7.30pm. A knock at the door. Penny Sinclair was lying on her bed, listening to some old Fleetwood Mac through headphones, reading a John Grisham novel. She heard the knock, despite the music. Angela was early, a rare occurrence. Being punctual would have been a minor miracle, but a half-hour early? Penny was impressed. Angela was keen for a solid drinking session. Fair enough.
Penny removed her headphones, got up. She hadn’t yet changed, and was wearing a fluffy white dressing gown. Another knock, louder. “Okay, okay.”
She opened the door. Two men stood before her. Dark suits, dark ties. She gasped, stepped back.
“Penny Sinclair?” said one. He was tall, hair cropped into a boyish crew cut, flat hard features. The other was smaller, but broad and square. They were out of place, in this building, in the grounds of the university. They belonged in another world, dominated by violence and terror.
Her mouth was dry. She nodded.
“Perfect,” said the man. She could smell cologne. He unbuttoned his jacket. Strapped to his side, a holster, and in it, a gun. He pulled it out. She tried to speak, but was unable to articulate.
The smaller man stepped back. The other raised his arm, pointed. A sound, like a sharp cough. Once, twice. Suddenly, her chest felt constricted. Her insides imploded, squeezing her lungs, compressing her heart.
She staggered back. She felt herself falling. The world rose up. The room whirled. There was no pain. Her breath was caught. She saw things with sudden bright clarity. The two men entered her room, stood gazing down at her. She saw them turn, saw the shock on their faces.
Another had entered the room.
Black got to the university, parked the car close to its centre. He had no idea of the location of Penny’s building. The place was quiet. Term had finished, he assumed. A wisp of dread fluttered in his stomach. The traffic had been slow when he’d reached Aberdeen, reduced to a frustrating crawl. He spotted a couple of young men, sports bags strapped over their shoulder. Looked like they were heading to the gym. He asked for directions. Sure. They pointed to a large building of blond sandstone and high arched stained-glass windows, peaked dark slate roof. Other side of the chapel. Past the green.
Black thanked them, jogged along a grey flagstoned walkway which snaked round the chapel building. Beyond, an area of grass, neatly mown, dotted with brightly coloured wooden benches. In its centre, a three-level fountain, water falling like a soft murmur. Black saw the halls – a rather drab featureless flat-roofed building of grey mono blocks and rows and columns of small square windows, reminiscent of something straight from Communist Russia.
He ran across the lawn, past the fountain, reached the entrance. There was no communal lock. People could enter and exit as they wished. He knew her number. On a wall, a fire safety plan. She was on the third level. He raced up the stairs, opened a swing glass fire door. He entered a corridor, doors on either side. There! Two men, standing briefly in the hall, then entering a room. Instinct cut in. These men were wrong.
He pulled out the Beretta from his jacket pocket sprinted a distance of thirty feet, got to the room. The two men, their backs to him, stood looking down at a figure, stricken, lying on the floor. They spun round. One held a pistol – a Glock 46. He aimed it at Black. Too late. Black crouched, fired, all in one fluid movement, exactly as he’d been trained. The man’s throat seemed to expand in a sparkle of bright blood. The other tried to draw his pistol. Another shot, the noise booming in the close confines. The man took it in the chest. He staggered back. Black fired a third time. The man’s head snapped back, brains spattered on the back wall like flicks of wet paint.
Black strode forward, knelt to the girl on the floor. The front of her dressing gown was saturated. She tried to speak.
“No,” said Black softly. “There’s no need.” He cradled her head on his lap. She opened her mouth, coughed up a volume of blood. Black held her. She gave one last gasping breath, a small desperate shudder, and Penny Sinclair died in Black’s arms.