A Victorian building, built with all the excesses of Victorian architecture. Broad marble columns, arch-headed stained-glass windows, a central tower housing a clock which was never inaccurate, two lesser conical towers – one at each end of the building – grey granite walls hewn into elaborate decoration.
All in all, one impressive building, thought Black, as he surveyed it from the other side of Princes Street. Way beyond his bank balance. Not beyond Donald Rutherford’s. Pamela Thompson had been correct. The office gossip hadn’t let her down. Rutherford was occupying a six-room suite on the top floor with a panoramic view of the castle. More specifically the Bothwell Suite.
The information had taken Black five minutes to find. He had merely telephoned the hotel as soon as Pamela Thompson left the hotel car park. The receptionist had been most obliging. He’d asked if Rutherford was staying there, and she confirmed he was, together with the name of the suite he was in.
She was talkative. Without prompting, she explained to Black that if he required a room, then he was out of luck. The place was full. The Edinburgh law faculty dinner was being held that evening. Eight pm. Three hundred guests. The place would be frantic. But he could try The Grand just down the road, if he wished.
Black saw an opportunity.
Without wasting time, he left his room, and went straight to the biggest and nearest department store he could think of – Jenners, on Princes Street. He carried one of the KelTec pistols retrieved from his would-be assassins. It was light and flat and easily concealed. Also, the switchblade he’d brought, strapped to the side of his calf, inside his sock.
The place was still open. He’d gone straight to the men’s section. He tried on a dinner suit, tux, black bow tie, black evening shoes. He regarded himself in the mirror. Tall, unobtrusively muscular, dark hair cropped short, dark eyes, hard flat cheekbones.
A mismatch, he thought. He’d killed with his bare hands, with guns, with knives. And doubtless he would kill again – unless he was killed first, he thought grimly. Yet here he was, posing in a dinner suit – the mark of refinement, sophistication. He was the other side of the coin. A blunt instrument. A killer. Which probably should have worried him. But it didn’t. The opposite. He was almost joyful. He was about to dispense his own brand of justice. Swift and violent.
He’d kept the dinner suit on, leaving his jeans, boots and shirt in the waiting room, which he told them they could bin. He paid cash. He transferred the pistol to his inside pocket.
Black surveyed the Gothic structure of the Excelsior, dressed in formal dinner wear, impressed by the architecture, as anyone would be. People were streaming in, dressed identically to him. Lawyers. Black joined the procession, blending in perfectly.
Time to have a chat with Donald Rutherford.
34
Everything was relayed through secure email. Lincoln needed solid information fast.
Lincoln – His office is shut. She’s not at the given address. She’s gone away.
Sands – How do you know? She might turn up.
Lincoln – No. I’ve wasted a day already. You need to pull those strings of yours, and get me what I need.
Sands – I’ll see what I can come up with.
Lincoln – Thank you.
Twenty minutes later he received another email. Another address. Efficient, he thought. Whoever was feeding Sands his information had influence. Lincoln was under no illusion the people he was working for were powerful. And rich. And incredibly well connected.
He checked the internet. The address was a slightly awkward location, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He was mildly irked the job was taking longer than anticipated. Setbacks were to be expected. It did not diminish his excitement. In the end, it would be well worth it.
He checked timetables. If he got a taxi now, he would make the final crossing.
It was early evening, just as Black was meandering his way through the grand main entrance of the Excelsior, when Lincoln set off to capture the bait.
The bait to reel in Adam Black.
35
Black passed two kilted doormen, who nodded politely at those who entered. The main reception hall was elegant and subtle, without being ostentatious. The floor was travertine tiles, coral red. White marble pillars stretched up to a high ceiling of intricate glass construction. Black was impressed. The walls were dark oak, painted glossy black, richly decorated. Silver box lanterns hung suspended from the ceiling. Perhaps a little ostentatious, he decided. Classical music played, just on the periphery of the senses.
The elevators were on one side. Black counted five. On the other, wide sweeping carpeted stairs.
The reception counter was manned by four uniformed women, multi-tasking. Another two kilted stewards were beckoning them through double-sided glass doors, holding trays of flutes of champagne. Black took one, and followed a group of young lawyers, laughing loudly. He laughed with them. Part of the crowd. A short passageway and then through to the Cairngorm Bar. It was already full. More oak panelling, plush carpets, soft lighting from candelabras. Candles flickered from deep shelves and alcoves. Heavy tapestried curtains prevented any evening light. The place was alive with conversation, laughter. People out to enjoy themselves, and get blasted with drink in the process.
Black could hardly blame them. He recognised himself in those smiling faces. His former self. When he was a partner in his old firm. When life made sense. Rubbing shoulders with colleagues, swapping stories, gossiping, drinking at the bar. Laughing. When he was a normal human being.
What had he become? A vigilante. He’d been made, created. His wife and daughter murdered, and as a consequence, the veneer of his humanity ripped away. Maybe he was kidding himself. Perhaps the death of his family had done more. Perhaps it had set him free. That the man he was now was the man he had
