Malcolm Copeland, as a matter of habit, always had three men stationed in and around his country mansion. Since the debacle with Charley Sinclair, and the death of Tristan, he felt it wise to escalate his security. Perhaps a sixth sense, honed over many years of gangland experience. An instinct that trouble was looming.
Also, Copeland was a man who did his homework. Adam Black. More than a mere lawyer. Had to be, to deal with Tristan with such apparent ease. One thing Copeland had learned in his trade of extortion, blackmail and murder – never, ever underestimate the enemy.
He asked discreet questions. He had friends in the police force. Friends who would do anything for a thick envelope of cash. Also, Copeland checked the internet. The man called Adam Black was more than a lawyer. Much more. Ex-SAS, counterterrorism, battle hardened. Achieving a modicum of fame for rescuing the prime minister’s daughter some years back. In essence, a real fucking handful.
Copeland didn’t like such men interfering in his life. Daniel said he would handle the matter. Take care of Black. Daniel was reliable, and talented. He killed with clinical efficiency, and enjoyed doing it. But Copeland couldn’t take any chances. Doubts fluttered in his mind.
Adam Black. A real fucking handful. Copeland thought it wise to double the manpower. Six men. Three men in the gardens, three inside. Capable and experienced.
Copeland was in the sub level of his house. The foundations hollowed out, and converted into a heated swimming pool, jacuzzi, sauna and showers. A half-million-pound refit. He didn’t swim. His daughters, ten and twelve, were splashing about in the pool with two other kids. Invited for a stay over. His wife, Candice, was lying stretched on a padded recliner at the pool side, glass of crisp cold Chablis beside her. Lean and tanned. She used her treadmill every day.
Copeland fucked her once a week, which was about the extent of his exercise, and even then, the activity was short. But she liked his money, and she had her kids, so she would never complain. Occasionally, Copeland dabbled with prostitutes. He liked them young. Really young. And he liked it rough. A few times, in his youth, he’d gone too far, but who cared about dead whores.
He was sitting in the jacuzzi, legs floating in a bed of warm bubbles. At his elbow, a glass of Glenmorangie. His doctors told him to stay away from the stuff. His attitude was fuck the doctors. There was a pill for everything. Beside the glass, his mobile phone. He was waiting for the message. The text to say – loose end removed. But the phone stayed silent.
He got up, his belly huge and glistening fish-white. He finished the whisky, scooped up his mobile, padded along the pool side. He smiled at the kids. He stopped at his wife. “You want a top-up?”
“I’m fine.”
He made his way out of the pool area, dressed in pink and yellow swimming trunks, fat quivering jelly-like with every step. He got a towel, wrapped it round his shoulders, made his way up wide carpeted stairs, emerged into a long hallway, walls gleaming with vintage oak panelling. He opened a door, entered his study, his wet feet creating footprints on the carpet. He sat by his desk, tossed the mobile on the mahogany surface.
He took deep breaths, each inhalation tinged with the slightest wheeze. The walk up the stairs had caused his heart to hammer. Perhaps he should install a lift. He stared at the phone, willing it to vibrate into life.
He was uneasy. He didn’t like this feeling. With his money and influence, he should be insulated from any form of jeopardy.
Adam Black. The man was a concern. The whole thing was a fuck-up. The rules were simple in this game. Charley Sinclair had become a liability. Copeland had to assume he’d mouthed off, to Black, and his daughter, Penny Sinclair. Copeland knew she was a law student, had worked with her father sometimes for summer pocket money. Charley Sinclair may have confided in her, warned her.
When you entered Copeland’s world, there were consequences. His rules weren’t so different from the rules of ancient warfare. Destroy the enemy, and everything about the enemy. Killing the source wasn’t enough. The tentacles had to be dismembered and crushed. To avoid reprisals. A son or daughter harbouring a grudge, and looking for payback years down the line.
The daughter would be gone this evening. Adam Black, however. Daniel was to text, as soon as it was done. So far, silence. Copeland didn’t like silence. He picked up the phone, pressed the keypad, speed-dialled Daniel’s number. Straight to voice message. Copeland hung up.
Adam Black. Ex-special services. A killer.
Fuck it. Black was no different from any number of hard nuts who’d had the misfortune to cross Copeland. And Copeland’s answer had always been swift and devastating,
And yet…
Adam Black.
Copeland had an instinct for things.
Perhaps Black was different.
Perhaps Black had his own game. And his own set of rules.
Then his phone buzzed. He picked up.
It was Daniel.