Lincoln reached Shawlands. Either side of the main road, more tenement blocks, though an effort had been made to clean them up, sandblasted from black to pale blond. Boarded-up shops, retail units to let, charity shops, Turkish barbers, bookie outlets, tired-looking pubs selling cheap beer. He reached Black’s office. First floor premises, with three rather grimy windows looking on to the road, no advertising of any nature. Beneath, a hot food takeaway and an abandoned beauty salon. The entrance was a main communal door. There was nothing to indicate he was a practising lawyer. No plaque screwed on to the wall, nothing with his name on it. Zero.
Adam Black wanted to be invisible. He was here reluctantly. Lincoln had read his résumé. He knew his past, the murder of his wife and child.
Lincoln drew a deep breath. It was late August, and the evening was still and pleasant.
Adam Black was running away. Running from his past. He’d seen death close up, death of his loved ones, a nightmare he was unable to confront. Damaged goods.
Black was fragile. Lincoln knew exactly the buttons to press.
The woman was the key. Once he had her, Black was a dead man.
31
According to Pamela Thompson, Rutherford had been with the firm for all of two weeks. She’d worked with him several days, but he didn’t give much away. Like any typical office, rumours, speculation, idle chat were rife. Office gossip.
Word was, he was a hotshot lawyer come back to Scotland from Dubai, where he’d headed up a commercial litigation team for an international law office. High flying stuff. Had enough of the desert heat and the sand and the constant blue sky. Hankered after the clean, crisp Scottish air. Normally, the process of joining a law firm as a fully-fledged solicitor, especially one as prestigious as Raeburn Collins, was a slow, time-consuming process. CVs were checked, double checked. References were verified and taken up. Interviews were held, maybe as many as three. The partners deliberated, held meetings, debated, then decided.
Word was, Rutherford’s application was accompanied by a million-pound cheque. He’d bought his way in. Split amongst the partners, that was £50,000 each. For doing nothing. But it was a shotgun offer. To be accepted immediately, failing which, Rutherford would try the next firm up the road. It was accepted. Within a day of his application. But he had stipulations. He wanted to head up Estates and Wills. Light years from the type of work he was used to. Puzzling, but who cared when a million-pound cheque was part of the package. All happening the very day after Gilbert Bartholomew’s meeting with his sister, the doomed Fiona Jackson. Quite a coincidence.
Black did not believe in coincidences. At least not one’s like this.
To add further mystery, he hadn’t found a place to live, so was staying at the Edinburgh Excelsior. Five-star hotel. Penthouse suite. At around £2,000 per night. The guy had money to burn.
Such was the gossip. But to Black’s mind, it was so far-fetched, it carried the bones of truth.
She knew little about Max Lavelle. A private man, who didn’t fraternise with his employees. Aloof and unapproachable. Unmarried. Possibly gay, but no one knew for sure. Incredibly wealthy. He lived alone in some big mansion in the heart of the west end of Glasgow, apparently. An expert in company takeovers, mergers. One thing she did know was that he drove a gun-metal grey Bentley Continental. Two hundred grand’s worth. She remembered being slightly shocked, and intimidated, when he chose to sit in at their meeting with Black. He hadn’t given any explanation, nor did he require to give one. After all, he effectively owned the firm. Why he was there, she couldn’t speculate. Possibly because the terms of Gilbert Bartholomew’s will were so extraordinary.
Black watched Pamela Thompson drive away from his hotel window, anxious that she wasn’t being followed. It seemed all clear. Her story added up, he thought. On the day she had given him the handwritten plea on the back of her business card, she genuinely believed her sister was in danger, and that Black could help. But they’d got to her before Black did. It was just bad timing. Black pondered on the events of that particular afternoon at Fiona Jackson’s flat. The two men he’d encountered were as surprised to see him, as he them. Black was never the intended kill.
Though her story made sense, it didn’t mean he trusted her. Black didn’t trust anyone. Trust was dangerous. In the game he was in, trust killed. He would watch Pamela Jackson. She could still betray him. But he had to move forward. His next stop was the Edinburgh Excelsior. Time to pay the esteemed Mr Rutherford a visit. If she phoned to warn him, then Black was walking to his death.
But death was an old friend. Black had seen it in all its forms. And he had one advantage over his enemies – death did not scare him.
32
Boyd Falconer had, over the years, established an elaborate organisation. Child trafficking, primarily for sexual exploitation, was a high-end risky business. The rewards were vast, the penalties severe. Falconer was a careful man. Obsessively so. The process was handled through a variety of intermediaries. From the initial capture to the final deposit. Small fortunes had to be paid to certain officials to look the other way. The closer the child got to their destination at his Arizona ranch, the greater the sums of money involved.
Which was the paradox of the business he was in, reflected Falconer. The initial “grab” was usually carried out by hired thugs, junkies, people desperate for cash. Payments were relatively small. As the child changed hands, the costs rose. Sometimes,
