Black was in close. The man tried to bring up the pistol, manoeuvring it with his hand to shoot Black at close range. Black seized his wrist, holding it away. The man hacked at Black’s neck. Black shifted his body, absorbing the blow, but it was expertly executed, crunching the nerves. Black experienced sharp, mind-jarring pain. He head-butted the man once, twice, slamming forehead into nose, mouth. The man’s hold on the pistol loosened. He brought his knee up, catching Black on the groin, and hacked at his neck again. Black grasped the knee, pushed forward, using his weight to propel the man back through the living room entrance and into the hall. They both fell with a clatter. The pistol spun away. Black was on top. He punched the man hard on his throat, crushing the larynx. The man made a strangled gurgling sound, suddenly disorientated. Black struck again, bringing another fearful blow down on the man’s throat. The man convulsed. Black caught his head in an arm lock, jerked hard to one side. The neck snapped.
Black lay back, panting.
In less than thirty seconds, he had dispatched two men.
He got to his feet. His neck and shoulder ached. He made his way back to the living room, past the man with the hole in his chest, past the young woman still bleeding out from countless stab wounds. It was a place of death. Black went to the kitchen, found a dish cloth in the sink, made his way back to the dead man in the hall. Wrapping the cloth round his hand, avoiding fingerprints, he unfastened the man’s outer garment. Beneath he was wearing collar, tie, jacket. Someone who like to be smart when he killed, thought Black grimly. He reached into his inside pocket, retrieving a mobile phone. There was nothing else. No identification. The man was experienced.
Black turned his attention to the other dead man. His blue overalls were soaked. The bullet had ripped through, his back yawning open, blood and tissue spilling on to the floor, mingling with the blood of the young woman.
A fucking horror scene, Black thought. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, repeated the procedure, checking for ID, but the man was carrying nothing save a packet of chewing gum and some loose change.
Black stood back, surveying his surroundings. He would telephone the police from a phone box a half mile away.
Suddenly, the mobile he was holding buzzed in his hand. Black looked at the screen, which revealed a number, but no name. Black answered.
A voice immediately spoke. Deep, brassy. Unnatural. Modified. The other person was using a voice modulator.
“Is it done?”
“Yes,” said Black.
A pause.
“Who is this?”
“Adam Black. The man you tried to kill. Who are you?”
Another short silence.
“You’re a dead man, Black.”
“Apparently not. But there are two dead men here. We weren’t introduced.”
Breathing. The voice spoke.
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with. You’d better run, Mr Black. This is your new life. Running. Until we find you.”
“My running days are over. You’ve crossed the wrong man, friend. I swear to Jesus Christ it’s me who will find you. And when I do, I’ll rip your fucking lungs out.”
Black hung up. Let them sweat.
He closed his eyes, trying to stay calm, manage his thoughts, keep the tremble from his hands.
The prestigious and established firm of Raeburn Collins and Co. had tried to lure him to his death. Two men had killed a young woman, and tried to kill him. People were dying – all because of a man called Gilbert Bartholomew. And his last will and testament.
To unlock the riddle, Black had to find a key.
What the hell was Bastard Rock?
But maybe, just maybe, he had the beginnings of an answer. And if he was correct, then the riddle only deepened.
11
Black left the building. His skin prickled. Others would come. He felt considerably more conspicuous leaving than he did arriving. If people noticed him, what would they say? A big guy in jeans and a leather jacket. Not much of a description. Should the police come knocking on his door, then he would deal with that problem when it arrived.
He walked the mile back to the city centre, taking a different route. He phoned the office from his mobile. Tricia answered immediately. “Where are you?”
Black cleared his throat, kept his voice as neutral as possible.
“Enjoying the sights. How’s things?”
“Quiet.”
“Good. Take a week off. Make it two.”
Silence.
“What?”
Black attempted flippancy. “I’m going on a holiday. Spur of the moment. I need the break. And being out in this weather has given me the urge. I can pick up my messages on the answering machine.”
Tricia hesitated. “You sure? This is very sudden, Adam.”
“Nothing wrong with a bit of spontaneity.”
“You never seemed to me the spontaneous sort.”
“You have a holiday home in Millport, don’t you? Use the time. Enjoy the summer weather.” He attempted humour, hoping it didn’t ring false. “Get out on that bicycle of yours. Isn’t that what Millport’s famous for?”
She laughed. “I don’t own a bike. The thought appals me. Are you sure?”
“Positive. Two weeks.”
He hung up. It was fair to assume that his office was on his enemies’ radar. As such, no one was safe.
He ditched the mobile phone he had retrieved from his attacker, tossing it into a public waste bin. He found a phone booth on Princes Street, and made a call to the cops. Commotion at 31 Brereton Place. Flat 3/2. Men with knives. Better get there quick. He hung up.
He didn’t get the train. He grabbed a taxi, a black cab he hailed on the street, and headed straight to Glasgow. Expensive. But Black had no desire to stay longer than required.
Black rented an apartment in a part of Glasgow known as Mount Florida, a two-bedroomed flat in a tenement block in the south side, a half mile from his office, adjacent to a sprawling park where Black ran four miles every morning before work.
Black arrived back early evening. There was a strong possibility his address
