all about.

  “How can one unarmed man do so much damage to three armed attackers, and not have a scratch on him? That’s what we don’t understand.”

  8

  Suddenly the door opened, and all three looked over.

  A man entered, carrying a briefcase. He was dressed in jeans, polo-necked pullover, green waxed Barbour jacket, leather ankle boots; sharp, calculating eyes set in a tanned oval face; sandy buff hair. He was about forty, lean, and looked fit. He nodded at Black, who nodded back. He walked up to the table and appraised the two detectives.

  “Gentlemen, my name is Simon Fletcher. I am Mr Black’s appointed solicitor.”

  He didn’t sit. Instead, he put his briefcase on the table.

  “I’m hoping this briefcase doesn’t need to be opened. Is my client under arrest?”

  “Mr Black was very kindly helping us with our enquiries,” answered DI Patterson. “No one’s under arrest.”

  “I see. If he’s only helping you with your enquiries, I’ll take it that you will not be charging my client?”

  “We need to keep an open mind. This is a serious incident, you understand. I might remind you, we can keep Mr Black for up to twenty-four hours.”

  Fletcher cleared his throat, as if he were about to begin a presentation.

  “What I do understand is that Mr Black was attacked by three men, while out jogging. Yes?”

  “That would appear to be the case, on the face of it.”

  “On the face of it. Which usually means that that’s exactly what happened. Therefore, gentlemen, I’ll repeat my question – you’re not intending to charge my client?”

  DI Patterson shook his head.

  “If you’re not intending to charge my client, there’s seems to be no reasonable argument for detaining him any longer. Do we agree on this point?”

  DI Patterson did not respond. DS Lomond’s face remained impassive.

  “But you’ve taken Mr Black’s clothes, as if he’s been treated like a suspect. Which I assume he’s not. Did you take his shoes?”

  “It’s routine. You know that. We need to gather the evidence, sometimes as a formality. And yes, we took his shoes.”

  “Then it looks like I will need to open my briefcase,” said Fletcher.

  He clicked open two silver-coloured combination locks, opened it up, and produced a pair of training shoes, which he tossed to Black.

  “Let’s go, Adam. You don’t need to be here anymore.”

  9

  They made their way to an annex of the station, to a waiting room for members of the public, where Jennifer and their four-year-old daughter Merryn were waiting. The policeman escorting them nodded and left them at the entrance – two solid double doors.

  “I can’t go in just yet,” said Black, leaning against the wall. He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes in an effort to calm his nerves. In the space of just over two hours, his world had taken a dramatic change. Life, suddenly, had a tinge of the surreal.

  “What the hell happened out there?” asked Fletcher, in a voice low, urgent.

  “Exactly what I said. Three guys, from nowhere. Fucking crazies. With knives. Plus, one had a knuckleduster, if you can believe it.”

  “Jesus,” said Fletcher. “I’d no idea Eaglesham was such a war zone. So much for sedate country living. You’d better tell me everything. In the morning. Only if you’re up to it, of course. Can’t blame you if you need to take some time off.”

  “I’m fine. Just a little shaken. Nothing that a brandy can’t fix. Or ten.”

  Fletcher gave a short humourless laugh. “It’s been over fifteen years since I’ve walked into a police station. No idea if what I said was bullshit. Criminal law was never my pièce de resistancé. But I think my performance was… passable. Especially the briefcase bit.”

  “More than passable.” Black grinned. “Bloody marvellous. You belong in the theatre. And thank you for the shoes. Though a bit tight.”

  Fletcher sniffed. “Beggars can’t be choosers. Plus, I want them back.”

  “Of course you do.” Black frowned. “It was strange.”

  “What?”

  “I haven’t been charged. They could have kept me in longer. It was almost as if they didn’t know what to do. Like they were waiting. They questioned me without the conversation being taped. Asking me questions without legal representation. They weren’t taking notes. Isn’t that a little odd?”

  “You’re asking me? Give me a commercial contract before a police interview any day.”

  Black gave a weary smile. “It’s been a long night. Thanks for coming. I didn’t know who else to call. You’re a good friend.”

  “You were attacked by three guys, and the cops have it all the wrong way around. It was the least I could do. You owe me big style, naturally.”

  “Naturally. I expect nothing less. Another thing. Just a minor detail. Two of the attackers died.”

  Fletcher’s smile withered before him. His voice lowered to a rasping whisper. “Fucking one hell of a minor detail! Two guys dead?”

  “And the police mentioned the Grant family. You heard of them?”

  Fletcher visibly paled. He ran a fretful hand through his hair, his eyes blinking, as he computed the information.

  “And you haven’t? Where have you been? The fucking moon? Their reputation is one of blood and carnage. Not the type who turn the other cheek, if the stories are true. Which they are. Heavy fucking gangsters. Without alarming you, but they’re mean bastards. To be avoided. Which is what you’ve not managed to do.”

  “I’m now duly alarmed.”

  “So you should be.”

  Black took a deep breath. It was his turn to swear. “Fuck.”

  10

  When Black entered the waiting room, he saw that the only people occupying it were Jennifer and Merryn. It was a depressing place, the furniture comprising a row of blue plastic chairs along one wall and a low squat table with scattered out-of-date Interior Design magazines. A coffee machine was in a corner with a sign stating it was out of order. The lighting was the same strip lighting in the interview room. Bright, glaring. There were no windows, and the place was cold. Rooms with no windows, thought Black – the architect should be shot.

  Merryn was in a pink and orange onesie, and lying across two seats under a blanket, asleep.

  Jennifer rose to her feet.

  “My God, Adam. What the hell’s going on? I got a call from Simon…”

  Black held her close, smelled the clean soap on her skin, the fragrance of her hair. She didn’t belong in a place like this.

  “I’ll tell you back at the house,” he whispered in her ear. “Over a drink.”

  Jennifer held him tighter. “What happened, Adam?”

  “Shit happened. Unbelievable shit. But it’s okay. It’s all okay.” He held her back a little and attempted a smile. “I guess it’s soggy pasta.”

  She began to sob, and he held her again, thinking of the blood moon and her prediction of bad luck, and let the moment drift.

  11

  Damian Grant was dead. On the day of his funeral, two weeks after Christmas, the snow had stayed away, and the sun was bright on a chill morning. His father, Peter Grant, was not thinking about the weather on the day he buried his only son. His thoughts and heart were consumed with grief, as any parent would feel, committing their child to the earth. He lowered the coffin with five other bearers, all family or associates closely connected to the inner workings of the business. But he refused to shed any tears. Not his way. Tears were for weaklings, and Peter Grant was not weak.

  The pr
iest uttered a final prayer. Grant never heard a word. He tossed in a handful of dirt. The mourners dispersed, shaking his hand, hugging him, offering muted condolences. The reception was to be back at his house, where food and drink were laid in abundance, for Peter Grant had no intention of stinting on this day, the day of his son’s funeral. But no alcohol would pass his lips. He was teetotal. He considered the act of getting drunk as weak and wasteful, almost sinful.

  Thor waited at the door of the black Mercedes – Grant’s bodyguard, loosely described as his assistant. Six-foot-seven bodybuilder, his dark suit tight and pinched over his bulk. Hard, flat features, blond hair swept back and tied in a ponytail. A purple tattoo of a wolf’s head emblazoned past his collar, halfway up his neck. From Berlin, he could barely speak a word of English. But he could break a man’s neck like a dry twig. Grant got in, sat in the back seat, followed by Thor. The driver was his nephew, who eased the car off at a respectfully slow speed, along a single stony lane, chips crunching under the tyres, and out the cemetery.

  “Is he here?” Peter Grant was sixty-five and looked ten years younger. He took care of his body. He had converted an annex of his Glasgow mansion into an ultra-modern state-of-the-art gym, and trained religiously early every morning before breakfast for an hour. He ran four miles every afternoon, cycled at the weekends. Twice a week he trained at a boxing club he owned in the east end of Glasgow. He neither drank nor smoked. He did not indulge in salt, sugar or red meat. Tanned, silver-haired, and flat-stomached, females found him attractive, but since the death of his wife ten years back, he took little interest in women. Rumour had it, his preference was handsome young men.

  His nephew nodded – Nathan Grant: a quiet, unassuming man, intelligent and soft spoken, dark-haired, solemn features. Economics graduate from St Andrews University. First class honours. Best in his year. A young man who tried to avoid the physical side of the business, preferring books to violence. A serious young man, and a potential successor to the Peter Grant empire since Damian Grant’s premature demise.