Unleashed: this summer's must-read crime thriller

by Karl Hill

  “Did he say anything to you? Anything unusual?”

  “The whole conversation was unusual. Unreal. And it wasn’t really a conversation at all. More like a one-sided rant.”

  “About what?”

  Fletcher gave a long sigh. “Vague stuff. How life had treated him badly. How his life was empty. That he felt neglected in the firm. Unappreciated. Crazy stuff. And that I had to meet him. It didn’t sound like the John Wilson I’ve known for twenty years.”

  “He wanted to meet you?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Why would he ask that, when he intended putting a rope round his neck?”

  “Jesus, Adam. Tell it like it is.” He gazed at Wilson’s dead body. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  Black probed further. “But he didn’t say anything specific, if any one thing was troubling him?”

  Fletcher shook his head.

  “Call the police,” said Black. “There’s nothing more we can do for him now.”

  He made his way through to a bathroom on the ground floor, and came back with a towel, which he placed over Wilson’s face.

  His own mobile phone buzzed, a ringing vibration in his jacket pocket. He answered. It was Jennifer. She was trying to keep her voice calm, but it still sounded strained and tight.

  “I’m at the house.”

  Black took a deep breath before he answered. “What’s up? Why are you at the house? Are you okay?”

  When Jennifer explained what had happened, Black fell silent. There was a sound like a drumbeat in his ears – his heart. At last he spoke, his voice cold.

  “You know what to do. I’m leaving now.”

  24

  Black asked if he could borrow Fletcher’s car, and would have taken it anyway, whatever his response. As it happened, Fletcher was content to wait for the police.

  “Go,” he said. “The fucking world is falling apart.”

  And there was a lot of truth in that, Black pondered as he sped from the west end back to Eaglesham, a journey of about fifteen miles. For Black, his world wasn’t falling apart – it was being shredded, and all the million parts scattered to the four winds. Only four weeks ago, he had been a hard-working lawyer working in the city, holding down a good job, with a house and a family and everything that was ordinary and made sense. Stress was a transaction going pear-shaped; managing a deadline; a volatile client to handle; or at worst, a call from Jennifer to say Merryn was ill.

  Now a call from Jennifer could mean anything. Every time she phoned, his chest seemed to constrict, his heart raced. Stress in the workplace was a mere sideshow attraction compared to the situation now. Once, he had thought that he could handle any shit thrown at him after his experiences in the army. But then he didn’t have a wife and child. It was a whole different scenario now. A new and exquisite level of fear. And the gangster known as Peter Grant knew how to turn the screw. He was a connoisseur at this particular game.

  But the Special Air Service had gone to exceptional lengths to teach him how to deal with the emotion of fear. Respect it, feel it, embrace it. And once you’ve accepted that fear itself won’t kill you, use it to your advantage. Success and failure are divided by a fine line between those who make fear their friend, and those who choose to make it their enemy. Such was the philosophy of the regiment. Learn dispassion. Learn objectivity. Become third party. The SAS were big on mind over emotion. The key to a good soldier was not the brawn but the brain. Or more particularly the mind. Though the knack of knowing how to kill a man was advantageous. Easy when it’s you, and only you. Not so easy when those you love are thrust into the theatre of war. Something the SAS had left out of the training manual.

  He got to the motorway and hit the gas pedal hard. He sped past turn-offs for Ibrox, Pollok, Paisley, Newton Mearns, finally taking the turn-off for Eaglesham. He would be at his house in ten minutes.

  He had killed someone, by sheer fluke, who had the power to wreak revenge from beyond the grave. A gangster’s son. What would he have done, he wondered, if the tables were turned – if he had a son, his throat crushed by a stranger in the street, self-defence or otherwise? Might he seek vengeance? He genuinely didn’t have an answer. Or perhaps he did, but did not have the courage to admit it.

  He pulled up the lane to their house, half expecting to see a top-of-the-range BMW parked in the hammer-head. Instead he saw a blue Ford Mondeo in the driveway behind his wife’s car.

  He instantly became wary, pulled up adjacent to the house, and made his way to the front door.

  He went straight in, and into the living room. Jennifer was sitting on a corner settee on one side of the room. On the other, on an armchair, was a man he recognised. On the coffee table between them were two envelopes.

  The man stood and smiled.

  Black responded with a strained smile. “DI Patterson. I believe we’ve met before.”

  25

  “I called the police,” said Jennifer. “After I phoned you. DI Patterson has only just arrived.”

  “You got here quickly,” remarked Black. “I’m impressed.” Black sat beside his wife and took her hand.

  DI Patterson nodded. “Since our… meeting, I’ve been assigned your case. When your wife made the call, and we established her name and address, it was automatically referred to me, as the case handler. And when she explained what had happened, I got here pretty fast.”

  “I’ll bet.” Black regarded the policeman before him, the man who had questioned him in an interview room only three weeks earlier, suggesting he had links with Glasgow gangland. The man whose manner was now polite and respectful. Today he wasn’t wearing glasses, so must have contact lenses in, Black assumed. He was smartly dressed, light-blue suit, blue-and-black-striped tie, little red cufflinks. Lightly tanned. Hair was dark and longer from when Black last remembered it, cut short above the ears, gelled and tousled on top. He was as tall as Black, but leaner, less muscle mass. Black imagined he spent hours on the treadmill, to keep back a middle-age spread so common in policemen. So common in most men, of a certain age.

  He switched his attention to the envelopes on the table.

  “Are these the letters?”

  Jennifer nodded. “I had to come home. I’d forgotten a gift for one of the staff retiring. I got in and saw the two letters on the hall floor. The postman must have delivered them, I guess. And so, I opened them.” She took a deep shuddering breath. Christ, thought Black, this is killing her.

  “May I see them?” asked Black, directing his question to DI Patterson.

  “I’d rather you didn’t. In case of contamination of evidence. Even though Jennifer has touched them, we might still find a fingerprint.”

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you? Tell me exactly what’s in them.”

  “They were addressed to me, and… Merryn,” replied Jennifer. She hesitated, finding her words. “Two separate letters.” She gave a sudden shrill laugh. “At first, when I saw them, I thought they were from the nursery. Maybe an invite to something. The address on the front was handwritten and looked so normal. I could feel that there was something inside but didn’t give it any thought. I couldn’t have been more wrong.”

  Black put an arm round her but said nothing.

  “I opened the first one, addressed to me, and something fell out…”

  She stifled back a sob. Black turned a questioning look towards DI Patterson.

  “Each envelope contained a bullet,” continued Patterson. “And a note. Not handwritten. Typed. Each identical.”

  “What did the notes say?”

  Patterson gave Black a long stare. When he spoke, the words struck Black to the soul.

  “The next one has your name on it.”

  Two bullets. One for Jennifer, one for Merryn, their purpose clear and unequivocal.

  Peter Grant wasn’t finished. Not by a long way.

  26

  “So, what now?” asked Black.

  DI Patterson lifted a leather briefcase sitting a
t his feet, and placed it on his knees. He opened it. Inside was a file, a notepad, pens placed neatly in a row in pen holders, a pair of forensic gloves, and some transparent polythene sample bags.

  “With both your consent, I would like to take this back to the station, to have them analysed. We can check for prints, postmark, maybe even check the paper used. Also, every bullet has a serial number, normally, so this can give us a good idea about their source, where they were made.”

  “These ones won’t, I can assure you,” said Black. “They’ll have been specially made. Bespoke, one might say. Built in someone’s garage or workshop or basement. But sure, take them away.”

  Jennifer nodded.

  Patterson put on the gloves, reopened the letters, and picked out the bullet from each one.

  “Can you show me, please?” asked Black.

  “Of course.” Patterson held one up, balancing it between thumb and index finger.

  Black recognised it immediately. A 7.62mm calibre. Standard issue for Special Services. Bigger than the normal calibre issued to the regular army. Affectionately known as a one-shot kill. Practically eviscerates the target. Black had used many such rounds over the years. When Black fired a weapon, he liked the guarantee of death, and this bullet never failed. Peter Grant knew exactly what he was doing.

  “Do you know your bullets, Mr Black?” enquired Patterson.

  “I’ve had some experience. Over the years.”

  Patterson put it in an evidence bag, sealed it, wrote a number on the label, and repeated the process for each item – two bullets, two letters, two envelopes – and put the bags in his briefcase.

  He then took a brief statement from Jennifer, who recounted what she had already told him, which was not a lot, and put the notepad in the briefcase as well. He clicked it shut.

  “So, what now?” said Black, repeating his initial question.

  DI Patterson regarded him with a quizzical stare. “As I’ve said, Mr Black, we’ll get the stuff analysed…”

  “That’s not what my husband means,” Jennifer snapped. “You’re not obtuse! This is not rocket science. You need to tell us what the hell you’re going to do about it. It’s not as if you don’t know the history here. You kept my husband at the police station long enough. You know the bullets were sent by Peter Grant. Or someone in his fucking organisation, or whatever you call his gang. You know he did. And I have a four-year-old daughter to think about. And these fucking animals have just sent her a fucking bullet. So, we’re asking you, for the third time – what the fuck happens now?”

  Couldn’t have put it better myself, thought Black.

  Patterson shifted uncomfortably. “Of course, it’s supposition. We don’t have any tangible evidence to connect Grant with this. At least at this stage. But once we’ve analysed–”

  “So, who do you think sent the bullets,” Jennifer broke in again, “the fucking milkman, because we didn’t pay last week’s milk? Please don’t treat us like idiots. We need protection. We need help!”

  “Do you have CCTV?”

  “No, but we can get it,” said Black. “But what about a police presence. A police officer – stationed at the foot of the lane, for example.”

  Patterson shook his head. “I’m not trying to be obstructive, but there’s no way we could stretch to that. Cuts and savings. We don’t have the money or resources. I can arrange for a drive-by at least once a day. And I can arrange for your alarm to be upgraded, so that we get a distress signal at the station as soon as you hit a panic button.”

  “A panic button,” repeated Black. “Big deal. That’s a real comfort. What about a witness protection programme? We’re not witnesses, but targets. Surely something can be arranged?”

  “You said it yourself,” replied Patterson. “You’re not witnesses. Something like that won’t be sanctioned by the Crown Office unless there’s an ongoing prosecution. Which there’s not.”

  He shifted again, not looking at them. “There is something you could consider. Though you might not like the suggestion.”

  They waited for him to speak, but Black had a good idea what was about to be said.

  Patterson took a deep breath. “Have you considered moving? To give yourself some distance? Maybe to another part of the country, perhaps?”

  “And that’s a serious suggestion?” retorted Jennifer. “You’re asking us to turn tail and hide away from a psychopath, rather than have the hassle of dealing with the psychopath yourself. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. This is fucking unbelievable!”

  “It wouldn’t make a difference,” said Black in a hollow voice. “It doesn’t matter the distance.” Blood for blood, thought Black. Peter Grant was the type of man who would demand his pound of flesh. And then some.

  Patterson stood. “I understand how you must feel. But until Peter Grant actually does something we can tie him to, then we’re in limbo.”

  Black gave him a fixed stare. “You can’t possibly understand how we feel. Unless this is taken to Grant, he’s going to take it to us. That’s the way this is going to play.”

  Black saw Patterson out.

  “I take it I’m no longer a suspect,” said Black, as they stood at the doorway.

  Patterson appraised Black for a few seconds before he spoke. “It so happened there was a CCTV camera at the doorway of the pub. And as luck would have it, it was turned on when the incident took place. The whole thing is recorded. I saw what happened that night in Eaglesham. From start to finish. I saw what you did to these men, with your bare hands. They attacked the wrong man. And in doing so, two of them met a swift end. I have no complaints. Case closed.”

  “Good to hear,” replied Black. “One less thing to worry about. I know there’s only so much you can do but keep an eye out. For my family. Please.”

  Patterson nodded. “You’re on my watch.”

  27

  Time passed. Several weeks.

  Nathan Grant was supposed to meet the contract killer known simply as Joshua, at the prearranged rendezvous and at the prearranged time – the Hilton Hotel off Byres Road, in the west end of Glasgow, at noon. Chosen by him. When he arrived in the foyer, he got a call from Joshua on his mobile, to say the meeting place had changed. That it was now the Four Oaks Hotel in Perth, and that they should meet in ninety minutes. He would be carrying a wine-red leather briefcase.

  Nathan was unimpressed and swore under his breath. But orders were orders. And he was dealing with an individual whose profession demanded caution, bordering on paranoia.

  The drive took an hour and fifteen minutes – a sixty-mile journey. The Four Oaks Hotel sat overlooking the River Tay: a solid, squat, nondescript building with a drab grey frontage, built a hundred years ago, unremarkable from any other, and nowhere near as plush as the Hilton.

  The reception area was small and manned by two staff. Through double glass doors were the bar and lounge. It was busier than Nathan had expected. People were having lunch at tables, and others were sitting at the bar on high stools. Cheap food and cheap booze, he thought. Pub fare. Easy to blend in and become invisible. A man was sitting at a small table by a window reading a newspaper. His face was hidden. On the table was a pot of tea and a cup and saucer, and on the chair opposite him was a slim red briefcase with gold-coloured combination locks.

  Nathan approached him, manoeuvring past people eating and drinking and engrossed in conversation. No one paid him any attention.

  “Joshua?”

  The man lowered his newspaper.

  Nathan saw a man with bland, tired features; blond thinning hair; sallow complexion. Clean-shaven. Perhaps forty-five, though difficult to tell. He looked like any typical office worker you’d see in a thousand offices anywhere. Forgettable. Invisible. He was dressed like half the people in the room. Cheap dark suit, tie, white shirt.

  “Sit, please.”

  Nathan removed the briefcase and placed it carefully on the floor and sat opposite him.

  “Would you care for a cup o
f tea? Or coffee perhaps?” He spoke softly, with no accent, but firmly, every word clipped and concise. A bit like airline pilots, when they’re speaking to passengers through the intercom.

  “Coffee, thanks. White. No sugar.”

  The man known as Joshua beckoned a waiter over, and gave him the order, asking for a fresh cup of tea for himself. And some extra milk.

  “It’s good to meet you, at last,” said Nathan. “A last-minute change of venue?”

  “You could say that. Predictability can be tiresome. I like to surprise. Don’t you? And anyway, the food is far too expensive in those fancy hotels, don’t you think? A place like this is more reasonable for simple tastes. Food and drink for the common man.”

  “You have simple tastes?”

  “Generally.”

  “Was the transfer successful?” Nathan had the previous day transferred one million euros to a Paris bank from one of the several companies they controlled from the Cayman Islands. Not such simple tastes, really.

  “The transfer was absolutely fine. No delays at the airport, for a pleasant change.”

  “That’s good. So now you’re here, you’ll be visiting soon, we all hope.”

  “You’re very hospitable. I intend to be visiting briefly. Tomorrow. And then straight home.”

  The waiter returned with a tray of tea and coffee, and a side plate of shortbread, which he placed on the table between them, removing the used pot and cup. Joshua thanked him.

  The conversation stopped as Joshua poured milk into his cup, gave the teapot a stir, then poured in the tea.

  “Shortbread?”

  “No thanks,” said Nathan.

  “Me neither. Too rich. I must watch what I eat. The slightest thing gives me heartburn, which isn’t pleasant if you’ve ever had it. Acid reflux is what I think it’s called. It’s the sugar which causes it, so the experts say.”