Black drove slowly, because he had to. He needed to think. The man Lincoln held a hostage. She could be already dead. Black had to act as if there was still a chance. But he had nowhere to go, no cards to play. He had no choice but to see it out to the end. Which at the present moment, looked gloomy. Worse. A nightmare, from which there was no reprieve.
Time passed. The scenery changed. The wild grass became gardens. Houses, holiday cabins, rows of static caravans. He passed an old hotel of red brick behind black railings set in a low stone wall, then more houses. He was approaching the centre. The road was set further back from the water, and to his right, he passed a flat grass park with swings and chutes and a yellow roundabout. The road veered right, then left. He got to the centre. Pubs, another hotel, small quaint touristy shops with fluttering buntings and bright garlands. He saw the sign – The Oyster. It was open. Black drove by slowly. Large windowpanes on either side of a central glass door, between narrow terraced houses. A counter on one side. On the other, tables and chairs. Some people were there already. Black pulled into a space on the side of the road a hundred yards further up. Eight thirty. He cut the engine, tried to focus. He had no plan, as such. But then he rarely did. This time, another life depended on his actions. If indeed Tricia was still alive. Black had to follow this through. He sensed however this played out, death would be sitting nearby.
But Adam Black and death were close acquaintances.
He got out. Thankfully, the road was quiet. Dressed in dinner suit and a red-stained shirt, he didn’t blend in.
He made his way to the café. He went straight in. Looked about. A woman behind the counter, hunched over a sizzling frying pan, cooking up bacon and eggs. A younger girl helping her. The place was plain, needing a new lick of paint, new linoleum on the floor. The walls were dotted with forgettable paintings in cheap frames. There were three people. A couple at the window. An individual sitting in the corner at the back.
Black settled his gaze on the man. The man smiled, raising a hand. Black nodded in return but did not smile.
He made his way over and sat on a plastic chair on the other side of a Formica-topped table.
“Mr Black?”
“Mr Lincoln.”
41
Black regarded the man before him. Difficult to estimate his height given he was sitting, but Black reckoned he was about six feet. Wearing a beige overcoat, a dark close-fitting pullover underneath. His features were neat, forgettable. He was thick in the neck and shoulders. Clever pale-blue eyes. His expression was calm, a secret half-smile raising the corners of his mouth.
Black, having confronted dangerous men all his life, could trust his instinct. The man exuded menace. It seeped out of his pores, it crouched behind his easy smile. At this precise moment, his instinct told him – beware! This man is one fucking lethal individual!
He had a mug of coffee on the table in front of him, and a folded newspaper.
He gestured to the coffee. “Can I get you one?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’m glad you could make it.”
“You’re American?”
Lincoln’s smile widened.
“How perceptive. I’ve been trying for years to bring the accent in, to get it just right. You know, the type your British newsreaders use, without any inflection? And I thought I’d cracked it. Then you come along. I’m impressed, Mr Black.”
“Don’t be. Spotting a phoney accent is the least of my talents. I have other ones, which you might not like as much.”
Lincoln nodded. “And I believe you. You’ve had an interesting career. Spectacular. And getting a medal. You’re a hero, Mr Black.”
“That’s very kind. I think you’re wanting me to like you. But that won’t work, Mr Lincoln.”
Lincoln gave a look of mock indignation. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t kill people I like.”
“You’ve killed a lot of people.”
Black gave the merest shrug. “I try to restrict it to scumbags. You know – sick fuckers, evil bastards. People like yourself.”
Lincoln leaned several inches closer, both elbows resting on the table, hands clasped under his chin, his voice reduced to barely above a whisper. “I’ve killed many men. And women.” He leaned in closer still. “And children.”
Black met his gaze, but said nothing.
“When I read about your wife and child being shot in your own home, you know what I thought?”
“I’m dying to know.”
“Professional. The hits were clean. I think they were dead even before they knew it. Which is a flaw I have. If I’d been given the contract, I’d have taken my time. Maybe ten minutes with your wife. Get to know her a little better. And I’d have given your daughter extra attention. Let her really feel it. So she knew, beyond any fraction of a doubt, that she was going to die. Make her absolutely terrified. Make her confront it, Mr Black. The whole thing becomes more… fulfilling.”
Black rested back on his chair, studying Lincoln’s face. He gave a thin-lipped smile.
“You know, I hadn’t given it much thought. But now you mention it, I think you’re right. I think fulfilment is exactly how I’ll feel when I tear your fucking throat out. A sense of achievement. One less cockroach scuttling through the sewers.”
“We’ll see, Mr Black. We’re not so dissimilar, you know.”
“How’s that?”
“We’re both killers. And we both enjoy it. When the trigger’s squeezed, when the knife slides through the throat. Don’t tell me otherwise.”
Black pursed his lips, as if considering the observation.
“Your problem is that you talk too much. Men, real men that is, don’t discuss killing the way you do. They tend to keep quiet about these things. Which means that you’re either a bullshitting coward, or a psychopath. Or maybe both. I suspect both.”
“Mr Black, for a man in your position,
