“Keep driving.”
They got to the hotel car park.
“We’re going up to my room,” said Black. “If you try to run, I’ll catch you, and cut you with this knife.” He held the blade up before her face. It gleamed. “Look at me. Do you believe I will do this?”
She looked directly into his eyes for several long seconds. She nodded.
“If you say anything, or do anything, then we have a problem. Do you understand me?”
She nodded again. They got out of the car, Black watching closely. They both entered the main lobby of the hotel, Black gripping her under one arm. The place was quiet, an elderly man sitting in the foyer sipping tea, reading a newspaper. The receptionist glanced up, busy on the phone. Black acknowledged with a friendly nod. A couple returned from some Edinburgh sightseeing. All sweet in the garden. Such was the image Black hoped to convey.
They got to the elevator. Black pressed level three. The doors closed.
“Are you going to kill me, Mr Black?” she asked again, her voice emotionless. Black was bewildered at her sangfroid.
He said nothing.
The elevator opened. Still holding her by one arm, he guided her along a hallway, to his room door. He used his key card, led her inside.
“Sit please.”
She sat on a chair by the single window. She looked up at him, face pale, drawn, dark shadows under hazel-brown eyes. Her auburn hair was tied tightly back. She wore a plain blue business suit – jacket, skirt, white blouse, a blue silk neck-tie.
Black sat on the edge of the bed opposite.
“When we last met, you wanted me to help Fiona Jackson. You had written down her address on the back of your business card. Remember? I went to her flat, and bumped into two men. They were not admirers. Nor were they collecting for the Red Cross. They tried to kill me. But I killed them. Much to their disappointment, I imagine. You can understand why we’re here, talking. Explain, please. I’m on a short fuse, so make it quick.”
Pamela swallowed. She took a long, careful breath. Trying to hold back tears, thought Black. Let her squirm.
“Fiona kept her married name. Her husband died last year. Prostate cancer. I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“Accept it. Keep talking.”
“The firm had no idea we were sisters. We never told them. There was no need. It was coincidence we ended up working together. We were thrilled. Working side by side in a place like Raeburn Collins. A blue-chip lawyers’ office in the centre of Edinburgh. What’s not to like. We thought we were so lucky.”
She fixed Black a burning gaze. “How wrong could we be.”
“Keep talking.”
“Fiona was sacked. Dismissed. Misappropriation of clients’ funds. £10,000 was transferred into her personal account. She didn’t know the first thing about it, and I believe her. It was what you would describe as a ‘fucking stitch up’, if you forgive the cliché. She needed to be removed. But I had no idea they would go so far…”
It started – small, shuddering sobs, her shoulders trembling.
Black waited. “Who are they?”
“They! Them!” retorted Pamela, fiercely. “How the hell should I know?” She took out a paper tissue from a pocket in her jacket, and dabbed her eyes. “She was scared. As I was. As I am. She told me she’d spoken to you about the will. She believed you could do something. Make a difference. Gilbert had such faith in you.”
“Gilbert?”
“There were three of us, Mr Black. I had a sister and a brother. My maiden name, as was Fiona’s, was Bartholomew. Gilbert Bartholomew was my brother, our brother. He was murdered. Fiona was murdered. I’m as good as dead. And there’s nothing you can do.”
28
Lincoln hadn’t booked anywhere. It was not his way to book via internet, telephone, or any other medium. He was strictly face to face, cash up front. Safer, cleaner. No trail. He knew there were plenty of hotels in Glasgow with empty rooms. He’d chosen one within a mile from Black’s office. A small, somewhat tired building in an area called Govanhill set behind some playing fields. He’d checked out the photographs online. Wedged between a semi-derelict nightclub and a dismal grey block of tenement flats, it was the type of place you’d drive by and not notice. Not for your typical tourists, but ideal for Lincoln.
He didn’t head there straight away. He asked the taxi driver to take him instead to the first address on the piece of paper he’d been given at the airport.
Sixteen Glenburn Square. A new-build block of flats in Dennistoun, in the east end of Glasgow, a mile from George Square. His particular destination was a residence on the third floor. Lincoln paid the driver, and surveyed his surroundings. Mostly houses. Not far away was the massive rectangular structure of Parkhead football ground.
He didn’t waste time. He went immediately to the main entrance. Despite its newness, it was already showing signs of neglect. The front communal gardens were overgrown, rubbish scattered across the grass. Parts of the front cladding were cracking, some of it crumbled away. The windows on the ground floor were boarded up.
The buzzer system and front lock were broken. Anyone could walk in and out. Lincoln entered, made his way up to the third floor. The stairs and walls were pale jaundice-yellow concrete. He passed an elderly man shuffling along a corridor, aided by a Zimmer frame. He was mumbling to himself, head down, concentrating on putting one step in front of the other. He didn’t notice Lincoln passing.
Lincoln got to the third floor, arrived at the address on the note. Flat 1. There was no name on the door. Lincoln knocked gently and took a step back, admiring the spray paint on the walls.
Noise inside. The movement of somebody approaching. The sound of a bolt being loosened. The door opened.
A man stood in the doorway. He was of indeterminate age. Drugs had ravaged his face. He was probably much younger than he looked.
