Unleashed: this summer's must-read crime thriller

by Karl Hill

  His reputation grew. The tentacles of his empire spread, as far south as London, and then abroad. The years passed. His empire expanded. His two brothers died – one cancer, the other a gunshot in the chest. He was the only one left, the one in charge. The boss.

  But the legacy of his youth remained with him. He had known hard times. He spent money on property, because that was a logical investment; on clothes, because he knew image was important. But not drink. Nor exotic holidays. That was simply a bridge too far, and his brain didn’t compute such a luxury as something worthwhile.

  When he went to Grand Cayman, accompanied by the ever-present Thor and Nathan, he didn’t go to enjoy the sun, or the scuba, or fishing in the clear waters. It was purely business. Almost.

  He was closing accounts. Laws were tightening, even there. This had to be done personally, before a notary. Huge sums of money were being transferred, and he wanted things tailed off. He had ten accounts, in ten different banks. In a few days’ time, he would no longer require the services of offshore institutions.

  They had arrived at Owen Roberts International Airport at mid-morning local time, booked into the Coral Reef Resort, and had lunch at Pelican Point overlooking the ocean, and then visited each of the banks he had accounts with, transferring funds, and then closing them for good.

  The last bank was called Pacific Investment Holdings. An understated building in the centre of George Town, wedged amongst a cluster of expensive boutiques and restaurants, at the foot of the famous Seven Mile Beach.

  Grant had an appointment with the manager, who was attentive and efficient.

  “You’re transferring the full amount, Mr Grant?”

  “The full amount.”

  The bank manager nodded – whether the loss of his client’s business had any impact was impossible to say. He remained impassive.

  “Of course. So that will be four million, two hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars, after deduction of our closing expenses.”

  Fuckers, thought Grant. They all charged a closing fee, but this lot were sheer money-grabbing bastards – all in all, a one hundred and twenty-five-thousand-dollar charge for the privilege of closing the account. But also, it bought their silence. Getting information on customers from the Grand Cayman banks was like trying to rob Fort Knox with a penknife.

  And Grant coveted his privacy when it came to finances.

  “And which account are the funds going to?”

  Grant had memorised the bank account details. He relayed the sorting code, account number and the name of the bank.

  “And what is the name of the beneficiary.”

  Grant told him the name.

  “And is there a reference?”

  “Yes. Abacus.”

  The funds were transferred, electronically, all by the touch of a button, the account was closed, and the closing documents were signed by Grant, and witnessed by the bank’s notary.

  The entire transaction took less than thirty minutes.

  Grant immediately made a phone call. The voice on the other end confirmed the money had been received.

  “You have it all,” he said.

  The voice responded. “Yes.”

  “And Abacus is to your satisfaction?”

  “Abacus is perfect.”

  “When can we complete?”

  “One week. Routine paperwork. Legitimisation. That’s what I like to call it.”

  “I like that word. Sounds sweet as a nut. Do it.”

  The three left the building. It was late afternoon. A short distance from them was the beginning of the coral sand of the Seven Mile Beach, regarded by many as the most beautiful beach in the Caribbean.

  “You two can have the night off,” said Grant. “Go and get drunk if you want. I’ll meet you for breakfast tomorrow, nine sharp. We’ve got a plane to catch, so don’t get too pissed.”

  “All the money’s been transferred?” asked Nathan.

  Grant nodded.

  “What’s happening? I’m in the dark, Uncle Peter. You need to tell me what’s going down. I’m like… lost in all this secrecy.”

  “I need to tell you fuck all. But what I will say is that money sitting in a Grand Cayman Bank doesn’t make us any profit. It just sits there. It sits there because it’s proceeds of crime, and the cunts who run the banks here know it. So, they scoop up the interest, and charge million-dollar holding fees. You’ve heard the expression Money makes money? Well, that doesn’t apply when it’s tied up with these bastards. So it’s being released. But the fewer people that know about it, the better for everybody.”

  Suddenly he wrapped his arms around his nephew and held him close.

  “I love you,” he whispered in his ear. “You’ll know all about it soon enough.” He kissed him on the cheek. “Now fuck off, both of you, and enjoy.”

  They separated, and Grant strolled along the promenade, admiring the sea glistening like a carpet of blue jewels under the sun. He made sure that when he travelled to Grand Cayman for his business transactions, he visited a very specific place. And it was important to Grant he was alone when he visited.

  He made his way past beach bars and fish restaurants and wooden harbours. He enjoyed the feel of the warm sea breeze on his skin. He was wearing loose white casual trousers, a simple white T-shirt. He kicked off his sandals and felt the warm sand between his toes. It was the cleanest sand he had ever walked on. Thirty minutes later, his wanderings took him to a busy bar set a hundred yards back from the beach – The Blue Oyster. Little wooden tables were arranged outside, in an apparently random fashion, where people were eating and drinking and smoking. Men, mostly. Music from an old-fashioned jukebox wafted out, not loud. An old Elvis song.

  Grant sat at a table. A young waiter served him.

  “What can I get you sir?”

  “What’s on offer?”

  The boy smiled. “Anything you want.”

  Grant smiled back. “Mineral water would be fine. Still. No ice.”

  The waiter nodded and swished away.

  Grant relaxed and took the time to survey the men sitting at the other tables. One caught his eye. Mid-twenties, blond, medium-length hair, slim, olive skin. Exactly his type. Dressed in tight blue jeans, blue denim shirt. He noticed a small tattoo on the side of his neck. Grant felt an almost instant erection.

  The man noticed Grant looking at him. He was with three others. He said something to them, left them, and made his way over to Grant.

  “You look rather lonely.” He smiled, showing a perfect row of white teeth.

  “Very,” replied Grant. “Join me.”

  “Would love to.” He sat opposite Grant. The waiter returned with Grant’s drink.

  “Can I buy you anything?” asked Grant.

  “Gin and tonic.”

  The waiter left.

  “Can I buy anything else?”

  The man looked at Grant archly. “I don’t know. Maybe. It depends on how much you want to spend.”

  “How much can you take?”

  The young man leaned closer, both elbows on the table, and looked directly into Grant’s eyes. “I can take everything you have. Everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “And for three hundred dollars, I can take a bit more.”

  “Three hundred dollars? That’s a lot of money.”

  The young man leaned a little closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “And you can fuck me any which way you want. All night, if you want to.”

  Grant reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out his wallet, and put four hundred dollars on the table.

  “A bit extra. For special attention.”

  The young man laughed, relaxing back in his chair. “You’ll get it. Extra special. Whatever you want.”

  39

  Teacup’s reputation hinged on his ability to be easily located – if desperate people needed quick money, not caring about the thousand per cent interest rate, then Teacup was the loan shark they would look to. And many men a
nd women did. Drug addicts, gamblers, alcoholics, prostitutes. People unable to get legitimate credit elsewhere and needed quick money to feed their kids. Teacup’s business depended on the vulnerable, and he made plenty of profit from it.

  But he could fix things too. Ex-boxer turned enforcer, a violent man. If people needed something done, then Teacup was the arranger. And Teacup rarely failed in coming up with the goods. He was a member of the Grant family and could fix most things. He could find the right drugs for the right people at four in the morning. He could supply clean young rent boys for High Court judges and prominent QCs any time, any place. And if money needed collecting, then Teacup enforced the Grant law. No payment meant broken kneecaps. Continued non-payment meant prolonged pain, and ultimately a brutal death. Teacup collected for Peter Grant, and whether it was simple extortion or blackmail of a high-profile politician, few failed to pay up. And those that didn’t pay ended up disfigured or dead. Once you were indebted to Teacup, you were indebted for life.

  If a person needed to find Tommy ‘Teacup’ Thomson, then that person would not have to look far.

  But Teacup was no longer the man he used to be. He was out of hospital, had been for several weeks. But he still needed a stick to walk around. He had a pain in his hip, like a constant toothache. He got blinding headaches. Sometimes, if he bent down quickly, turned quickly, he got dizzy, his world spun. His jaw, fractured in two places, was sore when he chewed. Plus, and most importantly, his credibility had been tarnished. The so-called hard man of the Grant family had been put in hospital by one individual. Word spread quickly. His position in the chain of command had been affected. Once a close confidante of Peter Grant, now he was doing errands, on the street buying and selling drugs, slapping prostitutes back into line, collecting money. Crap jobs. Teacup was humiliated. And Peter Grant wanted him to feel it.

  Teacup had been a bitter man all his life. Now he was bitter and disrespected. He woke every morning, and felt like shit. All because of one man.

  It was a Wednesday afternoon. Teacup was leaving his bi-weekly session with the physio. Paid for by himself – this was his mess, so it was his problem. Such was the edict of Peter Grant. He got a call on his mobile. The man calling him was Nathan Grant.

  The tone was clipped, all business. Any warmth had evaporated weeks back.

  “There’s a deal going down tonight.”

  “Okay. What’s happening?”

  “The old MOT station at Hillington. 2am. Polly King’s got a bag of pure white for you.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty grand’s worth. The money will be dropped off at your flat this evening.”

  “Sure. No problem. Nathan?”

  “Yes, Teacup?”

  Teacup paused, took a breath. The words came rattling out. He couldn’t help himself.

  “What the fuck am I supposed to do? I’m family. This guy, Adam Black. He was a fucking machine. I swear. It wasn’t all down to me. He killed Blakely, who’d been paid a fortune to watch Damian. Don’t squeeze me out.” He took another breath. A word passed his lips which made his guts squirm. “Please.”

  A silence. Then Nathan spoke. “What do you want me to say, Teacup?”

  “Speak to the man. Tell him…”

  “Tell him what? Tell him his only son was killed in the street when you were supposed to be looking after him? No need to tell him that. He knows it already.”

  Nathan hung up.

  Teacup swore. The man standing next to him opened the car door. His new chaperone. Ralph Lambert. Ex-wrestler. Barrel-chested; long muscular arms; wide neck. Head shaved to the bone. A tattoo of a skull on the back of each hand. Teacup was paying him three hundred pounds a day to be at his side. Clamped next to him, like a shadow. Low intellect, limited conversation. But Teacup didn’t care.

  Since Eaglesham, he’d lost more than his reputation.

  He’d lost his nerve. All down to one man.

  Adam fucking Black.

  40

  Finding Teacup was no major challenge to Black. His name was well known in certain parts. After asking a few discreet questions in pubs in the east end of Glasgow, Black was informed Teacup enjoyed the casino, and on any given night he could be found at the roulette wheel, or maybe the poker table.

  Of the major casinos in Glasgow, the Albion was the biggest and grandest, designed in the manner of a mock-British colonial mansion, complete with slender white columns at the entrance, tall windows, dark wood floors. It consisted of three levels, the ground level full of traditional fruit machines and little booths with computer screens, for those who liked to try computerised gambling. The first level had exotically-named cocktail bars and two dance floors and a smattering of gaming machines. The top floor was the real thing. Roulette wheels; dice; blackjack; poker; craps.

  Black sat himself in a corner, a tall glass of vodka and Coke at his table, which he did not drink. He watched. He had chosen a vantage point which allowed him to see all the tables, and people entering and leaving. The place got busy about eleven. It had a late liquor licence and was open all night. Plus, the drinks were cheap, which made sense, thought Black. Get the punters pissed, and they lose their caution. And when that’s gone, the casino cleans up.

  On the second evening of his surveillance, Teacup made an appearance. It was midnight. Black recognised him instantly. A muscular man, about five-ten, short brown hair, clean-shaven. Dressed in a discreet dark-blue suit, loose blue shirt opened at the collar. A boxer’s face – heavy brows, broad, flat nose, lantern-jawed. When they last met on that freezing night on a road in Eaglesham over ten weeks ago, Black had broken several of his bones. Maybe caused some internal bleeding. Black noted he used a walking stick, his movements stiff. Too bad. Black watched him from a distance, his face veiled in shadow, fascinated by the figure who had attempted to kill him. Teacup spent a brief time on each of the gaming tables, sometimes winning, sometimes losing, until at last, settling down to a specific roulette wheel, spreading his chips about, perhaps randomly. Black would never know, nor did he care.

  Teacup was accompanied by a man who spoke little, and who didn’t gamble. Short and stocky, with a shaved bullet head, his neck wider than his face. Minder? Friend? Perhaps, after their little encounter in Eaglesham, Teacup felt the need for some protection.

  Black remained at his table. Teacup stayed at the roulette wheel for over an hour. His friend went to the bar every so often and brought back drinks. At last, Teacup called it a night, scooped his chips up, and went to the cashier’s booth to collect his money. Black never took his eyes off him.

  They left together, Teacup and his friend. Black followed at a safe distance. Down the escalator to level one. Here, Teacup stopped to talk to someone. Then the next escalator to the ground floor. Black followed.

  They got outside. It was cold. The pavement was adjacent to a private car park for casino patrons only. The short, stocky man left. Teacup waited at the front door, talking into his mobile phone. Black lingered behind the main glass doors, able to see the back of Teacup’s head.

  A car pulled up. A black BMW X5 driven by Bullet Head. Teacup continued to talk for a few seconds, then got in. They drove off. Black jogged to his own car, parked close to the casino entrance, and followed.

  They drove for half an hour to an industrial park on the outskirts of Glasgow, Black tailing at a discreet distance. The BMW parked outside an MOT station, the roller shutters closed, the lights out. It looked abandoned. Another car was already there, engine off, the silhouette of a driver visible. Black killed the headlights, and parked a hundred yards away. Teacup and Bullet Head got out. The other driver also got out, holding something. A white plastic bag. Teacup had a holdall slung over his shoulder.

  Black decided it was time to move. He put on a tight-fitting pair of leather driving gloves, and opened the glove compartment. He pulled out a steel-handled claw hammer. He eased open his car door, shutting it gently, made his way towards them, hugging the shadows. There were n
o regular street lights. The only illumination was the occasional light on the wall of a building. He reached the BMW, crouching behind it. The men were in deep discussion. Black watched them for several seconds. He tightened his grip on the hammer. It was time.

  Time to start a war.

  He approached them, almost casually, emerging from the shadows, quiet as a wisp of smoke. The three men were unaware of his presence, until he was close up. They jerked round, startled.

  “Evening.”

  He brought the hammer down, a thunderous blow, striking Bullet Head hard on the area of bone between his eyes. He crumpled to the ground.

  Teacup took a step back, shocked. “What the fuck!”

  The third man sprinted back to his car, jumped in, and drove off, tyres screeching. Black let him. He was of no interest to him. Teacup stood motionless, trying to grasp what had happened. Black turned to face him.

  “Remember me?”

  Indecision rippled across Teacup’s face. Black guessed what he was thinking – should he try to get back to his car? Should he fight? Should he do nothing and just wait to see what happened next?

  Choices, choices.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” said Teacup, the words tumbling out at frantic speed. He swallowed, thinking, then said, “You don’t want to mess with me. You do that, and you mess with Peter Grant. You understand this?”

  Suddenly, he swung his walking stick at Black, but the movement was weak, awkward. Teacup was still in recovery mode. Black had anticipated such a reaction. He stepped in and slammed his fist into Teacup’s mouth. Teacup staggered back, dazed, landed on his backside. Black strode forward, kicked him in the groin. Teacup rolled over, scrunched up in pain.