Unleashed: this summer's must-read crime thriller

by Karl Hill

  Bullet Head stirred, moaning softly, trying to gain some movement in his arms and legs. He shifted over to his side, staring up at Black with glazed, unfocused eyes, and propped himself up on one elbow. He tried to speak, working his jaw, but the words were an incoherent mumble. Blood was flowing from his left eye. Black turned, regarded him with icy detachment, then brought the hammer down again, once, twice, three times. Bullet Head was silenced.

  “You’ve fucking killed him!” croaked Teacup.

  “Shame. But he deserved it. Anyone who associates themselves with Peter Grant needs to understand they’re going to die. Including you, Teacup.”

  “Please,” said Teacup, between gasps. “I had no idea Damian was going to attack you that night. He was wild. Out of control. I was only there to look after him. It’s the fucking truth. Things got out of hand. It should never have happened.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Teacup had dropped his holdall. Black picked it up, and unzipped it. It was full of cash. Fifty-pound notes bundled together with elastic bands.

  “Keep it,” muttered Teacup. “There’s fifty grand there. It’s all yours.”

  “Thank you,” said Black. “That’s very generous.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you think I’m going to do?”

  “Please. We can be reasonable about this.”

  “Reasonable about what?”

  Teacup licked his lips. “About this. Whatever the fuck this is. This situation.”

  Black stood over him, hammer in one hand. “That’s exactly what this is, Teacup. A situation. You could say, when my wife and daughter were murdered in their own house, that was a situation too. Life is full of ‘situations’. Until life ends.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Black bent closer. “Kill you. With this hammer. Just like your friend on the ground. You okay with that?”

  “I had nothing to do with what happened to your wife and kid. These decisions were made way over my head. No way would I do something like that. I was never involved.”

  “You were involved from day one. Stand up.”

  With difficulty, Teacup got to his feet. He spat blood. “I’ve lost some teeth,” he mumbled. His mouth was a mess. He looked at Black. He started to sob. “Please. Killing me won’t get you any closer to Grant. He doesn’t give a shit about me.” Suddenly his face contorted into wild anger. “I hate the bastard. I hate him, and I hated his fucking son.”

  “But don’t you get it, Teacup?” said Black, his tone almost reasonable.

  “Get what?”

  “This isn’t about you.”

  “What?”

  “This is about me. Killing you will make me feel a whole lot better.”

  “There’s other ways of getting to Peter Grant. There’s a deal going down. Fucking massive. Millions.”

  “And?”

  “Please, if I tell you, then let me go. I’ll forget all of this. You go your way, I go mine. Like nothing happened. And you can still get to Grant. What happened to your family was wrong. Plain fucking wrong. You want revenge. Who wouldn’t? I get that.”

  “You get it?”

  “Sure.”

  “You married, Teacup? You got kids?”

  Teacup shook his head.

  “So what do you get exactly? Tell me about this massive deal.”

  Teacup wavered on his feet. “I don’t feel so good,” he mumbled.

  “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know much.” His breathing was laboured. “But he has an accountant who works for him, in some fucking office in Aberdeen. He helps to launder his money. His name is something like William… Willard Chapman, or Chapford. Stupid fucking name. He knows all about it. Get to him, and you can get to Peter Grant.”

  “Is that it?”

  “What more do you want? I can’t give you anything else, because I don’t know anything. I’m just a fucking foot soldier.”

  Black nodded. “A foot soldier? Interesting expression. Fair enough. Tell you what, Teacup. You head back to the car, and I’ll check up on this accountant. But if I find that you’re lying…” Black pointed an admonitory finger at him.

  “No way.” Teacup took a tentative step back, then turned to start a shambling half-run for the black BMW only twelve feet away.

  Black took four long strides forward and locked his arm around Teacup’s neck.

  “Really?” he hissed in his ear. “As simple as that? You knew there was only one way.”

  Teacup struggled, clawing at Black’s arm, but he was weakened, his effort to dislodge Black feeble.

  “My family were shot and killed,” said Black. “So you pay the price, my friend.”

  Black squeezed. Teacup gasped, squirmed, kicked out. His movements lessened; seconds passed. He hung limp. Black continued to squeeze, then released. Teacup’s dead body slumped to the ground. Black struck his head several times with the hammer, to make sure. One thing he’d learned with the SAS – no half measures. When you mean to kill, then kill.

  A drug deal gone wrong, he thought. That’s how it will appear, at first glance. Two dead villains. He placed the hammer in the lifeless hand of Tommy ‘Teacup’ Thomson, ex-boxer, ex-hardman, ex-everything.

  Black retrieved the holdall, and returned to his car.

  Next stop – the accountant.

  41

  Peter Grant did not hear about Teacup’s demise until the day after the occurrence. It was yet another meeting Nathan was dreading. Teacup was a cousin, albeit distant, and therefore family, though well down the pecking order. He’d slipped further for failing to prevent Damian’s death. Ostracised, virtually. Grant still used him for a certain street slyness and occasional brutality when required. Days could go by before they might talk, and even then, any instructions were usually given by an intermediary such as Nathan, or someone else close. But Teacup was still family, invited to all family gatherings – birthdays, christenings, weddings, funerals.

  Nathan found Grant at the Ten Bells Boxing Club, where he trained twice a week. A large brick-built ex-council property, formerly used for archiving and records. He’d bribed some officials, bought it at discount, stripped it out, installed a full-sized boxing ring, had gym equipment put in, heavy-duty leather punchbags, speed balls, free-standing bags, had showers built, and changing rooms. Grant made it a habit of remembering his roots, and liked people to know he did. The club was on a street not far from the Barras Market, in the east end of Glasgow, near where he had lived as a boy. Kids under twelve and the unemployed could train for free. Compliments of Peter Grant. If a local boy showed some talent, Grant would take him under his wing, arrange fights, get him managed. Grant liked to be regarded as a benefactor, a good Samaritan, a pillar of the community. But discreet drug deals went on at the Ten Bells, another small part of the Peter Grant crime factory.

  Nathan gave him the news. As ever, he seemed to be the bearer of bad tidings. Grant was ending a third round of sparring, complete with headgear and gumshield. Nathan stood to one side, watching his uncle with a mixture of admiration and dread. The man was over sixty-five but moved in the ring like a thirty-year-old. He was agile and strong, and fit as any athlete. He punched hard and accurate like a professional.

  The bell sounded. Grant pulled off his headguard, stepped through the ropes, and jumped down beside Nathan.

  “Here comes fucking bad news,” said Grant, half-jokingly. “Here, help me with these.”

  He lifted his gloves. Nathan untied the laces.

  “So, what are you so glum-faced about?”

  “I’d rather talk in private.”

  “Let me have a shower first.”

  “It can’t wait.”

  Grant raised an eyebrow.

  “Must be serious.”

  “It is.”

  Nathan pulled off the boxing gloves. Grant took a deep swig from a plastic bottle containing an energy drink, then made his way to a partitioned-off room which was u
sed as an office of sorts. A couple of men were sitting at a table, drinking tea. Grant told them to leave, which they duly did.

  “Do I need to sit down,” asked Grant, a hint of humour still in his voice.

  Nathan shrugged. “It’s up to you, Uncle Peter.” He took a deep breath. “Bad news. Shit news, actually.”

  Grant waited.

  “Teacup’s dead.”

  Grant fixed Nathan a long stare.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Nathan could only shake his head.

  “What happened?”

  “He was doing a deal. Buying gear. At the location something went wrong. Teacup and Ralph were killed.”

  “And who the fuck is Ralph?”

  “Just a guy. Professional wrestler. Teacup hired him to watch his back since… you know what.”

  “Since I know what? You’re speaking in riddles. Since when does Teacup need a fucking bodyguard, when my name’s the only protection he needs. What anyone needs.”

  Nathan licked his lips, as he formulated his response. “Since the night Black put him in hospital.”

  “The night Damian was killed, you mean,” said Grant. “Just say it. Who was selling the drugs?”

  “Polly King.”

  Grant nodded. “That fucking heroin junky piece of slime. If he was doing the drop, there’s no way he did this. The guy’s a spineless shitbag. How much are we talking about?”

  “We lost fifty grand. My theory is, Polly took a chance, kept the money and the drugs. Now he’s hiding.”

  “Too fucking right he’s hiding. Wake up, Nathan. No way Polly took out two guys. He couldn’t take out his fucking granny. If we find Polly, we find out who did this. Get word out that he’s not in trouble. Reel him in and get him talking.”

  “If he didn’t do it, then who would dare?”

  Grant wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead. “Someone with one major axe to grind. Someone who can take out two men. Who would dare? Good choice of words. Who dares wins. Any thoughts?”

  Nathan did not reply. He knew the question did not require an answer. He knew the answer all along, but didn’t want to believe it. Only one man fitted the bill. Captain Adam Black. The gnawing doubts he had harboured since the involvement of Joshua, were blossoming into something new and fresh.

  Fear.

  42

  The accountancy firm of Chadwick and Co. was difficult to find. An office above a charity shop situated in the north of Aberdeen. A backstreet establishment, a hundred yards from the main thoroughfare, down a couple of side streets, in an area comprising vacant ‘to let’ units, charity outlets and bookmakers. Black imagined the place to have been bustling before the price of oil slumped, populated by little bijou coffee shops and bistros. A ten-minute walk to St Machar’s Cathedral, a twenty-five-minute stroll to Union Street, the heart of Aberdeen. But when oil reached an all-time low, and Aberdeen was dragged down with the rest of the country in post credit crunch, suddenly rentals weren’t being paid, staff were laid off, loans were defaulted. Professionals, such as accountants, found it just as tough as anyone to turn a buck. And so some delved down a darker route.

  The man who owned the firm of Chadwick and Co. was called Willard Chadwick. Close enough to the name given by Teacup in his dying moments for Black to rationalise it was probably the same individual. Chadwick was a big barrel-chested man about sixty; florid complexion, heavy jowls. He had a full head of thick hair, dyed unnaturally black. He wore a three-piece suit, a size too small, the buttons on his waistcoat bulging. Once, a long time ago, he may have been described as athletic. A rugby player perhaps, thought Black. But too many pints, too much whisky and fine meals, and too long sitting on his arse, had eradicated any semblance of former glory. Chadwick was a man trying pathetically to cling to the vestiges of another era.

  Black had phoned the office, to be answered by a surly-voiced female. He wanted an appointment with Mr Chadwick. Black was told he was busy, and that he should call back. Black was dogged. He wanted an appointment as soon as possible. Otherwise he would seek advice elsewhere as to how he could invest two million pounds. He was asked for his number. Within two minutes, Willard Chadwick himself telephoned back, and suggested they meet in his office. He was flexible. That afternoon was arranged.

  Chadwick and Co. comprised little more than a reception area, an office and a toilet. The décor was uninspiring. Chadwick’s office itself was surprisingly spacious, with little in it except a couple of filing cabinets, a desk and some chairs. The paint was faded, the carpet thin and needing a clean.

  Black sat on one side of the desk. Opposite sat Chadwick, meaty elbows resting on the tabletop. The air was heavy with the scent of his aftershave. The single window behind him offered a view of the opposite building.

  “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,” said Black.

  “Not at all, Mr Black. My pleasure. I’m always interested in a man who wants to invest.” Chadwick spoke in a deep baritone, almost musical. A singer, in his day.

  “You’re highly recommended.”

  “That’s always good to hear. Another of my clients?”

  “You could say that. He said you were discreet. Are you a discreet man, Mr Chadwick?”

  “Naturally. When it comes to a large amount of funds – two million sterling I think you said? – then discretion is paramount. Crucial, I would say.”

  “It’s a lot of money. It needs a safe pair of hands.”

  “Absolutely,” replied Chadwick, flashing bright white teeth. “Where is the money now, Mr Black?”

  “Here’s the thing. It’s in a large suitcase in my hotel bedroom.”

  The smile on Chadwick’s face drooped. Black was reminded of a sad clown.

  “You mean it’s cash?”

  “Hard cash.”

  Chadwick immediately stood, his bulk blocking out the daylight. “I’m sorry, Mr Black,” he said, his tone dismissive. “I can’t help you under any circumstances. I can’t handle cash of that amount. Anti-money laundering, you understand. This is a reputable firm. I would suggest you look elsewhere for financial advice.”

  Black nodded and stood as well. “Of course. I understand perfectly. Sorry to have troubled you.”

  He left the building, and meandered his way into Aberdeen centre, to Union Street. It was three thirty in the afternoon, the weather drab and dreary, the streets not particularly busy. He stopped at one of the many coffee shops, and ordered a double-shot black coffee. He sat at the window, watching people pass by. He was in no hurry. He took out his wallet and pulled out a small photograph of Jennifer and Merryn, both smiling, both eating ice-cream cones, wearing red woolly hats, their cheeks flushed with the cold. He could not remember exactly when the picture had been taken.

  He took a deep shuddering breath. Every waking moment was a struggle to keep his emotions in check. He had learned many lessons in the army, especially the Special Services. Focus. Harness your feelings. Use them. Anger, hatred, even sadness. They were all positive, if managed properly. Especially anger. The regiment expected a cool head in battle. Detachment. But at the critical moment, at the point of killing, uncork the emotions for as long as required. Controlled aggression. Then rein them back in and move on. There were some who thought that soldiers in the SAS were borderline psychotic. Black reflected that there was probably some truth in this. Right now, he was in kill mode. Emotions bubbling under a paper-thin veneer. And when the moment finally came, when he could confront Peter Grant, for that brief time, all hell would break loose.

  The mobile phone in his inside coat pocket buzzed, as he had expected. Sooner than he thought.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr Black?” It was the voice of Willard Chadwick. “We should meet.”

  “Yes.”

  “Duthie Park. There’s a blue bench beside the bandstand. I’ll see you there at five fifteen this afternoon.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Chadwick hung up. Black put the photograph
of his family back in his wallet and sipped his coffee. He had time to kill.

  43

  “You’re a hard man to find.”

  The man who sat opposite Peter Grant was thin, spindle-shanked, emaciated almost, dressed in an oversized sheepskin jacket that looked like a throwback to the seventies. Sunken cheeks, grey complexion, a twisted beak of a nose. There was a pint of lager on the table in front of him, and a packet of cigarettes. Polly King. Drug dealer and pimp. He looked ill, as if he hadn’t slept for a week. He was agitated. His eyes darted about like small black fireflies. He lifted the pint glass to his mouth and gulped down some lager. The tremble in his hand was plain to see.

  “Relax,” soothed Grant. “We don’t have a problem here.”

  Polly King had finally been located in a squalid one-bedroomed flat rented by one of his prostitutes, in a town seven miles from Glasgow, called East Kilbride. Grant had put it out that he was looking for Polly, and anyone who helped collected five hundred pounds.

  It was easy money, and the prostitute talked. Nathan and three others picked him up and escorted him to a quiet pub in the south side of Glasgow, on Victoria Road, and one which Grant owned. Grant was waiting for him. He wanted to hear this first hand.

  “Sorry to disagree,” replied Polly. “But from where I’m sitting there’s one huge fucking problem.”

  “Calm down, Polly. I’m only looking for some clarification. You know what I’m talking about.”

  Polly’s eyes flickered from Grant to the packet of cigarettes. “Can I go outside and have one first?”

  “You can have one right here.”

  “Is that allowed?”

  Grant laughed, though there was a metallic undertone. “I own this establishment. And what I say goes. So, if you want to destroy your lungs, then be my guest. It’s a disgusting habit, Polly.”

  Polly nodded, took a cigarette from the packet, a lighter from his jacket pocket, and lit up.

  “Okay,” continued Grant. “You know why you’re here. It seems over the last few days, you’ve been evading me. That’s the way it looks. I’m sure that’s not right. Is it?”