Violation: a completely gripping fast-paced action thriller (Adam Black Book 2)

by Karl Hill

  The man reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced a folded piece of paper, which he placed on the table and pushed across with one finger. Lincoln took it, unfolded it, read it, placed it in his pocket. Two addresses. Two names. A man and a woman.

  “He’s expendable?”

  “Of course. He’s expecting £3,000. Enough to buy his silence. He’ll not be missed. Not for a while anyway. By which time you’ll be long gone.”

  “And the woman?”

  “What about her?”

  “Her circumstances remain the same, I assume. No partner, still lives alone?”

  “Correct. She lives on her own. We’ve checked.”

  “Let’s hope so. Thank you for your time.”

  Lincoln got up to go.

  The man stood. “You have my number, if you need assistance. Please remember, Mr Lincoln, I represent very important people. If you need any help, then all you have to do is call. This is a sensitive matter, you understand.”

  Lincoln inspected the man before him, then spoke in a soft voice. “I don’t require the help of your friends. I prefer to work on my own. And usually when I’m asked to carry out a little spring cleaning, it’s a sensitive matter. Tell your friends not to worry. All will be well.”

  The man nodded, raised his hand again to offer a handshake, which again Lincoln ignored.

  He left the airport, hailing a black cab, and immediately headed for the first address on the list.

  The game had begun.

  27

  Black told her to drive.

  “Where are we going?” Pamela asked. “I have a husband. He’s expecting me back. He’ll wonder where I am.”

  “I’m sure he will. I’ll give you directions. Just shut up and drive.”

  She didn’t reply. She kept her eyes on the road. Black had the distinct impression she didn’t give a damn. The mystery was deepening.

  He gave her directions. She drove, eyes fixed on the road before her. If she was scared, she wasn’t showing any immediate signs.

  He took her back to his hotel, a distance of two miles. Black had some knowledge of Edinburgh streets. He took her by a circuitous route, glancing back every twenty seconds, testing whether they were being followed. It seemed all clear. Cars could swap in an elaborate surveillance. Black had to take his chances. If he worried about every move, he would be rendered paralysed, and end up dead anyway.

  “Are you going to kill me?” she said suddenly, her voice flat, listless.

  “Keep driving.”

  They got to the hotel car park.

  “We’re going up to my room,” said Black. “If you try to run, I’ll catch you, and cut you with this knife.” He held the blade up before her face. It gleamed. “Look at me. Do you believe I will do this?”

  She looked directly into his eyes for several long seconds. She nodded.

  “If you say anything, or do anything, then we have a problem. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded again. They got out of the car, Black watching closely. They both entered the main lobby of the hotel, Black gripping her under one arm. The place was quiet, an elderly man sitting in the foyer sipping tea, reading a newspaper. The receptionist glanced up, busy on the phone. Black acknowledged with a friendly nod. A couple returned from some Edinburgh sightseeing. All sweet in the garden. Such was the image Black hoped to convey.

  They got to the elevator. Black pressed level three. The doors closed.

  “Are you going to kill me, Mr Black?” she asked again, her voice emotionless. Black was bewildered at her sangfroid.

  He said nothing.

  The elevator opened. Still holding her by one arm, he guided her along a hallway, to his room door. He used his key card, led her inside.

  “Sit please.”

  She sat on a chair by the single window. She looked up at him, face pale, drawn, dark shadows under hazel-brown eyes. Her auburn hair was tied tightly back. She wore a plain blue business suit – jacket, skirt, white blouse, a blue silk neck-tie.

  Black sat on the edge of the bed opposite.

  “When we last met, you wanted me to help Fiona Jackson. You had written down her address on the back of your business card. Remember? I went to her flat, and bumped into two men. They were not admirers. Nor were they collecting for the Red Cross. They tried to kill me. But I killed them. Much to their disappointment, I imagine. You can understand why we’re here, talking. Explain, please. I’m on a short fuse, so make it quick.”

  Pamela swallowed. She took a long, careful breath. Trying to hold back tears, thought Black. Let her squirm.

  “Fiona kept her married name. Her husband died last year. Prostate cancer. I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “Accept it. Keep talking.”

  “The firm had no idea we were sisters. We never told them. There was no need. It was coincidence we ended up working together. We were thrilled. Working side by side in a place like Raeburn Collins. A blue-chip lawyers’ office in the centre of Edinburgh. What’s not to like. We thought we were so lucky.”

  She fixed Black a burning gaze. “How wrong could we be.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “Fiona was sacked. Dismissed. Misappropriation of clients’ funds. £10,000 was transferred into her personal account. She didn’t know the first thing about it, and I believe her. It was what you would describe as a ‘fucking stitch up’, if you forgive the cliché. She needed to be removed. But I had no idea they would go so far…”

  It started – small, shuddering sobs, her shoulders trembling.

  Black waited. “Who are they?”

  “They! Them!” retorted Pamela, fiercely. “How the hell should I know?” She took out a paper tissue from a pocket in her jacket, and dabbed her eyes. “She was scared. As I was. As I am. She told me she’d spoken to you about the will. She believed you could do something. Make a difference. Gilbert had such faith in you.”

  “Gilbert?”

  “There were three of us, Mr Black. I had a sister and a brother. My maiden name, as was Fiona’s, was Bartholomew. Gilbert Bartholomew was my brother, our brother. He was murdered. Fiona was murdered. I’m as good as dead. And there’s nothing you can do.”

  28

  Lincoln hadn’t booked anywhere. It was not his way to book via internet, telephone, or any other medium. He was strictly face to face, cash up front. Safer, cleaner. No trail. He knew there were plenty of hotels in Glasgow with empty rooms. He’d chosen one within a mile from Black’s office. A small, somewhat tired building in an area called Govanhill set behind some playing fields. He’d checked out the photographs online. Wedged between a semi-derelict nightclub and a dismal grey block of tenement flats, it was the type of place you’d drive by and not notice. Not for your typical tourists, but ideal for Lincoln.

  He didn’t head there straight away. He asked the taxi driver to take him instead to the first address on the piece of paper he’d been given at the airport.

  Sixteen Glenburn Square. A new-build block of flats in Dennistoun, in the east end of Glasgow, a mile from George Square. His particular destination was a residence on the third floor. Lincoln paid the driver, and surveyed his surroundings. Mostly houses. Not far away was the massive rectangular structure of Parkhead football ground.

  He didn’t waste time. He went immediately to the main entrance. Despite its newness, it was already showing signs of neglect. The front communal gardens were overgrown, rubbish scattered across the grass. Parts of the front cladding were cracking, some of it crumbled away. The windows on the ground floor were boarded up.

  The buzzer system and front lock were broken. Anyone could walk in and out. Lincoln entered, made his way up to the third floor. The stairs and walls were pale jaundice-yellow concrete. He passed an elderly man shuffling along a corridor, aided by a Zimmer frame. He was mumbling to himself, head down, concentrating on putting one step in front of the other. He didn’t notice Lincoln passing.

  Lincoln got to the third floor, arrived at the a
ddress on the note. Flat 1. There was no name on the door. Lincoln knocked gently and took a step back, admiring the spray paint on the walls.

  Noise inside. The movement of somebody approaching. The sound of a bolt being loosened. The door opened.

  A man stood in the doorway. He was of indeterminate age. Drugs had ravaged his face. He was probably much younger than he looked. Wide eyes regarded him from sunken sockets. His hair was thin and stuck to his scalp like a wet rag. Emaciated body. Stick-thin arms covered in marks. Blue jeans hung from his narrow hips. Bare feet.

  Heroin addicts were remarkably reliable in this sort of transaction.

  “Mr Chalmers?”

  The man smiled, revealing a row of crooked brown teeth. His eyes sparkled. He was wired, desperate for his next fix. He saw Lincoln as the immediate answer to his problem, and Lincoln knew it.

  “Yes,” said the man. “You’re here for the package?”

  “I am. May I come in?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Respectful.

  Lincoln followed, closing the door behind him. No carpets, bare floorboards. The carpets probably sold. Bare walls. He passed two closed doors, emerging into a living room, devoid of anything except a couch, two chairs and a table. No curtains on the windows. A plate sat on the floor, full of cigarette butts. Sitting in a chair was a woman, smoking. Skeletal. Neck and arms spotted with needle marks. Wearing a shapeless grey dress, hanging like a sack. No make-up. Long, listless brown hair. Same haggard, drawn skull face. Stretched white skin. Again, impossible to tell her real age. Maybe once, an eternity ago, she might have been attractive. Now, the walking dead.

  “The man’s here,” said Chalmers, waving his arms up and down, agitated. “Get the fucking box.”

  She stood, almost robotic, and left the room through the door they had entered.

  “Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “No thank you.”

  “A smoke?”

  “No.”

  The man licked his lips. “You’re a very smart man. Maybe I’ll buy myself some nice clothes like yours, when I get paid.”

  Lincoln nodded. “Sure.” But any money he would get would be spent on other things. Though it would never get that far.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  Lincoln sat on the couch. The man remained standing.

  “Where is that fucking bitch?” he muttered. “My wife’s fucking slow as shit. Sorry about this.”

  “No problem.”

  The woman re-emerged. She carried a package – a box, about the same dimensions as an office briefcase. Wrapped in brown paper, tied together by string. She handed it to him, and stepped back. They both watched him. Lincoln was reminded of two scrawny birds fixated on a crumb of bread.

  “I hope you haven’t tried to have a peek inside,” said Lincoln, his tone jovial.

  “No way, sir. Wouldn’t dare.” Their eyes glistened under the single bare light bulb hanging above them, which served as the only illumination in the room.

  “I believe you.” Lincoln did believe them. It didn’t look as if it had been tampered with. And the thought of getting £3,000 hard cash was too much of an incentive to break the deal. Enough money to keep them on hard drugs for a couple of months. Or less, if they overdosed.

  He reached into his jacket pocket, and took out an envelope, which he placed on the armrest of the couch.

  “This is the money. It’s in £20 notes. Three thousand as agreed. All for you. But first I’d like to check everything’s what it should be. Okay?”

  It wasn’t okay. But Chalmers nodded anyway. The woman didn’t respond. She kept tapping her hand against her thigh, the heel of her right foot twitching. She was chronic. Desperate for that next fix.

  “You didn’t introduce me,” said Lincoln.

  “Sorry. This is Tilly, my wife. Say hello, Tilly.”

  Tilly stared. No response.

  “She’s shy.”

  “That’s okay. Why don’t you both sit down. You’re making me uneasy, standing over me like that.”

  They sat on the two chairs.

  “Thank you.”

  He untied the string and carefully removed the paper. It was a soft leather case bound by black ribbon.

  “It’s a box of chocolates,” said Chalmers, grinning.

  “Maybe.”

  Lincoln loosened the ribbon, opened the lid.

  Inside were various items, each in its own moulded compartment. A pistol, a silencer, two boxes of bullets, two knives.

  Lincoln looked at the two opposite. “All seems good.”

  “I’ve never seen a gun before,” said Chalmers, darting his eyes from the box on Lincoln’s lap to the fat envelope on the armrest.

  “Really? Let me show you.”

  Lincoln gently teased the pistol from its compartment, and held it in his hand.

  “This is known as a Glock 20. Massive fire power. Good accuracy. Semi-automatic, which means it’s self-loading, so I don’t need to worry about the next bullet. I just need to keep pulling the trigger, and bam! bam! She’s a beauty. And very reliable.”

  He removed the silencer. A stubby, black cigar-shaped object. “This screws on to the end of the Glock. You’ll have seen this in the movies. A silencer. Also known as a sound suppresser. It fits like a glove. Watch.”

  He carefully attached the silencer on to the end of the barrel.

  “You see? Pretty neat, yes?”

  “Fucking awesome. Look at that, Tilly. Like one of those spy movies.”

  Tilly did not reply. Her focus was centred entirely on the envelope.

  “Exactly,” said Lincoln. “And to make the Glock the weapon that it is, it requires a cartridge. People sometimes get mixed up. They call it a bullet. But in fact, the bullet is a component of the cartridge.” He lifted out one of the boxes, opened it, and spilled several into the palm of his hand.

  “It’s pretty straight forward to load a Glock. You put the cartridges into the magazine tube, and load her up.”

  He unclipped the magazine and began to feed cartridges in. He slid the magazine back in place.

  “These are 10mm cartridges. Pretty potent. Get shot in the head, and the head explodes. Let’s try.”

  He aimed at the woman called Tilly, and fired. The sound which emanated was like a short, stifled cough. Tilly remained seated, but half her face suddenly disappeared, and in its place, tangles of vein, blood, bone. She slumped onto the floor.

  “Fuck!” shouted Chalmers. He leapt to his feet.

  “There you are,” said Lincoln.

  He fired again. Chalmers took it full in the chest. He was catapulted off the ground, chunks of flesh erupting from his back, spattering across the bare walls. He landed on the floorboards with a dull thud. Lincoln stood and walked over to his body. The torso was shredded, organs spilling out. Well and truly dead. He fired again, nevertheless. One in the forehead.

  A noise, from another room. A child, no older than seven, appeared in the living room doorway. Dressed in a filthy vest and underwear. A little boy. He stared at the scene before him, wide-eyed.

  Lincoln aimed, fired a fourth shot. He disconnected the silencer, and placed that and the pistol in his inside coat pocket, adapted to hold a heavy piece of firepower. He picked up the cartridges, knives and envelope, and left the flat.

  He was disappointed. They’d not told him he had a wife, a family. He would speak to them about their intelligence. Careless. Three bodies would be discovered more quickly than one. Definitely fucking amateurs, he thought ruefully.

  Still, he had the Glock, which was the important thing. Job done.

  Next, the second person on the list. The woman.

  29

  “We never got over Natalie. I think about her every hour of every day. We were devastated. My poor dear brother. It crushed him. And when Christine committed suicide, I think his mind snapped.”

  Black hadn’t moved from the edge of the bed. Pamela Thompson spoke in a flat monotone, as if al
l the life had been sucked out of her voice.

  “Christine?”

  “His wife. A bottle of aspirin one February night. She took two days to die. Drifted into a coma. Then her organs failed. Yet even after all that, Gilbert wouldn’t leave any blame at my door.”

  “Why would he blame you?”

  Pamela took a second to respond, her gaze inward, reliving an old nightmare. “Because I deserved it.”

  Black said nothing.

  She opened her handbag, took out a packet of cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

  “No.”

  She produced a cheap plastic lighter and lit up. She took a deep inhalation, closed her eyes. Then she spoke.

  “Natalie went missing when she was five years old. Maybe you remember the case. ‘Went missing’ is not the way to describe what happened. She was taken. Stolen. From her bed. From our house. She was staying the night with us. My husband and I were to look after her. Gilbert and Christine were out for the night. A fortieth birthday party. They asked if we could look after her. Simple, yes?”

  She looked at Black, angry, defiant. “We were to look after her! He trusted us!”

  She started to cry again, soft tears.

  “I put her to bed. We watched some television. A stupid film. We went to bed at 11.30. I remember all the details, like it happened yesterday. You can understand that.”

  Black could. He imagined every minute detail of that night would be firebranded into her mind.

  “I checked up on her. She was sleeping. She was fine. I swear to Christ she was fine.”

  She took another deep drag. She was going to finish this and needed every ounce of courage.

  “In the morning, I made breakfast. My husband slept on. I fixed up some scrambled egg and toast and juice, and placed it all on a tray, and went to the room where Natalie was sleeping. I opened the door. The bed was empty. I thought she was in the toilet. But she wasn’t. I thought she was hiding. I shouted her name. She didn’t reply. Then I noticed the window was open. She was gone. I haven’t seen her since. And I never will.”