The man in the passenger seat groaned, wobbled his head. Black was about a mile outside Biggar, on a country road, devoid of any street lighting. The night sky was clear and cloudless. On either side, a landscape of darkness, the fields and trees tinged with the silver reflection of the moon. He pulled over, onto a grass verge. Black reached across, positioned his arms round the man’s neck, creating a lock, made a short sharp movement. The neck snapped. Black unfastened the man’s seat belt, relieved him of his wallet, and rolled him out of the car.
Black checked the contents. The deceased was called Harry James. Driver’s licence, some credit cards, two hundred pounds in crisp twenties, a gym pass, a golf club membership card.
“Can’t see your handicap improving, Harry.”
Black drove off. According to the satnav, Copeland’s house was close. He kept his speed low. To his left, another road, easily missed in the darkness. This, according to the map, was his route. He turned, reducing his speed further. The road was narrow, barely wide enough for one car, the surface bumpy and uneven. Trees loomed on either side, forming almost an archway, moonlight glinting through the branches. A quarter of a mile.
Black’s mind prickled with imminence. He was approaching the monster’s lair. His plan was simple and direct. Uncomplicated. Its success was based on Copeland overcompensating. Of course, Copeland might not be there. He might have hidden himself away, in another location, another country. But Black thought not. Men like Copeland had to show face. When it got down to brass tacks, Copeland was nothing more than a gang leader. And if leaders ran away, then reputation – respect – vanished. And men like Copeland survived on their reputation.
The road followed a long curve. Destination three hundred yards. The trees disappeared suddenly. Ahead, double gates, illuminated by sconces set on stone pillars, and on either side, six feet high walls, stretching into the gloom. At the gates, a dark shape. A guard. Black’s senses sharpened to a higher level of competence.
Fear, when it came to Black, came strangely. He was able to compartmentalise it. Package it, contain it, and then, in an almost out-of-body experience, consider events from a distance. Now was such a moment. He saw himself drive towards the gates. He saw himself slowing the car, one hand on the steering wheel, one hand on his lap, manner relaxed. At his side, in the door compartment, rested the Desert Eagle.
He stopped at the gates. The man was dressed in dark trousers, dark tunic. Thickset shoulders, lean hips and waist. Dark hair cropped short. Face as emotionless as a rock. He held an Armalite AR-10 Semi-Automatic rifle, and looked like a man who knew how to use it. He checked the licence plate on the car, checked his mobile phone. He tapped Black’s window. Black pressed a button. The window eased down.
Black waited. He had one hand wrapped round the Desert Eagle, at his side. It was 50/50. Two seconds for the man to straighten the rifle, point. Two seconds for Black to raise the pistol, point.
The man scrutinised Black.
“Why are you back?” he said.
Black responded, keeping his voice neutral.
“Don’t know. Mr Copeland wanted to speak to me. Nothing happening here?”
The man twitched his head in the negative. “All quiet. Park the car round the back.”
“No problem.”
The man spoke into his mobile, relaying the licence number. A pause. Then the gates rumbled open. Black drove through. His hunch appeared to have played out – Copeland had hired an abundance of men. The guard had only checked the licence number of the car. If it matched, the box was ticked. It was relatively simple for Black to exploit the situation, slipping through disorganisation.
Black drove the BMW all of a hundred yards, along a paved driveway. On either side, a low rough stone wall with lights at regular intervals, and beyond, flat manicured lawns. Ahead, a substantial mansion, illuminated by bright uplighters, red ivy glistening on the lower walls. Three levels, plus attic dormers. At one end, a turret, with glittering stained-glass windows. On the top floor, balconies of gothic wrought iron mounted on stone supports.
The main entrance was pillared, with arched wooden doors, about which congregated several men. Black saw other men walking across the lawns. He passed them, driving round the side, to the rear, to the back garden area. More lighting, but here, the gardens were mature, covering at least two acres in size, enclosed by more low stone walls, and on all sides, the brooding gloom of a thick forest.
Black parked the car next to others. More men hovered. Two stood at the rear entrance. At one end, a large conservatory. Black took a deep calming breath. So far, so good. It could end in a second. Someone might click, questioning Black. And then? Black had a measure of reassurance, by way of the two Berettas and the awesome firing power of the Desert Eagle. The Berettas he kept in his trouser pockets. The Desert Eagle, with the silencer, he tucked under his belt, and kept the front of his jacket fastened.
He approached the back entrance. A man stepped forward. About the same height as Black – six two. Long rangy arms, thick shoulders. Face all bone and sharp edges. He stared at Black with an unnerving intensity. In his hand, he held a mobile phone.
“Name,” he said, in a strong London accent.
“Harry James.”
The man used his finger to slide down the screen of his mobile. He grunted, twitched his head.
“Okay. Why are you back? You should be at the hotel.”
“Mr Copeland wants to see me.”
“Jesus,” the man muttered. “The last to know, as usual. What does he want?”
Black raised his hands, feigning bewilderment. “Listen, I don’t make the rules. I’m told to come, I come. Who knows why?”
The man nodded with sympathy. “I get it. It’s a fucking circus. Okay, Harry. He’s in the big lounge.”
“Yes?”
“Through the kitchen. Turn left, the room at the end of the hall. The size of this fucking place, you need a pair of hiking boots.” He gave a wide grin. “You like that?”
“You should be doing stand-up.”
Black entered the house of Malcolm Copeland. So far, so good. He’d been lucky. His gamble had paid off. Would his luck hold? Probably not, he thought with a grim resignation. Chance was, he’d end up dead. A bullet in the head. Probably more than one. Then his body dumped in a hole deep in the ground, in a nameless patch of Scottish wilderness. And thus the end of Adam Black.
But Black didn’t care. Death did not frighten him. Indeed, he welcomed it. More than welcome. It was, if he were honest with himself, a desire. A craving. But he craved something else. Justice.
Justice for an innocent girl he had met only once, in her dying breath. Justice for Penny Sinclair.