by Karl Hill
Violation
An Adam Black thriller
Karl Hill
Copyright © 2020 Karl Hill
The right of Karl Hill to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2020 by Bloodhound Books.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Print ISBN 978-1-913419-87-5
Contents
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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
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Unleashed
Prologue
1960. Torburn House. Residential Children’s Home, Dundee.
The building was old. A rambling Victorian school built of stone the colour of mud. Peaked grey slate roof. A place dark and sombre. Great high ceilings. Bare white walls. Windows which were never opened. Lighting from glass sconces positioned high up. They flickered sometimes, when there was a storm.
The two boys, who seemed inseparable, were always cold. They were given matching blue pullovers, but the cloth was thin and itched the skin. All the boys wore the same. Blue pullovers, blue shorts, blue socks. Two hundred uniforms. Twenty beds in each dormitory. Ten dormitories.
They were playing together, just the two of them. They had been told to stay behind. They played on the wooden floorboards, cross-legged, facing each other. They could feel the draught against their bare knees. One was ten, the other eight. Between them were toy soldiers. Medieval warriors, with white armour, clutching tiny swords and shields. And a little wooden catapult contraption. They played quietly, knocking soldiers down, picking them up, arranging them in a careful display, whispering to each other. Communication was always by a whisper. They were too frightened to talk any louder. Fear dominated every second of their existence.
Suddenly, the door at the end of the room opened. The boys’ heads jerked round, then back to the floor. If you didn’t look at them, didn’t make eye contact, then you weren’t chosen. Sometimes.
Three men approached. Footsteps creaked on the wooden floor. Heavy black shoes, polished and gleaming in the half light. Neither boy looked up. The three men stood over them. Nothing was said. Eventually one spoke, a rich, deep voice. A voice they knew well.
“Hello, boys.”
The boys did not reply.
“Shy.”
Laughter.
Another man got down on his knees, so he was almost level. “These look fantastic.” He picked up one of the toy soldiers. “Marvellous detail.” He raised it up to show the other men. “Do you know what these soldiers are?”
Neither boy lifted his head.
“You can tell by the red cross on their chests. They were called Crusaders. They fought for God.”
He replaced the soldier back carefully to where he’d found it.
“I love your battle formations,” he continued. “Wouldn’t like to meet either of you in a fight, for sure.”
He turned to one of them, the younger one. “Have you got a favourite?”
The boy reached over, and picked one up.
“Can I see?”
He handed it to him.
The man held it up, turning it delicately in his fingers, admiring it in the amber glow of the lighting above.
“Now he is special. He must be a Lord or a King. He looks very regal. He’s wearing a fancy robe. He must be their leader. Does he have a name?”
The boy looked up at the man, eyes wide. He darted a glance to one of the other men, the one who had spoken initially, seeking approval. The man gave a nod – yes, you’re allowed to talk.
“The Grey Prince.” His voice was small in that vast place.
“I like it. The Grey Prince. Suits him.” He gave it back, then stood.
Both boys sat, heads bowed, eyes fixed on the bare wooden floor, staring at nothing. Waiting.
“We’ll play our game, shall we,” spoke the one with the rich, deep voice.
“Eeny, meeny, miney, moe…” The voice continued, on and on, smooth and flowing, until it reached the end of the rhyme.
“Well, well,” said the other man who had spoken. “Looks like our little Grey Prince is the lucky winner.”
Laughter again, three deep voices echoing up into the high ceiling.
“Stand up, please, Grey Prince.”
The boy got to his feet, head down, eyes never leaving the floor.
One of the men took the boy by the hand, and led him from the room, followed by the other two. The boy remaining didn’t move until they’d left. His shoulders trembled, as he started to cry small, soft tears. He had
no choice but to cry quietly, in case his worst dread was realised. That they return.
He studied the array of toy soldiers on the floor before him. He picked up his friend’s favourite, and put it in his trouser pocket. He hadn’t realised it had a name. Now he knew.
The Grey Prince.
1
Life is not designed to be fair. It’s designed to be shit. Fucking shit, to put it politely. Treat this as fact. Once acknowledged, and accepted, killing becomes easier to endure.
Observation raised by Staff Sergeant to recruits of the 22nd Regiment of the Special Air Service
Present Day
Business was slow. Adam Black couldn’t have cared less. It was what he wanted.
Needed.
If asked, he would describe it as a shift in priorities. After the trauma of his family being murdered, and the carnage which followed that unspeakable act, he thought he would never return to the law.
But he did. To fill the gaps. To give a modicum of purpose to his life. He had no other profession to fall back on. Unless killing could be counted. And in that department, he had proved more than skilful.
Gone were the long hours, the busy case load, the impossible deadlines. Downsizing, downgrading. His wife and daughter were dead. Black had acquired a new perspective. What had seemed important before was now trivial. Put simply, he no longer chased the buck. If he didn’t like the look of a client, then the rule was easy. He didn’t act. And few clients complained – at six-two, and with a physique carved from granite, Black got the final say. He turned away more business than he accepted, and the cases he did accept were special. Ones he could give a damn about, involving real people, real problems.
He employed a single secretary, who answered the phone, made the coffee, typed, did just about everything. His office was not noticeable. Nothing showy, above a hot food shop and a vacant beauty salon on the first floor of a tenement block in an area in the south side of Glasgow called Shawlands. Once prosperous, now semi-abandoned, with streets decorated with “To Let” and “For Sale” signs. Those businesses which did remain were charity shops, bookies, American nail bars, corner groceries. Which suited Black fine. No more video conferences and client meetings under high ceilings in oak-panelled rooms. The gloss and glitz were gone. Black was back to basics.
Which was exactly where he wanted to be.
But one legacy of his former life, and one which he had not relinquished, was coffee. Constant. Ten mugs a day, easy. He’d tried decaffeinated stuff, hated it. It had to be real, full roast. If he didn’t have a coffee in his hand, then it didn’t feel right. And it was halfway through his fifth, at 11.30 in the morning, when his secretary, Tricia, knocked on his office door. Which was unusual. She didn’t normally knock. She normally just blustered straight through. There was little, if any, formality in Adam Black’s law office.
Which meant a new client. Black braced himself for the usual reaction. Not that he gave a damn. The problem was usually dress code. Or lack of. He’d given up wearing standard uniform – the type of clothing one expected a lawyer to wear. Gone were the dark suits, crisp white shirts, discreet ties, the cufflinks, the polished-up shoes. Instead jeans, casual open-necked shirts, white running shoes. Sometimes even a T-shirt. A million miles from convention. If you didn’t like it, then you could get the hell out. And a lot of clients couldn’t get it.
When Tricia knocked on his door at 11.30 that morning, and introduced a brand-new client, Black assumed his image would, at the very least, cause some bemusement. At most, a derisory laugh, and a retreat back out the door.
But when Black saw her, hovering in the doorway like a frightened mouse, he knew in that instant she wouldn’t give a damn how he looked. It was Black who was bemused. More than that.
Shocked.
2
“This is Mrs Diane Reith,” said Tricia. “She doesn’t have an appointment, but I assured her this wouldn’t be a problem.” Tricia gave a look, which Black understood – she needs help.
Black stood. “Of course not. Please, come in.”
He beckoned her to a chair on the opposite side of his desk. His office could be described as spartan, which was being charitable. It was clean and functional. No frills. The walls were bare of pictures. In a corner was a solitary filing cabinet. His desk was clear, with the exception of a pad of paper, a stapler, a telephone, and a mug utilised as a pen holder.
The only item hinting of a past life was a framed photograph of his wife and daughter, laughing, clutching ice-cream cones. Taken on a July day, under a warm sun, on a beach in the north of Scotland. Both dead.
No laptop, no keypad. Black preferred taking notes longhand, and had made a conscious decision to dispense with emails. If you needed him, you either telephoned or wrote. Or met him face to face. Like the old days. An almost medieval approach to modern business.
But Black didn’t give a shit. Back to basics.
Diane Reith entered, head down, managing a half-hearted smile. She sat. Her movements were stiff, awkward. She stared at her lap. She didn’t speak. She was maybe about fifty, though difficult to tell, dressed in an unflattering baggy sweat top and pale cream jogging trousers, flat sandals. Her hair was short and blonde. She wore sunglasses big enough to cover half her face, in an effort to hide her injuries. But they were easy to spot. Lips swollen and bruised; cheeks puffed. A gash across her chin, maybe caused by a ring. She moved as if she’d suffered whiplash. Either she’d been in a car crash, or someone had worked her over pretty good. Black knew where he’d put his money.
“I’m sorry I don’t have an appoint–” she started.
“Don’t worry about it,” cut in Black. He essayed an easy smile. “As you can see, we’re not overrun. It’s no problem.”
She looked up. With the sunglasses, it was impossible to see her eyes. Obviously she wasn’t wearing them to keep out the sun.
“I need a lawyer.” Her voice was quiet, tentative. But she was well-spoken. From a nice neighbourhood, Black reckoned.
Black nodded, but remained silent.
“I have problems.” She began fiddling her fingers, playing with a ring. A wedding ring. Chunky. Expensive looking.
“My husband and I, we no longer get on.” She bowed her head again. “We very much don’t get on. You see, he has a temper.”
Black waited.
“He’s got a very important job. Sometimes it gets to him. The pressure, I mean. I can understand.” She looked up suddenly. “I really can.”
“What can you understand?” asked Black gently.
“Why he beats me.”
Black did not reply. She blames herself.
“But I don’t have the strength anymore,” she continued, voice faltering. “Last night was… particularly bad. I packed a suitcase this morning. He doesn’t know I’ve left. I’ve got a room in a hotel. I don’t know what he’s going to do.”
“What he’s going to do?”
“When he finds I’ve gone. I’ve never done this before. He’s a powerful man.”
“Who is your husband?”
“George Reith. Lord Reith. You may have heard of him.”
Black knew him. Knew of him. Lord Reith. Prominent High Court judge. Dispenser of justice. Upholder of law. Now beater of women.
“You’re right,” agreed Black. “He’s a powerful man.”
“Which is why I’m here.” Her shoulders trembled. She started to sob – quiet, desperate tears. She opened a handbag on her lap and pulled out paper tissues, which she used to dab her eyes underneath her glasses.
Black regarded her for several seconds, then spoke.
“Why me, Mrs Reith? There are a hundred lawyers out there. Good divorce lawyers, all of them capable. With resources. I’m amazed you could even find my office. I have one part-time secretary, and I don’t own a computer. Plus, I work from a shithole. So why me?” Black asked the question, but had a fair idea of the answer.
“My husband will make a fearful enemy. Those good d
ivorce lawyers you mention? He knows them all. And they know him. No one’s going to take him on. No one would dare. I’m…” She frowned as she searched for the right word. “…toxic.”
“You have rights. We have a legal system.”
She straightened her back, reached up, removed her glasses. Both eyes were purple, her right eye badly swollen, reduced to a slit, protruding an inch from her face. “He is the legal system!”
Black took a deep breath. “You need a lawyer he doesn’t know and who has nothing to lose. Is that it?”
She shook her head. She put her sunglasses back on. “I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time, Mr Black. Thank you for seeing me. This is no use.” She started to rise.
