Unleashed: this summer's must-read crime thriller

by Karl Hill

  “Whisky would be nice, if you have any. Neat.”

  “A man after my own heart. Any preference? I have a wide selection.”

  “You choose. If it’s wet, I’ll like it. Though I’m partial to a Glenfiddich.”

  “Excellent choice.” Chadwick went over to the drinks cabinet, and fixed Black a whisky in a crystal glass. Meanwhile, Kowalski and Holomek kept their attention fixed on him, in a manner many would have found unnerving. Black had encountered such men many times. Dangerous men. Men well versed in routine killing and who were good at it. Black’s senses were heightened, poised for the slightest movement, a glance, a seemingly innocent shrug, anything which could spell danger.

  Chadwick handed him the glass. “Please, have a seat. Let’s get comfortable.”

  Black sat at one end of the couch, the hand he was using to hold the glass, placed on the armrest. Kowalski sat on the other side of the couch, Chadwick and Holomek each taking the leather chairs opposite.

  “You’ve brought the money, I see,” said Chadwick.

  “I have. As you instructed. I’m interested in what you intend to do with it.”

  “So you should be,” said Kowalski, taking up the conversation, assuming an easy smile. He was sitting at an angle, facing Black as he spoke. He kept one hand under his jacket, as if resting it in his inside pocket. “Essentially it requires to be laundered.” He spoke in a soft, clear voice, each word perfectly enunciated. “This is what you are asking us to do. And as you will know, laundering money which forms proceeds of crime, is now a high-end risky business.”

  Black sipped his whisky. “High risk, high fees. You’re going to get exceptionally well paid for your services.”

  “It’s the nature of the business we’re in. It’s a complex matter. We need the cooperation of certain banks and financial intermediaries. We have networks at our disposal which ease the flow, shall we say. But everyone needs their cut, otherwise the network breaks down.”

  “Of course,” said Black. Bullshit. But he had to keep the game going. “Okay. So, I give you my hard-earned two million. Do I get any assurances at all? You take my money, and I never see you again. It seems to me that this high-end risk you talk about is all at my end.”

  “As I’ve already explained, Mr Black,” blustered Chadwick. “It’s all about trust. Remember, it was you who came to us.”

  Black pursed his lips, as if debating inwardly. “It seems just a little too… easy, handing over the lot. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. Perhaps we could start with a smaller amount. If what you do impresses me, then we can start talking about trust.”

  “We don’t work on that basis,” said Kowalski. “We don’t undertake this type of work for smaller amounts. You mentioned the figure of two million, and that’s the figure we’ll take the risk for. And you’ve brought the money with you, so it must have been your intention to invest it with us.”

  “Invest? Is that what you do with it? Where do you invest it?”

  “Certain banks. Brokers. Property developers. Corporations. Businesses which take cash.”

  “That’s not very specific. I was expecting details. Maybe we should rethink.”

  The Romanian stirred. “Let’s stop fucking about.” His accent was heavy and jarring, a contrast to his colleague. “Give us the fucking money. Right now.”

  Black appraised him for five seconds, bewilderment on his face. “Excuse me?”

  “I said – give us the fucking money.”

  A silence followed. Another five seconds. Holomek fixed Black a leaden stare.

  “Fuck it!” shouted Chadwick suddenly. His smile had gone. His face now appeared drawn, haggard, mouth set. All traces of bonhomie vanished. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” He shot a venomous glance at Holomek, then appraised Black. “Sorry for my friend’s abrasiveness. You were supposed to hand us the money, and we part company in a civilised manner, and that would be the end of it. That was the plan.”

  Black stared at Chadwick, his expression a mixture of bemusement and indignation. “Plan?”

  “I’m afraid Mr Chadwick has a misguided view on how this works,” broke in Kowalski. His voice took on a metallic undertone. “My friend, Mr Holomek, however, is a plain speaker. He has made our position clear. The truth is, we need your money. But we don’t need you.” He produced a pistol from his inside jacket, possibly from a holster strapped under his arm. It was small, a .38 compact revolver. At close range, it was still powerful enough to knock a hole through a man’s chest.

  Black gave a short harsh laugh. “You’re fucking idiots.”

  “I’m the one holding the gun,” said Kowalski, his voice measured, reasonable. “And you’re the one about to give us all your money and then die with a bullet in your brain. Who’s the fucking idiot.”

  “Before you pulled the gun, you should at least have checked what was in the holdall. You’re in for an unpleasant surprise, gentlemen.”

  “Kill him,” said Holomek, voice like gravel.

  “Please!” cried Chadwick. “You promised it wouldn’t be here!”

  “Check the bag,” said Kowalski.

  Holomek stood, skirted round the coffee table, and picked up the holdall still sitting at Black’s feet. All the while Kowalski kept the pistol trained on him.

  Holomek returned to his seat, placing the bag on his lap. He unzipped it. He pulled out a single roll of twenty-pound notes, bound up in an elastic band.

  “I wouldn’t bother counting it,” said Black. “There’s two hundred pounds there.”

  Holomek pulled out other items – old books, magazines, several pairs of shoes.

  “I picked them up from the charity shop beneath your office, Chadwick. You could probably sell the lot on for a tenner.”

  Holomek turned the bag upside down, the contents cascading onto the carpet. “Fucking bastard!” he snarled. “Where’s the fucking money!”

  Black gave Holomek a level stare. “There is no money. There is no two million. There’s nothing.”

  Chadwick, watching the scene unfold, got to his feet, his ruddy complexion washed away to a sickly grey, his mouth set under a disbelieving frown. “What’s your game, Black?” he croaked. The opera timbre of his voice had disappeared.

  The three were silent, waiting for Black to speak. He knew they wouldn’t kill him until they heard why he was there. If there was a bigger play, then they would have been foolish not to find out about it, at the very least, for the purposes of self-preservation.

  “He asked you a question, Black,” said Kowalski, his voice quiet, menacing. “Did someone send you?”

  Black turned to fix his full stare on Kowalski.

  “Yes. I was sent.”

  “Who?”

  Black’s mouth curved into a slow smile. “The devil. Behind you.”

  Kowalski turned his head, just a fraction, towards the bay windows. It was all the distraction Black needed. He flung the whisky glass at Kowalski, who jerked back instinctively, firing at the same time. The sound was sharp and loud, like a firecracker. The aim was wild, the bullet hitting a corner of the ceiling. Black leapt forward. Kowalski took aim again, but Black was on him, knocking his firing hand to one side. The pistol sounded again. Holomek, who had risen to his feet, spun backwards, to lie sprawling on the black leather chair, a bullet through his chin, the bottom of his jaw blown off and scattered in fragments on the pile of books.

  Chadwick gasped, staggered back. Black and Kowalski rolled off the couch, crashing onto the coffee table, and onto the floor, Kowalski’s hand gripped on the gun, Black’s two hands clamped around Kowalski’s wrist, trying to force the gun pointing away. Kowalski punched Black in the face, but there was no room for a full swing, the blow ineffective. The gun fired again, the bullet hitting the skirting on a wall.

  They weaved backwards and forwards, first Black on top, then Kowalski. Black suddenly released one hand, punching Kowalski in the groin. Kowalski groaned, his grip on the pistol loosening. Black knocked
it from his hand, sending it across the floor, and under one of the seats. Kowalski retaliated, hacking Black on the side of the neck using the edge of his hand. Black raised his shoulder, absorbing the blow, rolled, leaping to his feet, as did Kowalski, kicking away the remnants of the coffee table, creating space. They stood, facing each other. Black appraised him. About the same height – six-two, agile with hard muscle. Black aimed an apparently random blow at his head. Kowalski seized his wrist and lifted his knee at Black’s groin. Black disengaged his wrist with a flick, caught Kowalski under the uplifted knee with his other hand and hoisted him backwards. Kowalski staggered. Black thrust forward, Kowalski losing his balance, and falling back on his side, onto the carpet. Black leapt on him instantly, hammering his elbow against his face. Kowalski grunted in pain, the blow stunning him. Black twisted him onto his chest, seizing him in a two-armed clamp, pressed him face down, placed his knees on his shoulders, cupped his hand under his chin, jerked up, and snapped his neck.

  Panting, Black rose to his feet. Chadwick hadn’t moved, staring at the sequence of events, aghast, blood drained from his face. Before him lay two men, once his partners, now corpses. Before him, their killer – Adam Black.

  “Let’s have a chat,” said Black.

  47

  Black retrieved the pistol from under the seat and turned his attention to Chadwick. He had to be quick. The gunshots would have attracted neighbours, pedestrians, anyone within a hundred yards. It wouldn’t be long before the police were banging at the door.

  “I didn’t want any of this,” Chadwick blurted. “You don’t understand. I owed money to these… animals. I had no choice. If I didn’t pay them, they threatened to kill my family. I have two children, Mr Black. What was I to do?”

  “Go to the police?”

  Chadwick gave his head an emphatic shake. “I couldn’t do that,” he muttered.

  “Of course you couldn’t. You’re one of them. No different. When you sup with the devil.”

  “What do you want? Why are you here?”

  “I recently bumped into a man with an exotic name. Teacup. He suggested I speak to you. I’m interested in an individual called Peter Grant. Maybe you know him?”

  Chadwick raised his dark eyebrows, puffed out his cheeks.

  “Peter Grant?”

  Black waited. “He’s a dangerous man,” Chadwick continued. “I know very little about him.”

  Black raised the gun, pointing it directly at Chadwick’s forehead. “If you don’t answer my questions, I’ll pull the trigger and lodge a bullet in your skull. Teacup said there was a deal going down. He said there was a lot of money involved. He said you knew all about it.”

  Chadwick nodded vigorously, the jowls on his face quivering.

  “There is. But I’m only one piece of the jigsaw. Grant uses me to set up companies, with complicated structures. Shareholders who are companies, who themselves are operated by different companies. Directors who work under powers of attorney for overseas institutions. I set them up, get them registered, often with fictitious information. It’s all part of the fog. Part of the snowstorm, to blind and confuse.”

  “Keep going.”

  “He wanted me to set up a company, to receive millions coming from overseas. The company structure was to be complex, but also, on the face of it, entirely legitimate. So, I did. I set up Abacus.”

  Black stared at Chadwick for several long seconds, absorbing this information.

  “Abacus?”

  Chadwick nodded. “But I’m only a part of the machine. I set up the framework. The funds still must go in and out. That takes lawyers. Lawyers who launder money.”

  “Who are the lawyers?”

  “I have no idea, Mr Black. Peter Grant is careful in his dealings. Famously so. One hand is ignorant of the other. He’s a secretive man. He goes out of his way to ensure that only he knows what his plans are. We have lunch occasionally at his restaurant, but he tells me very little beyond what I require to do my job.” He blinked away sweat from his eyes, glancing from the pistol in Black’s hand, to Black, back to the pistol. “If I may ask… what’s your interest in him?”

  “He murdered my family.”

  Chadwick swallowed, digesting this information. He drew a short ragged breath. “I don’t know anything about that. You have to believe me. I’m only an accountant.”

  “An accountant who was happy to have me killed five minutes ago. Where is his restaurant?”

  “Giovanni’s. Royal Exchange Square.”

  “Thank you, Mr Chadwick. You’ve been very helpful. Time now to meet your friends.”

  Chadwick opened his mouth to speak, raising one arm as he did so. Black shot him once, through the forehead, as promised. An explosion of blood spattered the oil paintings on the wall behind him, as the bullet burst open the back of his head.

  Black kept the gun, left the bodies where they lay, and departed the flat, out of the building, and melted into the night.

  48

  Giovanni’s. Black knew the place. He had dined there once, with clients. A million years ago. The prices on the menu were fashionably exorbitant. Too rich for Black. Too rich for most people. Yet it was always busy. You paid for the name, thought Black. You paid so that you could say you’ve been. If Black had his way, he’d burn the place down.

  As Chadwick had mentioned, seconds before Black had fired a bullet into his skull, it was situated in the heart of Glasgow city centre, in Royal Exchange Square, a pedestrianised area of about two acres in size. The restaurant had an unassuming frontage. Walk by it quickly and you might miss it. Wedged in the middle of a row of upmarket establishments, ranging from a high-end jeweller to an academia bookshop, from coffee shops which charged eight pounds for a double-shot latte to a music shop specialising in bespoke violins, there was nothing to distinguish it from a thousand other restaurants. A dark-blue awning stretched over the front, allowing people to sit outside on white chairs at white tables, sheltered from the Scottish rain, guarded from the winter’s chill by discreetly-placed patio heaters. At night, hundreds of tiny white fairy lights sparkled under the awning. Classical music played softly.

  The interior had subtle warm lighting. It was never bright. When a person entered Giovanni’s, they couldn’t help but be impressed. A bar of dark polished oak on one side, and on it, silver ice buckets containing bottles of cold champagne. Behind the bar, a long gleaming gantry on frosted-mirror panelling, holding inverted bottles of every conceivable liquor. On the opposite side of the room, a step up to five booths with red leather seats. The walls were murals of Italian landscapes, all earthy colours, as was the high ceiling. Candelabras provided a soft subdued glow.

  Past the bar and the booths was the restaurant proper. Circular booths, small intimate tables, larger tables. Candles flickered. More murals, of breathtaking quality. White tablecloths. The floor a deep wine-red carpet. Uniformed waiters moved briskly, quiet and attentive. Music played, just on the periphery of the senses. Always, the room was alive with the buzz of people talking, laughing, whispering.

  This was the establishment which Grant owned. And it was here twice a week Grant enjoyed lunch, sitting at his table reserved for him and his entourage. Sometimes he dined on his own. Sometimes he dined with his associates. And when he did dine, he was rarely disturbed.

  At one o’clock in the afternoon, the day following the incident at Macduff, Black entered Giovanni’s. He ordered a soda water and lime and sat on a high stool at the bar. For a second, he observed his reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar. The face which looked back was square-jawed, darkly handsome, black hair cropped short, yet it was not a face he recognised. This was a man from his past. A past stained with blood and spilled guts. Of war and death. A man who had killed with his bare hands. A man who could extinguish life without compunction.

  A stone cold killer.

  He attracted the attention of a bartender, a young man no older than twenty-one, who came over.

  “Do you
know Peter Grant?”

  “Yes, I do, sir.”

  “I believe he dines here often.”

  The young man nodded. “He does. In fact, he’s here now, in the restaurant, at his usual table.”

  “That’s good to know. Where is his usual table?”

  “In the rear corner, on the right-hand side as you enter. But he enjoys his privacy.”

  Black shrugged. “Who doesn’t?”

  The bartender tilted his head in agreement.

  “Could you do something for me?” asked Black.

  “Of course, sir.”

  Black leaned in closer. “I’d like to send over to Mr Grant’s table a bottle of Moët. Could you do this for me? If you could mention that it’s compliments of Adam Black, and if it’s not an inconvenience, that Mr Black would like ten minutes of his time.”

  “I can certainly do that for you. But again, I have to say that Mr Grant likes his privacy. I can’t guarantee he’ll oblige.”

  “You can but try. You never know, I might get lucky.”

  49

  Nathan had been asked to join Peter Grant for lunch at Giovanni’s. He arrived, and joined him at the usual table, big enough for four people, a degree of privacy ensured by shoulder-high oak-panelled partitions. His uncle was already there, accompanied by his ever-present bodyguard, Thor.

  He could tell immediately Grant was in an expansive mood. He’d already ordered, and a large dish of fresh plain oysters on a bed of crushed ice sat in the centre of the table. Beside it, a basket of assorted cut bread and on a little side trolley, Tabasco sauce, vinegar, sea salt, peppercorn and quartered lemon slices. Also on the table were bottles of still and sparkling water.

  Grant had a napkin tucked behind his collar, as had Thor, and was in the process of downing oysters when he arrived.

  “Better late than never.” Grant laughed. “Enjoy.” He nodded to a place which had already been set for him.