Unleashed: this summer's must-read crime thriller

by Karl Hill

  Thor was knocked off his feet, the back of his head a sudden eruption of blood, the force propelling him through the curtains, and through the fourth-storey window. Black leaned over – below, Thor lay crumpled in the car park, all limbs and blood, head smashed to splinters, neck twisted at a gruesome angle.

  Black saw a car speed off. Good idea, he thought.

  53

  Grant did not sleep that night. He was in his conservatory, shrouded in shadow. He needed to hear Nathan say those sweet words, pronouncing Adam Black’s death. He needed to hear it badly, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Since their meeting at Giovanni’s, the whole thing had cranked up several notches. The insults had nettled him, but insults couldn’t hurt. But when Black said he’d met the accountant – Willard Chadwick – then matters became suddenly pressing.

  Chadwick was a loose-lipped bastard at the best of times. God knows what he’d told Black. Grant couldn’t take any chances. He had to move things forward. And the only way Grant could be assured of Black’s non-interference was to kill him, once and for all. Remove him, like a cancer, before his infection spread.

  The phone on the armrest of his chair vibrated. Grant immediately picked up. The sound was Nathan’s breathless voice, agitated, and Grant knew instantly things were bad.

  “It’s a fucking mess,” gasped Nathan. “Thor’s dead. Lying in the car park with his head smashed open. The other two are probably dead. I couldn’t wait. The whole thing’s a mess!”

  Grant hung up. He gazed out at his exquisite gardens, illuminated by soft blue and green lanterns, their delicate hues and subtle shades offering no consolation. He inhaled deeply, took a long slow exhalation, calming himself. He felt no remorse for the loss of his bodyguard. Such a man was expendable. His sudden absence was an irritation, at worst. Grant dialled another number, which was answered immediately, and Grant issued his instructions.

  54

  Black headed straight back to his hotel. His other hotel. He had kept the room at the Travellers Inn but had checked into another one immediately upon his return from Macduff. His intuition had paid off, his suspicions confirmed.

  He got to the hotel, a place called Express Lodges on the south side of Glasgow, clean and relatively cheap, and immediately retreated to his room on the second floor, where he examined his wounds – bruising on his ribs and neck, but nothing serious. A little discomfort for a few days. His enemies had fared much worse. His shoulder was stiffening; his lip swollen where the man called Thor had struck him. Nothing catastrophic. Certainly nothing that would slow him down.

  It had been proved to be a profitable encounter. He had picked up a couple of handguns, complete with silencers. Two Glocks. Hand cannons. Powerful, effective, costly. Grant was sparing no expense in orchestrating Black’s demise.

  He showered and fell onto his bed. It was 3am. In the last seven days, he had killed eight men. Men who meant nothing to him. But he surmised Peter Grant was beginning to get the picture. Adam Black was not going away.

  He kept the bedside light on and stared at the ceiling. He was dog-tired. His mind drifted, to his wife and daughter. Their faces wavered before him, shadowy and unclear. He could not picture them exactly. An expression, a smile, a side glance, laughter. He had failed them, and for that, his guilt was profound and inconsolable. Innocents allowed to be slaughtered by a psychopath. Black, even in his exhaustion, felt his anger roil. Wild raw anger. Only satisfied when he’d ripped Grant’s heart from his body. Black fell into a fitful sleep.

  He woke, not to his alarm, but to the sound of his mobile phone. Only one person had his number. He looked at the name displayed on the screen, hesitated, then answered. “Simon?”

  “I thought you wouldn’t pick up.”

  Black was instantly alert. It was Simon Fletcher, his partner, his voice agitated, panicked. “What’s wrong, Simon?”

  “Everything. Where are you?”

  “In a safe place. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  He heard Fletcher’s heavy ragged breathing on the other end, as if he’d been running. Black recognised the sound, an echo of an earlier encounter. Fletcher had shown the same nervous symptoms when he’d described discovering the body of John Wilson, hanging by the neck in his front living room.

  “We have to meet. Please.”

  “What’s wrong, Simon?”

  “Tonight. Say seven? They’ve taken her.”

  Black had to think. His skin prickled. He replied, an edge to his voice. “Who are they?”

  “The people you’ve upset. They’ve said they’ll kill my family.” A deep shuddering breath. “They’ve got Katie, for fuck’s sake. Please, Adam. I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but they said if I call the cops, they’ll kill her. They’ll kill her! What am I supposed to do!”

  Black was still tired, it wasn’t yet dawn, and he had killed three men only hours earlier. He forced himself to concentrate. “Katie?” She was Simon’s younger daughter. Twelve years old. About to start secondary school.

  Breathing. Then, “They’ve said they’re going to kill her.” Simon’s tone of voice changed to a leaden monotone, as if all the life had been sucked out of him. “Did you hear that? Kill my daughter. Unless I find a way to…”

  “What?”

  “… to get you to hand yourself over. I need to call the police. This is crazy.”

  “Don’t call anyone,” replied Black, his voice deadpan, emotionless. “If you do, then you’re right. Your daughter will die. And they’ll kill you too. It’s me they want. We’ll meet. At the office for seven. Don’t speak to anyone. I’ll come up with a plan. We’ll get through this, Simon. I promise.”

  Black hung up. The stakes in the game had suddenly been raised. But it was a game he was prepared to play.

  55

  The offices of Wilson, Fletcher and Co. comprised the entire first floor of a large block of shops and offices just off Renfield Street, in Glasgow city centre. Nineteenth-century Victorian architecture at its best – smooth red sandstone walls, gable roof, high-arched windows. Inside, a spacious suite of rooms; six separate offices for partners and paralegals, a client meeting room which doubled as the library, a secretarial room, a common room, two toilets, and showers. A small brass plaque displayed on the wall beside the main entrance was the only feature advertising their existence. That, and white lettering on the first-floor windows. The ground floor was a Spanish tapas restaurant, a trendy wine bar, and a sports shop. There was an elevator, and stairs, and a single concierge manned the front reception until five thirty. There were two floors above Wilson Fletcher, consisting of accountants, surveyors, and two insurance agents.

  Black parked his car a quarter mile away and walked. He was a half hour early, and well-armed. In each coat pocket was a Glock. He had dispensed with the silencers; they might reduce the noise of a gunshot, but accuracy was affected. If Black fired, he needed certainty. The bullet had to hit the target. He carried three knives, one in his inside jacket pocket, one in his trouser pocket, and a switchblade tucked under his sock, stuck to his skin with tape. He was a walking arsenal. He approached the entrance to his offices warily. It was six-thirty on a Thursday evening, and it was cold and already getting dark. The place was quiet. It would get busier in a couple of hours, when people roused themselves for dinner and drinking.

  Black scanned the street. Nothing untoward. It was possible that a shooter was nestled on a rooftop or aiming through an open window from an adjacent office. He scrutinised the surroundings. There were no rooftops allowing a clear shot. The windows in the block opposite were all closed, as far as he could tell. Still, he kept to the shadows, close to the wall, increasing his pace to a march, nerves tingling. He kept his hands in his coat pocket, cradled round the pistols. Cars were parked on either side of the street, all empty. He braced himself for a sudden door opening, the crack of a semi-automatic discharging in his direction. He reached the front entrance. He had a key. He unlocked the heavy wooden door, entered
, senses heightened. So far, so good.

  The lights were on in the front reception area, which was not unusual. As expected, the counter was unmanned. Black stopped, straining to hear the slightest sound, the scrape of movement. Silence.

  He daren’t take the lift. He took the stairs, creeping up on his toes, hugging the banister, soft as shadow. He held a Glock in his right hand.

  He got to the first floor. No sign of anyone. He opened the fire door and emerged into a carpeted hall. On a wall was the name of his firm, in big, bold black letters, and beside it, the only door in and out of the suite of offices. He experienced a brief strange sensation when he saw the firm’s name. A memento from a past life far removed from the present. A life he knew he could probably never return to, and now he was a spectator, raking over the ruins of his previous existence.

  He paused, straining to hear something. Anything. But there was no sound. He crouched, gently opened the door. He crept into the main reception area. The lights were all on. He now had both pistols out, not unlike the gunfighters in a western movie. A sound drummed in his head – his heartbeat.

  The place was neat, orderly. Everything in its place. Life went on, he mused.

  A sound from the conference room, down a corridor only twenty yards away. A sob. Then glass breaking. Nerves stretched, Black sidled down the corridor. He reached the conference room door, half-open. He gently nudged it wider, both guns pointed forward. He entered. Nothing had changed; the shelves of law books, the long rectangular conference table, where he’d sat a thousand times with clients discussing matters legal, the air heavy with the remnants of fresh coffee. It all seemed a million light years away. Sitting at the far end of the table, smoking a cigarette, was Simon Fletcher. On the table in front of him was an ashtray already full of cigarette stubs and a half-empty whisky bottle. Shards of broken glass glittered across the surface of the table.

  Fletcher was staring at an adjacent wall, surrounded by smoke, seemingly deep in his own thoughts.

  “Hello Simon.”

  Fletcher jerked round. “Adam. You startled me.”

  Black walked round the table, to sit two up from Fletcher, his back to the book shelves, facing the door.

  “You look terrible.” Fletcher stubbed his cigarette out, and lit another one with a cheap plastic lighter, his hands noticeably trembling.

  “Thanks. You’re shaking.”

  “No fucking wonder.” He took a deep inhalation and fixed his gaze on Black. “The world’s on fire.”

  “The world’s always on fire,” replied Black. “You just live with it.”

  “Just live with it? Really? Is that what you’re doing?”

  “Your daughter. Grant’s got her. That’s what you said.”

  Fletcher picked up the bottle and took a gulp of whisky, face contorting. “I hate this stuff. Tastes like shit.” He stretched the bottle over to Black. “Take some.”

  “People keep offering me whisky. No thank you.”

  “How long have we known each other? Twenty years? Twenty-five? It all merges together, don’t you think? Until you forget.”

  “Forget what?”

  “Forget what’s right and wrong.”

  “It can be a narrow line. So, your daughter?”

  Fletcher fixed a glassy gaze on Black. “You must have crossed that narrow line before. In Afghanistan. Where there’s no rules. Don’t say you haven’t.”

  “There are always rules, Simon. No matter where you are. Either on the outside, or in your heart. It just depends on whether you’re prepared to break them.”

  “That’s one fucking glib answer.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “This whole fucking thing has got so out of hand.”

  “What’s got out of hand, Simon?”

  Fletcher wrenched his gaze away, to stare at the floor.

  “This!” He waved his arm vaguely around him. “Everything!”

  Black remained silent for several seconds. Then he spoke, his voice soft, quiet.

  “Have you always worked for Grant?”

  A noise from outside, near the entrance. A scrape of movement, the almost undetectable padding of careful footsteps. Now Black heard low, urgent whispering.

  “I’m sorry, Adam. But it must come to this. There was no other way.”

  “I’m sorry too. But there’s always another way.” He pointed one of the guns towards the door of the room, keeping one eye on the entrance, the other on Fletcher.

  “I heard the name Abacus in the living room of an accountant called Chadwick,” said Black. “It struck a chord. I was sure I’d seen a file in your room with the same client name. But I didn’t want to believe it. And then last night. Only you knew I was staying at the Travellers Lodge. But I still didn’t want to believe it. And John Wilson? What happened there?”

  Fletcher looked down, staring at the broken glass, his face slack. “John?” Fletcher gave a hollow laugh. “Greedy bastard is how I’d describe John Wilson. He found out. When he did, he wanted a piece. A rather large piece. A man like Peter Grant doesn’t tolerate things like that. Not for long. But you know all about that. You’ve already tasted the breadth of his spite.”

  Black ignored the remark. “John found out about Abacus. He found out that you were about to launder millions, and he wanted his cut.”

  Black glimpsed a shadow at the door. He tried to keep his voice under control. He needed a crucial piece of information. “And the cops in the police station. That night in the interview room. DI Patterson was waiting for you. Waiting for instructions.”

  Fletcher nodded, his speech slurred at the edges. “Grant wanted you out on the streets. He has many powerful friends in high places, and so it was arranged. The fucking wizard with his wand. He waves it, and magic happens. No way were you being charged. Grant wanted revenge. And he wanted a free rein to carry it through. He didn’t want the criminal justice system getting in the way. I was the bearer of this message. Grant knew it was you who killed his son a half hour after you’d done it. As soon as the cops had you in the cells, and they knew who you were, they phoned Grant. And Grant phoned me. You want to hear something funny?”

  “Sure.” Black’s nerves tingled. He heard voices. He reckoned there were four, maybe five men, waiting for him. No doubt bristling with firepower.

  “Grant thought you’d killed his son, to get to him. Because we work in the same firm. He thought you knew about his little scheme, and were trying to muscle in.” He waved his hands, whisky sploshing from the bottle. “But the whole thing was one big fucking coincidence. A random act of God! I told him. I fucking told him. The whole thing is so fucked up!”

  “Sure it is. What’s in it for you, Simon? What about your wife, your kids?”

  “I get fifteen per cent of forty million from all those bank accounts. Do the maths. I can buy a new future. The wife and kids, well, I’ll find a new woman, and get new kids, somewhere where there’s a sandy beach and a warm breeze and cocktails by the sea.”

  “And you can swim with fucking dolphins. So how? The money’s laundered through the firm’s client account. All under my nose?” Black was speaking quickly. Time was running out.

  Fletcher took a deep drag. “I’m the cash-room partner, Adam. It’s me who checks the accounts. This whole thing’s been planned for months. Even if you’d been in the office, the money would have passed through our account, and you’d be none the wiser. As it happened, you had certain distractions to keep you occupied. The accounts will be audited by the Law Society six months from now. By then I’ll be well away, the money dispersed, and Peter Grant untouchable.”

  “And I’d be left, looking at ten years for money laundering. Thanks for that.”

  “You’re what’s called collateral damage. It’s all academic. Why the fuck did you have to kill Grant’s son!”

  “Shit happens.” Black looked at Fletcher, square on. “If the money’s in our client account, let’s split it. Fuck Peter Grant. Fuck them all. With tha
t type of money, we could disappear.”

  Fletcher gave a bitter laugh. “Seriously? I don’t have a death wish, Adam. Not like you. The money will be gone tomorrow, to various sources, and then it’s all washed clean.”

  “And what about Jennifer and Merryn? What about them? Where do they feature?”

  Fletcher took another swig from the whisky bottle.

  “I had no idea he would go that far. I really didn’t.”

  Black nodded. “I understand. A piece of advice. Don’t call someone ‘collateral damage’ when they have a gun. I’m sorry, Simon.”

  Black shot Fletcher twice through the chest, the noise loud and sharp. Fletcher flew back off his chair, in a half-somersault. Black stood, stepped forward, and emptied another bullet through his head, to make sure. Fletcher had given him the information he needed.

  It had been worth the risk.

  Now he had Grant where it hurt.

  56

  Nathan and six men were grouped outside the conference door, each carrying a semi-automatic pistol, including himself. He was unaccustomed to this side of the business. The gun felt like a foreign object in his hand. A million miles from the cloistered ambience of the university library. But orders were orders. He was here. He had a job to do. No way was Black going to get out of this. The trap was sprung. Black was a dead man.

  He heard the shots – three in all. It was hard not to hear them. They echoed throughout the office like three thunderclaps. Nathan motioned one of his men to peek round the conference door. The man did so, just a fraction. There was an immediate gun shot, the door bouncing back, the bullet from Black’s gun shredding it, and in the process eviscerating the side of the man’s face, felling him instantly.