He left her, and returned to his room at the end of the corridor. He watched her in the monitor. He saw her cry into the sheets.
Soon, he thought, the crying will stop, when he gives her love.
37
Black left the hotel without incident. He chose not to take the lift, but rather stairs via the emergency exit. The Bothwell Suite was a secluded section of the hotel, but the gunshots could easily have attracted attention. In the remote possibility the bodies weren’t discovered until morning, then the housekeeper was in for a hell of a shock. Rutherford, a minute before his final breath, had said he’d called the police. Black suspected the police would be the last people he’d phone. But he might have called someone.
As Black left the hotel, he remained vigilant. He was hard to spot. Another lawyer in an evening suit. One amongst hundreds. He’d bet a million dollars he was the only one with blood stains on his tux. He kept the front of his jacket buttoned up.
He made his way out of the front entrance. Still more people were streaming in. A car stopped on the road directly outside. A black Lexus. Three men emerged. The car drove off. They hurried up the stairs. Men in dark suits, hard features. Unspeaking, preoccupied in getting to their destination fast. Black turned his back, stood by one of the pillars, pretending to be on his phone. They passed him and disappeared inside. The cavalry. A tad late. But they would know in about five minutes that Rutherford was dead. And they would be careless not to assume Rutherford had given Black information.
Black reflected. Rutherford could only tell him what he knew. Which was not a lot. They would still think their gathering on Monday evening hadn’t been compromised. Rutherford said an email would be sent to him that morning. With Rutherford dead, they simply wouldn’t send the email. Thus, no reason to abort. Especially if entertainment had been arranged. The show must go on, he thought grimly. It was a simple logic, but it was all he had. Plus, a hunch. All he needed was the particular day, which he now had. The rendezvous he would find. If his hunch played out.
He headed for his hotel. He chose back streets, narrow lanes. No one was following him. The man he had killed with the blade had proved a difficult opponent. His head hurt. The side of his face ached. His cheek was swollen. His shoulder felt stiff. Maybe a torn muscle.
He approached the hotel – a man waiting outside, smoking. Big, strong build, well dressed. Black could see the interior of the hotel through the glass entrance. Another two men sitting at a table. Not speaking. Waiting. Probably more men stationed outside his room. All of them waiting.
Waiting for Black.
Only one person knew where he was staying. Pamela Thompson. He cursed his stupidity, allowing her up to his room. She’d talked.
The bitch was working for his enemies.
The bitch would pay.
Black turned back in the direction he’d come, and headed towards his car. No one had spotted him. He hoped. Every few yards, he checked to see if he was being followed, nerves stretched, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling. He was exhausted. He doubted he could handle much more. If he were attacked now, he would be ineffective. He was living on adrenalin, and the tank was running low. He still had the Walther PPK. He held it in his jacket pocket, cradling it in his hand, its presence providing a modicum of reassurance.
He got to the car. The night was quiet. The evening was warm and still. A couple strolled by, chatting, walking a small dog. They smiled at Black. Black smiled back. They seemed innocent enough. He waited until they were past, got into his car.
He’d left nothing of any importance in his hotel room. He would not be going back. He’d kept the rucksack with the Desert Eagles in the boot of his car. A couple of small cannons. More than useful in a firefight.
He drove off. It was suicide to head back to his flat. He was a wanted man. They knew he wouldn’t go there but would watch it anyway, just in case.
He made his way out of Edinburgh, relieved he was leaving the city. A place where he’d experienced death close up. But then he tended to experience death close up wherever he went.
He got onto the M8 motorway, the main road between Edinburgh and Glasgow, and took the turn-off to the town of Livingston. He found a Premier Inn. Same routine. He parked his car, found an off-sales, purchased a bottle of Glenfiddich, then checked in. The room was cheap and functional. No frills. He didn’t have any change of clothes, but he hardly cared. He showered. He poured himself a generous glass of whisky and drank it in one. Then another, which he mulled over. He suddenly realised he was ravenous. He used his mobile, found a local pizza shop, and ordered a delivery.
Thirty minutes later there was a soft knock on the door. With a pistol in one hand, he opened the door a fraction. The pizza guy. He took the box, paid for the pizza. Wolfed it down.
He was tired. He slipped under the covers, one pistol on the pillow next to him, one on the bedside cabinet, the Walther under the bed.
He fell into a fitful sleep. Images flitted in and out of his mind. His daughter, screaming from the shadows. His wife, lying like a broken rag doll with her face torn to shreds from an assassin’s bullet. Strangers pointing at him. Accusing him, blaming him.
A noise, barging its way into his sleep. It persisted, like an insect gnawing in
