by Karl Hill
“I don’t get heartburn,” replied Nathan. “I just get fat.”
“You look trim. You must work out.”
Nathan responded with the merest of shrugs. “I try. In our line of work, we have to keep fit, I suppose. You know how it is.”
Joshua nodded. “I do. I ought to get to the gym more often. But I never seem to get the time. Or perhaps I don’t have the inclination. I find the task boring, pushing weights about, or cycling on a machine and ending up nowhere. It takes commitment. Something I must lack, sadly.”
Another sip of tea.
“You’re visiting tomorrow then?” asked Nathan.
“Yes. Most definitely. But not for long. In fact, it’ll be a swift hello, a swift goodbye. And then off.”
“A swift goodbye. You have all the details?”
“Thank you, yes. You’ve been most thorough in your directions.”
“And you’ve made all the preparations?”
Joshua’s lips twitched into the semblance of a smile. “You don’t need to concern yourself with all the small print. When I visit, I like to plan things to a meticulous detail. I am, shall we say, ruthless about minutiae. Fastidious, one might say. I like things to run smoothly. One can never plan too much. And you’ve been most obliging with all the information you’ve given me. Extremely useful. I always research a place well before a visit. It makes the whole trip that bit more fun, don’t you think? Immersing yourself in the history, the geography, the culture, the people.”
“I suppose it does. Of course, if you get lost, or need assistance, then I’m only a phone call away. We’re here to help.”
“That’s very reassuring. Can you help with the weather? The times I’ve visited, it feels like I’ve arrived in the Arctic. Not that I’ve visited the Arctic before. I don’t know how you survive.”
“I don’t.” Nathan laughed. “I wake up to a shitty day like this and wonder seriously why God would make a place like Scotland.”
“To torment you. Or perhaps to test you. I’ve never put much store in God, personally. It is what it is, and life goes on.”
“Or doesn’t.”
Joshua acknowledged the comment with the slightest nod, raising his teacup. “As the case may be.”
Nathan pressed speed dial on his mobile phone and within seconds got through to Grant.
“I met him,” said Nathan. “Gives me the creeps, to be honest.”
“At the price he charges,” Grant replied, “I should fucking hope so. When?”
“He says tomorrow.”
“So be it. It can’t come too soon. He didn’t need anything?”
“He says he’s prepared. And I believe him.”
“Tomorrow then. Tomorrow I get my life back. And Adam Black’s new life begins.” Grant hung up.
Nathan got into his car, parked a hundred yards from the hotel, in a side street. He had a bad feeling about this, but he had chosen not to mention it to his uncle, because he simply didn’t have the courage to question anything Peter Grant did. But his gut told him this was bad – that there would be consequences. He thought about Jimmy, blinded in one eye. He thought about Damian and the Manchester hardman William Blakely, both cold in their coffins, and Teacup, ex-boxer, out of hospital, still struggling for coordination in his arms and legs, and Nathan shuddered, and not with the winter’s cold.
Maybe, just maybe, they were picking the wrong fight with the wrong man.
28
Six weeks had passed since the bullet message.
Six weeks to the day.
The funeral of John Wilson had taken place during this time; a sombre affair. He was Catholic, though not practising. Black had no idea. He had been working closely with the man for five years and had no clue about his religion. It just never came up, wasn’t relevant. Black didn’t give a damn either way. The church was half-full – a smattering of relatives; a fairly large contingent of golfing buddies who all actually looked as if they were going straight from the church to the first tee; a distraught girlfriend dressed dramatically in black, sobbing quietly behind a dark gauze veil – Black learned she had been seeing Wilson for all of four weeks prior to his death. Gold-digger, Fletcher had suggested. Black had no views on the matter. His only son had flown from Melbourne, Australia, where he was doing well as a real estate agent.
And of course, there was Simon Fletcher and himself, and some other lawyers, old friends and sparring partners, there to pay their respects to a colleague who had endured the hustle and bustle of the law for over forty years.
The day had been cold and grey, the sun hidden by low unbroken cloud.
His coffin was lowered into the ground, the church softening its stance on suicides buried in a Catholic cemetery, no longer regarded as a mortal sin. Black and Fletcher had helped to lower it on white silken cord. The priest had spoken some short words, a final prayer. The service had ended.
The reception had been held at a sectioned off area of a trendy bistro/bar called the Green Dolphin in the west end – the entire ground floor of a one-hundred-year-old building. Buffet food was made available in heated silver trays. Conversation had been muted and sad. The mood strained. Difficult for people to deal with this type of death, Black thought. So many unanswered questions. Mixed emotions; confusion, guilt, sorrow. Fletcher and Black remained at the bar, each with a whisky and ice, pondering the loss of their friend.
“I can’t believe the old bugger’s gone,” Fletcher said. The coroner had confirmed what they already knew. Death by suicide. Asphyxiation. “What a way to exit. It’s impossible to take in. What the hell is wrong with this world?” Fletcher gazed at the honey-gold liquid in his glass, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why would he do such a thing?”
It was a rhetorical question, but Black chose to answer anyway.
“We’ll probably never know what happened.”
Fletcher cocked his head, regarding him quizzically. “How do you mean?”
Black kept his thoughts to himself.
During those six weeks, they went about their lives, sticking to routines, not going out. DI Patterson kept in touch. He updated Black with the forensic results of the bullets, and the letters. As Black had predicted, nothing was found. The bullets had no serial number. There were no fingerprints; the paper was the type used in a million places; the handwriting could have been anyone’s; the printing used in each letter was impossible to source. A complete blank. Black had expected nothing more.
Every day, occasionally twice a day, a police constable would pay a visit, checking up, ensuring all was well. Patterson was doing his best, reflected Black. For that he was grateful.
Black had got a call on his mobile one Friday afternoon. From DI Patterson. “Fancy a drink?” he’d asked.
Black met Patterson in a pub called the Red Serpent, in a cobbled lane close to Glasgow Queen Street railway station, almost plumb centre in the city, two hundred yards from Black’s office. The place was long and narrow and quiet, the light muted. Nothing gaudy. Low-key. High stools at the bar, and rows of booths against one wall. Men sat quietly on their own, reading newspapers, or staring at nothing in particular, as they contemplated their next drink. A group were playing dominoes in a corner. A dartboard was fixed on a wall. A drinker’s pub. Despite the smoking ban, the place still smelled of stale cigarettes.
Patterson was sitting at one of the high stools, a glass of whisky on the bar in front of him. He waved Black to the seat next to him.
“What’s your poison?”
“Glenfiddich goes down rather well. Neat.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more.”
Patterson ordered two drinks. Black sat on the high stool next to him.
“Thanks for coming. Especially at such short notice.”
Black shrugged. “No problem. But I can’t stay long. You understand why.”
Patterson nodded. “Understood.”
The barman placed two drinks on the bar. Patterson raised his glass. “To catching the
bad guys.”
Black clinked his glass. “Here’s hoping. Why the drink? Without meaning to be blunt, I assume something’s happened?”
Patterson sipped the whisky. “Nothing’s happened. The drink is an apology. An olive branch? We read you wrong, that night. Turned out you were on the side of right, and those three bastards picked the wrong man.”
“The side of right,” repeated Black quietly. “I’m not sure about that. Two of those bastards ended up dead.”
“In my book, exactly where they belong.”
“Some might argue differently.”
Patterson hovered the whisky under his nose, took another sip. “You have skills. I watched the CCTV replay. I’ve never seen anything like it. Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“I was in the army for many years. You pick stuff up. Don’t be too impressed. Look where it’s got me.”
“You’re alive,” said Patterson. “You could be dead. I’m Colin, by the way.”
Black took a drink of the Glenfiddich, let the liquid rest on his tongue. His favourite whisky. He had always been sure to take a bottle with him in all the countries he’d been sent to. A little taste of home.
“Imagine,” continued Patterson. “A guy like Damian Grant being in Eaglesham, and running into someone like you. How random is that?”
“As random as it gets. Some might describe it as less random, more bad luck.”
“For them.”
“For us,” said Black. “For my family. Make no mistake. Peter Grant won’t let this go.”
“It’s been weeks. A man like Grant is all bluster. I’ve been in the job long enough to know that these people will only take it so far. He wants to scare you, sure. But that’s as far as this’ll go. He knows if he tries anything, we’ll be on him quicker than shit off a shoe. I’ve got a uniform coming to your house every day. If there’s even the slightest worry in your mind, then phone me directly.” He fished out his wallet, pulled out a card, gave it to Black. “This has got my direct number. You phone any time.”
Black nodded, and took another drink. But he had a gut feeling. He could be handed every card by every DI in the country, and it still wouldn’t be enough. A man like Peter Grant was an unstoppable force. He’d come again, and again. Him and his gang. Forever.
“Cut the head off the snake,” Black said idly. “Perhaps it’s the only way.”
“Let us do our job, Adam. He’s not above the law.” He regarded Black solemnly. “And neither are you. Keep remembering – he’s just another fucking hoodlum in a nice suit. He makes one wrong move, and we’ll get him. No problem. That, I promise.”
Black gave a cold smile. “You promise?”
“You bet.”
The days grew into weeks. It seemed a degree of normality was seeping into their lives. Jennifer appeared less fearful, didn’t glance over her shoulder as often. At least it looked like that on the outside.
“Maybe it’s over,” she would whisper to him at night-time, in the morning, if they were in the car, if they were watching television in the evening, having dinner. “Maybe nothing’s going to happen.”
“Could be,” Black would reply. But he was less optimistic, and kept vigilant, his guard never down, his nerves stretched almost on an hourly basis, watching for the slightest signs, anything at all out of the ordinary. Or anything ordinary. A trip to the shops, emptying the bins, filling petrol in the car. Waking in the morning. Every action, however mundane, tinged with jeopardy. When his mobile phone rang, he took a deep breath before he answered. He played everything down. He went to work, he came home.
He waited.
Exactly six weeks had passed since the bullet message. The beginning of March.
It was a day like no other.
It was the day Adam Black’s world changed.
29
Black, Jennifer and Merryn left the house together at seven forty-five. It was a Tuesday. The mornings and early evenings were still dark. It was bitter cold. Winter kept its grip; the grass, the pavements, car roofs and windscreens coated in a veneer of frost. Like sugar coating. They took separate cars. Black, initially, had been their constant chaperone. Jennifer, with a fierce determination, had said no. It had to stop. They needed normality. She would not allow their lives to be changed. Had insisted on it. Demanded it. Black, grudgingly, relented.
Black went straight to work. Jennifer, with Merryn strapped to a child’s safety seat in the back, drove her Range Rover Discovery to a local nursery based in the civic hall in the centre of Eaglesham, dropped her off, and then made the journey to the Royal Alexandra hospital in Paisley, a twelve-mile drive. Traffic was solid. It took longer than usual. She listened to the radio, then a CD. Sixties music. Rock ’n’ roll. The classics.
The day was frantic, as ever. Every two minutes, something happening. The day cluttered with minor emergencies. She was a consultant in the paediatric unit. Everybody wanted something all the time. Reports, meetings, diagnoses, answers. Constant. But at that moment in her life, it was an antidote. A temporary cure for the shitstorm looming on the horizon.
Jennifer worked part-time. She stopped at 2.15pm, as usual. Sometimes she was later, but rarely. She drove straight back to the nursery, to pick her daughter up for 3pm, lingered for a chat with other mums, and then drove straight home. Sometimes she stopped off at the supermarket en route, sometimes the park, to let Merryn play on the swings with other kids. But not today. She arrived back at the house at about 3.30pm. Black would be home by 4.30, having drastically reduced his hours, doubtless carrying a box-load of files.
She got into the front hallway, closed the door behind her. The alarm immediately beeped. The first thing she did was switch the central heating timer to on. Old houses were cold houses. It was freezing. Double glazing didn’t help. The walls were thick, but winter still creeped in. Next, she punched in a code, switching the alarm to off. The beeping was silenced. A brand new system, every space in the house covered. A direct link to the police. A mouse couldn’t get in, and if it did, the place was lit up like the Fourth of July. Merryn went immediately through to the lounge, to sit on a beanbag, brightly coloured with blue and red hearts and smiling teddy bears.
Jennifer switched the television on, finding the kids channel. She made her way to the kitchen, to think about dinner. She opened the fridge, and took out a bottle of white wine. The bottle was a quarter full. The remnants of the previous evening. She opened it, poured herself a glass. The doorbell rang. She went back to the hallway, expecting to see the blurred image of a police constable through the marbled glass of the front door. Which was exactly what she saw. It was a regular thing for the police to check up on them at this time, courtesy of DI Patterson. And every time it happened, she gave him a silent thank you. She double-checked, glancing at an image on a small screen on a table by the door, relayed from a CCTV camera installed in a corner of the porch outside. A single policeman.
She unlocked the door, opened it.
The policeman smiled. “Mrs Black?”
“Everything’s fine, thank you,” she said, returning the smile.
“Glad to hear it. There’s been a development. A very positive one. May I come in?”
“Of course.”
He entered, taking off his hat. He was average height, average build. A careworn face. Thin, wispy hair. “Sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Black. But I have some good news.”
Her heart lifted. She had no idea what he was about to say. But it sounded like what she needed to hear. She would take anything even vaguely like good. “Would you like a cup of tea, or a coffee perhaps?”
He seemed to hesitate.
“Please,” she urged. “It’s freezing out there. If you’ve got news, and it’s nice news, then at least let’s share a drink.” She laughed. “Though I’m having a glass of wine, if that’s okay.”
“Sounds perfectly reasonable to me,” he said. “A cup of tea? Why not. Five minutes won’t kill anybody.”
“Of course
it won’t.”
He followed her through the hallway, into the kitchen, at the back of the house. The door to the living room was open. Merryn was sitting on her oversized beanbag, in front of the television, her back to the door, captivated by the cartoon channel.
“Your daughter?”
“Yes,” said Jennifer. “Four years old, and addicted to daytime television.”
The policeman laughed. “I remember those days. Mine’s grown up, and flown the coop. You miss them, when they go.” His face broke into a broad grin. “For a few minutes. Then you appreciate the tranquillity.”
She filled the kettle, switched it on. “You have a daughter?”
“She’s thirty. Graduated in law. Working for some fancy firm.”
“Well done her. My husband’s a lawyer.”
“It’s something I would like to have tried. Never got the qualifications. Didn’t stick it at school. For my sins, I joined the police force. Here I am.”
“For your sins? You guys do a fantastic job.”
The policeman placed his hat on the kitchen counter. He made a show of looking about. A pause. “You have a lovely house.”
Jennifer shrugged. “It wasn’t like this when we bought it. A complete mess. A lot of time, a lot of money.” She showed a brief wintry smile. “And a lot of tears.”
“Worthwhile tears,” said the policeman. “You have something to show for it. Something tangible. Bricks and mortar. A lovely family. Nice car. All the trappings. You know something I don’t understand?”
“What?”
“Why people shed needless tears.”
“Sorry?”
“For example, why shed tears for the dead?”
Jennifer frowned. “I don’t follow you.”
The policeman gave a crooked grin. “It’s like crying over spilt milk. It serves no practical purpose. A wasted effort. You know what I say, Jennifer?”
