Sands shrugged. “If you say so.”
“I do fucking say so. What about the auction. Are we ready?”
“Lampton doesn’t see a problem.”
“There’d better not be.”
“Of course.”
“Now fuck off, and start working for your money.” He flung the damp towel back at Sands, and resumed his run.
Sands was right. The Japanese tycoon was his wealthiest customer.
There could be no fuck-ups. Otherwise heads would roll. Literally.
46
Black – bleeding, exhausted – found tape from a kitchen drawer, and bundled the unconscious Lincoln onto one of the chairs in the conservatory. He positioned his arms behind the back of the chair, bound his wrists and ankles tight. Lincoln’s broken arm flopped like a tube of rubber. Also, for good measure, Black wrapped tape around Lincoln’s mouth. It was temporary, but it would do.
Black felt light-headed. His wounds needed treating. First things first. He made his way back out the house and into the barn. He kept the door open so he could see what he was doing. Tricia was as before, but she moaned softly. He untied her, let her drop into his arms. He held her gently, and carried her back to the house.
She regained full consciousness. He lay her on a bed, covered her in a blanket. Within an hour, she was up, dressed. She didn’t speak. She cleaned and treated Black’s wounds. She’d worked as a staff nurse at Victoria Hospital, on the south side of Glasgow. Accident and emergency. A life before a legal secretary. She tended his wounds with a quiet, grim competence. Black said nothing. She’d given him painkillers and a change of clothes. T-shirt, pullover, jeans, her son’s. He worked as an accountant in England. He had a full wardrobe of clothes for when he came up for holiday weekends. They were a shade tight on Black but better than garments soaked in other people’s blood.
They dragged the chair into the centre of the living room. They had hardly spoken. Black had no idea how she’d react. She’d spent a night with a killer. He dreaded to think what he’d done to her. Her composure was remarkable. Shock, thought Black. She was in shock.
They both were sitting in the living room, on separate chairs, each facing the unconscious figure of Lincoln, who was slumped forward. His hands and feet were bound by rope – the same rope he’d used on Tricia. The tape had been removed from his mouth. Black had made an effort to bring the room into a little order. He’d replaced the ornaments which hadn’t smashed, replaced the books. Cleared away the broken glass.
She’d made them both coffee. Now, she stared at Lincoln, pale, hollow-eyed.
She suddenly spoke. “What the hell is going on, Adam?”
Black sipped his coffee. On a table beside him was Lincoln’s mobile phone. Resting beside it, the Glock, complete with silencer. A world away from legal issues and private clients and all things normal. She’d been thrust into Black’s world. Where innocents died and people’s lives were ruined. Where violence and carnage were the norm.
“The man before you is an assassin. He calls himself Lincoln. He was paid to kill me.”
She remained motionless, wide-eyed, focused, hanging on every syllable. Black continued.
“Remember my friend who’d died? Gilbert Bartholomew? Turns out I didn’t know him, but he knew me. He reached out from the grave. He bequeathed me his estate. Which turned out to be nothing. Except a video. A group of men, hidden in masks, abusing a child. Very powerful men. Bartholomew thought these same men may have orchestrated the kidnapping of his daughter. Bartholomew wanted me to take it further than he was able. He was killed for his efforts. He wanted me to finish what he’d started. Destroy the paedophile ring and try to find his daughter.”
“And this man Lincoln…?”
“He works for them.”
She gazed at Lincoln, fascinated.
“Who are they?”
Lincoln suddenly stirred.
“Maybe we’ll find out,” said Black.
“Why do they want to kill you?”
“Because they know I’m close. Because they’re scared.” He gave Tricia a small, sad smile. “And you got caught in the crossfire.”
Black waited. Tricia did not respond.
“This can stop now,” he said. “We can bring in the police. Let them deal with it.”
She turned slowly to Black. “A child?”
Black nodded. “About six years old.”
“What will the police do?”
“The people involved are rich and powerful. I suspect powerful enough to influence the police.”
“I understand.” She swivelled her gaze back to Lincoln. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Lincoln’s eyes cracked open to slits; he shook his head, as if to shrug off drowsiness. He licked his lips with the tip of his tongue. He swallowed, bringing up a rumbling cough. He cleared his throat, opening his eyes wide. He examined his surroundings, flicking his gaze from Black to Tricia, then back to Black. Focusing. Calculating.
“I’m in pain,” he said.
“You should be,” replied Black. “I broke your arm. The bone’s poking through your skin. And there’s a puncture wound in your shoulder. A deep one. You’ll die soon, through loss of blood. Unless we get you to a doctor.”
“What you’ve done to me is… unsociable.”
“We were never really sociable, you and I.”
“True.” Lincoln looked at Tricia. “And how are you? Not too traumatised, I hope.”
Tricia remained motionless.
“You don’t need to worry about that now,” said Black. “You have more important matters to think about. Like telling us about the people you work for.”
“I’m trapped. I’m at your mercy. How will you deal with me?”
“We haven’t decided. We’ll think about that after you’ve answered our questions.”
“Can I have a drink of water?”
“No.”
Lincoln took a deep, shuddering breath, followed by another rattling cough. Seconds passed. Eventually he spoke.
“I don’t know anything. Except this. The people who hired me won’t give up until you’re both dead in the ground with your throats slit.”
Tricia bit her bottom lip, fighting back tears.
Black nodded slowly. “I thought you might say something along those lines. It’s a failure to appreciate the
