But Black was no tourist.
He would travel light. He would drive up, leaving at dawn. He daren’t risk driving in the dark. In daylight, he would at least see his enemies. He would take a holdall, packing mountain boots, waterproof trousers, fleece top, woollen hat, gloves. Also, a light rucksack. In the Scottish Highlands, the weather could change in the blink of an eye. Sunshine one second, blizzard conditions the next. Volatile and deadly. One reason the army trained their combat troops in such conditions – confront and cope with the unpredictable.
Also, he would equip himself with a fixed blade Ka-Bar Marine Hunter knife, kept in a leather sheath strapped to the belt of his trousers. Razor sharp, serrated edge. And two switchblades, one in an inside pocket, the other he would strap to his calf under his sock. Black had a strong intuition he would need them.
Black fell into a light, fitful sleep, on his chair, one ear open for the quiet click of his lock being picked, the creak of footfall.
He awoke to a grey, listless dawn. Rolling clouds heralded rain. He got ready, slipped out. His car was parked on the public street outside. He opened the main entrance door. The air felt heavy, tinged with cold. It was late August, though it felt like autumn had arrived. Summer was dying. Black surveyed the street, the place illuminated by the sickly yellow glow of streetlights. It looked deserted. He drove a Mini Cooper. He made his way to the driver’s door, unlocked it, got in, senses heightened. Nothing untoward.
Black drove off, heading north, on the long road to Cape Wrath.
The journey was uneventful. He stopped at Inverness, for a coffee, in a nameless roadside café, senses alert for anything unusual. A glance, a stare too intense, contrived movements, anything suspicious. He was aware that a good surveillance team would be invisible, almost impossible to detect. He sipped the hot liquid from a paper cup. It was too public to strike, if indeed he was being followed.
Two and a half hours later, he arrived at the village of Durness. He enquired about the ferry times; one was leaving at noon from a jetty at East Keoldale. He had time to kill. Durness was sparse, a cluster of bleak buildings clinging to the land, the brisk Atlantic winds whistling. He changed into his mountain boots and took his rucksack, loaded with a litre bottle of mineral water, and ordered a late breakfast at the only restaurant – sausage, eggs, bacon, a round of toast, a pot of strong coffee. He sat by the window. The clouds had cleared a little, allowing some pale sunshine to filter through. The air felt damp, the breeze bringing a misty rain from the sea and over the cliffs. A young couple entered, laughing, talking loudly, and sat two tables up from Black. Their accents were English, maybe from London. They seemed oblivious their conversation could be heard by those around them. Tourists. Light rucksacks slung across their backs, which they dumped at their feet. Talking about nothing. Black switched off, thoughts inward.
He had killed two men. A young woman was dead. He had listened to the news on the drive up, but there was no mention. Too early? Perhaps. But the deaths combined were both brutal and unusual – a man shot, the other with a broken neck, a woman with at least twenty stab wounds. All in the one location. Three different styles of attack. That was easily front-page news. He had called the police. They would have arrived, confronting carnage. And then what? If it had been covered up, then that involved considerable influence. Influence emanating from the very top, reflected Black with a chill.
Death followed him. He had a knack for violence. He had been trained to endure, to cope, to kill without compunction. A lifetime of blood. His mind drifted inevitably to other moments in his life. His wife and daughter had died because he had killed certain men. He had been attacked randomly by a psychopath one winter’s evening, and reacted exactly as he had been trained – with extreme violence. And the consequences were devastating, his family murdered. It was on him. His hands dripped with their blood. Black knew why he sought danger, why he sought the destruction of evil men.
Penance. And something more fundamental. Something he craved.
Death.
He gazed out at the scenery before him – the open sky, the endless stretch of sea beyond the cliffs. He took a deep, reflective breath. So be it. If people tried to kill him, he would take great enjoyment in returning the compliment.
And Black was a hard man to kill.
13
The passenger boat held a maximum of twelve people. Black stepped aboard, sitting on one of four wooden benches running starboard to port, exposed to the elements. The interior was not designed for comfort. A wind had whipped up. The rain was suddenly heavy. The waters were choppy; the boat rocked back and forth. Black held on to a side railing. The skipper, a small man, lean as a whippet, wearing an oversized black donkey jacket and black woollen hat pulled past his ears, smiled a toothy smile. Black smiled back.
“Thunderstorm,” said the man.
Black nodded. “Looks like it.”
Two other passengers boarded. The young couple from the restaurant. Black watched them. Both athletic, clean-limbed, clutching their rucksacks. The young woman waved at Black. She was dark-haired, tanned skin, flashing a brilliant white smile. Black gave a half-smile in response. The couple sat together, started chattering.
The skipper waited another five minutes. The engine rumbled into life. The little
