“You’re a problem solver. I’m one step up.”
“How so?”
“I’m a problem eliminator. Where is Tricia?”
“She’s safe. But if you do something stupid, she’ll never be seen again. It will be one of those unsolved disappearances you can watch on Sky Television. A life for a life, I’m afraid. Yours for hers.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Let’s go. I have a Glock in my inside coat pocket. I’d rather not use it here. We’ll walk to your car. You’ll drive. I’ll give you directions. It’s not far.”
Black rose from his chair. They left together, Lincoln following a foot behind him.
“Lovely coffee,” he shouted breezily to the young girl behind the counter.
“Thanks,” she replied, a weary smile on her face. “Have a nice one.”
42
They walked to Black’s car, Lincoln remaining a step behind. The car bleeped as Black turned off the alarm. He got in first. Lincoln got in the passenger’s side. He pulled the Glock from his inside coat pocket, silencer attached. He pressed it into Black’s side. “I don’t want to kill you here, Mr Black. It would be messy, and cause me considerable inconvenience. Also, I have plans. So please drive, and don’t try anything stupid.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to Tricia.”
Black started the car, pulled away. The road was still quiet. He drove, keeping the speed slow, steady. His situation was bleak. Yet he felt detached. Black knew all there was about fear. It affected men in different ways. He had seen its manifestations many times on the battlefield. For Black, his senses sharpened, his awareness expanded. He observed almost as a bystander. Picking up details, focusing on movements. Planning. Searching for weaknesses. Searching for a way out.
This time, he saw nothing. Except his dead body buried in some shallow grave in some desolate corner of Millport.
But one thing he could guarantee. He was no easy kill. Lincoln would have to work hard for his money.
He drove past sections of terraced houses, more shops, then the houses separated out – impressive rambling structures with long front gardens. Then the houses stopped, and suddenly the wild grass and gorse and rocks re-appeared. They had left the town. Back to the wildlands. The only constant was the churning waters of the Clyde estuary at his right hand.
“Who do you work for, Lincoln?” asked Black suddenly.
“It’s not important.”
“But they’re paying you. How much are you getting?”
“A very large sum of money. Thanks to you, I’ll be enjoying the warm weather and fresh lobster for a few more years.”
“I have money. Over a £1,000,000. It’s yours. Tell them you killed me. I’ll take Tricia, and you’ll never see us again. That way you get double pay. For doing nothing.”
Lincoln chuckled. “Very devious, Mr Black. But you forget. I enjoy my job. I’d feel cheated if I didn’t complete the task.”
“Of course. Fulfilment.”
“Exactly.”
“You had your chance.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr Black.”
Black drove on.
Five minutes later, he saw a house to his left, set back from the road, accessed by a single lane barely better than a dirt track.
“This is it,” said Lincoln. “Time for a reunion. Drive in.”
Black did as he was instructed. The car bounced and lurched over ruts and furrows. He reached the side of the house and parked beside a vehicle he knew well. A red Volkswagen Beetle. Tricia’s car.
Lincoln pressed the gun harder into Black’s ribs. “Get out, please.”
Black opened the car door, eased out. Lincoln followed suit.
He nodded towards an adjacent barn. He held the pistol straight at Black’s head.
“Glock 20,” said Black. “Powerful.”
“You know your weapons.”
“It helps.” Black still carried the Walther in his inside jacket pocket. The two hand cannons – the Desert Eagles – were still in his holdall on the back seat of his Mini. Useless to him.
“In the barn, Mr Black. The door isn’t locked.”
Black’s nerves tingled. He had no idea what to expect. He opened the door, entered. The place was in darkness. Lincoln followed, flicking a switch. A single strip light, fastened to a low beam, flickered. Details sprang into life. A work bench running down one side littered with old tools, tin boxes, rubbish. A rough concrete floor. The air was musty. The walls were corrugated metal, painted light blue. No windows. A low gambrel roof, narrow metal ceiling joists running across its length. Attached to one by a length of rope was Tricia. Naked, bleeding, hanging limp, head bowed.
Black’s heart rose to his mouth. Was she alive? He couldn’t be certain. He turned to Lincoln slowly, swallowing back his dread. “A life for a life, you said. Is she dead?”
“Take your jacket off, Mr Black. Put it on the bench. Make sure you don’t find your fingers curling round the pistol you’re carrying.”
With exaggerated care, Black removed his jacket, buying time, placing it neatly across some scattered screwdrivers, mind racing.
“You’ve been busy,” said Lincoln, referring to his bloodstained shirt. “Cut yourself shaving? Take it off as well, please.”
Black nodded. His lips were dry. Seconds were ticking fast. Counting down to a grisly end.
“Take it off, I said.”
Again, with the same deliberation, he took off his shirt, and placed it on top of his jacket. He turned to face Lincoln.
Lincoln cocked his head to one side. “You keep in shape.”
Which Black did. He ran every day, went to a cheap gym four times a week. Plus twenty-five years serving in the most elite combat unit in the world. Black was fundamentally fit and strong.
And lethal.
“It has its advantages,” replied Black, in a measured voice.
“Of course it does. It’s a prerequisite of the job for men like us. Now shoes, please. Place them on the bench.”
“I think you’re rather enjoying this.”
“I confess to being disappointed. I thought this would be much harder. But then, I counted on you being the chivalrous type. And I was
