Black used the front door key Deborah had given him. There was no alarm to worry about. From the office, he had gone back to his flat to collect clothes, overnight stuff. He remained cautious. But he entered and exited without trouble. He got to Deborah’s house about 5.30. There was a note on the kitchen unit.
Thanks Adam. I’m at the hospital. There’s food in the fridge. Help yourself. Thanks again x.
Black suddenly realised he was famished. He’d brought his holdall, which, amongst other items, still held the small arsenal of pistols he’d collected. The kitchen and living room was an open-plan design, spacious. He made his way through to the living room, where, only days earlier, he’d sipped red wine with other mourners. He dumped the holdall by a large corner sofa, testing its firmness with the palms of his hands. It would do. He’d slept in far worse places.
He went back to the kitchen, opened the fridge. She wasn’t kidding. The fridge was stocked full, all the colours. Yellow, red, green. She liked the healthy stuff. Black, on the other hand, cared little about what he ate, as long as there was a modicum of taste, and there was enough of it.
A noise behind him. He turned. Chris stood at the kitchen door.
“Captain Black?”
“Chris. Good to see you. And it’s Adam. Please.”
Chris Gallagher went over, gave Black a strong handshake. He was five foot eleven, at a push. Dressed in civilian clothes. He was lean as a whippet, dark hair cropped, fresh-faced. His skin was imbued with an outdoor glow, so often the case with soldiers. His expression candid and clear. Instantly likeable. Black imagined, in the battlefield, such a young man would never leave your side.
“You’re up to see your brother?” Black asked.
Chris nodded. “I got leave last night, and came straight up. I went to see him this afternoon.”
“How is he?”
“He’s talking. He can’t remember much. The doctor said that might happen. Short-term memory loss. But he’s well. He keeps falling asleep. Which is good, I think. Tony needs rest. And his own space. To clear his head. And time. You understand? To make sense of things, what with Dad gone.”
“Of course.”
“Mum’s with him now. She’ll be back soon. She said you were coming. Can I get you anything?”
“Why don’t you put the coffee pot on. I’ll fix us something to eat. You hungry?”
“Could eat a pickled rat.”
“Pickled rat? Perhaps I can do better, though don’t bet the house on it. My cooking skills are gloriously average.”
“Then let me,” said Chris. “You get the coffee, Adam. I’ll cook some pasta.”
Adam did exactly that, fixed coffee, sat at the breakfast bar, watched while Chris made himself busy, sticking a pot of fresh tortiglioni on the hob, chopping onions, slicing red peppers, cutting strips of bacon, a sprinkle of seasoning, some crushed garlic. He put a pot of water and a pan with some olive oil on the hob, turned it up high.
He seemed absorbed. Black understood. The boy needed the distraction. Anything would do. To keep his thoughts from dwelling on the spectre brooding in the back of his mind – his younger brother had tried to kill himself. It was there, an undisputable fact, like a block of wood, or a lump of stone. It would never go away. But if the mind was busy, or the hands, or the legs, then the block of wood could be ignored, for a little while.
Keep moving. Words ingrained into the mind, into the soul, by the harsh disciplinarians of the Special Air Service. And it worked. Stop to think, and it was easy for your world to implode. Mental health was as important to the fighting soldier as a fully loaded Heckler & Koch MP5. Black thought again of the village in Afghanistan, a fleeting image of a dead child, and he and his men did exactly as they had been taught. They kept moving. Forward. Always forward.
Black admired the young man’s quiet composure. “Where did you learn to cook?” he ventured.
Chris laughed. “Who says I can cook?”
“Whatever you’re doing, it looks impressive.”
He turned his head, looked at Black, the laughter gone. “Looks can be deceiving.”
Black said nothing. He sipped his coffee. No milk. No sugar. Strong. Chris had declined the offer, getting some juice from the fridge.
“You’re stationed at Colchester Barracks?” Black said.
“For my sins. 2nd Battalion.”
“1 Para. Special Forces Support Group. That’s where I went after Sandhurst. The Airborne Brotherhood. There’s nothing in the world quite like it.”
Chris gave a small half-smile and, using a knife, swept the onions and bacon from the wooden chopping board into the hot pan of olive oil, causing an instant, appealing sizzle. He emptied the pasta in a pot of boiling water.
“They still talk about you, Adam. You’re right up there. You, Paddy Mayne, John McAleese, Charles Bruce. The things you did. That’s my dream. To be accepted by the Special Air Service.”
Black refrained from telling him that being half psychotic was an essential prerequisite for the fighting man of the SAS. All he said was, “If you want it bad enough, you’ll get there.”
“I want it, for sure,” Chris said, quietly, more to himself.
Black got a couple of plates, cutlery. The conversation lulled, as Chris fussed over the cooking. Ten minutes later, he dished the pasta into the plates.
“Got to get the pasta al dente,” said Chris.
“Of course you do. Smells good.”
“Reserve judgement. Until it hits the taste buds.”
Black beckoned to the living room. “Let’s sit.”
They went through, sat with the plates on their laps.
Black wolfed the food down. He was starving. “Not half bad.”
Chris picked at his food, put the plate to one side. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I’m glad you made it. My culinary expertise extends to beans and toast, on a good day.”
“Were you in Afghanistan, Adam?” Chris asked suddenly. The switch in the conversation took Black a little by surprise.
“The War on Terror. The Forever War, as we called it. I was. Helmand Province. And other places.”
“I did a tour six months ago.” Chris hesitated. “It’s a fucking madhouse.”
“If you let it. The trick is to switch off. If you can.”
“How did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kill.”
Black said nothing.
“To squeeze the trigger. End a life. Take everything from a man. Everything he had. Everything he’s going to have.”
“It’s what we’re trained to do,” said Black gently. “To act. With violence, when necessary. Otherwise…”
“My dad was shot. Everything he had was taken from him. Shot four times and left on the road. My little brother lies in a hospital bed with his stomach pumped out. Everywhere I look, I see death.”
Black had nothing to say.
“It’s all my fault.”
An echo of the words written by a twelve-year-old on a piece of scrap paper, after he’d swallowed a box of pills.
“Don’t think like that,” Black said. Chris was sinking into a maudlin state of mind. No wonder. Black tried to veer him onto a different path. “Your dad was murdered. He’d received threatening letters from something called ‘Remus’. Remember what your dad did. He was a Human rights lawyer. A heavyweight. My suspicion is that somehow he fell foul of this organisation. Perhaps he was protecting a client. Perhaps he’d uncovered something which might have exposed or compromised Remus.”
“Remus?”
“I’ve checked Companies House. There’s a hundred companies bearing that name. I suspect this particular organisation won’t be listed. A little too obvious. I’ve checked the Land Register. Blank. The next port of call would have been accessing your dad’s files. But the police have taken everything he was working on. Right now his files and computers are stored away in sealed boxes in a locked evidence room in the basement of Police Scotland.”
Already the young man’s mood had shifted. Keep moving.
“My dad had a partner. Charley Sinclair. He came round to the house sometimes. He might know something?”
He might, thought Black, if he weren’t dead. Compliments of Malcolm Copeland.
“I spoke to him. He didn’t know anything.”
“Maybe the police can help?”
“Maybe. But it might be that your dad, by the nature of his work, incurred the displeasure of powerful people. Which is exactly why your mother didn’t go to the police. She’s scared. And I think she has every right to be. Which is also why she’s asked me to be here. She’s worried that whoever killed your dad might feel the need to clean things up. In case your dad disclosed things. A husband and wife share secrets. Remus might still feel vulnerable.”
Chris nodded slowly, blinking, as if his mind was computing the full impact of Black’s theory.
“I don’t mean to be blunt,” Black continued. “And it might be completely wrong. But then it might be right. How long are you up for?”
Chris cleared his throat, gave Black a fixed stare. “It never crossed my mind that Mum might be in danger. I’ve got two weeks’ leave.”
“Then you’ll be a welcome addition.”
“What now?”
“You and your mum concentrate on getting Tony better. We watch. We wait.”
The reality was, Black had no clear plan. But if Remus felt inclined to return, then Black was in exactly the right place. And he had a hunch they might. Why? Because it would make sense. Kill the husband. Kill the wife, just in case. Clean up and move on. As Malcolm Copeland did. A repeat performance.
It was what all the bad guys did. Kill, kill, kill.
And it was what Black did too.