Unleashed: this summer's must-read crime thriller Read online

  Grant sat on a plastic chair, taut posture, back straight as a lance. The air was suffused with the sweet, heavy scent of his cologne. Teacup felt nauseous. On the other side of the bed, sat Nathan. Quiet, studious-looking. Teacup had always liked him. At the door, watchful and brooding, stood Grant’s bodyguard, the man called Thor.

  “It was dark,” echoed Grant, gazing at Teacup. He turned to Nathan. “You’re the one with the brains. So maybe you can correct me, but isn’t it always dark at night-time. Or am I being stupid.”

  Nathan didn’t reply.

  Grant focused back on Teacup. “It was dark. Everything was vague.” Grant leant forward, lowering his voice. “What type of answers are these, exactly? This is the night my son was killed in the street like an animal. Think back, Teacup. I’m sure you can do better.”

  Teacup swallowed, grimaced, the act causing pain. “We decided to have some drinks in Eaglesham. I thought, a quiet place. I thought…”

  “You thought – a quiet place, no trouble. Where my psychopathic son wouldn’t create a scene.”

  Teacup shook his head. The movement caused his mind to ache. “Nothing like that. We agreed a change would be… good for everybody.”

  Grant didn’t respond. He stared at Teacup, eyes like black stones.

  “We had some drinks,” Teacup continued. “We were outside, having a fag. We saw this guy running up the hill, towards us.”

  “Running?” said Nathan.

  Teacup nodded. “He was jogging. But going fast. Like he was trained.”

  Teacup revisited the scene in his mind. He had awakened from oblivion, and it was there, filling his brain. Every detail. He’d tried to shut it out, close the door, but it sat there, not shifting, a weight in his head.

  “The truth is…” he faltered.

  “The truth is?”

  Teacup took a deep breath, which hurt. “Damian had a knife. He was going to use it. He saw the guy. He wanted to have a bit of fun. He ran out, onto the road. Probably just to scare him.”

  “Just to scare him,” repeated Grant.

  “The guy Adam Black is big. And he moved quickly for a big guy. And he wasn’t scared. He reacted like he knew what he was doing.”

  “And you and Blakely? Where were you two when Black was killing my son.”

  “We were on him, I swear. At the same time. But…”

  “But what?”

  “He went through us, as if we weren’t there.”

  “Three of you,” said Nathan, in a quiet voice. “Against one man.”

  Grant’s gaze didn’t waver.

  “He was fast,” said Teacup. “And something else. I was on the ground. But he kept coming. Most men would have pulled back, maybe run away. But he kept coming, like…”

  “Like what?” said Nathan.

  “Like he enjoyed it.”

  A silence fell.

  Eventually Grant spoke.

  “So, you’re telling me this was a random event. A guy comes running up the street, out of nowhere, a fight starts, my son ends up dead. A coincidence.”

  “That’s all it was. We got into a fight. But with the wrong guy. Look at me. I’m lucky to be alive.”

  Grant stood, and regarded Teacup for five seconds. “Too fucking right.”

  Without a further word, he left the room, Nathan and Thor following.

  Teacup relaxed on the pillows, wondering how this would end. Not good, he thought dismally. For everyone.

  They left the hospital, and got into a white Mercedes, parked in the visitors area.

  “What do you think?” Nathan asked.

  “About what?” Grant snapped.

  “Teacup’s story.”

  Grant paused, then said, “I believe him. His injuries speak for themselves. Seems like Black likes to dish out a bit of pain. Which is fine by me. He’s in my world now. He won’t know the meaning of the word when I get him.” He looked round to Nathan, sitting with him in the back seat, Thor driving.

  “But one thing I don’t buy.”

  Nathan waited.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will, in time. It could mean everything, or nothing.”

  19

  Three days had passed since the so-called ‘situation’ outside his house. Black had decided against contacting the police. He had stabbed a key in a man’s eye and vandalised his car. It didn’t look good. He thought it prudent to let that one pass. And he was secure in the knowledge that his victim would do the same.

  But they knew where he lived. They knew he was married and had a four-year-old daughter. Christ, they knew her name. Grant had sent a message, and Black had sent one back. That he was not scared of them. That he could administer casual violence as easily as them. But Jennifer and Merryn were in the equation, and the stakes had never been higher. They could hide away, but for how long? And how could they live like that, scurrying through life like frightened animals? Looking over their shoulder, every minute, every second.

  There was no easy solution. They had to continue their routine, go about their normal lives. Merryn was too young to understand what was going on. Jennifer was terrified. She didn’t say, but Black knew she was, and who could blame her? And there was nothing he could do about it. For the first time in his life, he felt ineffectual. He had suggested she take an extended break from work – she was more than due it – and she and Merryn stay with her mother in her big house in Thurso, over one hundred miles north of Inverness, as about as far north as most people go. But he had only suggested it tentatively, and she had flatly refused, which was the best thing, reflected Black. Grant was clearly resourceful. He would find out where she’d gone. And if that happened, Black was nearly three hundred miles away to do anything about it.

  Black restructured his hours, left the house in the morning when Jennifer and Merryn left, and got back early, taking files home. They stayed in during the evening and watched television, read books.

  Life went on. For three days. Then it began.

  The unravelling of Black’s life.

  20

  Ten thirty in the morning, and Black was in the meeting room – the largest room in the offices of Wilson, Fletcher and Co., east-facing, pale morning sunlight captured by three large windows. One entire wall was dedicated to oak-panelled shelving for hundreds of law books, journals, reports, and in the centre a large rectangular walnut-veneered conference table with ten chairs round it, the surface gleaming. Black was sitting on one side, with three clients opposite, and between them were papers and plans and open files. The smell of fresh filtered coffee filled the room.

  The door opened. Black turned. Rarely was anyone permitted to interrupt at a meeting, unless it was prearranged, or a secretary was bringing a file or a coffee.

  Simon Fletcher stood at the doorway. He didn’t speak. He didn’t enter. He was ghastly pale. He looked shocked. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, his tie askew.

  “What’s up, Simon?” asked Black, holding down sudden panic. Something was way wrong, his first thoughts Jennifer and Merryn.

  Fletcher licked his lips, took a stuttering breath, but didn’t respond.

  “Excuse me,” said Black to the three people opposite, each reacting with looks of mild bemusement. He got up and made his way over to Fletcher who watched him approach with a glazed faraway stare.

  Fletcher stepped back into the hallway; Black followed, closing the door behind him.

  “What the hell’s the matter, Simon?” asked Black, his voice low, strained.

  “I got a call from John Wilson this morning,” replied Fletcher, in a brittle voice. He kept swallowing, the muscles in his jaw clenching, unclenching. His eyes wouldn’t fix on Black but darted left and right. He’s scared, thought Black.

  “John Wilson?” Black was trying to grasp the problem. The last name he was expecting to hear was that of his retiring partner. “And?”

  “I didn’t know what to do. I’ve neve
r seen anything like it. I… don’t know what to do.”

  Black had no option – he grabbed Fletcher by the shoulders and shook him.

  “Speak to me, Simon!”

  Fletcher seemed to wake out of a trance. He took a deep breath.

  “John Wilson is dead.”

  21

  Hurried excuses were made; the three clients in the meeting room were told an emergency had arisen; apologies were duly given; an appointment was rescheduled. Now it was Fletcher sitting in the meeting room opposite Black, and completely against office policy, smoking a Marlboro Red. Black didn’t give a damn. He opened a window, and then sat, watching Fletcher inhale deep lungfuls of nicotine. Fletcher had found his voice and was now in talk overload. Shock, Black thought.

  “I got a call from John, this morning,” Fletcher said between drags. “He sounded… not like himself. Worried. You know John. The most laidback man in the world. You only caught him stressed if he missed a putt on the eighteenth. Couldn’t keep him away from that damned golf course. He’s got a son. In Australia, I think.”

  Another drag. Black waited. No point in hurrying this, though he had to grit his teeth.

  “He was definitely not himself. He told me to come over. To his house. He didn’t ask. He fucking told. Then he got angry. Like he was blaming the world for his problems. Started going on about his life, and how shit it was. I said ‘John, you’ve got to calm the hell down’.”

  He gave Black a sudden hollow, stricken look. “If I had known what he was going to do…”

  Another deep drag.

  “So, I stopped everything. You know how difficult it is to do that in our job. I almost resented him for it. I did resent him for it. As if I’ve got the time to spare. I mean, he’s the one that was retiring. But I did. I dropped everything, got in the car, and drove to his house. It felt like forever. Red lights every hundred yards. Would have been quicker walking. So, I got to his house, and walked up his front path, having to stop myself from tripping up on weeds and shit. He was never a gardener.”

  Another drag. Smoke coiled about him like shadowy grey tentacles. He stopped, eyes distant.

  “And then what happened?” asked Black gently.

  Fletcher focused again, took another smoke. His hand was trembling.

  “The front door was open. Just a little. But I thought, This is fucking odd. Who keeps their front door open? And I knew right at that moment that something was bad.” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have gone in. I shouldn’t have entered his house. Why did I go in?”

  Another pause.

  “But you did go in,” prompted Black.

  “Yes. I did go in. He wasn’t about. I was in his hallway. I shouted for him, but I didn’t get an answer. So, I made my way through to that stupid television room he has. And the first thing I see is that sixty-inch projector television. It takes up a whole side of the room, I swear. Like a fucking cinema screen. Who needs something like that? And it’s dark, because he’s closed his blinds. And so, I turn around… I turn around.”

  Black waited.

  “The silly bastard’s hanging there. I mean fucking hanging. Face all twisted. A length of rope round his neck. His tongue was sticking out. His tongue was purple. Fucking purple! His eyes were bulging out their fucking sockets. I can’t get it out my mind.”

  Black absorbed this information and kept his voice level.

  “And what did you do, Simon?”

  He stared fixedly at Black, stubbing out the butt of his cigarette on a saucer improvising as an ashtray; blinked.

  “I ran the hell out of there and came straight here.”

  Black stared back, dumbfounded.

  “You left him there? Simon, how do you know he was dead? Did you phone for an ambulance?”

  “I know a dead man when I see one,” he mumbled.

  “Really? And did you phone for an ambulance?”

  Fletcher shook his head, fumbling for another cigarette. Black stretched over and knocked them out of his hand. Fletcher snapped his head up.

  “No time for smoking,” said Black, perhaps a little too roughly. “We’re going there now. We’ll take your car. Right now.”

  22

  Black insisted he would drive – he was in no mood for an argument. Fletcher was distracted, to put it mildly. Black had no desire to end up wrapped around a lamp post. The day was bad enough already.

  Fletcher liked his cars. They got into a BMW Z4, convertible, with all the trimmings. Black stepped on the gas. He knew where to go. He had been to John Wilson’s house on many occasions – for dinner, for meetings, for barbecues, for drinking sessions. He was a man who loved life. If he wasn’t golfing, he was on holiday. He was divorced, but he had girlfriends. He was fit and healthy, as far as Black knew. He was planning to retire and talked about it almost every time the men spoke. He was planning to go to Australia to see his son. Lots of plans. Suicide didn’t make sense. But then, who understood the dark paths the mind could wander.

  Fletcher and Black didn’t talk in the car, each consumed in their own thoughts. Fletcher lit up again. Black didn’t object, but he opened his window. The cold winter morning sharpened his senses, cleared his mind.

  Suicide didn’t make sense.

  They got to his house in fifteen minutes. John Wilson lived in an upmarket part of the west end; a mid-terraced Edwardian sandstone house in the middle of a row of similar houses, with mature trees growing on the pavement, and ivy walls, gleaming black balustrades and high gothic-style windows, with deceivingly large back gardens. Two hundred yards from the trendiest restaurants and wine bars in the city, two miles from the city centre. Premium location, premium price.

  “I can’t go in,” said Fletcher. “I just can’t. I’ll wait in the car. Please.”

  Black acknowledged his plea with the merest nod, got out of the car, and ran to the house. There was no time to debate.

  The door was closed but not locked. He pushed it open and entered a wide hallway, dark with oak panelling. For a single man, John Wilson kept a neat house. But then, he had always been fastidious, both in his work and in his life. He made his way directly to the television room. There along one wall, the monster television. It was semi-dark. As Fletcher had said, the blinds were closed. In the corner, he found John Wilson. And as Fletcher had recounted, he was hanging with a rope noose around his neck. He had used a dining room chair. It was toppled over at his feet. He had kicked it away. The rope was tied to a metal shelf bracket sticking out from the wall, secure enough to take the weight of a body.

  Black repositioned the chair, stood on it, and hoisted John Wilson’s limp body up with one arm. He was a small, slight man, no more than a hundred and forty-five pounds. But a limp body was still heavy. With his free hand, Black tugged loose the rope around his friend’s neck. Fletcher had been accurate in his description. The face only an inch from Black’s was ghastly to behold.

  He loosened the rope enough to pull it over Wilson’s head, which slumped against Black’s shoulder. Carefully, he manoeuvred the body and himself onto ground level, and laid him out flat on the carpet. Black immediately performed CPR, placing the heel of his hand on his chest, placing the other hand on top, and started to press. No reaction. Black had seen death before, close up, and saw it now. But he had to keep trying. He performed a rescue breath, tilting Wilson’s head, lifting his chin. Nothing. Once more, and then a third time.

  Black collapsed onto the floor, and lay beside the still body of his friend and founding partner of Wilson, Fletcher and Co.

  “Fuck!” Black shouted at the ceiling, at the world.

  23

  Black lay for less than a minute, mind racing, then got up.

  Suicide didn’t make sense. Not for a man like John Wilson. Black looked about. There was no obvious sign of a note, a sealed envelope, a farewell letter explaining the whys and the wherefores. Which meant nothing. There could be a note anywhere in the house, or there might be none at all. A sex game gone wrong? Possi
ble, but not probable. And he had phoned Fletcher earlier in a black mood. An angry mood. To Black’s mind, strange behaviour for a man poised to tie a rope round his neck. He examined the body. Marks on the backs of his hands – scuff marks. Wilson was dressed in a white collared T-shirt and navy-blue slacks, white training shoes. Black knelt down and lifted the T-shirt, exposing Wilson’s pale, skinny chest. Bruising on the abdomen and ribs.

  Black detected a presence. He turned. Fletcher stood at the doorway, a silhouette in the half dark.

  “Is he dead?”

  Black nodded. “Well and truly.”

  Fletcher had regained some of his composure. “Sorry for behaving like a bloody idiot.”

  “Death affects everybody in different ways. You don’t have to apologise to me, Simon.”

  Fletcher flopped on a chair by the television, and stared at the lifeless form of John Wilson, lying in the centre of the room.

  “I can’t believe this. He’s been a friend for over twenty years. He’s about to retire. Everything’s going great. Why would he do this?”

  “Why does anyone do anything? There’s no answer to that. He had it in his mind that this was the only way. And the mind can take you to dark places, if you let it.”

  “But John Wilson? Surely this can’t be happening. I spoke to him only a couple of hours ago.”

  His voice took on a despondent pitch. “I’ve never seen a dead body before.”

  “You get used to the sight, after a while,” replied Black. Which was the absolute truth. Black had seen more than his fair share. Death in all its splendour.