Observation raised by Staff Sergeant to recruits of the 22nd Regiment of the Special Air Service
Present Day
Business was slow. Adam Black couldn’t have cared less. It was what he wanted.
Needed.
If asked, he would describe it as a shift in priorities. After the trauma of his family being murdered, and the carnage which followed that unspeakable act, he thought he would never return to the law.
But he did. To fill the gaps. To give a modicum of purpose to his life. He had no other profession to fall back on. Unless killing could be counted. And in that department, he had proved more than skilful.
Gone were the long hours, the busy case load, the impossible deadlines. Downsizing, downgrading. His wife and daughter were dead. Black had acquired a new perspective. What had seemed important before was now trivial. Put simply, he no longer chased the buck. If he didn’t like the look of a client, then the rule was easy. He didn’t act. And few clients complained – at six-two, and with a physique carved from granite, Black got the final say. He turned away more business than he accepted, and the cases he did accept were special. Ones he could give a damn about, involving real people, real problems.
He employed a single secretary, who answered the phone, made the coffee, typed, did just about everything. His office was not noticeable. Nothing showy, above a hot food shop and a vacant beauty salon on the first floor of a tenement block in an area in the south side of Glasgow called Shawlands. Once prosperous, now semi-abandoned, with streets decorated with “To Let” and “For Sale” signs. Those businesses which did remain were charity shops, bookies, American nail bars, corner groceries. Which suited Black fine. No more video conferences and client meetings under high ceilings in oak-panelled rooms. The gloss and glitz were gone. Black was back to basics.
Which was exactly where he wanted to be.
But one legacy of his former life, and one which he had not relinquished, was coffee. Constant. Ten mugs a day, easy. He’d tried decaffeinated stuff, hated it. It had to be real, full roast. If he didn’t have a coffee in his hand, then it didn’t feel right. And it was halfway through his fifth, at 11.30 in the morning, when his secretary, Tricia, knocked on his office door. Which was unusual. She didn’t normally knock. She normally just blustered straight through. There was little, if any, formality in Adam Black’s law office.
Which meant a new client. Black braced himself for the usual reaction. Not that he gave a damn. The problem was usually dress code. Or lack of. He’d given up wearing standard uniform – the type of clothing one expected a lawyer to wear. Gone were the dark suits, crisp white shirts, discreet ties, the cufflinks, the polished-up shoes. Instead jeans, casual open-necked shirts, white running shoes. Sometimes even a T-shirt. A million miles from convention. If you didn’t like it, then you could get the hell out. And a lot of clients couldn’t get it.
When Tricia knocked on his door at 11.30 that morning, and introduced a brand-new client, Black assumed his image would, at the very least, cause some bemusement. At most, a derisory laugh, and a retreat back out the door.
But when Black saw her, hovering in the doorway like a frightened mouse, he knew in that instant she wouldn’t give a damn how he looked. It was Black who was bemused. More than that.
Shocked.
2
“This is Mrs Diane Reith,” said Tricia. “She doesn’t have an appointment, but I assured her this wouldn’t be a problem.” Tricia gave a look, which Black understood – she needs help.
Black stood. “Of course not. Please, come in.”
He beckoned her to a chair on the opposite side of his desk. His office could be described as spartan, which was being charitable. It was clean and functional. No frills. The walls were bare of pictures. In a corner was a solitary filing cabinet. His desk was clear, with the exception of a pad of paper, a stapler, a telephone, and a mug utilised as a pen holder.
The only item hinting of a past life was a framed photograph of his wife and daughter, laughing, clutching ice-cream cones. Taken on a July day, under a warm sun, on a beach in the north of Scotland. Both dead.
No laptop, no keypad. Black preferred taking notes longhand, and had made a conscious decision to dispense with emails. If you needed him, you either telephoned or wrote. Or met him face to face. Like the old days. An almost medieval approach to modern business.
But Black didn’t give a shit. Back to basics.
Diane Reith entered, head down, managing a half-hearted smile. She sat. Her movements were stiff, awkward. She stared at her lap. She didn’t speak. She was maybe about fifty, though difficult to tell, dressed in an unflattering baggy sweat top and pale cream jogging trousers, flat sandals. Her hair was short and blonde. She wore sunglasses big enough to cover half her face, in an effort to hide her injuries. But they were easy to spot. Lips swollen and bruised; cheeks puffed. A gash across her chin, maybe caused by a ring. She moved as if she’d suffered whiplash. Either she’d been in a car crash, or someone had worked her over pretty good. Black knew where he’d put his money.
“I’m sorry I don’t have an appoint–” she started.
“Don’t worry about it,” cut in Black. He essayed an easy smile. “As you can see, we’re not overrun. It’s no problem.”
She looked up. With the sunglasses, it was impossible to see her eyes. Obviously she wasn’t wearing them to keep out the sun.
“I need a lawyer.” Her voice was quiet, tentative. But she was well-spoken. From a nice neighbourhood, Black reckoned.
Black nodded, but remained silent.
“I have problems.” She began fiddling
