The guests filtered out, gradually, each offering quiet condolences to Deborah as they left. Chris, her son, stood with her. Tony was nowhere to be seen. It was 5pm. The sky was overcast, the sun hidden behind straggles of grey cloud. Looked like it might rain, thought Black. The last guest had left. All the food had been consumed. The wine too.
Deborah gave a weak smile, and went over to Black, standing in a corner of the conservatory. “Thanks for coming.” She touched his hand with the tip of her finger. “Would you like something stronger? I know I would. Desmond said you were fond of Glenfiddich.”
“He knew me,” said Black. “That would be nice.”
Deborah Gallagher was an attractive woman. Early forties, dark curls and olive pale skin. Medium height. Dark hazel eyes. Slim. She kept herself in shape. They’d first met years ago, when she was Desmond Gallagher’s girlfriend, before they got married. Black reached back. How long ago? Maybe twenty years, he reckoned. Maybe twenty-five. The thought suddenly depressed him. So much had happened. His wife and child murdered. Now Deborah’s husband murdered. A cruel symmetry.
She pulled out a bottle from a kitchen cupboard. Fifteen-year-old Glenfiddich. She poured it into two crystal glasses. “Neat?”
“It’s the only proper way to enjoy a single malt. In my opinion.”
She handed a glass to Black.
“To Desmond,” she said quietly. She raised her glass.
Black did the same, sipped the whisky. It tasted good.
Black waited. He wasn’t entirely sure what to say. Words at this time felt hollow. Sometimes silence was best. Eventually he spoke.
“How are the kids bearing up? I met Chris. A fine young man. I think he’ll do well.”
She heaved a deep shuddering sigh. Black admired her self-containment.
“Chris, I think… he still can’t believe it. It’s shaken him. But he puts on such a brave front. They teach that, don’t they, Adam? In the army. Stiff upper lip.”
“Soldiers are human beings. We bleed, we cry, like anyone else.”
“Tony’s taken it badly. He barely leaves his room. When he does, he doesn’t talk. He keeps everything inside. He’s such a sweet child. Sensitive. Always has been. Twelve years old, and this shit happens. I wonder if he’ll ever get over it.”
Black responded, his voice soft. “He will. I have no doubt. He’s young, and he has time on his side. To heal. The human body – the mind – can repair. With a little help. You’ll all need help, I think, to get over this. But you will, I promise.”
She looked up at him suddenly, eyes brimming with tears. “You promise? Did you repair, Adam? When your family was murdered?”
Black sad nothing. Hollow words. Yet he had meant what he’d said.
“I’m sorry, Adam. I shouldn’t have said that. That was just crass.”
“Not at all. It’s a difficult, terrible, impossible time.”
She gave a small tight smile. She was trying hard not to cry. She bit her bottom lip, blinked away tears. “Come with me,” she said. “I want to show you something.”
He followed her, out of the kitchen, to the hallway, and upstairs to the first floor, and then to a door at the end of a corridor. She turned. “His study.”
They entered. It was a room of regular dimensions. A solid oak desk and on it, a computer screen and a keyboard. A silver-plated pen holder. Some office gadgets: pendulum balls; a revolving orbit. Also, a framed photograph of Desmond Gallagher and his family, sitting round a dining table. Gallagher was showing a beaming smile for the camera, as was Deborah. The two boys, Black noted, were reserved, faces straight and serious.
Files were stacked on one side. Shelves lined a wall, with more files. And books. Lots of books, arranged neatly in rows. All legal. The desk faced a large window, offering a clear and stunning vista. Black pictured Gallagher working here, looking up from his files, gazing outside – the distant hills, and on a clear crisp afternoon, snow-topped mountains far away.
“When he wasn’t in his office, he was here,” said Deborah, more to herself than Black. “He was never far from his work. The police have taken everything. His files. His computer, his hard drive. Except for this.”
She pulled out a drawer of the desk, and took out a file, which she placed on the smooth oak surface. A heading sheet had been stapled to the front cover. On it, typed, were two words: Remus Syndicate.
“Have you heard of this?” asked Deborah.
Black shook his head.
“Take a look.”
Black picked up the file. Inside, treasury tagged, were two envelopes.
“Open them,” said Deborah.
Black opened the first. Inside, folded, an A4 sheet of paper, which he carefully pulled out. Typewritten, were the following words: Let Remus go. First warning.
Black raised an eyebrow. He turned his attention to the second envelope, repeated the process.
You were warned. Time to die.
Black looked at Deborah, bemused.
“What is this?”
“These were sent to us. The date stamp on the first is eight weeks ago. The second, two days before Desmond was murdered. I found them in this file, in his drawer.”
“You showed them to the police?”
“Of course. But they’ve come up blank. So they say.”
“So they say?”
“The truth? I don’t trust anyone. Desmond was working on something huge. The biggest case of his life. His words. And he was scared. He told me it was something terrible. That he’d uncovered something monstrous. Again, his words. But he couldn’t tell anyone, because he didn’t know who to tell, because no one could be trusted. Terrible crimes were being committed. And the people involved were powerful.”
“Did he say who?”
“No. He rarely spoke about his work. But this was different. This… shook him. All I’ve got is the heading on the file.”
“The Remus Syndicate.”
She nodded.
Black took a deep breath. “This is a police matter, Deborah. If whoever sent these letters had something to do with Desmond’s death, then the police are the best people to deal with it. Let them do their job.”
She responded, her voice brittle. “He didn’t trust the police. I’m scared, Adam. I’m scared for my children. If these people can kill Desmond, then what’s to stop them from coming after us. You understand? It would be logical – they might assume Desmond told me something. What then?”
“There’s nothing to be done. Your husband was murdered. An awful crime was committed. We have a justice system.”
She glared at him. “Fuck the justice system! Tell me, Adam, what did you do, when your wife and daughter were murdered!”
Black had no answer to give. She of course had no real idea what he’d done in the aftermath of their deaths – that he’d hunted down the killers and extinguished their existence without compunction. But he understood. He understood the raw rage, the inadequacy, the craving for revenge.
He understood.
“Will you help us?” she said, voice a dull monotone. “If there’s anyone in this world who can find who did this… fucking obscenity, it’s you! You’re trained. You know these people. You know how they act. You’re…”
“…one of them?”
She sank into the chair at the desk, buried her face in her hands, shed soft tears. “I’m sorry. I’m drowning and I’m scared. Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. Desmond worked with one partner, yes?”
She looked up, rubbed away tears. “Yes?”
“What’s his name?”
“Charley. Charley Sinclair. He was here briefly. I should have introduced him. But he was gone before I got the chance. Why?”
Black had made his decision. Deborah was right. He was trained. Trained in dealing in death, and all that came with it. She had asked for his help, because she knew he could. Was he just the same as those who had murdered her husband? The answer was an unequivocal yes. Set a killer to catch a killer.
And for a man like Black, killing was easy, because he was so damned good at it.
“Charley Sinclair. I’ll pay him a visit.”