by Karl Hill
“I understand completely.”
“You’d better. She needs to be ready in three weeks. Make sure she is.”
“She’ll be ready,” said Lampton. “Count on it.”
23
Black had a lead. He’d spotted something in the video, and it was enough to plan. He would set off early in the morning.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He finished the bottle. It was 9pm. Thoughts drifted in and out of his head. The images he’d witnessed recurred, rearing up, uninvited, casting grotesque shadows in his mind. He thought of his own dead daughter. Black fought back a wave of nausea.
He needed space to breathe. He needed perspective. He decided he’d venture downstairs, to the hotel bar for a nightcap, some friendly faces. Anything to chase away the shadows.
The bar was like any hotel bar anywhere. The Royal Oak was not the largest hotel in Thurso, but the bar was big enough to attract a crowd. Several booths, rectangular wooden tables with short stools and chairs. Tall bay windows with darkened glass looked on to the street outside. The walls had been reduced back to rough bare brick and stone – a popular feature in trendy pubs, apparently. Black had never cottoned on to the idea. In a corner, a real fire smoked and crackled beneath a copper-coloured hood. Quaint. Olde Worlde.
Black sat on a high stool at the bar and ordered a Glenfiddich. Double. The gantry was built on to a frosted mirror, holding rows of obscure whiskies. Black studied his reflection. The face looking back was tanned, chiselled, handsome in a hard-bitten way, dark hair cut short, dark eyes. Eyes which had witnessed death in all its forms. And outrages. He had witnessed friends tortured in Iraq, arms and legs blown off in makeshift roadside bombs built from scrap in basements; witnessed executions by terrorists, some as young as twelve. Beheadings. Mutilations. Black had seen all aspects of evil. But nothing compared to the video of the little girl. His soul felt numb. His insides felt hollow.
He took a large gulp of his whisky.
A group of four young men sat round a table in a corner. They were necking down shorts, ordering them up as soon as they were finished. Their conversation was loud, and within half an hour, took on an edge of menace. The atmosphere got uncomfortable. People began to leave.
The man sitting on the stool next to Black shook his head, smiling, and spoke to Black out of the corner of his mouth.
“Fishermen from Orkney, I reckon,” he muttered. “Over for a long weekend. A bit of skirt and a bit of drink. Wish I had the energy.”
Black nodded, but didn’t say anything. He sensed trouble. He knew he should politely retire to his room, and stay out of everyone’s radar. Low profile. But Black had no such inclination. Not this night.
A glass suddenly smashed. One of the men had flung a pint tumbler against the wall. Beer sprayed on the table, on the floor.
The barmaid who had served Black lifted a section of the bar, opened the half door, and approached the group.
“I think you’ve had enough,” she said, laughing. Trying to play down the situation. Keeping it jovial. Diffuse.
“I think you should fuck off,” one of them shouted. The biggest one. Even sitting, Black could tell he was massive. Wide shoulders, bull-necked, the T-shirt he was wearing stretched tight over rolling biceps. Forearms like slabs. Hands like shovels. He looked up at the barmaid, his expression slack, eyes glazed. The others laughed loudly. One of them leaned over and tried to put his hand up her skirt. She took a sudden step back, slapping him away.
“That’s enough,” she said, all remnants of laughter gone. Things were getting out of control. “I need to ask you to leave, or I’ll call the manager.”
This caused another eruption of laughter. From all of them, except the big one, whose gaze flickered on the barmaid.
“Call the fucking manager,” he said. “I dare you.”
The man who’d tried to grope her, tried it again. He lurched forward, and caught the end of her skirt. She kicked out. The movement unbalanced him. His chair toppled, and he fell onto the stone tiles. He remained motionless for a second, on his hands and knees, then got to his feet. He was small, wiry. Thin-faced, with two days’ stubble. He wore black jeans, blue collared polo shirt. Shaved head, displaying an old scar. Lean muscle, but not built like his friend. He glared at the barmaid, face contorted in a snarl.
“Fucking slut fuck!” he shouted.
The man sitting next to Black leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Trouble.”
“Definitely,” Black whispered back.
A man appeared, probably from the restaurant section next door. He was in his fifties, overweight, dressed in a pale-blue suit which had seen better days, collar, tie. Thick dark-rimmed spectacles. The manager. When he saw the situation, and the four men, he baulked. This situation was way above his pay grade. Nevertheless, he had a job to do. Black was mildly impressed.
“Come on, lads,” he said, his voice low and calm. “I think the fun’s over. Let’s call it a night. What do you say?”
The man standing turned slowly round to face him. He was two inches shorter, but had three friends as back up.
“What do I say?” He took a step forward, now six inches from the manager’s face. “I say, why don’t you go and fuck right off, and let me deal with that fucking slut!” He pointed at the barmaid, who had retreated, standing with her back to the bar. Black saw in her face an emotion he had seen a million times. Fear. Both she and the manager were suddenly thrust into a new world. Danger, violence. Black’s world.
“Please,” stammered the manager. “Let’s all calm down.”
Black eased himself off his high stool, and walked calmly up to stand at the manager’s shoulder.
“You heard what the man said. He would like you to calm it down.”
Black, at six-two, was four inches taller than the manager, in peak condition, and looked it.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Black reacted with a thin-lipped smile, but the steel glint did not leave his eyes, and the smaller man saw it. He flicked a glance at the big man sitting at the table, who ponderously got to his feet. Six-four, easy.
“He asked you a question, fuckwit,” said the big man.
Black gently ushered the manager to one side, and stepped forward, so he was close to the thin-faced man. He spoke, his voice calm, unruffled.
“I’m the guy who’s here to ensure you keep your appointment.”
Thin Face looked uncertain. Again, another darting glance towards his friend.
“What fucking appointment?”
“Intensive care.”
A silence fell in the pub. No one spoke. Tension was wire tight. Everyone in the place was fully focused on the scene unfolding.
“Are you having a fucking laugh?” slurred the big man. He clambered his way round the table, staggering slightly, to stand next to his friend. Bodybuilder. Big and clumsy. Drunk, maybe high on drugs. Joints probably crippled by steroids. Black had met his type before. Bravado, posturing. Usually without substance.
Black shook his head, shrugging slightly.
“No laughs here.” He fixed his attention on the thin-faced man. “I’m going to break your arm. More specifically your ulna and your humerus. I might wrench your shoulder out of its socket for good measure. And you’ll lose some teeth. Plus, you’ll be spending a bit of money on facial reconstruction.”
He turned his attention to the big man. “You’re muscular, but slow. You’re clumsy. You’ve been drinking all day, so you have no reflexes. I’m going to snap your spine. The lumbar region. You’ll never walk again. Your pals can cart you round in a wheelchair next time you’re out, until they get fed up.” He faced them, eyes glittering. “This is where we are, my friends.”
Black took a half step forward.
“So why don’t we play this out, right fucking now.”
The remaining two at the table watched, open mouthed. Peripherals, thought Black. Any trouble, and they would vanish.
Black stared at the big m
an. Black was ready. More than ready. His body tingled for action. And they knew it.
Thin Face licked his lips, took a deep breath. He tapped his friend on the elbow. “Fuck it. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The big man stood, wavering on his feet. The eyes were vacant, the face slack. Suddenly, a glimmer of understanding. Through the alcohol, something penetrated. That this was a fight he might not win.
Nothing more was said. The two shuffled past, taking care to walk round him. The two at the table followed suit, keeping their eyes averted from Black. They sloped out, into the night. Black returned to his high stool, and his drink, and finished his glass.
“Thanks for that,” breathed the manager. “The next one’s on the house.”
Black nodded. The barmaid fixed him another Glenfiddich, regarding him with a new appreciation.
The man sitting next to his side scrutinised him for several long seconds. Black turned, smiling.
“Looks like they didn’t have the energy after all.”
24
The dining room opened at 7am for breakfast, and Black got something light. He had little appetite. A coffee and buttered croissant. The day looked as if it would be a repeat performance of the day before. Grey, rolling clouds, the breeze bringing a touch of rain from the sea, the sunlight wan and dreary.
Black did not see either the manager or the barmaid, and was glad of it. The last thing he wanted was attention. He chided himself for getting involved the previous evening. He should have left it. He needed to be invisible. Damage done. He had to move on.
Black ate his breakfast, went back up to his room, packed his holdall. Time to go.
He walked the quarter mile to his car. On the way, he deposited the smashed laptop in a public waste bin.
He got to the car. Nothing seemed out of place. His flat would be under surveillance, of that he was sure. But there was nothing there to require him back. His next stop was Edinburgh. They would be expecting him, no doubt. But he had questions to ask, scores to settle. A certain legal firm was in the frame – Raeburn, Collins and Co.
Time to pay another visit. Though this time, a little less civilised.
25
The offices of Raeburn, Collins and Co. were closed for the evening. At least to the public. It was during the evening hours when the real work was carried out. No interruptions – zero client contact, which meant no meetings, appointments, phone calls. Things got done.
Most, if not all, of the partners had left. Those who remained were assistants, associates, paralegals. Working a ten-hour day. Maybe more. Crippling workloads with little thanks. Complain, and the door was shown. For every vacant position in a law office, fifty desperate solicitors were there to fill it. The law was a shrinking market. And as brutal as any other industry.
Donald Rutherford had left. Black had watched him leave the building at 6pm.
Black had arrived back in Edinburgh that afternoon, driving from Thurso, allowing only one stop in a roadside café on the outskirts of Aberdeen. He’d booked into a cheap hotel in Edinburgh’s Old Town, and decided against parking in the hotel car park. Instead he found a space in a side street five hundred yards from the hotel and walked. No point in advertising his presence, if he could help it.
A hundred yards diagonally opposite the lawyer’s offices was a quaint little coffee shop. The Blue Willow. All bright colours and trailing flowers from hanging baskets. He sat at the window with a newspaper, sipping a flat white, and watched. He’d been there for over two hours. The view was good. A clear visual on people entering, leaving. The place was busy. With twenty partners and another maybe fifty ancillary staff, it ought to be, he thought. He was virtually undetectable where he sat. Unless he had been followed, in which case they knew exactly where he was, and they would be watching him.
Black drank his coffee, considered his options. He had little choice in the matter. If they came for him, then fair enough. Unlikely in such a public place, though a drive-by shooting wouldn’t be far-fetched. A motorcyclist whizzing by, peppering the coffee shop window with bullets, uncaring who they hit, as long as they got Black.
Black had to bring it to them. Attack. Mobilise. If he stayed still, he was a dead man. Keep moving. Something the SAS had drummed into their recruits. A man compelled to move was a man who tended not to dwell on the harshness of his situation. Such was the philosophy of the Special Air Service. His enemies would assume that Black would target the firm. More specifically the individuals at their original meeting – Donald Rutherford, Max Lavelle, or the young lawyer, Pamela Thompson. They were the last people he’d spoken to before the incident at Fiona Jackson’s flat. It wasn’t rocket science to assume they would expect a visit from Black. Because now they knew he wasn’t the type of man to back down.
He wouldn’t have it any other way, he mused.
He watched. Time ticked on. Black had learned patience throughout his years in the army. Surveillance in extreme situations, sometimes lasting days, even weeks. Confined to one spot. Shitting in paper bags, then burying the bags. No sound. Body crawling with insects, skin itching under the heat, the sweat. Waiting for the enemy, exactly as he was doing now. The difference was, here in civilian street, Black was unsure who his enemy was. Shadows and smoke.
The door opened, a bell tinkling. Black looked up. A skinny young man entered clutching a laptop, no older than twenty-one, faded jeans, Motorhead T-shirt, a long unruly beard, which seemed to be the trend for young men. A tattoo running up the side of his neck. Another trend, which Black thought hideous. A student? Possibly. Black stayed alert, nerves stretched. The young man sat, opened his laptop, ordered a coffee.
He saw the unmistakable figure of Rutherford leave at 6pm. Striking blond hair; tanned skin. Escorted by two men. Both tall, lean, dressed in sharp close-fitting suits. Tough-looking. They walked by his side, no conversation. Rutherford wasn’t taking any chances. He noticed the slight creasing on one side of their jackets. Probably gun holsters, fitted over the shoulder and under the arm.
They walked twenty yards to a pale-blue 7 series BMW parked on the main street. The alarm bleeped, the three got in, one of the men driving, Rutherford sitting in the rear with the other. The car drove off.
Black waited. The coffee shop closed at 7pm. It was 6.45. Black ordered another coffee, his fourth. The waitress who served him took his order, reminding him they closed soon. Black acknowledged the information with a polite smile, but ordered anyway.
Five minutes later, he spied a young woman leave the building. He recognised her instantly, her manner brisk and sharp. No guarded escorts for her.
“Forget the coffee,” said Black.
He left the shop and followed.
He stayed on his side of the road. She turned a corner, up a narrow street. Black crossed the road, and followed twenty yards behind. She got to a Fiat 500, ivory with a red roof, parked half on the pavement. She pressed her key alarm, opened the driver’s door, got in.
Black opened the passenger door, and sat in beside her. “Remember me?”
Pamela Thompson gasped, eyes wide.
Black produced his Ka-Bar knife, pressing it into her ribcage.
“Sure you do,” he continued, his voice low. “You gave me your card. Nice message. Some might have described it as a death sentence. Thanks for that. Time to talk.”
Pamela Thompson stared for several seconds. “Is she dead?”
“Who? Fiona Jackson? Of course she’s dead. Now start talking.”
Tears welled up in Pamela’s eyes. Her shoulders shook. Her face crumpled. She began to cry soft, silent tears.
“She’s dead,” she said, barely a whisper. Suddenly her face hardened; her look turned to defiance.
“Do what you want, Mr Black. I don’t care. They killed her.”
Black leant closer. “Talk to me!”
She held his stare. Her voice trembled when she spoke. “Fiona Jackson was my sister!”
26
Jonathan Lincoln
had arrived at Glasgow airport at 8.15pm the previous evening. He met his contact at the restaurant at “Arrivals”. He was to recognise him by a lime-green briefcase placed upon a table. Lincoln spotted him almost immediately. The man sitting at the table was thin, balding, ruffs of hair above his ears. A dark grey dapper suit, grey silk tie. He had a cup of tea placed on a table in front of him.
Lincoln approached. He’d dressed casually, but smart. Circumstances dictated he wear a coat, incongruous for the summer heat. But he had no choice. The pockets were adapted to hold very specific equipment. He had no luggage, save a carry-all hanging from his shoulder, containing a change of clothing for three days. He wasn’t expecting to be in Scotland any longer.
“Mr Lincoln?” The man stood, offering a handshake. Lincoln ignored it, sat opposite.
The man sat back down.
“We’ve fixed a room up for you,” he said. “A nice one. At the Hilton. Should hopefully come up to scratch.”
“No, thank you,” said Lincoln. “I’ve organised my own hotel.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Really? Anywhere in particular?”
“Nowhere in particular.”
“Well, it’s up to you. We’ve arranged a car hire. It’s waiting in the car park. Jaguar. I’ll take you to it. I think you’ll be impressed.”
“Again, no thanks. Car hire’s no good. I’ll make my own arrangements.” They must be mad, he thought. Or stupid. Or just a bunch of fucking amateurs. Car rental meant paper trail. Something to be avoided at all costs.
“I’ll take a taxi.”
The man regarded Lincoln for several seconds.
“We’re trying to help. This has come from the top. We’re to assist in any way we can.”
Lincoln responded in a measured tone. “Then doing as little as possible would be beneficial for both of us. To be candid, I’d rather not be talking to you. But you have information I need. Do you have it?”
