Unleashed: this summer's must-read crime thriller

by Karl Hill

  Her heart skipped a beat. First name? The conversation wasn’t right. Far from it.

  She answered, her voice strained. “What do you say?”

  “Who cares? The dead don’t matter. The dead can rot in the ground. My name’s Joshua, by the way.”

  The kettle clicked.

  She opened a cupboard door, got a mug, placed it slowly on the counter, heart racing.

  “What do you say, Jennifer? Am I right?”

  “What do you take?” she asked, not answering, her back to him. She swallowed. In the room next door was her four-year-old daughter.

  “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want tea. Sorry for the inconvenience. I don’t really have time.”

  She took a deep breath. She turned. He was leaning back on the kitchen worktop. She cleared her throat, kept her voice calm. “My husband will be back any minute. You said you had good news?”

  He shook his head. “Nice try, Jennifer. I admire your composure. Your husband isn’t due back for what – forty-five minutes? If it’s any consolation, that is exactly what I would have said, if I were in your position. My compliments, for quick thinking, under pressure.”

  “What do you want?” She could hardly speak the words. Her throat felt constricted.

  He raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth drooping. “As I mentioned. To give you good news.”

  She waited. Time had frozen. Her entire world revolved round this one moment.

  “Your worries are all over,” he said softly. “You can rest now. You and your daughter. Endless peace. I wonder if Adam will shed tears.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “Bonne nuit.”

  She stood, transfixed. She raised one hand, tried to say something. Tried to plead.

  He pulled out a revolver from a pocket in his coat, equipped with a silencer, almost as if in slow motion, and from three yards, shot her twice in the face, in rapid succession. Each shot was muffled, like a cushion being punched.

  He shot again, where she lay.

  He stepped over her, made his way into the living room.

  Three more muffled shots.

  The beanbag’s bright colours became one.

  Five seconds later he left, closing the front door quietly behind him.

  30

  The police arrived – a blazing convoy. Two ambulances. Vans, cars. A helicopter buzzed high above. Police marksmen prepared themselves. But the killer had long departed. What they found was Black sitting on the floor of his lounge.

  On one side, her head cradled on his lap, was the body of his wife. On the other was the tiny body of his daughter. They lay next to him, outstretched, as if using his lap as a pillow.

  They could have been sleeping. But they were dead. Their faces were gone. Their blood mingled, soaked the ground, creating a dark stain on the carpet.

  Black stared ahead, but his gaze was inward. The world no longer existed. Nothing mattered. He had lived with death all his life. Death had lived with him. It was part of him, like a cancer. He looked inward and saw his soul. It was broken with the blood of those he loved. This was on him.

  And the man called Peter Grant.

  More blood would spill. Lots.

  Grant was a dead man walking.

  31

  Peter Grant was told about the event in the Black household long before it made the news. In fact, he was informed ten minutes after it happened. He was sitting in the back conservatory of his suburban mansion. He was alone. Thor, his constant shadow, was in another part of the house. This was a moment too special to share with anyone. Grant was sitting in the same chair that the chief constable had been sitting in only weeks ago, when he was divulging the history of Adam Black’s life.

  Grant gazed out at his magnificent gardens, at the delicate and perfect Japanese moon bridge, the still water over which it spanned. It was a clear, crisp afternoon, the sky pale blue in the frosty sunshine. But Grant was not appreciating the view at that precise moment. His mind was fixed on other things.

  His mobile phone, resting on the arm of his seat, vibrated. It was his nephew, Nathan.

  Grant didn’t answer it immediately. He wanted to savour this moment. He wanted to live it a thousand times over. This was a moment he knew he would look back on and remember for the rest of his days.

  He picked up.

  “It’s done.”

  Grant disconnected.

  He never drank alcohol. He hated the weakness of those who did. He’d seen too many lives ruined and broken. He hadn’t touched a drop for twenty-five years. But sometimes rules had to be broken, exceptions made.

  On the low coffee table in front of him was the file on Adam Black. On top of it was a crystal glass of whisky, neat. Chivas Regal. Grant stretched over, picked it up, let it hover under his nose. He raised the glass before him, as if toasting an invisible friend, and watched the whisky gleam like liquid gold as it caught the sun.

  “Here’s to you, Captain Black. May your family rot in hell.”

  He took a sip and placed the glass back on top of the file.

  He picked up his mobile and pressed a number.

  A voice answered, almost immediately.

  “I want it done,” said Grant. “Fourteen days tops. The money will be deposited next week. I’ll see to it personally. Abacus is ready. Then we can tie things up. Do you foresee any problems at your end?”

  The voice responded.

  “What about Black?” said Grant.

  The voice again.

  “I don’t believe in random chance,” said Grant. “He killed Damian to get to me. We have to assume this. That he planned it. The man who doesn’t anticipate every play is a fucking dead man. We’ll kill him, and feed his heart to the worms.”

  The voice again.

  “Fourteen days, maximum,” replied Grant. “Then you can start enjoying life a little.”

  He put the phone down.

  Back to business, he thought. He would keep Black on the backburner for a short while, to make him feel it. Feel the despair and sorrow. The pain.

  And after that, Grant would do what he did best.

  He would erase Adam Black’s existence.

  32

  Black was gently ushered into the back of a police car, escorted by two policemen. He watched as a team of forensic scientists, garbed from head to foot in their white papery-plastic suits, entered his house, filing through the porch door, one at a time.

  Don’t wake them, he thought. They’re sleeping.

  Tape was used to cordon off the crime scene. Policemen and women, some in uniform and some not, spoke in little huddles, occasionally darting a glance towards Black. He didn’t care. Strangers occupied his house. White plastic screening was erected around the porch.

  The police car he was in drove off. Jennifer and Merryn were gone, forever. Their existence wiped clean. The sum and total of their lives reduced to nothing.

  They drove back to the main police station based in Pitt Street, Glasgow city centre. He felt as if he were in a strange waking dream. One part of him was in it, experiencing every moment, another part was watching from a distance, a dispassionate observer.

  He was asked to remove his clothing – he was covered in his family’s blood. He was given trousers, T-shirt, sandals. The part of his mind which watched remembered having done this before, not so long ago. He was asked some questions:

  We’re so sorry about your loss, Mr Black. Can you tell us what happened?

  I came home from work. Just before five. I opened the door. A pause, as he summoned up the strength to articulate the scene he had confronted. I saw my wife lying on the kitchen floor. I went through to the living room. My daughter was lying beside the television. I went back to the kitchen, to Jennifer, lifted her. She was so light. Like carrying nothing at all. I carried her to living room. I wanted all of us to be together. A last goodbye. I phoned the police. You came. I’m here.

  Did you see anyone?

  No.

  He was asked if
there was anywhere he could go.

  Phone Simon Fletcher. I can maybe stay with him. Black had no family. An orphan. Brother long dead. No relatives as far as he knew. Except Jennifer’s mother, who at this moment would still be unaware that her only daughter and granddaughter were lying dead with bullets in their head. He dreaded the moment when he would need to make that call.

  Check the CCTV, he mumbled. We have one at the front. You might get a face.

  We know, Mr Black. We’re checking everything.

  Thank you.

  Simon Fletcher arrived fifteen minutes later. Their office was a short drive from the station. Nothing was said. They drove back to Fletcher’s house. A converted four-bedroomed Georgian sandstone flat in the Pollokshields area of Glasgow. High ceilings with ornate cornicing, stained-glass windows and candelabra-style lighting in every room.

  “Stay as long as you want,” said Fletcher, as they sat in the car outside. “I don’t know what to say, Adam. I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “Believe it,” said Adam, in a flat, lifeless monotone. “It’s happening.”

  33

  Black stayed with Simon Fletcher. Fletcher was married with two daughters, eleven and twelve. There was a spare room for him. His wife – Adele – was French, born in Bordeaux, moved to Scotland fifteen years previously and who spoke English fluently. The family cried when they heard what happened. Fletcher went to work every day, contacted Black’s clients, made arrangements to delay, cancel, adjust, all with the assistance of the five paralegals who worked for the firm. All of them capable. He was allowed to get some things for Black from the house – clothes mainly. Black vowed he would never go back.

  On the fourth day after the murders, Black was asked back to Pitt Street police station. There was an update, and he might be interested.

  He was taken to an office. A uniformed officer was sitting behind a desk. He stood as soon as Black was shown in. He was a big man, about the same height as Black. Iron-grey hair, shaved to the bone at the sides, thick bull neck, square-jawed, steady pale-blue eyes, wide shoulders.

  He looked directly at Adam when he spoke, his eyes clear and candid. This was not a man to shy away from awkward situations.

  “Please accept my condolences, Mr Black. My name is Chief Inspector Francis Starling. I’ll be the case co-ordinator, so if you’ve any questions I’ll be happy to answer them, if I can.”

  Black nodded and sat. The office was utilitarian at best. There were a couple of shelves on one wall holding rows of thick ring binder files with numbers written on the spines. On another wall was a photograph of the chief inspector being awarded with a prize of some sort. The desk was clear with the exception of a laptop and a phone, and a tray of letters. The window behind him had bars on it and offered a view of a car park.

  “Case co-ordinator?” replied Black.

  Starling gave a small half-smile. “It’s new police speak – I’m in charge, is what it means. Tea or coffee?”

  Black shook his head. “You asked to see me? Have you caught the killer?” Black of course knew the answer already.

  “Not yet. But we’re not leaving any stone unturned. I hope this doesn’t cause offence, but we’ve got a copy of the CCTV footage outside your door – when the… incident took place. I wonder if I could show you some stills taken from the footage. Of the man who we’re pretty sure carried out the attack. In case you recognise him? Maybe you’ve seen him somewhere before? It’s a big ask. If you want to walk right back out the door, then that’s okay with me.”

  “Show me.”

  Starling opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out an A3-sized plain brown envelope. He opened it and placed three photographs in front of Black, as if he were dealing cards. Black looked at the photos, almost in a state of wonder – there was the man who had murdered his family!

  The quality was good. He saw a profile of a white male, nondescript face, unremarkable features, the hair covered by a peaked cap, the type worn by policemen. A face difficult to remember. No distinguishing marks. A lot of people were bad with faces, good with names. Black was excellent with faces. This particular one was now branded into his memory.

  “Have you seen this man before?”

  “Never.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “You’ll see he’s wearing a police uniform, standard issue, right down to the police identification number on the epaulettes, which is false.”

  “He doesn’t care,” said Black.

  “Come again?”

  “He would have known about the camera. He would have known everything about our surveillance system. He’s a careful, disciplined man. Yet he made no effort to cover his face. My guess he got a vast amount of money to do this, so this is his last job. He’ll disappear to some obscure part of the world where he can live his life as a ghost, and you’ll never see him again. And by keeping his face uncovered, he’s also sending a message.”

  “What message is that, Mr Black?”

  “That whoever’s behind this is above the law. That he’s untouchable, and he knows it. And he wants us to know it. A display of arrogance.”

  “That might be one way of looking at it. But things like that don’t tend to happen. We’ve seen many terrible things, Mr Black, and usually it comes down to something as simple as someone with a grudge. You’re a lawyer, aren’t you? I was hoping you might have recognised him as a disgruntled client? Someone your firm might have represented in the past? Someone who thinks you owe them?”

  Black held Starling’s stare for an uncomfortably long time. He could hardly believe he was hearing this.

  “You know there’s a history here.”

  Starling gave a placatory smile. “We’re well aware of what happened to Mr Grant’s son–”

  “Mr Grant?” interrupted Black. “Okay. So, there’s only one person in this entire world who feels he’s owed. And that’s Peter Grant. And you know exactly who Peter Grant is. This is not a complex calculus theory. You get it, surely.”

  “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions, Mr Black. There’s absolutely nothing to connect Peter Grant to what happened here.”

  “Except basic logic. Grant’s son died. He thinks I’m to blame. Nine weeks later, my wife and child are shot by an assassin. And it so happens that Peter Grant is the head of the Scottish equivalent of the Mafia. Where am I going wrong here? And of course, there’s the bullets.”

  Starling cocked his head. “What bullets?”

  Black hesitated. A sudden thought struck him. “Can I speak to DI Patterson? He was my case handler.”

  Starling took a deep breath. “That would be impossible.”

  “Why?”

  Starling held his stare for a full five seconds.

  “DI Colin Patterson is dead.”

  Black waited.

  “He was involved in a car crash two days ago.” He lowered his voice. “His car skidded off the road. A tragic accident. He died at the scene. Did you know him well?”

  Black absorbed the information. The conclusion reached in his mind was chilling. “Well enough.”

  “You mentioned bullets?” continued Starling.

  “It’s nothing, sorry. I’m just a little confused with everything that’s happened. No, I’m not aware of any disgruntled clients. And I don’t recognise the man in the picture.”

  “All right, Mr Black. Thank you for your assistance during this terrible time. Once again, I would like to extend my condolences. If you can think of anything at all, anything, then please get in touch. No stone will be left unturned. Let me assure you.”

  He reached into the same drawer he got the photographs from and gave Black a card.

  “This is the number for Victim Support. Telephone them day or night. They’ll listen and give you guidance through this trying time.”

  They shook hands. Black was escorted back out of the building. The first thing he did was toss the card he had been given into a rubbish bin. Black was n
o victim.

  No stone will be left unturned. Patterson was dead. The police didn’t know about the bullets.

  Black was on his own.

  Which suited him just fine.

  But first things first. He needed to talk things through. And he knew who to talk to.

  The padre.

  34

  Peter Grant spent every fourth weekend in his ‘hunting cabin’. He didn’t partake in any hunting as such, save the occasional grouse shoot. But that’s how he liked to describe his mountain retreat. It wasn’t a cabin either – it was a sprawling eight-bedroomed logwood alpine mansion, equipped with gym, sauna and a twenty-seat cinema room, with a separate guest house set in the grounds. Built in a thousand acres of prime forestland in the heart of the Scottish Highlands, it overlooked the pure blue waters of Loch Morlich, with an unspoiled view of the snow-topped Cairngorms.

  The weekend following the murders, Grant decided a visit to the cabin was deserved. He arrived early on a crisp Saturday morning accompanied by Thor, Nathan and several other members of his entourage, having all driven up the two-and-a-half-hour journey in three Range Rovers. When Grant got out the car, he gazed at the row of mountains, vast and sheer, only two miles distant, and took a deep lungful of the zesty, pine-fresh mountain air.

  The nation had been shocked by the crime. Grant was pleased. You fuck with Peter Grant, then you fuck with the devil himself. A vengeful devil. He felt uplifted. A burden had been removed. His son’s death had been avenged.

  “Look upon that view,” he said to Nathan. He was in an expansive mood. “Where else can you open your front door and see a spectacle like that. Only in Scotland.”

  “Not in the east end of Glasgow, for sure,” Nathan replied, giving a sardonic smile.

  “Hear that, Thor!” shouted Grant. “You got mountains like that in Berlin?”

  Thor, in loose sweat top and baggy jogging trousers, was taking luggage out the car. He glanced round, a puzzled look on his face.