Unleashed: this summer's must-read crime thriller

by Karl Hill

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Only two minutes of your time, Mr Black,” continued the voice, rattling out the words, so quick Black had barely time to breath. “How well did you know Damian Grant? An old school friend? How did you meet? What’s your connection with the Grant family?”

  Black hung up.

  “The papers?”

  “Why the hell can’t they stay away,” said Black. “Vultures. They can smell a carcass a mile away.”

  “Is that what you are? A carcass?”

  Black twitched his head, gave a wry smile. “Not yet.”

  “It’s their job. It doesn’t really matter what you say, or what you don’t say, they’ll make it up anyway, because they don’t give a fuck. Ignore them and they’ll go away. Like an itch in the balls. You just have to ride it out.”

  “Interesting comparison,” Black mused. “I just hope it’s that simple. Somehow I think this mess is here to stay.”

  The phone rang again.

  “I’ll take care of this.” Fletcher stretched over and picked the phone up.

  “Now listen…” He frowned and handed the phone to Black.

  “It’s Jennifer. She says she’s been trying to call you on the mobile. She says there are two men outside your house.”

  15

  Fear is just a state of mind. Meet it, feel it, bask in it. Make it your friend. Once you’ve done that, I kid you not, the world is yours to conquer.

  Address to new recruits of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment.

  Their house was one of four cottages built on roughly two acres of land. The original buildings were old and solid, constructed about a hundred and twenty years earlier for tenant farmers. They had been enlarged and modernised over time, each standing on its own half acre, each separated from the other with mature trees and bushes and leafy borders. It was love at first sight, at least for Jennifer, with its white stucco walls laced with lush crimson ivy, its rust-red slated roof, its secluded garden. Quaint and private. Country but not quite country. Amenities only a mile away. They were about fifty yards from the main road, accessed by a single private lane, the lane running by the houses, two on each side, coming to a turning point at its dead end – a hammer-head.

  To get to the house from his office would normally take Black, driving his Mini Cooper at sedate speed, about thirty-five minutes. When he got the call from Jennifer, he was there in twenty.

  He saw it immediately when he pulled into the lane. At the top, fifty yards from their house and parked in the hammer-head, a shining, gunmetal grey 7 series BMW, with brand new licence plates.

  He pulled up outside his own house. Jennifer was standing at the front door, Merryn beside her, holding hands, Merryn dressed for nursery, Jennifer for work.

  Black got out, made his way up to them.

  “It might be nothing,” she said. She was pale, exhaustion etched on her face, her hazel-brown eyes heavy with lack of sleep. “I saw it drive up about a half hour ago. It’s just sitting there. There’s two men in it. No one’s got out. No one’s doing anything. I didn’t know whether I should call the police. But then if I did, they’d probably think I was crazy. I probably am. I’m so sorry, Adam.” Tears welled up; her mouth quivered, as she stifled a sob. “The whole thing is crazy.”

  “You’re not crazy,” soothed Black. He held her and spoke gently in her ear. “It’s a mess right now. But it’ll clear up. We need to give it time. They’re probably more journalists, trying to get a scoop. Maybe this is the reaction they wanted. To try to get me to speak to them. Merryn’s ready for nursery, so go to work, and act like everything’s normal. Soon it will be normal. I promise.”

  He cupped her chin in his hands, looked into her eyes.

  “I promise.”

  “You sure?”

  Black nodded.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Have a chat. As a concerned neighbour.”

  “Then we’ll stay right here.”

  Black gave a small half-smile. “Fair enough. I won’t be long.”

  16

  The engine was running; Black ambled towards what was easily a seventy-thousand-pound-plus luxury car. Brand new, probably hours from the showroom. The two occupants inside did not look the type who belonged in such a vehicle.

  They watched him as he approached, and Black watched them back, giving a friendly nod. The driver had a shaved head, skull-faced, bone-white complexion, drawn features, shadows under small darting eyes. A drug user, Black surmised. Not your typical journalist type. Probably no more than twenty-two, but looked much older. The passenger was altogether different. Flat face, solid chin showing a day’s grizzle, a heavy beetling brow; short copper-coloured hair. Flat splayed nose. He wore a blue hoodie, but it couldn’t disguise wide shoulders, a strong muscular build. He was older, maybe thirty, thought Black. Nor was he a journalist – perhaps a boxer. Or a wrestler. A man who exuded easy violence.

  Black sauntered up to the driver’s side, showing an affable smile, and tapped the window with the back of his hand. The driver looked up at him and smiled, revealing a row of brown, rotten teeth. The window slid down.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Black, leaning forward slightly.

  The driver spoke. “Cold morning.” The passenger craned his neck, and met Black with an intense stare, but remained silent.

  “And it’s going to get a lot colder,” replied Black. “So the weatherman predicts.”

  The driver nodded. “I hear that. A lot worse. Maybe snow.”

  “Maybe. But you guys won’t be feeling too much of the cold with the engine running and the heater on. It’ll be like a nice summer day in your beautiful new car.”

  “I’d rather be in here than out there, that’s for sure,” said the driver. “Big freeze coming.” The passenger didn’t take his eyes off Black.

  “A strange place to be sitting in such a lovely car. And on such a cold morning. And so early. Thought you young men would be tucked up in bed at this time. Together.” Black waited for a reaction.

  The driver’s smile faded, as he absorbed what Black had said. Suddenly he found his smile again. “We’re admiring the view. Was that your wife I saw you talking to? You’re a very lucky man.”

  Black nodded.

  “And that would be your little girl. Merryn? Is that her name? She must be what, four?”

  “You’re good with names,” said Black.

  “I never forget a name or a face. It’s a talent. A gift, you might call it. Me and my mate would love to meet your wife. And your daughter. Maybe not today. But someday soon. Very soon, I hope.”

  Black gave him a quizzical look. “Well, it can’t be today for sure.”

  The man in the passenger seat suddenly spoke, his voice harsh. “It can be any fucking day we want. And that’s a message from Mr Grant. So shut the fuck up!”

  “But it can’t be today,” responded Black in a quiet even tone. “You’re too busy.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got two important appointments. First appointment is the garage.”

  Black was holding a set of keys, and using the tip of his house key, he scored a deep line down the driver’s door. It made a dull grating sound. The driver swore, and tried to get out, but Black, standing close up, slammed the door shut with his knee.

  The passenger got out. He was bigger than Black had first thought, maybe six-four, a clear two inches taller than Black. Black tensed, waiting for him to come round. Instead, he stayed on his side of the car, and glared at Black across the roof. Black guessed he wouldn’t make a move. This was to be a message only. Grant was toying with him. A preliminary round, and Black wasn’t to be touched. Not yet.

  “You’ll fucking pay for that!”

  “Not me. But I reckon you will. Maybe a couple of grand for new paintwork. But if it’s a whole new door…”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Don’t forget you’ve got a second appointment.”

  “What?
”

  “With the hospital.”

  Black had clenched his hand into a fist, the tip of the key protruding by an inch from between his curled fingers. The driver, window down, was staring up at him, all remnants of a smile vanished. Black struck him twice hard in the face, ensuring the point of the key penetrated his eye. The man screamed, as his eye popped in a small explosion of blood. Black gripped the back of the man’s head and slammed his face against the steering wheel.

  The man rebounded, dazed.

  Black leaned in, grabbed the driver by the throat, his mouth an inch from his ear. “You mention my wife or daughter again…” he said in a low whisper, “…you even so much as think about them, and I’ll blind you in the other eye, you fucking junkie fuck.” Black slammed his face once again hard onto the steering wheel.

  He straightened. The man opposite was wavering, unsure of his next move. Events had taken an unexpected twist. Black had met many men like him. A big muscular heavy sent to intimidate the intended victim, to terrify. To extort the vulnerable. But turn the tables, and they were revealed to be nothing more than show. Pretend hardmen. Glorified message-bearers.

  “You’d better hurry, or your handsome friend is going to bleed all over your leather upholstery. And Mr Grant wouldn’t want that.”

  “Next time I’ll fucking rip your face off.” The man ducked his head back into the car. “Swap over. I’ll drive!”

  Black took several steps back. The driver opened his door, lurched out, and staggered round to the passenger side, hands wrapped round his face, blood pouring at an alarming rate, the front of his pullover saturated.

  The big man swapped places, moving round to the driver’s side. He scowled at Black, but said nothing.

  He got in. “There’s fucking blood on the seat!” Black heard him say.

  The car swept away, tyres screeching.

  Black walked back the fifty yards to his house, where Jennifer and Merryn were still waiting at the front door.

  “I heard shouting,” she said. “Who were these men?”

  “They were out to get a reaction. But I didn’t say the things they wanted to hear, and I guess they got a tad annoyed.”

  “Newspapers. Next time they come around, I’m calling the police. This is harassment. This is where we live. It’s an invasion of privacy!”

  “If there is a next time.” He took her hand. “If you see anything strange, or you’re not sure about something, or something doesn’t look right, then you call the police. And me.”

  “Then pick up your fucking mobile phone!” She hugged him. “You’ve got blood on your collar.”

  Black smiled. “I’ll change. Must have cut myself shaving.”

  17

  Over the years, Peter Grant had learned to keep a close rein on his emotions. It had proved to be a useful skill. Those close to him, and those not so close, never knew what he was thinking, and could not easily predict his next move, which was usually something unexpected. Since his son’s death, Grant’s mask of cool detachment would slip occasionally, sometimes for no apparent reason, and when it did, Grant displayed all the attributes of a vicious sociopath. Wild, uncontrolled. Savage. When he was told about the incident at Black’s house, he didn’t react as Nathan had anticipated.

  Nathan had chosen to drive out to Grant, to tell him personally. If bad news were to be imparted, Grant preferred it to be given personally, man to man, and Nathan knew there was no other way to get around it. Damian had been buried only the day before, his body still warm in the grave. It was no wonder Nathan’s stomach fluttered with dread.

  Peter Grant owned a large portfolio of properties, not only in Glasgow, but throughout the length and breadth of Scotland, including Edinburgh. And most of his properties were in prime locations. One such location was a bijou wine bar on ultra-trendy Leith Walk, two miles from Edinburgh city centre overlooking the River Leith – The Pelican’s Eye. Kitted out with rich cedarwood décor and handcrafted furnishings, solid yet graceful – the drinks were expensive, the food extortionate. But tourists liked the intimacy, paid the prices, and profits were up, which made Grant a happy man. In due course, he would sell, make a heap of money, and move on to the next project.

  Grant was in The Pelican’s Eye, enjoying a flat white coffee, ground from fresh excelsa beans, and when Nathan Grant met his uncle, after driving the fifty-mile journey from Glasgow, he was sitting outside the wine bar on a pedestrianised cobbled walkway at a little wooden table under a green awning, only ten yards from the river. It was plus-one degree Celsius, the morning bright and sharp. Peter Grant seemed oblivious to the cold, and as ever, when Nathan saw him, he was dressed immaculately – navy-blue, close-fitting suit woven from Italian wool, silk shirt, matching blue tie; calf leather brogues.

  The picture of sophistication. Elegance.

  He was sitting alone. On the table before him was a cup and saucer, and a mobile phone.

  When Nathan sat beside him, he spied the unmistakable form of Thor, sitting inside, watching his master from the shadows, a sombre presence.

  Before Nathan could utter a word, the mobile on the table vibrated.

  Grant nodded at Nathan, raised a finger to his mouth, indicating silence.

  He picked the phone up. It was impossible for Nathan to make out the other voice, but whoever it was did a lot of talking. Grant listened, staring at nothing. And then he spoke.

  “It’s going to be fine. Abacus is almost set up. Just a bit longer. Maybe eight or nine weeks. We’re near the finishing line. There’s no going back now.”

  The voice spoke for a while. Nathan was mildly surprised at Grant’s patience. Whoever was speaking was important enough for Peter Grant to listen to.

  “It’s taken care of. The fly in the ointment is one fucking dead fly. I promise you. Abacus can push ahead. Relax.”

  The voice again.

  “Stop whining. The problem will be resolved, and you can worry all you want while you’re getting your dick stroked on some beach in the fucking Caribbean. I’ve got this covered. It will be dealt with. No problem.”

  The voice again, and then Grant hung up, and placed the phone back on the table.

  “So, what happened? If there’s a need for you to drive all the way out here to ruin my coffee, then I’m assuming that what you’re about to tell me is not good. What’s up?”

  Nathan ran his fingers through his hair. This was his uncle he was talking to, his blood, but the fear of disappointing him was far greater than the fear of his anger. Though his anger was terrible to behold. He decided to approach it by an indirect route. “That sounded a serious conversation.”

  “Very.”

  “I don’t think I’ve heard of Abacus. New venture?”

  “Huge venture, more like. And you won’t have heard of it, because it’s what’s defined as ‘fucking confidential’. But you’ll know soon enough. It’ll keep you busy for a long time. So, I repeat – what the fuck is up?”

  “There was a situation this morning.”

  Grant remained still. He had an ability to look uncannily calm, which Nathan found to be unnerving, if not bloody terrifying. Calm before the storm. And Grant was the living embodiment of a perfect storm. Nathan found he couldn’t look his uncle in the eye.

  “I got the boys to wait outside Black’s house, exactly as you wanted. Early this morning. They made sure his wife saw them as she was going to work. To frighten her, give her a wake-up call. As you asked.”

  “And?”

  “There was a situation.”

  “You’ve just said that. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  The veneer was slipping, thought Nathan. “She must have called Black. He came home, while the boys were there.”

  “What did you expect him to do? He’s not the type to ignore a thing like that. And?”

  “Black scored the side of the car. And he blinded Jimmy. Punctured his eyeball with a car key. The guy’s a fucking maniac.”

  Grant took a sip of coff
ee, licked his lips, replaced the cup delicately on the saucer.

  “And Black? My orders were that he was not to be touched.”

  “They drove off. Black wasn’t touched.”

  Grant gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “So, what’s the problem? I don’t give a shit if Jimmy the scum-junkie loses his eye. He’s got another one. And he got paid, didn’t he? Risks of the job. Black could have torn his fucking limbs off, for all I cared. So long as he knew we were there. And now he knows he’s not the one. Now he’s got to look to his wife and kid.” Grant took another sip of his coffee. When he spoke, his voice was low and soft. “He took my only child from me. He needs to know there’s a price to be paid.”

  “Okay. So, we send the letters?”

  Grant nodded. “In a couple of days. But we have to be patient. This is something we need to savour.” He called over a waitress and ordered two fresh coffees. When she was out of earshot, he leaned over, beckoning Nathan closer.

  “And not one hair on Black’s head is to be touched. Not yet. He’s got to know this was all his doing, you understand? He’s got to know what this feels like. And then, when the deed is done, and he’s lost everything, then I rip his fucking throat out.”

  He sat back. The edges of his mouth lifted into the semblance of a smile.

  “We have to pay a visit today.”

  Nathan frowned. “Who?”

  “Teacup. Haven’t you heard?”

  “What?”

  “He’s woken up.”

  18

  “Tell me about him. This man. This Adam Black.”

  The extent of his injuries had rendered Teacup in a comatose state for just over three weeks, but it couldn’t wait, apparently. Business as usual. He lay in a room in a private hospital in the south side of Glasgow, propped up on two pillows, every breath like broken glass scraping the innards of his chest. Several cracked ribs, a punctured lung, plus other wounds, courtesy of the man whose name had just been mentioned. But the individual at his bedside was not someone to be brushed away. Incapacity and injury had to wait in line. The individual was his relative and boss, Peter Grant, the man paying the hospital bills. The man who paid everything. The man who had lost his only son. On Teacup’s watch. He tried to mask the fear from his voice. “It’s vague. I can’t remember much. And it was dark.”