Lincoln tilted his head back, regarding Black with a glittering gaze. He didn’t reply.
“I’ll take that as a no. I have. By real experts. There’s mental torture. And there’s the physical side. No matter what people tell you, the physical bit is much worse.”
Black turned to Tricia. “Do you want to leave the room?”
“I’ll stay.”
“Fair enough.”
On the floor beside his chair was a set of gardening secateurs. Heavy duty. Rusty but effective. Black had discovered them in the barn. He picked them up, and made a show of displaying them before Lincoln.
“Sometimes the simple ways are the best.” Black glanced at Tricia. “This might make a mess of your carpet.”
Tricia remained fixed on Lincoln. If anything, her gaze had intensified. She clutched the corner of a cushion with one hand. “Do what you have to do,” she said, her voice tight.
“Looks like I’ve got free rein. Lucky me.” He stood, looming over Lincoln. “Who do you work for?”
Lincoln stared up at Black, eyes wide, shining. “You can’t be serious. You’re not going to do anything. It’s not your nature.”
“I’m afraid you’ve misjudged me, Mr Lincoln. I can be quite a ruthless bastard when pushed. And you’ve done a lot of pushing, old friend. Now here’s the thing. There’s an art to torturing. Normally, if we’re going to partake in a little cutting, then the accepted route is to remove the digits first, then concentrate on the more vital areas. So, toes and fingers. Then ears. And so forth – the idea being, that you work up slowly to the really bad bit, hoping the victim talks before the really bad bit happens. That way, there’s less chance of a quick death, more chance of information being extracted. You get the picture. But I’m not a devotee of that method. I prefer not to fuck about. I go straight to the bad bit.”
Black reached down, unbuckled Lincoln’s trousers, pulled them down. Then his underwear.
“If you don’t start talking, I am going to cut your fucking balls off. With these rusted garden shears. They’re not very sharp, but I think, with a bit of tugging and pulling, they’ll do the trick. What do you say?”
The blood had drained from Lincoln’s face. He stared at Black, cheekbones harsh under his skin, eyes suddenly frantic.
“You’re fucking with me.”
“I’m not. But these will be.”
He stooped down, positioned the open blades around his testicles, and gently squeezed.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” sobbed Lincoln. “Stop! I’ll tell you!”
Black stepped back.
“We’re all ears.”
Lincoln swallowed, taking short shallow breaths. “You’re a cunt, Black.”
“I’ve heard worse. Now talk.”
“I’m given instructions via email. Password secured. A man called Norman Sands. He’s my contact.”
“Who’s Norman Sands?”
“American. Based in Arizona. He’s not the main player. He gets orders, then contacts me.”
“Arizona? Why the hell would a guy from Arizona hire someone to kill me?”
Lincoln said nothing, blinking sweat from his eyes.
Black loomed forward again.
Lincoln stared at Black, ashen-faced. “There’s a bigger picture,” he gasped. “The whole thing is run from Arizona.”
“The whole thing?”
“It’s a fucking industry! A fucking conveyor belt. The items are taken there, from all over, then sold on. Auctioned out. It’s big business.”
Black was silent for a spell, grappling with the concept. “And what precisely are those items?”
Lincoln bowed his head, staring at the ground. “You know,” he muttered.
“Tell us.”
“Children.”
“What’s the connection?”
Lincoln raised his head, eyes glazed. “What?”
He was slipping. Black slapped him across the face.
“Concentrate. What’s the connection between the paedophile ring in Scotland, and Arizona.”
“I can only guess.”
“Then fucking guess.”
“Arizona supplies them. Fresh meat. Once tasted, it never leaves you. So I’ve heard.”
“Give me names. The Scottish ring. Who’s in it? Does the name Donald Rutherford mean anything?”
Lincoln shook his head. “Only one name I’ve heard of. He organises things. Liaises between the UK and Arizona.”
“Who?”
“The Grey Prince.”
Black produced a wallet from his pocket, took out the photograph of Natalie Bartholomew. It was a long shot, but he had to try. “Have you seen this little girl?”
Lincoln twitched his head. “I only get asked to clean up. If there’s a problem, then whoever has it gives it to Arizona to deal with. Two-way arrangement. Arizona get well paid for supply, but they take care of the problems which come with it. I’m the problem solver. That’s why they do so well.” He gave a ghastly smile. “Each child comes with a warranty.”
Black swallowed back his disgust. He needed to move fast before Lincoln passed out. “You can contact them on your mobile?”
“Of course.”
“How do I email them?”
Lincoln gave him a set of digits for access to the phone, then a password. “I need a doctor.” His speech was slurred. “I’m only doing a job. You of all people should understand that.”
“Of course I should. But this is not my decision.” He turned to Tricia. She responded with an almost imperceptible shake of her head. “No doctor today,” said Black.
Lincoln’s head drooped. He faded into unconsciousness. His top was soaked in blood. It was dripping onto the carpet. He was dying.
Black sat down. “What do you want to do?”
Tricia didn’t answer him immediately.
Then she said, “No one saw him come here.”
Black waited.
“I can bury him round the back. No one will know. Except you and me.”
She turned slowly to face Black. Her eyes were far away.
“I have a son. If he’d been taken…” Her voice trailed off. Then she said, “These kids have got no one. Except you. The people that do these things, they need to pay for what they’ve done. Can you make them pay, Adam?”
“I can. With interest.”
“Then kill them all.”
“Gladly. And Lincoln?”
“He’s mine. Leave him here.”
“I understand. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
She didn’t reply, her attention back to the slouched figure of Lincoln.
Black took the pistol, the mobile phone, and left.
They would all pay. With interest.
47
Lampton watched from his desk. This was on him. If anything fucked up, it became his problem. He watched the monitors on the wall in
