by Karl Hill
To the beginning.
75
Leith Walk. Three months later.
A trendy section of Edinburgh, and one of its longest streets. Tourists strolled on the cobbled walkways running parallel to the Water of Leith. They might sample a pastry from a Sicilian bakery, or browse the quaint Georgian antique shops. Perhaps leaf through books at the several bespoke bookshops. Or peruse the Leith Market, perhaps pick up a bargain. Then there were the wine bars, coffee houses, restaurants. Or a person might linger on one of the many bridges, and watch the water beneath drift by. A place once frowned upon. Now a place upmarket, desirable. Like any city. Bad becomes good. Good becomes bad.
Black was in no mood to see the sights. He had other matters on his mind. He headed for a street a mere stone’s throw from the waterside. It was a Saturday morning, early. A wind whipped up, tinged with hail. The forecast was snow later. Above, clouds the colour of slate made the day feel dark. The place was quiet. Too early, and too cold, for most.
Black reached the street – Victoria Crescent. Either side, a row of mid-terraced houses, each over a hundred years old. B-listed. Manicured front gardens, stone balustrades lining marble steps to entrances. High windows, still single glazed due to stiff planning laws.
An expensive place to live, thought Black.
He made his way up a pathway, rang the doorbell. The front door had glass panes styled in Charles Rennie Mackintosh designs. Black saw a silhouette approach, a vague outline. A woman opened the door.
Pamela Thompson.
She stared at Black, speechless.
“My God. It’s you.”
“It’s nice to see you too. How are you keeping?”
“I’m fine.” She frowned, uncertain, searching for the right words. “Please, come in.”
“Thank you.”
Black entered a hallway some might have described as old-fashioned. High ceiling, intricate coving, a silver striped wallpaper, pale cream carpet.
“It’s good to see you again. Please, come through. We’re having breakfast.”
Black followed her, through a door into a large kitchen. One side comprised a breakfast bar, three red cushioned high stools on either side. On one sat a man, drinking coffee, eating toast, a newspaper stretched out before him.
“Adam, this is my husband, David.”
David stopped in mid-chew. Like his wife, he stared at Black for several seconds. He placed the coffee mug carefully down on the worktop, swallowed then stretched out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Black shook his hand, smiled.
“Would you like a coffee?” asked Pamela.
“Yes, please.”
She filled another mug from a percolator. “We like our coffee strong, if that’s okay.”
“Perfect. No milk. Just as it is.”
Black took a sip. Pamela gestured that he sit, but Black said he preferred to stand. He would not be long.
“How have you been?” she asked.
“Good. How’s life at Raeburn Collins and Co.?”
Pamela shrugged. “I don’t work there anymore.” She lowered her voice. “I changed jobs. After Donald Rutherford was killed. It didn’t feel right. Did it, David?”
Her husband hadn’t taken his eyes off Black. He shook his head.
“I understand that,” replied Black. Then to David Thompson, “I have a message for you.”
Thompson remained still.
“The Grey Prince is dead.”
Pamela looked to her husband, to Black. “Who’s the Grey Prince?”
Black kept a steady gaze on Thompson. “But you probably already knew that.” Another sip of coffee. Black turned to Pamela.
“The afternoon we met in my hotel room. I told you not to tell anyone. Later that evening, men were waiting for me there. Killers. Only you knew, Pamela. How would they know where I was?”
Pamela’s face creased in puzzlement. “But I didn’t tell anyone, I swear. Except…”
“Except your husband,” finished Black.
Pamela turned to look at him. Thompson didn’t move. He stared straight at Black. Black stared right back.
“Little Natalie was taken. You left the window open, and somebody took her. That’s what you said.”
Another sip of coffee.
“What happened, David? The money was never paid. According to Boyd Falconer’s records, the price was to be £250,000. But the money wasn’t paid, because she wasn’t delivered. So, what happened?”
Pamela turned slowly to face her husband. Still puzzled. But slowly, slowly, it was dawning on her. Something was terribly wrong. Perhaps a suspicion she’d harboured all those sleepless nights. “What’s he talking about, David?”
He blinked, as if he’d come out of a trance. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.” The words were a whisper.
“Maybe this will help.” Black pulled out the photograph of Natalie, and placed it on the breakfast bar.
“Tell your wife what happened. She’s owed the truth. Let go of the burden, David. Look at all the deaths. Natalie’s mother, overdosed. Her father, murdered. Pamela’s sister, dead. And little Natalie. What happened to her, David?”
Thompson lowered his head, staring at the open newspaper. He snapped his head up, his face white, lips stretched back, defiant. “It was the fucking money!”
Pamela gasped. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, my business was going down the fucking shitter. I saw a chance. It could have put us back again. Back where we belonged. How the fuck do you think I pay for all this? This fucking house. Your fucking gym. The fucking cars. How do you think I do this?”
Pamela looked stricken. “I don’t understand…”
“Because you don’t understand anything. I was heading for bankruptcy. I knew the Grey Prince. He made a proposal.”
“How would you know the Grey Prince?” asked Black. “How could such a proposal ever come up in conversation.”
“You’re a bastard, Black.” Thompson’s voice was hoarse, ragged.
Pamela spoke, her voice suddenly cold. “Answer the question.”
“I don’t need to answer anything. This is all bullshit. I need some air.”
He got up to go. Black pulled out a pistol and pointed it inches from his right eye.
“It would be ill-mannered to leave, especially when you have a guest. I think you know I’ll use this. It will bring me pleasure to spread your fucking brains across these nice kitchen units. So, please. Answer the lady.”
Thompson took a deep shuddering breath. He started to cry. He stretched his arms out to Pamela. “Please…”
Pamela took a small step back. When she spoke, her voice was tight, strained. “Answer the question, David.”
Thompson sat back down, put his head in his hands. “I went to some parties.” He sobbed.
Black waited. He had all day.
“Parties with children.”
Pamela staggered back, clutching her chest.
Thompson continued. “Only one man knew our identities. He knew all about me. He knew who I was. He knew about my business. He made a proposal. He called himself the Grey Prince.”
“And the proposal?” asked Black.
“If I could procure a child, a young child, then in return I would get £250,000.” He looked up, at his wife. “We had Natalie for the night. It was planned. She was taken. I opened the window. I gave her to two men.”
“And?”
“She didn’t make it.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” screamed Pamela.
“They put her in the boot of a car. She suffocated. She died.”
Black regarded the man before him. Disgust, contempt? He couldn’t describe his emotion. “What did they do with her?”
“Buried, I think. Somewhere on the Eaglesham moors. Where no one will find her.” He sobbed into his hands, then collapsed on to the kitchen tiles, scrunched up, crying.
Black laid the pistol on the breakfast bar.
Black left the house, made his way down the manicured front garden. He turned. From within the building, a sound had emanated. An echo. A gunshot? Perhaps. Or perhaps it was his imagination, playing tricks, hoping for such a sound.
He walked on, past the row of terraced houses, down to the riverside, to the Water of Leith.
He took a deep breath. He felt the rain on his face, the chill wind on his cheeks. Suddenly he was deflated, hollow. Bone weary.
The affair was over.
76
Black had never visited Dublin. It was his final destination on the list. He arrived at a tower block, one of three standing next to each other, and took the elevator to the tenth floor. He got to the door with the nameplate, Clancy. There was no doorbell. He knocked gently.
A man answered. Mid-forties, glasses, balding. Tired-looking. Lines etched the corner of his eyes, his mouth. He looked older than he probably was. Black got that.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m wondering if I could see Alanna?”
“Alanna. My daughter?” The lines on his face hardened. “And you are?”
“I’m Adam Black.”
The man removed his glasses, took a step forward, face breaking into a sudden broad smile.
“Adam Black.” He gazed at Black, eyes bright, alive. “She talks about you. All the time. She’s been waiting for you. We all have.”
Black returned the smile, embarrassed.
The man stretched forward, embraced him, held him close. “Her guardian angel.”
Maybe he wasn’t all bad.
Maybe he really was a good guy.
Maybe.
77
Tricia told Black she would not be returning, at least not in the near future and Black understood. She needed to clear her head, to think, to rationalise.
Black would wait. He didn’t get a replacement. He could answer the phones and do his own filing.
Back to basics.
It was a chill February morning, and the snow had turned to a grey sleet, when a man knocked on the door to his office.
Black was looking over a lease document for a new occupant directly downstairs from him.
“May I come in?”
Black looked up, and gestured him to the chair on the other side of his desk.
“Of course.”
The man sat. Black put the document to one side. The man before him was small, compact, wearing a long herringbone greatcoat. Smart. Dark hair flecked with grey, shaved above the ears. Salt-and-pepper moustache. Slight tan. Sharp, inquisitive eyes.
“Can I help you?”
“That was an impressive performance. Both in America and at Westcoates Hall.”
Black tensed.
“Yes?”
“You destroyed the biggest and most sophisticated child trafficking organisation we’ve ever come up against. And you’re just one man. How did you do that?”
“Lucky, I suppose. Who are you?”
“Someone interested in Adam Black’s career.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m part of a department that works closely with the government. The secret part of the government, that is.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Why do you think our American friends let you leave for Britain so quickly. You killed what… ten men? Even the Americans aren’t that liberal.”
Black said nothing.
“We told the Americans we wanted you back.”
“What do you want from me?”
The man gave a wintry grin. “Isn’t it obvious? We want you to work for us, Captain Black.”
THE END
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