Unleashed: this summer's must-read crime thriller

by Karl Hill

  “No, never, Mr Grant.”

  Grant gave a cold smile. “Did you kill Teacup?” he asked quietly.

  Polly took another hefty gulp of lager, and when he eventually spoke, his eyelids flickered like the wings of a fly. “I didn’t touch anyone, I swear. The whole fucking thing was mad.” He took another deep drag.

  “I believe you. My nephew thinks otherwise. He thinks you saw an opportunity. He thinks that you killed Teacup and his friend, so you could take the money and keep the drugs. You could sell the drugs on again, and flip them over for another fifty grand. That’s a lot of money. Life-changing, for some. Isn’t that right, Nathan?”

  Nathan, sitting beside Grant, opposite Polly, nodded. “That’s how I see it. The only logical explanation.”

  Polly’s eyes shifted from Nathan to Grant. “Are you kidding? No way would I do that. I know it looks bad. But I never got one penny of that money. I’m a businessman, Mr Grant. Teacup and I had an arrangement. I sell, he buys. I hid because, well, I was scared shitless.”

  “What were you scared of?” asked Grant.

  “You! I thought you’d planned it. I thought you were trying to squeeze me out.”

  Grant nodded slowly. He was beginning to lose patience. But this meeting had to be played cool.

  “You thought I would kill both you and Teacup? You know I wouldn’t do that. Not to family. Plus – it wouldn’t make any… economic sense. You’re a reliable source. We get on well because we have common interests, and those interests make us both money. I’m simply trying to get to the bottom of what happened. What did happen, Polly?”

  Another deep inhalation.

  “It was crazy. A nightmare. We met at the MOT place at Hillington. Where we normally meet. I got out of my car. I had the gear in a bag. Teacup and another guy were out of their car, and Teacup was carrying a sort of holdall. Probably had the cash in it. We were talking. Just talking. You know Teacup. He was never really one for the small talk. But I like to chat. I guess it’s nervous energy. So, I was asking how things were, and how he was keeping. Being sociable. I knew he’d been in hospital. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a big fucker appears. Dressed in a suit. The light wasn’t great. I never got a good look at his face. He was carrying a hammer. He just walked up, like he was strolling in a fucking park, and cracked Teacup’s pal on the head. The blood was gushing everywhere. Like a fountain. Teacup’s pal dropped like a fucking stone.”

  Polly took another gulp of lager. Grant clenched his teeth in exasperation but contained his anger. Just.

  Polly continued. “I’ve never seen anything like it, I swear. He just dropped right down. The first thing I knew I had to do was get the fuck right out of there. You get that, Mr Grant? So, I ran. Straight back to my car and got away.”

  “He didn’t chase you?”

  “That’s the funny thing. He didn’t seem to give a shit about me. He let me go.”

  “Can you describe him?” It was Nathan who asked the question.

  “The light was bad you understand. But he was a big guy. Over six feet. As I said, dressed smartly. Dark hair. He didn’t try to hide his face or anything. He wasn’t wearing a hoodie or a balaclava. It’s like he didn’t care that I saw him.”

  “Didn’t care,” repeated Grant softly.

  “He just walked up,” said Polly. “That was what was so fucking sinister about the guy. It was almost casual. He wasn’t in a rush. It was like he enjoyed it. What he did was like routine. I tell you, Mr Grant, he was one scary fucker.”

  “I get the picture, Polly. I can be a scary fucker too.”

  “Of course.” He reached over for another cigarette.

  “That’s enough, Polly,” said Grant. “I can tolerate one of those fucking cancer sticks. But you’re pushing it now.”

  Polly accepted this with an obsequious nod. “Absolutely.” He fidgeted, blinked. “And the gear? I’ve still got it. And seeing as I never got paid. Maybe we can still do a deal. Business is business, after all.”

  “Business is business,” said Grant. “What were you selling?”

  “Pure white. Three kilograms.”

  Grant knew his drugs, as had Teacup. The street value of heroin was about a hundred thousand per kilo, for quality stuff. Even with the loss of fifty grand, there was still a sizeable profit. And Polly was a valuable source in the narcotics industry. Business is business, thought Grant. The wheels of industry still had to turn.

  “Set it up, Nathan. We’ll arrange something tonight. Fifty thousand for three kilos. Now fuck off back to the shithole where we found you.”

  Polly stood, finished off his pint, and said, “Thank you, Mr Grant. A pleasure.”

  When Polly had left the premises, Grant turned to Nathan.

  “I’ve been slack. I should have finished Black off with his wife and brat.”

  “If it was Black.”

  “It was Black all right. Time to pay him a visit. I need him dead.”

  “But we don’t know where he is,” argued Nathan. “He’s not at work. He’s not gone back to his house. He could have left the country for all we know.”

  “But I do know,” replied Grant. “Or at least will know. One phone call, and I can find him. I think it’s about time Thor was usefully employed.”

  44

  Duthie Park. About forty acres of parkland edging on the banks of the River Dee. Black had never been to the place, but he located the bandstand without difficulty. And sure enough, there was the shiny blue park bench. It was 5.05pm. Black strolled over, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and sat. It was freezing cold. He wore a herringbone Crombie coat, gloves, scarf, but the cold still bit deep. He thought back to the woollen hat his wife had given to him that night in Eaglesham, and suddenly wished he’d kept it and was wearing it now. He took a long deep breath, fighting a strong impulse to stand up and berate the cruelty of life. Fat lot of good that would do him. He’d bought a cup of coffee to take away and sipped it while he waited.

  The place was deserted save a couple of young kids playing on a monkey puzzle fifty yards distant, being watched by a woman sitting on a wooden bench.

  Two men approached, walking nonchalantly along a path towards him. One was Willard Chadwick. The other he did not recognise. He was big, as tall as Chadwick, but twenty years younger, wearing an understated dark suit and tie, a grey overcoat. Spare of physique. His hair was cropped a half inch from his head. He walked with an easy, almost athletic economy of movement. A man of lethal capabilities. Ex-military? Perhaps.

  “Do you mind if we join you, Mr Black?” said Chadwick. “Let me introduce you to my associate, Mr Kowalski.”

  Kowalski gave the briefest of nods. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Black.” He remained unsmiling. He did not offer a handshake, and neither did Black.

  “Kowalski? Polish?”

  “My father was from Chorzów. We moved to Britain when I was very young.”

  “Chorzów. Down in the southern regions, if I recall,” said Black.

  “I’m impressed, Mr Black. You’ve visited Poland?”

  “Amongst other places.”

  Chadwick sat beside him. Kowalski remained standing.

  “That was an interesting chat we had,” said Chadwick.

  “Really? I got the distinct impression you found the whole thing offensive.”

  Chadwick laughed quietly, with little trace of humour. “We talked about being discreet. One has to be discreet about certain things. You came to me with a proposition, and it might be that we are interested in helping you.”

  “We?”

  “Myself, obviously, Mr Kowalski and another man, who you may meet presently, should matters come to fruition. Would you still like us to try to help you?”

  “Very possibly. Depending on the conditions, naturally.”

  “Naturally. But given the sensitive nature of our discussions, would you mind if Mr Kowalski took certain precautions?”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “We need to
be sure no one else is listening in to our little chats,” said Kowalski. He spoke perfect English, no trace of an accent. “Privacy and discretion. Important words in our profession.”

  “I understand. Very wise.”

  Black stood, while Kowalski patted him down, searching for wires and devices.

  Kowalski nodded to Chadwick. Black sat down.

  “One can never be too careful,” said Chadwick, his voice like silk. “So, to resume. You have two million to invest. I think that’s what you said.”

  “Correct. To be easily accessed when and where I want it.”

  “And I assume the cash is savings accumulated over many, many years of hard work and thrift.” Chadwick grinned.

  “That, coupled with a deep aversion of our banking system.” Black grinned back.

  “Quite right,” agreed Chadwick. “You’ll not be the first to distrust the banks. And who can blame you, especially in this uncertain climate we live in. Where is the money at this moment?”

  “In my hotel room.”

  “Not the safest place to keep it.”

  “As safe as I can think of, right now.”

  “How did you get my name, Mr Black?”

  “Someone I know said you were reliable for this sort of thing. A colleague of mine. Someone who would prefer I didn’t mention their name. Like you, he covets his privacy.”

  Chadwick nodded, cheeks rosy in the cold. “Of course. No names. Still, a reference is useful. After all, we’ve never met you before. We have to be careful who we do business with.”

  “If you need a name,” said Black, “how about Pound Sterling. That usually removes any doubts.”

  He slowly placed his hand in his inside coat pocket, and drew out a plain brown envelope.

  “There’s fifteen thousand pounds here. For you. Call it a gift. To show that I have money, and that I’m serious. Take it. If you’re still not happy, then keep it. And I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

  Chadwick took a deep breath, darted a side glance at Kowalski, who gave a slight twitch of his shoulders. Black read the signs. These men didn’t give a damn about anything except the money. They were greedy, and blind, and saw an opportunity.

  “I think we can help you here.” Chadwick took the envelope, and tucked it in his pocket. “But you understand, the risks are high. We would need to see all the money, to ensure that this is real, that you’re a serious investor. We would be seeking a down payment of one hundred thousand pounds, for initial overheads, and a fifteen per cent cut of the gross amount.”

  Black pursed his lips. “That’s pretty steep commission.”

  “As I said, the risks are high. We will not negotiate on this. If you don’t want to deal with us, then we have no problem, and you can go your way and live out your suitcase for the next few years, and someone else can launder your hard-earned savings. And we’ll see how far you get.”

  Black sighed. “I don’t really have a choice. So, what now.”

  “We can meet tonight. Bring the money with you. Have you heard of a town called Macduff? It’s forty miles north from here. I have a flat there. A bolthole, you might say. But it’s safe, and quiet, and we won’t be disturbed. If you want to go ahead with this, then we’ll meet you there at nine o’clock. It’s on the river front, and the view is spectacular. Bring your suitcase, Mr Black.”

  Black looked at him, askance. “You want me to bring all of it? That seems a little risky to me. You could end up keeping it and throwing me away for fish bait.”

  Chadwick gave a brittle smile. “You said you had two million. Two million it is. We’re not going to undertake this venture for any less. The risks are extreme. You’ll have to trust us, Mr Black.”

  “It seems all rather one-sided – I give you the money, and you keep it. What will you do with it? Where does it go? I need some assurance.”

  “We’ll give you the specifics tonight. Needless to say, it’s invested in offshore accounts, in safe havens. Places where certain authorities can’t look. It’s complex. Beyond that, there are no assurances. It’s the game you’re in. You need your money laundered, and we’re offering to help. You came to us. That’s the best you’re going to get. Take it or leave, Mr Black.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Chadwick wrote the address in Macduff on a piece of paper, and gave it to Black. They stood, and shook hands.

  “Tonight, at nine. We’ll see you there.”

  “Looking forward to it, gentlemen.”

  Chadwick and the man called Kowalski left.

  Black watched them go. The night would be interesting. The quiet town of Macduff was soon to bear witness to a little carnage.

  Death was coming to supper.

  45

  Grant knew who to contact. The conversation was brief.

  “You have everything you need?”

  The voice on the other end of the line spoke in staccato-like bursts.

  “You have all the funds,” said Grant. “Abacus is one hundred per cent rock solid. We can get this over the line. Let’s say in three days?”

  The voice responded.

  “Good,” continued Grant. “We’ve fucked about long enough. And one other thing. Where can I find Adam Black?”

  A pause. Then the voice spoke.

  Grant hung up.

  Sitting at the door of the conservatory was the massive bulk of Thor, slab-like hands resting on his lap, arms wider than a man’s thigh, bull neck.

  “I’ve got a job for you,” said Grant. “One you might enjoy.”

  46

  Black drove the forty miles from Aberdeen to Macduff and got there an hour early. He made sure to drive by the flat Chadwick claimed he owned, slowing down. It was on the first floor of an impressive tenement of blond sandblasted stone with fresh white framed windows, and shiny black balustrades lining the stairs to the front entrance. It looked directly onto the harbour front, where blue and red fishing boats were moored, bumping and swaying on the choppy waters of the River Deveron. Chadwick was right. Looking out the front window, the view would be stunning.

  Black wasn’t there for the view.

  Macduff was set on a steep hill. Black made sure to park a discreet distance from the rendezvous, not too close, on a side street where no one would notice him. He sat waiting. At quarter to nine he made his way there, carrying a large sports bag strapped over his shoulder.

  The entrance was a locked communal door with press-button intercom system. Black pressed 1/1. A moment passed, then the line crackled, and the voice of Chadwick responded.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Black.”

  The door suddenly buzzed, the lock clicked open, and Black entered.

  The stairs were grey stone with plain wooden banisters, the walls painted dark green, illuminated by flush mounted sconces, providing a muted amber glow. Drab, but clean. No graffiti, no rubbish piled up. Black got to the first floor. Chadwick was waiting. He had changed from his suit, and wearing casual and flamboyant clothing – blue flannels, open-necked green shirt, white sports jacket. The air around him was suffused with a heady mix of aftershave and whisky. His eyes gleamed when he spied the sports bag.

  “I’m so glad you came,” he said. “Please do come in to my humble abode.” His voice boomed when he spoke.

  He beckoned Black in, smiling a fantastic white smile.

  Black entered a hallway, thick red carpet, white walls adorned with numerous small oil paintings of landscapes and cottages, and other forgettable images.

  “The door on the left,” said Chadwick.

  He emerged into a living room, of regular dimensions, with furniture Black would have described as slightly dated. A fawn-coloured suede couch with lime-green cushions, two heavy black leather chairs, a television in one corner, a drinks cabinet in another, an oval-shaped coffee table in the centre, same red carpet. On the walls, scattered about like pimples on a white skin, were more small oil paintings. The far side comprised bay windows, scarlet velvet curtains, cl
osed, shutting out the street lights.

  Standing by the chairs were two men. One was Kowalski, wearing the same suit from earlier. Another man stood two feet from him. He was six inches shorter but built like a small tank. He was casually dressed, wearing a plain, faded, green T-shirt, blue jeans, heavy brown boots. Mountain boots, so Black noted, possibly with steel toecaps. His upper arms bulged with muscle, his neck thick and corded. Head shaved, features pinched in a round flat face.

  Chadwick maintained a constant smile throughout.

  “Mr Black, this is Mr Holomek.” The man nodded at Black, expressionless.

  “Let me guess. Polish?”

  The man spoke with a heavy accent. “Romanian.”

  “I see.”

  “Now, Mr Black,” continued Chadwick, “there are certain formalities which must be adhered to, if you don’t mind. For everyone’s protection. Could you put the bag on the floor, please.”

  “Of course.” Black placed the holdall between his feet.

  Kowalski stepped forward, and frisked him, expertly.

  “We have to be certain you didn’t come with any sinister intent, you understand,” said Chadwick.

  “You mean have I brought any guns or knives. Please, Mr Chadwick, we’re here to do business. We’re not here to kill each other.”

  “Of course not.” Chadwick laughed, though to Black, it rang with a tinny overtone.

  Kowalski produced a small black rectangular object, about the size and shape of a TV remote control. He pressed a button, and it emitted a low-pitched whine.

  “We have to be sure there’s no eavesdroppers,” said Chadwick. “One cannot be too careful. Especially where money’s concerned.”

  “Money,” replied Black. “It can change people.”

  “For the better, I hope,” said Chadwick.

  Kowalski swept it slowly around Black’s body, from neck down to shoes, then hovered it over his holdall.

  “He’s clean.”

  Chadwick’s smile broadened further. “There we are. Now we can get down to business. A drink, Mr Black?”