A noise, from another room. A child, no older than seven, appeared in the living room doorway. Dressed in a filthy vest and underwear. A little boy. He stared at the scene before him, wide-eyed.
Lincoln aimed, fired a fourth shot. He disconnected the silencer, and placed that and the pistol in his inside coat pocket, adapted to hold a heavy piece of firepower. He picked up the cartridges, knives and envelope, and left the flat.
He was disappointed. They’d not told him he had a wife, a family. He would speak to them about their intelligence. Careless. Three bodies would be discovered more quickly than one. Definitely fucking amateurs, he thought ruefully.
Still, he had the Glock, which was the important thing. Job done.
Next, the second person on the list. The woman.
29
“We never got over Natalie. I think about her every hour of every day. We were devastated. My poor dear brother. It crushed him. And when Christine committed suicide, I think his mind snapped.”
Black hadn’t moved from the edge of the bed. Pamela Thompson spoke in a flat monotone, as if all the life had been sucked out of her voice.
“Christine?”
“His wife. A bottle of aspirin one February night. She took two days to die. Drifted into a coma. Then her organs failed. Yet even after all that, Gilbert wouldn’t leave any blame at my door.”
“Why would he blame you?”
Pamela took a second to respond, her gaze inward, reliving an old nightmare. “Because I deserved it.”
Black said nothing.
She opened her handbag, took out a packet of cigarettes. “Do you mind?”
“No.”
She produced a cheap plastic lighter and lit up. She took a deep inhalation, closed her eyes. Then she spoke.
“Natalie went missing when she was five years old. Maybe you remember the case. ‘Went missing’ is not the way to describe what happened. She was taken. Stolen. From her bed. From our house. She was staying the night with us. My husband and I were to look after her. Gilbert and Christine were out for the night. A fortieth birthday party. They asked if we could look after her. Simple, yes?”
She looked at Black, angry, defiant. “We were to look after her! He trusted us!”
She started to cry again, soft tears.
“I put her to bed. We watched some television. A stupid film. We went to bed at 11.30. I remember all the details, like it happened yesterday. You can understand that.”
Black could. He imagined every minute detail of that night would be firebranded into her mind.
“I checked up on her. She was sleeping. She was fine. I swear to Christ she was fine.”
She took another deep drag. She was going to finish this and needed every ounce of courage.
“In the morning, I made breakfast. My husband slept on. I fixed up some scrambled egg and toast and juice, and placed it all on a tray, and went to the room where Natalie was sleeping. I opened the door. The bed was empty. I thought she was in the toilet. But she wasn’t. I thought she was hiding. I shouted her name. She didn’t reply. Then I noticed the window was open. She was gone. I haven’t seen her since. And I never will.”
She stopped and looked down at the floor.
“I don’t remember opening the window,” she mumbled. “It was warm. But I swear I didn’t leave the window open.”
“Gilbert left me a note,” said Black. “A letter. He thought I could help.”
“Can you?”
“Maybe.” Black pondered, running recent events over in his mind. “I don’t think you’re in any danger. If they knew about you, you’d be dead by now.”
“They killed my sister.”
“My guess is, they killed her because they were following Gilbert, and Gilbert went to your sister to prepare his will. They met face to face. They would have no idea what he said to her. And these people don’t take chances. Better to kill her. Dead people don’t talk. But you’re in the clear. You’ve met me once at the office, and it wasn’t a one-to-one meeting. As far as they’re aware, that’s it. You’re not being followed. What’s your husband’s name?”
“David. David Thompson.”
“He’s expecting you. You should leave now. Act normal, if you can. Dry your eyes. But first, I need some information.”
“What?”
“Tell me about the firm’s new head of Estates. Tell me about Donald Rutherford. And your senior partner. Max Lavelle.”
30
As he’d expected, Lincoln had no trouble getting a room. The hotel was called The Queens Park Royal. It had seen better days. The foyer needed a lick of paint, a new carpet. Maybe new staff. The single receptionist was surly and ungracious. A somewhat ostentatious candelabra hung from the ceiling, glittering silver and gold.
Lincoln was on the second floor. The lift was out of service, but he didn’t mind the climb. His room was functional and clean. It was non-smoking, but smelled of stale cigarettes. Lincoln didn’t care. The room had an en-suite bathroom, with complimentary soap and shampoo. Lincoln showered. He could still smell the stink of the flat he’d just come from.
He changed into fresh clothes. Blue jeans, white shirt, dark suede ankle boots. He put his coat back on, and kept the Glock in its inside pocket. Time for a little evening sightseeing.
He had chosen the hotel specifically. It was roughly a mile from Black’s office, a mile and a half from where he lived. Reconnaissance was an integral part of Lincoln’s timetable. He liked to get a feel for his targets. Experience the things they experienced on a daily basis, look in the shop windows they looked in, hear the sounds of the traffic, smell the food from takeaways and restaurants, saunter past the bars and clubs. He wanted to connect. By sensing the surroundings, Lincoln got some sense of the people he was to kill. Their movements, habits, behaviour.
Lincoln strolled past a park on his left – appropriately named Queens Park – and on to a main thoroughfare. Pollokshaws Road. It led
