by Karl Hill
Black remained seated. “I’ll help you, Diane. But you have to understand something. There are certain cases where the law is no use, and the courts can’t assist. That’s when we look for different remedies.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to. I’ll take your case.”
He asked questions, making notes with a pencil on a lined notepad. She gave quiet, faltering answers, and gradually her story unfolded – one of woe and dread. Existing from minute to minute, hour to hour. Constant beatings. Constant humiliation. Constant fear. Reith was a serial abuser.
One thing Black knew for sure: the law did not protect the weak. The courts were used as tools for the powerful. Men like George Reith understood only one message.
And Black believed he was the man to deliver it.
Diane got up to go, hesitated.
“Beware, Mr Black. My husband is a monster.”
Black nodded, but did not reply.
He was in the habit of dealing with monsters.
3
Black visited the village of Eaglesham once every month, for one specific purpose. The place conjured up many memories. One memory, above all others. One which was particularly horrific, which plagued Black every hour of every day, the details branded into his mind, clear and stark – the day he arrived home in the middle of a cold March afternoon, to their ivy-clad cottage, to find his wife and daughter lying dead. Voices silenced. Smiles obliterated by pistol shots fired at close range.
Once every month, he came back. To visit the cemetery on the outskirts. Where they were buried. A place set back from the road, half hidden behind silver birch, in the shadow of ancient oak trees, enclosed by low, red sandstone walls.
After Diane Reith left his office, Black had a sudden, strong desire to be there. He decided to go, leaving Tricia in charge. He drove the ten-mile journey. He bought flowers at a corner shop on the road there. He arrived at the cemetery. The day was warm and bright. It seemed to Black, when he came to this place, a stillness settled. Any wind lessened; any rain slackened. The air was tinged with… what? Black often wondered. A bleak melancholy, perhaps. A sadness he was unable to articulate.
He stood by the headstone and laid the flowers. The words on the inscription were simple and true:
Jennifer Black
1971-2010
My love, my heart
Merryn Black
2005-2010
A moonbeam
Lighting up the dark
He gazed at the piece of stone. After serving with the Parachute Regiment, and then the Special Air Service, he had come to the conclusion the world was mad. Mad, but not lost. He’d found Jennifer. They had Merryn. He had a family. Then, the madness returned, his family killed.
He took a long, deep breath, smelling the freshly mown grass, felt the sun on the back of his neck, heard the trill and chirp of birds.
Diane Reith had come to him. She needed help. She was deeply afraid. She had asked for sanctuary.
Black possessed many skills. He had been trained to survive. He had been trained to kill in almost any situation imaginable, by the very best, to become the very best. And most of all, he had nothing to lose, because he had lost everything already.
Diane Reith had set off a spark. Black wanted to give the world back a little of the madness. He felt it owed him. It was something he excelled at. It was something he craved.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
He left. He had preparations to make.
4
Lord Reith. Black did some background checks. Reith sat in the High Court of Justiciary, the supreme criminal court in Scotland. An illustrious career, presiding over head-line grabbing cases. Tipped to be the next Lord Justice General. A man possessing a profound knowledge of the law. A man regarded as wise and fair in his judgements, but robust in his sentencing. A workaholic, committed to his vocation.
He and Diane lived in a house in the heart of the west end of Glasgow, just off Great Western Road. A rambling sandstone structure sitting on an acre of manicured lawns enclosed by Edwardian copper-coloured railings. A house stately and reserved, reeking of money. Old money. Inherited, so rumour had it. On her side. A wealthy heiress. No children. He drove every day to the court building, four miles from his house, in a Jag 4x4. He was sixty-eight – quite young for a judge in his position. He was fit and athletic. Remarkably so. Ran ultra-marathons. President of a local boxing club. Regular squash player. On the Board of Trustees for several well-known charities. A paragon of virtue. A man of the community. At least on the outside.
At any given time, there could be ten cases being heard at the High Court in Glasgow. Lord Reith was presiding over an armed robbery – three men tooled up with shotguns had barged into a high-end jewellery shop in the city centre. A brazen attack in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. They had escaped with diamonds worth over two million. And left a security guard with his head blown off. They were captured within a month. The trial had lasted five weeks. The prosecution was summing up. Another couple of days and it would be over.
Black arrived at the court building. He needed to blend in. For Black, this was simple. He hadn’t worn a suit for weeks. He bought one specially for the occasion. Dark pinstripe, white shirt, dark tie. Smart and boring. He still had his court gown, a relic from another age, collecting dust in a wardrobe. Another relic was a red leather briefcase, in which he’d placed a newspaper. When he entered the building at 9.30 on a warm August morning, gown bundled under one arm, clasping his briefcase, he was invisible.
Just another lawyer.
He made his way through the security entrance. A court official patted him down in a cursory manner. Black placed keys, wallet, coins, into a plastic tray. And three pens. They were barely noticed, for which Black was grateful. One he had specially adapted, for use in extreme situations. Usually as a last resort – a small but effective skill acquired long ago, from men paranoid about self-preservation.
He emerged into the main court foyer. He put on his court gown. The transition was complete. He was similar to fifty other individuals milling about, murmuring to clients, sipping coffee from polystyrene cups, studying files, huddled together swapping stories, reminiscing, debating points of law.
He bought himself a strong coffee from a cafeteria, and sat at a table.
After serving in the army for over twenty years, and fighting with the 22nd regiment of the Special Air Service in some of the most inhospitable places in the world, he always imagined that if he returned to civilian life, he would prefer being a criminal court lawyer. He tried it briefly. And hated it. The cut and thrust of the courtroom was a game of lies and tricks. The aim was to hide the truth in a web of accusation, confusion, deceit. Cheap victories. It was shallow. It meant nothing. He had killed men in the arena of war. With bullets, knives, with his bare hands. He had seen guts spill, blood flow. He’d listened to their death screams as they begged and pleaded for help. It was truth. It was real. No bullshit. The lawyers who paraded up and down the court, bullying and badgering, coaxing and manipulating, wouldn’t have lasted a minute in a battle zone. Black saw through them, and saw the process for the game it was. And he didn’t want any of it.
He sipped his coffee, and waited.
Reith was at Court No. 3. A woman’s voice spoke through a crackly intercom. Court was convening in fifteen minutes.
The place started to thin out. Black left his seat and meandered through a maze of corridors, looking at ease in his surroundings. He smiled at court officers, who smiled back. Security was non-existent. He made his way to the rear of Court No. 3, past witness rooms, toilets, staff doors, and then past the most important door of them all, the lettering plain and unequivocal – Lord Reith’s Chambers.
Black returned to the foyer, bought another coffee and got out his newspaper. It would be a long day.
But worth it.
5
The court finished just after 4pm.
Lord Reith le
ft the courtroom by way of a private exit, directly into a rear corridor. He made his way to his offices. Black followed ten paces behind. Dressed in court gown, carrying a briefcase, he did not arouse suspicion. Reith, wearing judicial dark red robes and long court wig, stopped at a door, produced a key, unlocked it. He entered his chambers.
Black loomed in behind him, putting one foot forward.
“What the hell…!”
“Five minutes of your time, Lord Reith,” said Black. “Please.” He pushed him inside. Reith recoiled, his face a fleeting image of surprise, transforming to outrage.
“What is this?”
Black pulled the key from the door, closed it, locked it from the inside, turned to face him.
They were about the same height. Reith was slimmer. A runner’s build. Long, angular face; narrow forehead; sharp, pale-blue eyes. A chin tapering to a point. His court wig had tilted over to one side. Black was easily forty-five pounds heavier. With no excess fat.
“Your wife passes on her regards.”
Reith raised himself up, face reddening, lip curled in anger. “This is a disgrace! You have no right to be here. I’m calling the police. Get out of my way!”
“Sit down, Reith. Otherwise I’ll break your fucking neck.”
Reith opened his mouth to speak, then clamped it shut. Black gave him a measured stare.
He knows I’m not fucking about.
Black pointed to a desk at the far end of the room.
“Sit.”
Reith took a deep, shuddering breath, swallowed, turned slowly.
“This is an outrage,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’ll pay dearly.”
“Shut up.”
The office was long, rectangular. The walls on each side were shelved and filled neatly with rows of books. A miniature library. A walnut desk squatted at the far end beneath a circular window. Sunlight streamed through. It was neat, uncluttered, reflecting a honey-gold hue. In one corner was a drinks cabinet with crystal glasses and decanters and an array of bottles of whisky. They sparkled in the sun, like treasure. Reith removed his wig, made his way to a leather chair behind his desk. Black followed.
Reith sat. Black sat on a chair opposite. He smiled. Lord Reith did not smile back. Black stretched over and yanked the telephone off the desk, the line snapping. He placed it back on the polished wood.
“For privacy, you understand.”
Reith regarded him with a leaden stare. If looks could kill, thought Black.
“Who are you?” asked Reith.
“My name is Adam Black. I’m a lawyer. I represent your wife.”
Reith straightened, fixing him with a cold stare.
“Mr Black. I am a judge of the High Court of Justiciary. Do you understand what this means? You have illegally barged your way into…”
Black lifted the telephone and smashed it hard on to the desktop. It disintegrated into pieces. Reith gasped.
“It seems violence is the only way to get your attention,” said Black, his voice matter-of-fact. “It got your wife’s attention. You may have blinded her in her left eye, if you’re interested.”
Reith licked his lips, spoke in a careful voice. “Where is she?”
“Far away. When I mentioned earlier that she passes on her regards, she doesn’t really. I was lying. She’s terrified of you. But I’m not. Far from it. Your position as a High Court judge is irrelevant, because the way I see it, you’re just another piece of scum shit.”
Now, an edge in Reith’s voice when he replied. “I think, Mr Black, we can be reasonable about this. Whatever my wife told you is grossly exaggerated.”
“Of course. Nevertheless, she’s tired of the broken bones and the disfigurement and all those hospital appointments. And she’s too scared to go to court, when men like you can manipulate the system to your advantage. So, I’ve recommended to her that we take a different approach. We remove all the legal shenanigans, and cut straight to the chase. You okay with that?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“I know you don’t. It’s a novel approach. A faster route to justice.”
Black smiled, opened his jacket, took out one of the pens he had been carrying in his inside pocket. He pulled off the cap. The ball point had been removed, the metal shaft sharpened to a point.
Reith watched him, frowning. He spoke, a quiver in his voice, “What are you going to do?”
“Your wife mentioned that one Christmas Eve she was wrapping presents. On the kitchen table, I think she said. Three years ago. You remember? Maybe you don’t. You’re a busy man, after all. You weren’t happy with the way she was doing it. Careless, you said. Your exact word, I believe. Or maybe careless bitch. You told her to remove all the wrapping paper and start again. You watched her repeat the process. But you must have made her nervous, because she couldn’t get it right. Butter fingers. Then I suppose you got frustrated at her inability to wrap them to your high standard. Do you remember the punishment?”
The blood had drained from Reith’s face. His lips worked, but his response was a mumble.
“Let me remind you, Lord Reith,” said Black, still smiling.
Reith had one hand flat on the desktop. Black rammed the pen down, through skin, blood, cartilage, into the walnut veneer, to stand vertical, embedded in the timber. Clean through. Reith shrieked. Black slapped him hard across the face.
“Shut up!”
Reith stared at the fixture. Blood bloomed out across the papers on his desk.
Black lowered his voice, his smile gone. “Your wife wants free of you. You will give her what she asks. She will be seeking a divorce, which you will not contest. Whatever she wants, she’ll get. Let’s call it compensation. For criminal injuries. For years of unremitting abuse. The process will be clean and simple. You will never go near her again. If you do, then listen carefully, Lord Reith.”
Black leaned forward. “I will rip your fucking throat out. You understand? And should you mention this little meeting, then it’s your word against mine. I know where you live. I know where you play squash. I know the car you drive, and the route you take to work. I know where you go for your morning jog. I know when you go for your morning fucking shit. If you feel compelled to take this further, then that’s fine by me, because I’m your man. I will take enormous satisfaction in snapping your spine.”
Black’s voice lowered to barely above a whisper. “You will never know when, or where. You will spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. Do you understand me, judge?”
Reith nodded. His bottom lip trembled. His face seemed suddenly drawn, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets.
Black wrenched the pen free. Reith clasped his hand. Blood poured from the wound, on to his robes.
Black had a cloth handkerchief in his pocket, which he used to wipe the pen clean. He tossed it over to Reith.
“It was a pleasure, Lord Reith. I hope the case goes well.”
Black turned, and left.
It had been a productive day.
He left the court building, and headed back to his car. It was 4.30 in the afternoon, the sun still bright in a blue sky. For the first time in months, Black felt good about life.
Until his mobile phone buzzed. It was Tricia.
“Bad news, Adam,” she said.
“What?”
“Got a call from some Edinburgh law firm. Your friend Gilbert Bartholomew is dead.”
Black didn’t respond.
Who the hell’s Gilbert Bartholomew?
6
When Black arrived back at the office, he telephoned the firm of Raeburn Collins and Co. He checked them first in the Law Directory. A medium-sized firm located in Drumsheugh Gardens in the centre of Edinburgh. Twenty partners. Conveyancing, wills, estates. Mostly chamber practice, but high-end. Based in the money-side of the city, populated with lawyers, accountants, surveyors, insurance agents, mortgage brokers, merchant banks. All tucked away behind two-hundred-year-old townhouses of brown
and blond sandstone, gleaming balustrades, marble steps, high peaked slate roofs.
He got through to the lawyer who had telephoned – Fiona Jackson. Miss Jackson. She sounded young. Maybe an assistant. Or associate.
“You phoned my office. My name is Adam Black.”
“Thanks for coming back to me. It’s about Gilbert Bartholomew. First of all, please accept my condolences. It must have come as a shock. It certainly came as a shock to me.”
“And me.”
“I only saw him a couple of weeks ago, to prepare his will. Now he’s passed away.” Her voice faltered. “It’s very sudden.”
“I’ll bet. And here we are. Listen, Miss Jackson. I think you have the wrong person. I have no idea who this man is. And it’s not an instantly forgettable name. Gilbert Bartholomew doesn’t spring to my mind.”
A short silence followed.
“That’s very strange. He said you were old friends. He said he hadn’t spoken to you for some time. He’d forgotten where you lived, but he knew where you worked. Hence the phone call.”
“And you met this man?”
“Of course. He made an appointment. I took his instructions.”
“Doesn’t he have next of kin? A wife? Kids?”
A pause on the phone, then, “He has no one, so far as he told us. No family. And he was most specific. You’ve been named as his sole beneficiary. He’s also made you his executor.”
“This is crazy. I honestly have no idea who he is.”
“It’s not the only thing that’s crazy. The will itself is… bizarre.”
Black was intrigued. “Bizarre? An interesting word to describe a will.”
“But accurate. It’s not something I can discuss on the telephone. Can we arrange a meeting at our offices?”
“When?”
“How about tomorrow, three o’clock?”
“Suits me fine.”
