Unleashed: this summer's must-read crime thriller

by Karl Hill

  “Forget it,” said Grant. “Fucking imbecile,” he muttered to Nathan. “All muscles and no grey matter. But I guess I don’t pay them for their stunning IQ.”

  His phone buzzed. It was a call he was expecting. Chief Constable Mathew Smith.

  “Yes, Mathew.”

  Mathew Smith launched straight in.

  “Your man went to the house as a fucking policeman?” During all their many chats, this was the first time Grant had heard the chief constable swear. Grant wasn’t in the least bit fazed.

  “Good to hear from you too.”

  “As a policeman? When this gets out – and it most surely will – the publicity will crucify us, and I kid you not. Did you ever stop to think about repercussions? What about the media? What are the public going to think? Let me answer that for you – they’ll think there’s a fucking homicidal rogue cop out there killing women and children. Because that’s how it’s going to look!”

  Grant couldn’t help grinning. “You deny, of course. And you tell the truth. He was disguised. That’s all there is to it.”

  “But it’s public perception. People will think it really was a copper, and the whole thing is one big fucking cover-up! Yet another conspiracy theory! And the fallout will be massive, make no mistake. A child is dead! That’s not something you forget in a hurry. People will be analysing this for years. And you know what they’ll say?”

  “What will they say, Mathew?”

  “It all happened on my fucking watch!”

  This man wasn’t bullshitting, thought Grant. The Chief really was upset. Not so much for the dead kid, more for himself. Which was no more than he expected. But Grant couldn’t have cared less.

  “Think you’re going to blow a gasket, Chief. Calm the fuck down. I couldn’t control how he was going to do it. But he did what he did. He must have thought that was his only way in. He had inside information. And it was his call.”

  “Inside information? What does that mean?”

  “He knew about the police stopping at the house for routine check-ups. He improvised. He used the situation to his advantage.”

  “What do you mean ‘inside information’?”

  Grant lowered his voice to a dry whisper. “It means that you’re not the only fucking rat on the take.”

  A silence followed. Grant felt like laughing out loud when he thought of Chief Constable Smith digesting this new revelation.

  Smith spoke at last, his voice weak, deflated. “I told you, when I gave you the Black dossier, that we were to be kept out of it. It was between you and Black. What’s his name?”

  “The name of my ‘inside man’. You don’t need to worry about him.”

  “But I do worry about him. He could compromise me. Does he know about our… relationship?”

  “You mean, does he know I’ve been giving you bribe money for the last twenty years? I don’t think so. But you can rest easy, Chief. He’s not going to cause you any trouble.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because he’s dead.”

  A pause.

  “And his name?”

  “Detective Inspector Colin Patterson.”

  Another lengthy silence, except the sound of the chief constable’s heavy, panicked breathing.

  Grant continued. “He came to us, years ago. He came to us. No recruitment necessary. Been on the take for as long as I can remember. Arranged for the coppers to visit Black’s house every afternoon. Told us all about it. Made sure no coppers were about when our man made his entrance. But the fucker got greedy. And you know greed is a sin. So, he’s retired. Permanently.”

  “You’ve gone too far,” said Smith, his voice faltering.

  “Maybe. But I can go a lot further. Take a big step back, Mathew, and take a big breath with it. Do your fucking job and turn the other way. Just like you always do. Don’t start getting all high and mighty. It’s not worth it. You’re in this up to your neck. So, embrace it, old friend, and enjoy all that money I’ve been paying you over all those long, long years. Pass my regards to the family.”

  He hung up.

  “Everything okay, boss?” asked Nathan.

  “Just another bent copper.”

  35

  Castle Combe, Wiltshire. A hamlet sitting in the heart of the English countryside. A place plucked from a different time, unblemished by the horrors of modern architecture. Houses built from Cotswold stone the colour of honey, high-peaked roofs of split-stone tiles. Narrow streets and age-darkened taverns; a medieval church with a faceless clock; a humpbacked grey stone bridge spanning an ambling river. Chocolate-box England wrapped up in fairy-tale ribbons.

  Black wasn’t visiting for the scenery. He’d decided to drive down, a long journey from Glasgow to the south of England. But he didn’t care. He needed space. He barely noticed the passing miles. He played music, played the radio, then switched it off, savouring the silence, and let his thoughts drift.

  His wife and daughter were dead. Their existence on this planet snuffed out. A command had been issued, the deed was done. He needed to grieve. But while Peter Grant was alive, this was not a luxury Black allowed himself. A more immediate emotion bustled its way to the front of the queue.

  Rage.

  Pure and simple.

  He had telephoned beforehand, to ask if he could visit. More than visit. Talk. They hadn’t spoken for several years, but when Black heard his voice on the telephone, it was like no time had passed, their friendship an instant bond, spanning time and distance. Black had explained what had happened. From the freezing night on an Eaglesham road, to the cold bright afternoon his family were killed. About the man called Peter Grant. Yes, he’d said. Come now.

  He arrived at a mid-terraced house overlooking Bybrook River. It was early evening, and cold, though not the brutal cold of Glasgow. Black had been driving for hours, but he wasn’t tired. He parked the car, got his overnight bag, and made his way to the front door. Before he could knock, the door opened.

  A man stood framed in the doorway. Small and wiry, clean-shaven, cropped grey hair, a lined, tanned face. Not tanned from the sun, but from the elements. A man who worked at his fitness. Penetrating blue eyes, deep set in a brow wrinkled with care. Dressed in dark pullover, blue jeans.

  Major Kenny Devlin.

  He gave a wide smile.

  “Welcome, old friend.”

  They shook hands.

  For the first time in days, Black felt a little of the weight in his heart lessen.

  “Good to see you again, Major.”

  He followed the major into a small, comfortable living room. A log fire crackled. Like the exterior of the building, it was from a bygone age. Oak beam joists on the ceiling, thick stone walls painted plain white, shelves on one wall packed with rows of books, and in a corner on a rug, a bull mastiff lying sound asleep, stretched across several pairs of mountain boots. Two chairs, a wicker-topped coffee table. Heavy curtains keeping out any draughts. No television.

  On the table were two glasses and a bottle of single malt Scotch whisky. Talisker.

  “You hungry, Captain?”

  “Thirsty.” Black smiled.

  Devlin poured himself and Black two large measures.

  They clinked glasses.

  “To the Regiment,” said Devlin.

  “To managing to stay alive,” said Black.

  “Thank God for small miracles. How did we manage that?”

  “Christ knows.”

  “Perhaps he does.”

  They sat.

  “He would make a fine watchdog, if he could stay awake,” remarked Black.

  Devlin chuckled. “Old Spud’s earned the right to do bugger all. When you reach his grand age, you can let the world pass you by, and not give a damn.”

  “Is that what you’re doing in the Cotswolds? Letting the world pass you by?”

  “My wife, she liked it here. When she died, I never thought to leave. It’s quiet. It’s country life. A change from the army. Therapy for the soul, I
think. Much needed after the experiences we’ve had.”

  Black nodded but did not say anything. He watched the whisky swirl in his glass.

  “So,” continued Devlin. “You’re here. I’m glad you came. What are you going to do?”

  “Ask for a top-up?”

  Devlin filled his glass.

  “Tell me, Major, what would you do?”

  Devlin sat back and stared at the flames. “That’s a question I knew you were going to ask. And I wonder why you’re asking it.”

  Black gave a wry smile. “For advice.”

  “For permission. Or maybe absolution.”

  Devlin took a sip of his whisky and rested the glass on his lap. Spud the dog twitched its back leg, a low growl emanating from its chest.

  “He’s dreaming,” said Devlin. “Dreaming about racing through the puddles, no doubt. When he was a younger dog. But like me, he’s too old and too weary to do very much. You’ve come here seeking advice from an old man. Perhaps I’m not the best person to speak to.”

  “You’re the only person I can speak to. You were the only person who could make sense of all the blood and guts. And I need to make sense of this.”

  “I was padre to the army for thirty years,” said Devlin. “I was with the 22nd for ten of those years. And through all that, I’d never fired a bullet. Not even carried a gun. But when a young soldier came to me, questioning his actions after he’d just sent a bullet through another man’s head, I told him that God forgives. And do you know why I said that?”

  Black waited for the answer.

  “Because I could. Because a padre is dispassionate. He cares, of course. He doesn’t take sides. He doesn’t judge. So, it was easy for me to dispense… what did I say earlier? Therapy for the soul.”

  “I understand that,” said Black. “But when all the peripheral stuff is removed from the equation, when we’re right down to the bare bones, and the only thing between a soldier and possible death is God, then suddenly God becomes important – the only thing in the whole universe that’s important. So, what you say counts. At least in my book.”

  “Maybe. The 22nd Regiment saw the worst of it.” Devlin turned his head to look directly at Black. “But you were different, Adam.”

  Black cocked his head, quizzically. “How so?”

  “You enjoyed it. Like no other man I’ve met.”

  Black took a deep breath, but found he wasn’t disagreeing.

  Devlin continued. “In a world where men are given guns and bayonets with the sole objective to kill the enemy, right and wrong becomes blurred. But there was still a line – a moral line – over which I tried to guide men not to cross. Unnecessary killing, revenge shooting. You know what I mean. I tried to be neutral, in a place where it was difficult for neutrality to exist.”

  “A conflict of morals,” said Black quietly, more to himself. “That’s why I’m here. You’ve seen what I’ve seen. The death, the killing. You’ve listened to the guilt. I can speak to you. What you say is important. My wife and daughter were murdered. What would you do, Major? You haven’t answered my question. And it’s the answer I need to hear.”

  Devlin didn’t respond immediately. The fire sparked and crackled. Eventually he spoke.

  “I’ve known you for fifteen years. I was with you in Afghanistan and Iraq. You’ve been through all manner of shit. But your training saw you through it. You have, how can I say, a skill. You ask me what I would do? Probably nothing. Pray, and look to God for answers. Find it in my heart to forgive. But that’s me.” He stood, and made his way over to Spud, and stroked his back. Then he turned to face Black.

  “But you’re asking the wrong question. If you were to ask me what I would do if I were you, I would say this – use your skills.” Devlin fell silent.

  Black waited. Suddenly his entire world focused in on the man who stood before him.

  “You were trained to be a weapon,” Devlin continued after a minute. “And by Christ, you were effective. So, to answer the question you should be asking – if I were you, if I were Adam Black, then I would let loose, and kill each and every bastard that had a hand in the murder of my family.”

  Black nodded.

  His own sentiments exactly.

  Black left early the next morning, a long drive ahead of him. He would stay with Fletcher and his family for a few more days, until the funeral. After that? Black would need space and solitude to implement his plans.

  He did not have to say goodbye to the Major. He had gone out with Spud in the pre-dawn darkness, walking the country roads. He had left Black a simple note.

  Godspeed, Captain.

  Godspeed.

  Black pondered on these words. There was no God. Only death.

  And on that particular subject, Black was an expert.

  36

  The funeral followed four days later. The morning was bright. Sunlight dappled the trees; the wind was still; the air crisp. For this one moment, the world had paused.

  The ceremony was simple, and private. Eaglesham Parish Church – an ancient, unassuming building. High white walls, grey tiled roof, joined to a steeple with a clock tower. Set halfway up a hill, overlooking the village park. Where Merryn had played, on the swings, on the roundabout, under the watchful eye of her mother. His wife. Where they had laughed and smiled and held hands. Their presence was everywhere. Their spirits suffused the grass, the trees, the air he breathed. They were all around, and inside him. In his mind, his heart, his soul.

  A private ceremony. Family and close friends. The interior was small, intimate. Plain wooden rows of benches, varnished until they shone. Beside him, solemn, disbelieving; Jennifer’s mother. Old and frail. But proud, fiercely independent, her husband having died years earlier, leaving her alone in a large rambling house in Thurso. She’d got the train down, booked into a hotel in Glasgow. Stoic, normally. Not today. Not this day. Her fragile shoulders shook, as she fought the tears, but the tears came anyway.

  There, his partner Simon Fletcher and his wife. Silent, faces pale and pinched. Heads bowed, as they listened to the quiet voice of the minister, who spoke with a gentle heartfelt sadness.

  Others. Close friends. Black barely registered. Faces. Tears. A great cavernous sorrow.

  Two white caskets. His wife and little daughter. Sleeping. Dreaming what? he wondered.

  The caskets were carried to two hearses parked at the church entrance. The journey to the cemetery was short. A mile outside the village. A four-acre square, enclosed by high stone walls, surrounded by silver birch, pale and slender in the sun.

  The caskets were placed by the grave, side by side, before being lowered. The small crowd of people looked on, silent. Numb. Black stepped forward, knelt down, placed a hand on each. A breeze whispered; trees stirred. The sun stayed constant.

  Black closed his eyes, and let the tears come. Silent, desperate. The world was dead. His soul crushed. There was nothing. The colours had gone, and in their place, a canvas of darkness.

  Black stood.

  A reckoning was to be had. This was Black’s new world.

  Destruction.

  Death.

  Vengeance.

  37

  Despite the remonstrations of Fletcher and Adele, Black did not return to their house. Instead, that very evening, he booked into a hotel. He needed time on his own, he explained. To take stock. To grieve. He knew they needed their own space too. Nor could he return to work. Fletcher reassured Black there was no problem. Take as long as you want, he said. He and his small army of paralegals and secretaries would handle the caseload. No problem. Black guessed there would be plenty of problems, but was grateful. Plus, he was way past the stage of caring.

  He booked into The Travellers Inn, on the road towards Glasgow Airport, paying cash up front for three weeks.

  Fletcher went with him, and was dismissive of his choice of hotels. “This,” he pronounced, “is a fucking shithole.”

  Black merely shrugged. It was clean, relatively ine
xpensive, and within easy reach of everything he might need. His house in Eaglesham was a place of death. If he had his way, he would demolish it, brick by brick, and then burn what was left.

  The room was spartan, but functional. He unpacked a suitcase borrowed from Fletcher, and placed what few items of clothing he had in the single wardrobe and set of drawers. Anything else he needed, he would buy. He showered, changed, and went down to the restaurant for a quick meal. He returned to his room. He had to think.

  He had to plan.

  At his interview in the police station, an eternity ago, the cops had mentioned names. One name in particular. Tommy ‘Teacup’ Thomson.

  It was a start. And Black had to start somewhere.

  It was time.

  Time to hunt.

  38

  Revenge killing. It will not be tolerated in the British Army. But it’s the sweetest fucking dish you’ll ever taste.

  Observation by Staff Sergeant to new recruits of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment.

  Peter Grant was not a great believer in exotic holidays abroad.

  Born in the east end of Glasgow in a squalid two-bedroomed tenement flat, the third son to a father who worked as a ship’s welder, and who drank his earnings on weekends, and to a mother who accepted her husband’s fists with a desperate resignation, young Peter Grant did not enjoy the best of upbringings.

  He learned to keep a hold of any money he earned. And Grant earned money any way he could. He quickly absorbed himself into the gangland scene in Glasgow. By the age of sixteen, he was well known to the police for extortion. His ruthless and violent tendencies caught the attention of those higher up the food chain. They honed his skills. He was a quick learner. He stabbed his first man at seventeen. If someone needed to get a message, Peter Grant was sent. And Peter Grant liked to deliver. Scarring, maiming, torture. And killing, if required. It became clear he was psychotic. And someone with that tendency could climb quickly. But he was also clever. He saw opportunities, and took them. He saw the profits in drugs, and soon he and his two brothers had formed their own outfit – drugs, prostitution, racketeering, blackmail, bribery. He ruled by fear. And everyone, bar none, was afraid of Peter Grant.