He checked the time. 6.30am. He had slept for eight hours. Longer than he expected. He felt mildly refreshed. He sat up, stretched over to his mobile. A number he recognised.
He answered.
“What’s up, Tricia?”
A silence.
A chill dread bloomed in his chest.
“Tricia?”
He heard breathing.
Then she spoke.
“He says he’s going to kill me.” Her voice broke. He heard her sob.
Black’s heart rose to his mouth. He waited. A man’s voice.
“Mr Black?”
“Yes.”
“Your secretary says hi. She’s a little distressed right now. She’s unable to come to the phone. She has a lovely place here in Millport.”
Black waited, time suddenly frozen. He said nothing.
“My name is Mr Lincoln. You know why I’m here. We should meet. Have a chat.”
Black waited five seconds before he spoke, then said, “Why bother. You’re going to kill her anyway. And then you’ll kill me. Get it over with now. Then I can hunt you down and rip your fucking lungs out. Because that’s what’s going to happen.”
“I don’t think so, Mr Black.” His voice was calm, relaxed, apparently unfazed by Black’s response.
“She’s alive,” he continued. “You’ve heard proof of life. And while she lives, you’ll do what you can to protect her. I know you will, because that’s the type of man you are. So don’t bullshit. We don’t have time for it. Tricia certainly doesn’t. The ferry leaves Largs harbour at 8am. Be on it. We can meet for breakfast at the Oyster Café. My treat. 8.40 suit you? You should find it okay. As far as I can gather, there’s only one street in Millport. So don’t get lost. If you’re late, or you try anything remotely heroic, the consequences for Tricia will be… how can I put it? Tragic. Do you understand me, Mr Black?”
“I understand completely, Mr Lincoln. I look forward to meeting you. And one thing you should be clear about.”
“Yes?”
“You have no idea of the type of man I am.”
“We’ll see.”
The line went dead.
Black stared at the blank screen of his mobile phone.
Death followed him and spread about him. Like a fucking cancer. So be it.
If death was what they were looking for, they’d come to the right man.
Bring it on, he thought.
Bring it on.
38
Lincoln turned his attention back to Tricia. He’d located her easily enough. The address had been found by his employers in less than twenty minutes. They’d probably bribed someone in the Land Registry. He had to admire their efficiency and their ability to get information quickly. Of course, it had been a gamble. But when it came to gambling, Lincoln had always been lucky.
She owned a second house on the island of Millport, her old family home she’d never sold when her parents had died. So she’d told him. It was an obvious destination. Black’s office was well and truly closed, and he wouldn’t risk her coming to work. Her main home had also looked unoccupied. Lincoln had assumed Black had told her to stay away for a little while. His assumption had proved to be correct.
Two miles from the centre of Millport, set back two hundred yards from the shore, sitting at the foot of tall white veined cliffs, her house was a remote building built of solid brown stone, red slate roof, bay windows with bright white window frames. A neat front garden bounded by a rough dry-stone wall. An orderly lawn, with flower beds and hanging baskets. Not an unattractive place. Perhaps once a steading of some sort, complete with two outbuildings. One a small shed, the other a low-roofed barn. He was in the barn now, with Tricia.
She was naked, her hands suspended above her head, bound by rope, the rope looping round a ceiling joist. Also rope binding her ankles. He smiled at her, but she wasn’t looking at him. Her head drooped, chin resting on her collarbone. She was still crying but not as loudly as before.
Lincoln inspected her. She was fifty and looked as if she kept in shape. Though she wasn’t in prime condition at this precise time, Lincoln had to concede. He’d had a little bit of fun. He’d cut her breasts and thighs. Surface wounds. No deep scarring. Not yet. Purely to terrify. Enough to give her the right tone when she spoke to Black. There could be no defiance. Black had to know she was scared.
Lincoln leant in, put his lips close to one ear. “Your knight in shining armour will be here soon,” he whispered.
She raised her head a fraction. He’d replaced the gag in her mouth. She gave a soft moan.
“I knew you’d be pleased.”
He held up a knife in front of her face, and with one edge, gently brushed back her hair.
“You’ve had a rough time,” he said, voice calm, soothing almost. “Blame Adam Black for that. He’s such a nuisance. But it will be over soon. I promise. No more pain.”
On a rickety wooden workbench was a variety of old tools – discarded rusting stuff. Hammer, a box of screw drivers, chisel, saw, hacksaw, crowbar. Other equipment, including his Glock 20, complete with silencer. He placed the pistol in his inside coat pocket and sat on a stool he’d brought from the kitchen. He manoeuvred it closer to his captive. Its legs screeched on the stone floor.
“Some lemonade?”
A twitch of movement. A nod.
“Good. I’m going to remove your gag. If you scream or do anything stupid, I’ll prise out your eye with this knife. Do you understand this instruction, Tricia?”
Another nod.
“That’s good.”
He carefully untied the cloth bound across her mouth. She spluttered and coughed.
There was a plastic bottle of lemonade on the bench. Lincoln reached over, unscrewed the top, and placed it on her lips, tipping it slightly. She drank, then coughed again.
“Easy,” said Lincoln. He eased back, waited until she had stopped, then tilted it again. She drank greedily.
“You’re thirsty.” He replaced the bottle on the bench. “I’m looking forward to meeting Adam. I
