by Karl Hill
“And this man Lincoln…?”
“He works for them.”
She gazed at Lincoln, fascinated.
“Who are they?”
Lincoln suddenly stirred.
“Maybe we’ll find out,” said Black.
“Why do they want to kill you?”
“Because they know I’m close. Because they’re scared.” He gave Tricia a small, sad smile. “And you got caught in the crossfire.”
Black waited. Tricia did not respond.
“This can stop now,” he said. “We can bring in the police. Let them deal with it.”
She turned slowly to Black. “A child?”
Black nodded. “About six years old.”
“What will the police do?”
“The people involved are rich and powerful. I suspect powerful enough to influence the police.”
“I understand.” She swivelled her gaze back to Lincoln. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Lincoln’s eyes cracked open to slits; he shook his head, as if to shrug off drowsiness. He licked his lips with the tip of his tongue. He swallowed, bringing up a rumbling cough. He cleared his throat, opening his eyes wide. He examined his surroundings, flicking his gaze from Black to Tricia, then back to Black. Focusing. Calculating.
“I’m in pain,” he said.
“You should be,” replied Black. “I broke your arm. The bone’s poking through your skin. And there’s a puncture wound in your shoulder. A deep one. You’ll die soon, through loss of blood. Unless we get you to a doctor.”
“What you’ve done to me is… unsociable.”
“We were never really sociable, you and I.”
“True.” Lincoln looked at Tricia. “And how are you? Not too traumatised, I hope.”
Tricia remained motionless.
“You don’t need to worry about that now,” said Black. “You have more important matters to think about. Like telling us about the people you work for.”
“I’m trapped. I’m at your mercy. How will you deal with me?”
“We haven’t decided. We’ll think about that after you’ve answered our questions.”
“Can I have a drink of water?”
“No.”
Lincoln took a deep, shuddering breath, followed by another rattling cough. Seconds passed. Eventually he spoke.
“I don’t know anything. Except this. The people who hired me won’t give up until you’re both dead in the ground with your throats slit.”
Tricia bit her bottom lip, fighting back tears.
Black nodded slowly. “I thought you might say something along those lines. It’s a failure to appreciate the sheer hopelessness of your situation. And I understand that. Have you ever been tortured, Mr Lincoln?”
Lincoln tilted his head back, regarding Black with a glittering gaze. He didn’t reply.
“I’ll take that as a no. I have. By real experts. There’s mental torture. And there’s the physical side. No matter what people tell you, the physical bit is much worse.”
Black turned to Tricia. “Do you want to leave the room?”
“I’ll stay.”
“Fair enough.”
On the floor beside his chair was a set of gardening secateurs. Heavy duty. Rusty but effective. Black had discovered them in the barn. He picked them up, and made a show of displaying them before Lincoln.
“Sometimes the simple ways are the best.” Black glanced at Tricia. “This might make a mess of your carpet.”
Tricia remained fixed on Lincoln. If anything, her gaze had intensified. She clutched the corner of a cushion with one hand. “Do what you have to do,” she said, her voice tight.
“Looks like I’ve got free rein. Lucky me.” He stood, looming over Lincoln. “Who do you work for?”
Lincoln stared up at Black, eyes wide, shining. “You can’t be serious. You’re not going to do anything. It’s not your nature.”
“I’m afraid you’ve misjudged me, Mr Lincoln. I can be quite a ruthless bastard when pushed. And you’ve done a lot of pushing, old friend. Now here’s the thing. There’s an art to torturing. Normally, if we’re going to partake in a little cutting, then the accepted route is to remove the digits first, then concentrate on the more vital areas. So, toes and fingers. Then ears. And so forth – the idea being, that you work up slowly to the really bad bit, hoping the victim talks before the really bad bit happens. That way, there’s less chance of a quick death, more chance of information being extracted. You get the picture. But I’m not a devotee of that method. I prefer not to fuck about. I go straight to the bad bit.”
Black reached down, unbuckled Lincoln’s trousers, pulled them down. Then his underwear.
“If you don’t start talking, I am going to cut your fucking balls off. With these rusted garden shears. They’re not very sharp, but I think, with a bit of tugging and pulling, they’ll do the trick. What do you say?”
The blood had drained from Lincoln’s face. He stared at Black, cheekbones harsh under his skin, eyes suddenly frantic.
“You’re fucking with me.”
“I’m not. But these will be.”
He stooped down, positioned the open blades around his testicles, and gently squeezed.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” sobbed Lincoln. “Stop! I’ll tell you!”
Black stepped back.
“We’re all ears.”
Lincoln swallowed, taking short shallow breaths. “You’re a cunt, Black.”
“I’ve heard worse. Now talk.”
“I’m given instructions via email. Password secured. A man called Norman Sands. He’s my contact.”
“Who’s Norman Sands?”
“American. Based in Arizona. He’s not the main player. He gets orders, then contacts me.”
“Arizona? Why the hell would a guy from Arizona hire someone to kill me?”
Lincoln said nothing, blinking sweat from his eyes.
Black loomed forward again.
Lincoln stared at Black, ashen-faced. “There’s a bigger picture,” he gasped. “The whole thing is run from Arizona.”
“The whole thing?”
“It’s a fucking industry! A fucking conveyor belt. The items are taken there, from all over, then sold on. Auctioned out. It’s big business.”
Black was silent for a spell, grappling with the concept. “And what precisely are those items?”
Lincoln bowed his head, staring at the ground. “You know,” he muttered.
“Tell us.”
“Children.”
“What’s the connection?”
Lincoln raised his head, eyes glazed. “What?”
He was slipping. Black slapped him across the face.
“Concentrate. What’s the connection between the paedophile ring in Scotland, and Arizona.”
“I can only guess.”
“Then fucking guess.”
“Arizona supplies them. Fresh meat. Once tasted, it never leaves you. So I’ve heard.”
“Give me names. The Scottish ring. Who’s in it? Does the name Donald Rutherford mean anything?”
Lincoln shook his head. “Only one name I’ve heard of. He organises things. Liaises between the UK and Arizona.”
“Who?”
“The Grey Prince.”
Black produced a wallet from his pocket, took out the photograph of Natalie Bartholomew. It was a long shot, but he had to try. “Have you seen this little girl?”
Lincoln twitched his head. “I only get asked to clean up. If there’s a problem, then whoever has it gives it to Arizona to deal with. Two-way arrangement. Arizona get well paid for supply, but they take care of the problems which come with it. I’m the problem solver. That’s why they do so well.” He gave a ghastly smile. “Each child comes with a warranty.”
Black swallowed back his disgust. He needed to move fast before Lincoln passed out. “You can contact them on your mobile?”
“Of course.”
“How do I email them?”
Lincoln gave him a set of digits for access to the phone, then a password. “I need a doctor.” His speech was slurred. “I’m only doing a job. You of all people should understand that.”
“Of course I should. But this is not my decision.” He turned to Tricia. She responded with an almost imperceptible shake of her head. “No doctor today,” said Black.
Lincoln’s head drooped. He faded into unconsciousness. His top was soaked in blood. It was dripping onto the carpet. He was dying.
Black sat down. “What do you want to do?”
Tricia didn’t answer him immediately.
Then she said, “No one saw him come here.”
Black waited.
“I can bury him round the back. No one will know. Except you and me.”
She turned slowly to face Black. Her eyes were far away.
“I have a son. If he’d been taken…” Her voice trailed off. Then she said, “These kids have got no one. Except you. The people that do these things, they need to pay for what they’ve done. Can you make them pay, Adam?”
“I can. With interest.”
“Then kill them all.”
“Gladly. And Lincoln?”
“He’s mine. Leave him here.”
“I understand. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
She didn’t reply, her attention back to the slouched figure of Lincoln.
Black took the pistol, the mobile phone, and left.
They would all pay. With interest.
47
Lampton watched from his desk. This was on him. If anything fucked up, it became his problem. He watched the monitors on the wall in front of him with rapt attention, nerves jangling. The auction was underway. He watched, aware that others watched with him. Live feed to all over the world. Concealed video cameras placed on each corner of their bedrooms. Plus, miniature cameras inserted in the eyes of some of the soft toys. The kids completely unaware. They acted as he expected. As they always acted. Diffident, unsmiling, distracted. Who could really blame them? he thought.
Falconer wanted smiles and skipping, but he was a fucking fool. It never happened, never would. What he did not want was tears. Lampton could manage that. He had warned them. His threat was clear and uncompromising – if they cried, he would carry them to his back room, chop them up, fry them in a hot pan, and eat them. Or maybe eat them while they kicked and struggled. Eat them alive.
His eyes strayed to monitor 9. His special one. The girl he was promised. She was sitting on a large beanbag, watching a cartoon on television. He allowed his mind to wander. The things he would do.
The games they would play.
Falconer and Sands were not watching the children. Their attention was fixed on other related matters, of a financial nature. In particular, the bidding. Their monitors were of an entirely different sort. Numbers, details, bank accounts, names. The auction had been live for a half hour. People from every corner of the globe were bidding. A new contingent from Afghanistan, with money to burn. America, Australia, Europe. Middle East, Russia. Falconer didn’t care where the funds came from, provided they came to him. Ultimately, the money was transferred to an account he had in Grand Cayman. Where the bank charges were high, but no one asked questions, and secrecy was paramount.
Four items were being sold. No. 6 was causing a frenzy, as Falconer had expected. Because of her age. The younger the better.
“Fuck me,” he muttered, as No. 6 reached $16,000,000. From a group based in Russia. A quartet of oligarchs. Falconer watched, mesmerised. His eyes shone, reflecting the glare of the screen. The figure changed before his eyes. In a second, it increased by a million dollars.
Falconer relaxed back on his leather couch, enjoying the moment. The bidding would stop in another half hour. The funds then transferred. The items would be double checked by the doctor, at a cost of $300,000, packed up, transported to their destination in two days’ time. Never to be seen again. Falconer didn’t dwell on such matters. It was just bad luck. For them. But if Falconer’s bank balance increased, then he really didn’t give a fuck. And his bank balance was increasing exponentially. Everything was rosy in Falconer’s garden.
The auction was over. It was midnight. Altogether, allowing for expenses, there was net profit just over $35,000,000. A good evening. Sands was satisfied. Falconer was euphoric. They were in the conservatory at the rear of the building – a kidney-shaped glass construct, with indoor vines and colourful plants, spotted with thousands of tiny twinkling fairy lights. In the centre was a dining table with chairs round it. Falconer was sitting. Next to him was Sands, with a laptop, explaining the figures. Not that he needed to. Falconer knew to the dime how much profit he’d made. On the table was an opened bottle of chilled Dom Perignon, resting on a silver bucket of ice, with two champagne flutes.
A woman entered the room. Falconer had acquired her services from Yuma, the nearest city. Escort. Hired for the night. Paid by the hour. Falconer only fucked prostitutes. She’d leave early in the morning, chauffeur driven back to whichever shithole she came from. Sands could never understand Falconer’s choice. Older, plain. Unremarkable. Falconer did not go for the glamorous. The opposite. His explanation? The uglier they are, the more grateful they are, and they run that extra fucking mile.
Bullshit, of course. They ran that extra mile for that extra buck. But Sands kept his thoughts to himself. He was in no position to judge. He left them both, retreating to the annex of the ranch which formed his own accommodation. A suite of three rooms – bedroom, study, bathroom. Unlike Falconer, he lived a simpler life. His needs were less material. The rooms were functional. The sizable salary he earned, he saved. The accommodation and food were all part of the package. He would retire a wealthy man. Maybe move to Canada. Breathe the clean, fresh air, and look at the mountains. Or maybe Australia, and sit on the beach, and gaze at the sea. Sands lived for his work. He would probably work until he dropped. Retirement was a lie he told himself.
He went to bed, and fell asleep almost instantly.
He was woken by the soft ping of his mobile phone. Email. He glanced at the clock. Seven am. It felt he’d slept for two seconds. He opened the email. It was one he was waiting for. From Lincoln.
Lincoln – Black is terminated.
Sands took a deep, exhilarating breath. A good start to the day, indeed. A problem solved. Before he had the chance to respond, he received a further email.
Lincoln – You have an issue.
Sands – What.
Lincoln – Black knew about Arizona.
Sands stared at the computer screen for several seconds.
Sands – And?
Lincoln – He talked. Spoke to people. He knew everything. It could be trouble for both of us. I want to meet.
Sands – I’ll get back to you.
Sands closed the laptop.
Suddenly the morning had lost its sparkle.
48
It’s the biggest killer you will ever face, gentlemen. Bigger than any army. Bigger than any disease or famine.
Its name?
Complacency.
Observation raised by Staff Sergeant to new recruits of the 22nd Regiment of the Special Air Service.
Saturday mid-afternoon. Black got the ferry back to Largs. As he waited in the boat, watching the approaching dock, he wondered what was happening back at Tricia’s house. Perhaps Lincoln had already drifted on to his death. Perhaps Tricia had helped him on his way. Maybe she was burying him now, on some desolate patch of gorse and grass. Digging through the dirt with a shovel. Dragging his blood-soaked body. It was something she wanted to do on her own. Black shuddered. He had a knack for bringing desolation to those he loved and cared for. Tricia would never be the same. Through no fault of her own, she’d been thrust into his world. She’d survived. Barely. Now what? Probably months of nightmares and panic attacks. Depression. All down to him.
His resolve hardened. They’d tried to kill him. Tried to destroy a person he cared for. It was only fair that he
should balance the account.
His shoulder ached. The wounds on his ribs and leg would leave scars. But he already had plenty, he thought grimly. Another two in the collection wouldn’t make a great deal of difference.
He disembarked. The sky was dull, overcast. The air had a tinge of rain. The Scottish summer, always short lived, was ending. He’d sent the emails to the man called Sands. The demise of Adam Black. Arizona was eight hours behind. An early wake-up call. He was expecting a response.
Black chose not to return to the hotel in Livingstone. There was no need. There was nothing there for him to return to. Instead he headed for Glasgow. His flat was possibly compromised. They might still be watching, despite his message, though he suspected not. Still, better to be cautious.
He booked into the Glasgow Hilton Grosvenor, tucked away in the west end, just off Byres Road. An unobtrusive building, accessed by a single lane. One of the busiest areas in Glasgow. Students, tourists, university staff, shoppers. It was always bustling. A good place for him to blend in and disappear. Five hundred yards from the main university building. A castle-like structure straight from Camelot, with turrets, towers, high arched entrances, lofty halls. Open to the public, Black sat on a bench inside the university grounds, looking on to a grass section enclosed by ancient stone cloisters the colour of autumn leaves. It was approaching late afternoon. The place exuded a brooding quality. Black had not attended this university when he graduated. He’d gone to Edinburgh. He had done so grudgingly. His ambition was to join the army the moment he left school. The hankering had been with him since the day his older brother, a Royal Marine, was killed by a road bomb in Ireland. But his father had pushed him towards academia, and he’d acquiesced. Pushed him, because a father wouldn’t want to see two sons killed. Black, on reflection, could understand. His father had died before he’d graduated. Cancer. The same bastard illness which had taken his mother when Black was a child. Perhaps, had his father lived, things would have turned out differently. It was idle to speculate.
