Black waited. The coffee shop closed at 7pm. It was 6.45. Black ordered another coffee, his fourth. The waitress who served him took his order, reminding him they closed soon. Black acknowledged the information with a polite smile, but ordered anyway.
Five minutes later, he spied a young woman leave the building. He recognised her instantly, her manner brisk and sharp. No guarded escorts for her.
“Forget the coffee,” said Black.
He left the shop and followed.
He stayed on his side of the road. She turned a corner, up a narrow street. Black crossed the road, and followed twenty yards behind. She got to a Fiat 500, ivory with a red roof, parked half on the pavement. She pressed her key alarm, opened the driver’s door, got in.
Black opened the passenger door, and sat in beside her. “Remember me?”
Pamela Thompson gasped, eyes wide.
Black produced his Ka-Bar knife, pressing it into her ribcage.
“Sure you do,” he continued, his voice low. “You gave me your card. Nice message. Some might have described it as a death sentence. Thanks for that. Time to talk.”
Pamela Thompson stared for several seconds. “Is she dead?”
“Who? Fiona Jackson? Of course she’s dead. Now start talking.”
Tears welled up in Pamela’s eyes. Her shoulders shook. Her face crumpled. She began to cry soft, silent tears.
“She’s dead,” she said, barely a whisper. Suddenly her face hardened; her look turned to defiance.
“Do what you want, Mr Black. I don’t care. They killed her.”
Black leant closer. “Talk to me!”
She held his stare. Her voice trembled when she spoke. “Fiona Jackson was my sister!”
26
Jonathan Lincoln had arrived at Glasgow airport at 8.15pm the previous evening. He met his contact at the restaurant at “Arrivals”. He was to recognise him by a lime-green briefcase placed upon a table. Lincoln spotted him almost immediately. The man sitting at the table was thin, balding, ruffs of hair above his ears. A dark grey dapper suit, grey silk tie. He had a cup of tea placed on a table in front of him.
Lincoln approached. He’d dressed casually, but smart. Circumstances dictated he wear a coat, incongruous for the summer heat. But he had no choice. The pockets were adapted to hold very specific equipment. He had no luggage, save a carry-all hanging from his shoulder, containing a change of clothing for three days. He wasn’t expecting to be in Scotland any longer.
“Mr Lincoln?” The man stood, offering a handshake. Lincoln ignored it, sat opposite.
The man sat back down.
“We’ve fixed a room up for you,” he said. “A nice one. At the Hilton. Should hopefully come up to scratch.”
“No, thank you,” said Lincoln. “I’ve organised my own hotel.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Really? Anywhere in particular?”
“Nowhere in particular.”
“Well, it’s up to you. We’ve arranged a car hire. It’s waiting in the car park. Jaguar. I’ll take you to it. I think you’ll be impressed.”
“Again, no thanks. Car hire’s no good. I’ll make my own arrangements.” They must be mad, he thought. Or stupid. Or just a bunch of fucking amateurs. Car rental meant paper trail. Something to be avoided at all costs.
“I’ll take a taxi.”
The man regarded Lincoln for several seconds.
“We’re trying to help. This has come from the top. We’re to assist in any way we can.”
Lincoln responded in a measured tone. “Then doing as little as possible would be beneficial for both of us. To be candid, I’d rather not be talking to you. But you have information I need. Do you have it?”
The man reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced a folded piece of paper, which he placed on the table and pushed across with one finger. Lincoln took it, unfolded it, read it, placed it in his pocket. Two addresses. Two names. A man and a woman.
“He’s expendable?”
“Of course. He’s expecting £3,000. Enough to buy his silence. He’ll not be missed. Not for a while anyway. By which time you’ll be long gone.”
“And the woman?”
“What about her?”
“Her circumstances remain the same, I assume. No partner, still lives alone?”
“Correct. She lives on her own. We’ve checked.”
“Let’s hope so. Thank you for your time.”
Lincoln got up to go.
The man stood. “You have my number, if you need assistance. Please remember, Mr Lincoln, I represent very important people. If you need any help, then all you have to do is call. This is a sensitive matter, you understand.”
Lincoln inspected the man before him, then spoke in a soft voice. “I don’t require the help of your friends. I prefer to work on my own. And usually when I’m asked to carry out a little spring cleaning, it’s a sensitive matter. Tell your friends not to worry. All will be well.”
The man nodded, raised his hand again to offer a handshake, which again Lincoln ignored.
He left the airport, hailing a black cab, and immediately headed for the first address on the list.
The game had begun.
27
Black told her to drive.
“Where are we going?” Pamela asked. “I have a husband. He’s expecting me back. He’ll wonder where I am.”
“I’m sure he will. I’ll give you directions. Just shut up and drive.”
She didn’t reply. She kept her eyes on the road. Black had the distinct impression she didn’t give a damn. The mystery was deepening.
He gave her directions. She drove, eyes fixed on the road before her. If she was scared, she wasn’t showing any immediate signs.
He took her back to his hotel, a distance of two miles. Black had some knowledge of Edinburgh streets. He took her by a circuitous route, glancing back every twenty seconds, testing whether they were being followed. It seemed all clear. Cars could swap in an elaborate surveillance. Black had to take his chances. If he worried about every move, he would be rendered paralysed, and end up dead anyway.
“Are you going to kill me?” she said suddenly, her voice
