by Karl Hill
She stopped and looked down at the floor.
“I don’t remember opening the window,” she mumbled. “It was warm. But I swear I didn’t leave the window open.”
“Gilbert left me a note,” said Black. “A letter. He thought I could help.”
“Can you?”
“Maybe.” Black pondered, running recent events over in his mind. “I don’t think you’re in any danger. If they knew about you, you’d be dead by now.”
“They killed my sister.”
“My guess is, they killed her because they were following Gilbert, and Gilbert went to your sister to prepare his will. They met face to face. They would have no idea what he said to her. And these people don’t take chances. Better to kill her. Dead people don’t talk. But you’re in the clear. You’ve met me once at the office, and it wasn’t a one-to-one meeting. As far as they’re aware, that’s it. You’re not being followed. What’s your husband’s name?”
“David. David Thompson.”
“He’s expecting you. You should leave now. Act normal, if you can. Dry your eyes. But first, I need some information.”
“What?”
“Tell me about the firm’s new head of Estates. Tell me about Donald Rutherford. And your senior partner. Max Lavelle.”
30
As he’d expected, Lincoln had no trouble getting a room. The hotel was called The Queens Park Royal. It had seen better days. The foyer needed a lick of paint, a new carpet. Maybe new staff. The single receptionist was surly and ungracious. A somewhat ostentatious candelabra hung from the ceiling, glittering silver and gold.
Lincoln was on the second floor. The lift was out of service, but he didn’t mind the climb. His room was functional and clean. It was non-smoking, but smelled of stale cigarettes. Lincoln didn’t care. The room had an en-suite bathroom, with complimentary soap and shampoo. Lincoln showered. He could still smell the stink of the flat he’d just come from.
He changed into fresh clothes. Blue jeans, white shirt, dark suede ankle boots. He put his coat back on, and kept the Glock in its inside pocket. Time for a little evening sightseeing.
He had chosen the hotel specifically. It was roughly a mile from Black’s office, a mile and a half from where he lived. Reconnaissance was an integral part of Lincoln’s timetable. He liked to get a feel for his targets. Experience the things they experienced on a daily basis, look in the shop windows they looked in, hear the sounds of the traffic, smell the food from takeaways and restaurants, saunter past the bars and clubs. He wanted to connect. By sensing the surroundings, Lincoln got some sense of the people he was to kill. Their movements, habits, behaviour.
Lincoln strolled past a park on his left – appropriately named Queens Park – and on to a main thoroughfare. Pollokshaws Road. It led straight to that area called Shawlands where Black had his office. The traffic was quiet. On one side, the darkness of the park, on the other, blocks of sandstone tenement flats, blackened with age and grime. Every hundred yards or so, little coffee shops and bars advertising live music.
Lincoln reached Shawlands. Either side of the main road, more tenement blocks, though an effort had been made to clean them up, sandblasted from black to pale blond. Boarded-up shops, retail units to let, charity shops, Turkish barbers, bookie outlets, tired-looking pubs selling cheap beer. He reached Black’s office. First floor premises, with three rather grimy windows looking on to the road, no advertising of any nature. Beneath, a hot food takeaway and an abandoned beauty salon. The entrance was a main communal door. There was nothing to indicate he was a practising lawyer. No plaque screwed on to the wall, nothing with his name on it. Zero.
Adam Black wanted to be invisible. He was here reluctantly. Lincoln had read his résumé. He knew his past, the murder of his wife and child.
Lincoln drew a deep breath. It was late August, and the evening was still and pleasant.
Adam Black was running away. Running from his past. He’d seen death close up, death of his loved ones, a nightmare he was unable to confront. Damaged goods.
Black was fragile. Lincoln knew exactly the buttons to press.
The woman was the key. Once he had her, Black was a dead man.
31
According to Pamela Thompson, Rutherford had been with the firm for all of two weeks. She’d worked with him several days, but he didn’t give much away. Like any typical office, rumours, speculation, idle chat were rife. Office gossip.
Word was, he was a hotshot lawyer come back to Scotland from Dubai, where he’d headed up a commercial litigation team for an international law office. High flying stuff. Had enough of the desert heat and the sand and the constant blue sky. Hankered after the clean, crisp Scottish air. Normally, the process of joining a law firm as a fully-fledged solicitor, especially one as prestigious as Raeburn Collins, was a slow, time-consuming process. CVs were checked, double checked. References were verified and taken up. Interviews were held, maybe as many as three. The partners deliberated, held meetings, debated, then decided.
Word was, Rutherford’s application was accompanied by a million-pound cheque. He’d bought his way in. Split amongst the partners, that was £50,000 each. For doing nothing. But it was a shotgun offer. To be accepted immediately, failing which, Rutherford would try the next firm up the road. It was accepted. Within a day of his application. But he had stipulations. He wanted to head up Estates and Wills. Light years from the type of work he was used to. Puzzling, but who cared when a million-pound cheque was part of the package. All happening the very day after Gilbert Bartholomew’s meeting with his sister, the doomed Fiona Jackson. Quite a coincidence.
Black did not believe in coincidences. At least not one’s like this.
To add further mystery, he hadn’t found a place to live, so was staying at the Edinburgh Excelsior. Five-star hotel. Penthouse suite. At around £2,000 per night. The guy had money to burn.
Such was the gossip. But to Black’s mind, it was so far-fetched, it carried the bones of truth.
She knew little about Max Lavelle. A private man, who didn’t fraternise with his employees. Aloof and unapproachable. Unmarried. Possibly gay, but no one knew for sure. Incredibly wealthy. He lived alone in some big mansion in the heart of the west end of Glasgow, apparently. An expert in company takeovers, mergers. One thing she did know was that he drove a gun-metal grey Bentley Continental. Two hundred grand’s worth. She remembered being slightly shocked, and intimidated, when he chose to sit in at their meeting with Black. He hadn’t given any explanation, nor did he require to give one. After all, he effectively owned the firm. Why he was there, she couldn’t speculate. Possibly because the terms of Gilbert Bartholomew’s will were so extraordinary.
Black watched Pamela Thompson drive away from his hotel window, anxious that she wasn’t being followed. It seemed all clear. Her story added up, he thought. On the day she had given him the handwritten plea on the back of her business card, she genuinely believed her sister was in danger, and that Black could help. But they’d got to her before Black did. It was just bad timing. Black pondered on the events of that particular afternoon at Fiona Jackson’s flat. The two men he’d encountered were as surprised to see him, as he them. Black was never the intended kill.
Though her story made sense, it didn’t mean he trusted her. Black didn’t trust anyone. Trust was dangerous. In the game he was in, trust killed. He would watch Pamela Jackson. She could still betray him. But he had to move forward. His next stop was the Edinburgh Excelsior. Time to pay the esteemed Mr Rutherford a visit. If she phoned to warn him, then Black was walking to his death.
But death was an old friend. Black had seen it in all its forms. And he had one advantage over his enemies – death did not scare him.
32
Boyd Falconer had, over the years, established an elaborate organisation. Child trafficking, primarily for sexual exploitation, was a high-end risky business. The rewards were vast, the penalties severe. Falconer was a careful man. Obsessively so. The process w
as handled through a variety of intermediaries. From the initial capture to the final deposit. Small fortunes had to be paid to certain officials to look the other way. The closer the child got to their destination at his Arizona ranch, the greater the sums of money involved.
Which was the paradox of the business he was in, reflected Falconer. The initial “grab” was usually carried out by hired thugs, junkies, people desperate for cash. Payments were relatively small. As the child changed hands, the costs rose. Sometimes, there were as many as four or five handovers. Each essential, to create a further layer of confusion for the authorities. Especially when a child was taken overseas.
But once the captive was received, and safely ensconced in the “dungeon”, then the auction began. Falconer could name his price. Net profit per product was usually never less than ten million dollars. And the clamour for new flesh never lessened.
They came and went. Rarely was the merchandise kept longer than four weeks. Business was brisk. New arrivals were received every month, usually as many as eight or nine. They came from different backgrounds. Secreted away from orphanages, street kids bundled into the backs of cars, sometimes sold by addict mothers, abducted from leafy suburbs, stolen from the beds of the affluent and rich, whisked away from a busy beach. Falconer didn’t care, even if there was press coverage, which there often was. In such cases, Falconer didn’t baulk. In fact, the greater the media storm, the greater the profit. In such cases, he could name his price. This was the other paradox – if there was a media storm over a missing child, then the bidding became more frenzied, and the prices sky-rocketed.
But on a rare occasion, an item of merchandise, no matter the profit, had to be sacrificed. For the greater good. But never wasted.
Nothing was wasted in Falconer’s world.
A vehicle arrived, cutting its way through the terrain by a road no more than a dirt track. Falconer watched its approach, stirring up plumes of sand. A silver-grey Range Rover, darkened windows, driven by his people.
The electric gates opened, the car swept through, along a wide stamped concrete driveway, to park at the courtyard at the main entrance to the ranch. Doors opened. The driver, a man in the passenger seat, and a man sitting in the back seat, all got out. The one in the back seat was carrying something. At first glance, it could have been a roll of white blanket.
Falconer oversaw the delivery personally. Hovering at his side, as ever, stood Norman Sands.
“Take it downstairs,” said Falconer. There were no stairs. There was only an elevator to the basement. But the man understood.
Falconer turned to Sands. “I’ll be down shortly.”
Sands and the man carrying the package, headed through a main hallway, to the back premises. Another room, with doors on either side. At one door was a keypad. Sands pressed the four-digit code. The door unlocked. Another smaller room, like an ante-chamber. In this room was a man sitting at a desk. On one wall were screens of each room in the house, plus views of the outside. Sands nodded at the man. He was wearing a shirt and slacks. Strapped across his shoulder, in plain sight, was a holster. In the holster was a semi-automatic pistol. They entered, and faced a further door. Another keypad. In their particular industry, security was high on the agenda.
Sands pressed another code. The doors opened automatically. The elevator. The only way in and out to the sub-level.
They got in. The doors closed. Machinery hummed. A brief sensation of movement. Three seconds later, they stopped, the doors opened. Another small room, another man stationed by a desk, holstered.
Opposite, a door. Sands again nodded at the guard, who nodded back. Sands opened the door, the man with the package following silently.
They were in the dungeon. The globe lights above sparkled, the walls bright with teddy bears and rainbows. At the far end of the corridor, at the doorway to his room, stood the skeletal figure of Stanley Lampton, dressed in his blue hospital overalls. Perhaps it was the reflection of the globes, but it seemed to Sands his eyes gleamed.
“Which room?”
Lampton beckoned to a door on his right. “Room seven is vacant.”
Lampton unlocked the door. The three men entered. Inside, was a child’s single bed, pink wallpaper, deep pink carpet, golden stars on a white ceiling. A rocking horse in one corner. A doll’s house in another. A play table and chair. A shelf of books, cuddly toys, games. A toilet and bath in an adjacent room.
The man carrying the package, placed it gently on the bed.
“You can go,” said Sands. The man left.
Lampton spoke. “May I?”
Sands nodded.
The package was covered in white sheeting, kept in place by belts tied in the middle and at one end. Carefully, with long, thin fingers, Lampton undid the belts, removed them, and opened out the sheeting.
A child of perhaps six lay before them. Pale and still, in a drugged state. Lampton sucked in his breath.
“Mr Falconer will be here directly,” said Sands.
They waited, not speaking.
Two minutes later, Falconer entered the room. He gave the child a cursory glance, then turned his attention to Lampton.
“No. 4. How’s she doing?”
“She’s fine,” replied Lampton.
“Fucking right she’s fine. She’d better be, Lampton.”
Suddenly his mood changed.
“You like it?”
Lampton stared at the child.
“Perfect,” he breathed.
“A gift. For you. Make sure No. 4 is in pristine condition for our Japanese friends when they arrive, and no fucking measles shit. If there’s no hiccups, then, and only then, this one’s yours, to do as you wish. She’s all the way from the United Kingdom. She’s been moved about for months, from safe house to safe house. Always under the radar. And now she’s here. With you.”
“Thank you.”
Falconer stepped close.
“But if you fuck up, then I swear to Christ you’ll wish you’d never been born, and I will personally nail your fucking liver to one of those damn globes. No. 4 has to be perfect. You understand me?”
Lampton looked as if he was only half listening. “I understand.”
“You’d better.”
This was the only way to incentivise people like Lampton, and Falconer knew it. They lived for something more than the dollar. Sometimes, for the greater good, merchandise had to be sacrificed. Sometimes, Falconer had to lose money to make money.
Nothing was wasted in Falconer’s world.
Everything had a use.
33
The Excelsior. Some would say an iconic structure. A hundred and eighty rooms. The most expensive hotel in Edinburgh. Situated on the eastern side of Princes Street, opposite Princes Street Gardens, beneath the brooding presence of Edinburgh Castle.
A Victorian building, built with all the excesses of Victorian architecture. Broad marble columns, arch-headed stained-glass windows, a central tower housing a clock which was never inaccurate, two lesser conical towers – one at each end of the building – grey granite walls hewn into elaborate decoration.
All in all, one impressive building, thought Black, as he surveyed it from the other side of Princes Street. Way beyond his bank balance. Not beyond Donald Rutherford’s. Pamela Thompson had been correct. The office gossip hadn’t let her down. Rutherford was occupying a six-room suite on the top floor with a panoramic view of the castle. More specifically the Bothwell Suite.
The information had taken Black five minutes to find. He had merely telephoned the hotel as soon as Pamela Thompson left the hotel car park. The receptionist had been most obliging. He’d asked if Rutherford was staying there, and she confirmed he was, together with the name of the suite he was in.
She was talkative. Without prompting, she explained to Black that if he required a room, then he was out of luck. The place was full. The Edinburgh law faculty dinner was being held that evening. Eight pm. Three hundred guests. The place would be frantic. But h
e could try The Grand just down the road, if he wished.
Black saw an opportunity.
Without wasting time, he left his room, and went straight to the biggest and nearest department store he could think of – Jenners, on Princes Street. He carried one of the KelTec pistols retrieved from his would-be assassins. It was light and flat and easily concealed. Also, the switchblade he’d brought, strapped to the side of his calf, inside his sock.
The place was still open. He’d gone straight to the men’s section. He tried on a dinner suit, tux, black bow tie, black evening shoes. He regarded himself in the mirror. Tall, unobtrusively muscular, dark hair cropped short, dark eyes, hard flat cheekbones.
A mismatch, he thought. He’d killed with his bare hands, with guns, with knives. And doubtless he would kill again – unless he was killed first, he thought grimly. Yet here he was, posing in a dinner suit – the mark of refinement, sophistication. He was the other side of the coin. A blunt instrument. A killer. Which probably should have worried him. But it didn’t. The opposite. He was almost joyful. He was about to dispense his own brand of justice. Swift and violent.
He’d kept the dinner suit on, leaving his jeans, boots and shirt in the waiting room, which he told them they could bin. He paid cash. He transferred the pistol to his inside pocket.
Black surveyed the Gothic structure of the Excelsior, dressed in formal dinner wear, impressed by the architecture, as anyone would be. People were streaming in, dressed identically to him. Lawyers. Black joined the procession, blending in perfectly.
Time to have a chat with Donald Rutherford.
34
Everything was relayed through secure email. Lincoln needed solid information fast.
Lincoln – His office is shut. She’s not at the given address. She’s gone away.