by Karl Hill
“You know where we are?”
“I’ll find you.”
Black hung up.
Strange times.
7
Black decided he would travel by train. Minimum fuss, straight into Edinburgh centre. The train left every half hour, from Glasgow Queen Street station to Edinburgh Waverley. Regular as clockwork. The journey took about an hour on average. It passed without incident, the train pulling into Waverley Station at the allocated time.
Black disembarked, made his way to the offices of Raeburn Collins and Co., a ten-minute walk away. A short distance from bustling Princes Street. It was a Wednesday afternoon, hot, and the place was packed. Black veered off the main thoroughfare, emerging into a quieter section; cobbled streets, elegant Georgian townhouses, pockets of miniature public gardens, all bright flowers and manicured lawns and shiny blue park benches.
He arrived at the main entrance. A nondescript glass door, no different from a hundred others. A small silver plaque fixed on the wall was the only advertising feature. This was an old firm, with old wealth for sustenance, not relying on gimmicks or sales pitches – clients, descendants of clients, word of mouth referral. A hundred years of legal services, and after a while, maybe thirty years or so, the client bank took care of itself, becoming a source of self-perpetuating business.
Black entered a foyer. Two young women sat behind a reception desk. He announced himself. He was gestured to a waiting room. High ceiling, smooth white walls. In a corner, a complicated looking coffee machine. Black sat on a sumptuous leather couch. He picked up a magazine, Country Living, and flicked through the pages.
Within five minutes a woman entered.
“Mr Black?”
She was maybe approaching thirty – twenty years younger than Black – dressed in a pale-blue suit, hair tied back. Severely so. Clasped in one hand was a manila folder. She was all business. She gave Black a weary smile. An associate, he thought. Trying to get that elusive partnership. Probably working a seventy-hour week. Permanently exhausted. Black felt a momentary twinge of pity. Back-breaking work without gratitude and a pay bordering on derisory. It wasn’t worth it. But it was a choice you made.
Black smiled back, nodded. They shook hands. The handshake was firm, reassuring.
“Hi. I’m Pamela Thompson. I’ll be taking care of you, Mr Black.”
“Taking care of me?”
“Just a manner of speaking.”
“Where’s Fiona. Fiona Jackson? She phoned me yesterday.” Black smiled. “Shouldn’t she be taking care of me?”
The woman who had introduced herself as Pamela Thompson reacted with a slight twitch of her shoulders.
“Follow me, please.”
She led him out of the waiting room, past the reception desk, and up a flight of wide carpeted stairs to the first floor, to a hallway with doors on either side. She took him into an impressive room, long and wide. An entire wall was devoted to rows of law books, from floor to ceiling. Two sets of bay windows allowed the sunshine to stream through. The carpet felt thick underfoot. In the centre was a rectangular desk, polished dark wood, a coffee pot and white porcelain cups sitting in the centre on a silver tray. Around it, at least twenty chairs.
At the far end of the table, sitting solitary, was a man sipping coffee. On a chair nearer to the door sat another man, who immediately stood when they entered. Pamela introduced him. “Mr Black. This is Donald Rutherford, our new Estates partner.”
Rutherford stood. A big man, the same height as Black, but could have done with losing thirty pounds. A full head of luxuriant blond hair, swept back off his forehead. His face was deeply tanned and baby smooth. Heavy chin. Sleek jowls. Lots of fine wine and fine dining, thought Black. The air was scented with his cologne. He wore a £2000 navy-blue three-piece suit, bespoke. The light glinted on a gold, bloodstone signet ring on his right index finger. A vague tingle of recollection pricked Black’s memory. He had seen something like it before. As a package, the man reeked of success, and had no trouble showing it. He oozed money. He regarded Black with clever blue eyes. His face creased into a well-practised smile. He gave Black a strong, confident handshake.
“Mr Black. I hope you don’t mind me sitting in on this meeting. I’m new here. Still trying to find my way. But when I heard about this will, I was… well, to be honest, fascinated. Coffee?”
“Thank you.”
Pamela gestured to the man at the far end of the conference table. “This is Mr Max Lavelle. Our senior partner.”
Black nodded towards the man. The man did not get up. He nodded back. He regarded Black with a clear, almost disconcerting, intensity. His face was round, owlish, his skin pale and waxy. He wore a suit of sombre grey, matching the colour of his hair, which was slicked over one side. He provided Black with the briefest of smiles, but did not speak.
Black sat at the table. Rutherford was sitting opposite. Pamela sat next to him, placing the folder on the table. Rutherford poured him a coffee.
“It must be an unusual case to bring out the big guns,” said Black. “I’m flattered.” He sipped some coffee. “I think the word ‘bizarre’ was used when I got the call. Talking of which, I thought Fiona Jackson was dealing with this.”
“We’ve never seen anything quite like it,” replied Pamela. She skilfully avoided answering, Black noted.
“How did he die?”
“Very sad situation,” said Rutherford. “It seems Mr Bartholomew took his own life. Depression, maybe. Isn’t that right, Pamela? We may never know.”
“Emergency services found him,” explained Pamela. “A neighbour heard what sounded like a gunshot. She called the police. When Mr Bartholomew didn’t answer his door, they broke it down.” She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. A tremor passed through her voice. “He’d shot himself, so we’ve been told. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr Black. The whole thing is awful.”
“Shot himself? That’s not a common method of suicide.”
“You have experience of this sort of thing?” asked Rutherford, an edge of condescension to his voice.
“Some. He would need to have access to a gun. It’s not that easy. Unless he was a member of a gun club. Or was ex-military, perhaps. Most people don’t have that resource. Just a passing thought. What do I know, after all?”
“You didn’t know Mr Bartholomew?”
It was Rutherford who asked the question.
“No, I didn’t.”
Pamela opened the file, and removed a single A4 sheaf of paper.
“This is his last will and testament. Do you want to read it?”
“Tell me what it says.”
Pamela flicked a glance at Rutherford, who remained focused on Black. She cleared her throat.
“He made it very simple. Though this doesn’t make it any less strange.”
Black waited.
“You are his appointed executor. And you are the sole beneficiary. He’s bequeathed his entire estate to you.” She paused, studying the words on the page before her. She looked up at Black. “But we’re not sure what his estate is.”
Black frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Nor do we,” she replied. “It says you must look for what you need.” She gave a tremulous smile. “And it says, what you need is located at the bottom of Bastard Rock.”
8
Black asked to see the document. She was right. It was short. Barely half a page. And mystifying. He glanced at the signature at the foot of the page. An undecipherable scrawl. Witnessed by the young woman who had spoken to him on the telephone yesterday, Fiona Jackson.
“Does it mean anything to you, Mr Black?” asked Rutherford.
“Not a damn thing. It’s crazy. Did you meet the man? Personally?”
“Sadly not. He came in about a fortnight ago, asked for us to prepare the will which we duly did, and he came in the next day to sign it. End of.”
“But Fiona Jackson met him. She might give us some more info. Where is she?”
> Rutherford gave Black a steady stare.
“Miss Jackson no longer works for us.”
Black held his stare. “She resigned?”
“She was let go. It’s an internal matter. You understand that, I’m sure. There are some things we cannot discuss. Needless to say, Pamela will look after you.”
Black digested this information. “Very sudden,” he said. “Given I was speaking to her less than twenty-four hours ago.”
Rutherford shrugged. “It’s not your concern.”
Black moved on. “He must have other assets. A house. A bank account. Anything.”
“The address he gave us is rented,” replied Pamela. “He had some cash in the flat – three hundred pounds. And a funeral bond. His stuff, his furnishings, are worthless. He had nothing. We’ve established he claimed benefits. He was not working, as far as we know.”
“When is his funeral?”
“When the coroner releases the body. Maybe three weeks.”
“It’s odd that you don’t know this man,” interrupted Rutherford. “He seems to have no family. No children. Does the name mean anything to you at all?”
“No, it doesn’t. But my name meant something to him.”
“And where, or what, is Bastard Rock?”
Black shook his head.
“Perhaps this is something you would rather forget all about,” continued Rutherford, his voice slow and measured, the voice of reason. “A penniless man you’ve never heard of leaves you nothing but a stupid riddle. We’ll take care of this nonsense for you. You’re a lawyer? You’ll have a busy practice to run. You don’t want the aggravation of dealing with what I can only describe as the rantings of someone quite possibly with an addiction problem. You agree?”
He stretched over to pick up the will.
Black also stretched over, and rested his hand over Rutherford’s. “Not quite. That’s my property. I think I’ll take care of Mr Bartholomew’s will. As his executor.”
Rutherford resumed his easy smile, and sat back.
“As is your right.”
“As is my right,” repeated Black. “How did you know I was a lawyer?”
“Maybe Fiona Jackson mentioned it. Is that important?”
“Not to me. It was you who brought it up.”
He picked up the will, and put it in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. “Thank you for your help. I’ll take it from here.”
He stood, and turned to leave.
Rutherford also stood. “I wish you well, Mr Black. I just hope you’re not being sent on some wild goose chase. Pamela will see you out.”
He stretched out his hand. Black shook it, and said, “A stranger made it his business to instruct lawyers to prepare a will nominating me his sole beneficiary. His estate is shrouded in mystery. Within two weeks, the man is dead. Let’s say, it’s aroused my interest. Hasn’t it yours?”
“I’ve more important business to attend to.”
“I guess you’re busier than me.”
Suddenly the man at the far end of the table spoke. Max Lavelle. Senior partner. His voice was low, gravelly. Not loud, yet it cut the air.
“Good luck, Mr Black. A strange set of circumstances, don’t you think?”
Black fixed his gaze on the man.
“As strange as it gets.”
Black left the conference room, Pamela leading the way. He followed her back down the stairs, past the front reception area. He turned to thank her. She pressed something in his hand. She gave him a tight, strained smile.
“My card, Mr Black.”
Before he could respond, she turned and disappeared back into the bowels of Raeburn Collins and Co.
He watched her go. He studied the card. On one side, in embossed black lettering, her name and the name and telephone number of the firm. On the other, handwritten in blue biro were the words:
Fiona Jackson
31 Brereton Place
Help her!
9
Extract of the transcript of evidence given during the subsequent Court Appearance of SAS soldiers, relating to their actions in the Iranian Embassy Siege, 1980 –
Crown – You were part of Red Team?
Sergeant A – Correct, sir.
Crown – You entered through the balcony?
Sergeant A – Yes, sir.
Crown – Upon entering the room, what happened?
Sergeant A – The room was empty. I ran out, to the foot of some stairs.
Crown – What happened then?
Sergeant A – I encountered a terrorist.
Crown – How did you know he was a terrorist?
Sergeant A – He was holding a grenade, sir.
Crown – What did you do?
Sergeant A – I fired my weapon.
Crown – What type of weapon were you carrying?
Sergeant A – A Heckler & Koch MP5 Sub-machine gun.
Crown – Do you know how many bullets you fired?
Sergeant A – Difficult to say. It has a 30-round capacity.
Crown – If I said the man had sixteen bullet wounds, would that be accurate?
Sergeant A – That makes sense.
Crown – That makes sense? Why the need to fire sixteen bullets into one man?
Sergeant A – I don’t believe in half measures, sir.
Black was in no particular hurry to return to Glasgow. He decided he would pay Fiona Jackson a visit. He made his way back to Princes Street, and bought a map from a tourist shop. He could have brought up directions on his mobile phone, but Black preferred to do things the old-fashioned way. Brereton Place was close, set in the heart of the west end, maybe only a mile from where he was. A trendy place to live, he thought. Not inexpensive.
It was a glorious afternoon. He would walk. Dressed in blue jeans, a pair of old running shoes, and a plain white shirt, he blended in with a million other tourists that day. He slung his leather jacket over his shoulder, and set off at pace to his destination.
Edinburgh city centre was packed tight with people. Cars in the centre had more or less been eradicated, replaced by buses and trams. Overlooking everything, sprawled on a hilltop, were the grey stone battlements and towers of Edinburgh Castle, replete with fluttering flags and glossy black cannons, gleaming in the sunshine.
Black headed back to Drumsheugh Gardens, and kept walking. The crowds thinned, dissipating to nothing. The buildings were old and grand, the streets and avenues wide. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at Brereton Place, and to a block of new-build flats, looking incongruous in their surroundings of vintage architecture. He wondered how the hell they’d got planning permission. No doubt bribes were paid, palms were greased. Edinburgh, the seat of the Scottish Government, was no different from any other place. Where human beings existed, corruption was never far away, as Black well knew.
Number 31 was communal for a block of ten flats – five levels, including the ground floor, two flats on each level. Black inspected the list of names by the front door, a press-button by each name.
F Jackson. Flat 3/2.
He pressed the buzzer. Several seconds passed. A voice responded. It was impossible to make out, static interference rendering it incomprehensible.
“Fiona Jackson?”
The voice responded, several staccato sounds, sounding more machine than human. Black had to guess.
“My name is Adam Black. We spoke yesterday on the phone. I’ve been to your office. Your friend Pamela gave me her card. Can we talk?”
A silence followed, another few seconds. The communal lock buzzed. Black pushed the door open, went inside. The hall was clean and functional and modern. Pale-blue tiles on the wall, clean tiled floor. A bicycle was parked by a door. Black made his way up.
Her flat was on the third floor. Her door had a small gold nameplate.
The door was open.
Had she opened it for him? Unusual. Not the normal reaction to a stranger. Suddenly, he was alert. Something, call it instinct, told him this was wrong. Alarm
bells rang. One thing the Special Services had taught him – trust your instinct. Tried and tested. It had saved his life many times.
He knocked gently. No sound from inside. Silence. He shifted his position, standing pressed against the wall, and with one arm, pushed the door wide open. He waited, expecting to hear something, at the very least the routine sound of human activity. No such sound.
He had a choice. He could walk away. Or he could keep moving. Black was not the type to walk away.
He inched round. He was facing a hallway. A mirror hung on the far wall opposite. Black glimpsed his own reflection. Dark wood flooring, walls painted warm brick-red. A narrow glass table along one side, on top of which should have been a telephone. Instead, it was lying in pieces on the floor, cable pulled from its socket.
Trouble, thought Black. He was unarmed and thus disadvantaged.
A sound disturbed the silence. The creak of weight being shifted, somewhere in the interior.
Muscles tensed, he eased himself along the corridor, which was a dog-leg, his senses alert for the slightest sound, the shift of movement. He passed a door to his left, opened it a fraction – a hall cupboard containing domestic stuff: ironing board; clothes rack; towels on shelves. Other oddments. On the wooden flooring before him, a scattering of broken glass. He turned the corner. Three doors, one facing him, one to his right, one to his left. The one facing was half open, and looked like the entrance to the living room. He took a deep breath, entered.
And plunged into a nightmare.
10
The living room was a mess. Television toppled on the floor, screen smashed. Shards of glass strewn across the wooden flooring. Jagged remains of wine bottles; broken ornaments; torn cushions; the window blinds ripped and hanging askew. The room was large, open-plan, stretching into the kitchen. Taking up a good proportion was a black leather corner suite. The black leather had almost disappeared under a new coat of a very different colour. Blood. Everywhere. On the furniture, on the floor, spattered on the walls. Lying sprawled on the suite was the naked body of a young woman. Her torso, neck and groin were a mass of stab wounds. Her clothes were scattered on the floor, saturated in blood. Her eyes stared at the ceiling, empty and dead.
