“It’s from the Grey Prince.”
Falconer waited.
“He wants to know if Adam Black is dead.”
“Tell him, yes. Tell him Black is dead.”
Sands nodded. “And Lincoln? We need to respond. If he’s worried, then shouldn’t we be worried?”
“You’re a coward,” spat Falconer. “Grow a pair of fucking balls, why don’t you.”
Sands spoke, a tremor in his voice. “What harm can it do? Bring him in and talk. At the very least, it would be nice to actually meet the man who murders for us. We’ve paid him plenty over the years.”
“Maybe I’ll ask him to murder you.”
“What do we do?”
“Nothing. We wait.” It was the only answer Falconer could give. The truth was, like Sands, he was worried.
But one good thing had come out of it.
Adam Black was dead.
52
Black waited in the BMW. The radio was on. He flicked from station to station, not listening to any of it. His plan was unstructured. His target might not turn up. Even if he did, his theory could be way off track, the whole thing a waste of effort.
At 5.30pm a car appeared, stopping briefly at the electric front gates, waiting for them to open. It entered, the gates closing behind, then drove slowly up the forty-yard white chip driveway, tyres crunching on the miniature stones. It parked at the front of the house. The driver did not get out immediately. From his viewpoint, Black could make out the outline of his head. Looked like he was texting. Ten minutes in his car. Then he got out, a slim briefcase in his hand, and disappeared through the front entrance.
Black drew a long breath. It was all or nothing. His entire hypothesis rested on a hunch. But it was a strong hunch. He waited, his senses cranked up to a heightened competence.
Seconds dragged by, minutes, one hour, two. Where was the fucker?
The front door opened. The man appeared, walked round to the driver’s door. He moved briskly. He had somewhere to go, thought Black grimly. He got in, manoeuvring the car round in a three-point turn, so it was facing back the way it had come. The electric gates opened. The car moved off, into the traffic. Black followed.
Fun time.
53
Black followed, two cars between them. He was reasonably confident he wouldn’t be spotted. To these people, Adam Black was a dead man, courtesy of an email from Mr Lincoln, who by now was well and truly dead, whose body was probably rotting in the Millport countryside. You don’t expect to be followed by a dead man, thought Black. Unless these people believed in resurrection, which he doubted.
Still, he remained vigilant. He kept the visor down. The car he was following was distinctive. Not easily lost. But he could get unlucky with the traffic lights. It drove at a moderate pace, keeping within the speed limits. The cars between them pulled off. Black was directly behind him. With the visor down, his face was hidden. He could see the back of the driver’s head.
They were moving out of Glasgow, heading for the motorway, south. After twenty minutes, they merged on to the M74. Black kept his distance, allowing cars in between. They stuck to the slow lane, staying just under 60mph. Thirty minutes passed, forty. They passed turn-offs for East Kilbride, Motherwell, Larkhall. Black’s old stomping ground, when he was a boy. Fleeting memories flashed through his mind. Childhood friendships. He wondered occasionally about his school friends, how they turned out. None of them like him, he wagered. None of them killers.
They kept going. They approached the turn-off for Lesmahagow, west. A place somewhere between a village and a town, a couple of miles from the motorway, perched on the edge of moorland. Black slowed, keeping well back.
What the fuck is he doing here? A remote place. Isolated. Black rethought – probably a good choice, given the events about to unfold. If Black’s hunch proved true.
They passed the sign for Lesmahagow. After three miles, the road narrowed, high hedgerows on either side, beyond which were fields and woods. Black kept a good distance behind, nerves stretched. On a road like this, if he were vigilant, the driver in front might sense he was being tailed. But then not everyone shared Black’s paranoia.
The miles wore on, another twelve, heading further west, heading into Ayrshire. They passed a sign for Cumnock. The car in front slowed, put on its indicator, turned sharp left, up what appeared to be a single lane. Black approached a sign – Westcoates Hall. Private. Black waited a minute, then followed, turning his lights off. It was getting dark. Black drove slowly. The road was wide enough for one car, with passing places every two hundred yards. Low dry-stone walls on either side. Beyond, the gloom of woods.
After half a mile, Black slowed right down. The road led to a house, in the distance. More of a country mansion, the windows ablaze with lights. Cars were parked in a courtyard to one side. The road in was gated, the gates open, two men standing, watching. Guards. More men milling about the courtyard. Security was tight. Important people were attending, thought Black grimly.
Black stopped the car. He could go no further. He reversed, reaching a gap in the wall, beyond which was a cluster of trees. He manoeuvred his car through the gap, onto rough grass, and into the shadows. Black got out, retrieving the gym bag, and made his way to the house.
The woods stretched along one side of the road, a long sweep of darkness, stretching down to the building, skirting along a boundary wall, then continuing on. Black made his way towards the house, hugging the wall, invisible in the shadows. A car passed – a silver Range Rover. It swept past him. Black ducked. The car drove on, stopping at the gates, one of the guards talking to the driver, then pointing to a specific space in the courtyard. The Range Rover drove through. The men talked
