He knows I’m not fucking about.
Black pointed to a desk at the far end of the room.
“Sit.”
Reith took a deep, shuddering breath, swallowed, turned slowly.
“This is an outrage,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’ll pay dearly.”
“Shut up.”
The office was long, rectangular. The walls on each side were shelved and filled neatly with rows of books. A miniature library. A walnut desk squatted at the far end beneath a circular window. Sunlight streamed through. It was neat, uncluttered, reflecting a honey-gold hue. In one corner was a drinks cabinet with crystal glasses and decanters and an array of bottles of whisky. They sparkled in the sun, like treasure. Reith removed his wig, made his way to a leather chair behind his desk. Black followed.
Reith sat. Black sat on a chair opposite. He smiled. Lord Reith did not smile back. Black stretched over and yanked the telephone off the desk, the line snapping. He placed it back on the polished wood.
“For privacy, you understand.”
Reith regarded him with a leaden stare. If looks could kill, thought Black.
“Who are you?” asked Reith.
“My name is Adam Black. I’m a lawyer. I represent your wife.”
Reith straightened, fixing him with a cold stare.
“Mr Black. I am a judge of the High Court of Justiciary. Do you understand what this means? You have illegally barged your way into…”
Black lifted the telephone and smashed it hard on to the desktop. It disintegrated into pieces. Reith gasped.
“It seems violence is the only way to get your attention,” said Black, his voice matter-of-fact. “It got your wife’s attention. You may have blinded her in her left eye, if you’re interested.”
Reith licked his lips, spoke in a careful voice. “Where is she?”
“Far away. When I mentioned earlier that she passes on her regards, she doesn’t really. I was lying. She’s terrified of you. But I’m not. Far from it. Your position as a High Court judge is irrelevant, because the way I see it, you’re just another piece of scum shit.”
Now, an edge in Reith’s voice when he replied. “I think, Mr Black, we can be reasonable about this. Whatever my wife told you is grossly exaggerated.”
“Of course. Nevertheless, she’s tired of the broken bones and the disfigurement and all those hospital appointments. And she’s too scared to go to court, when men like you can manipulate the system to your advantage. So, I’ve recommended to her that we take a different approach. We remove all the legal shenanigans, and cut straight to the chase. You okay with that?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“I know you don’t. It’s a novel approach. A faster route to justice.”
Black smiled, opened his jacket, took out one of the pens he had been carrying in his inside pocket. He pulled off the cap. The ball point had been removed, the metal shaft sharpened to a point.
Reith watched him, frowning. He spoke, a quiver in his voice, “What are you going to do?”
“Your wife mentioned that one Christmas Eve she was wrapping presents. On the kitchen table, I think she said. Three years ago. You remember? Maybe you don’t. You’re a busy man, after all. You weren’t happy with the way she was doing it. Careless, you said. Your exact word, I believe. Or maybe careless bitch. You told her to remove all the wrapping paper and start again. You watched her repeat the process. But you must have made her nervous, because she couldn’t get it right. Butter fingers. Then I suppose you got frustrated at her inability to wrap them to your high standard. Do you remember the punishment?”
The blood had drained from Reith’s face. His lips worked, but his response was a mumble.
“Let me remind you, Lord Reith,” said Black, still smiling.
Reith had one hand flat on the desktop. Black rammed the pen down, through skin, blood, cartilage, into the walnut veneer, to stand vertical, embedded in the timber. Clean through. Reith shrieked. Black slapped him hard across the face.
“Shut up!”
Reith stared at the fixture. Blood bloomed out across the papers on his desk.
Black lowered his voice, his smile gone. “Your wife wants free of you. You will give her what she asks. She will be seeking a divorce, which you will not contest. Whatever she wants, she’ll get. Let’s call it compensation. For criminal injuries. For years of unremitting abuse. The process will be clean and simple. You will never go near her again. If you do, then listen carefully, Lord Reith.”
Black leaned forward. “I will rip your fucking throat out. You understand? And should you mention this little meeting, then it’s your word against mine. I know where you live. I know where you play squash. I know the car you drive, and the route you take to work. I know where you go for your morning jog. I know when you go for your morning fucking shit. If you feel compelled to take this further, then that’s fine by me, because I’m your man. I will take enormous satisfaction in snapping your spine.”
Black’s voice lowered to barely above a whisper. “You will never know when, or where. You will spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. Do you understand me, judge?”
Reith nodded. His bottom lip trembled. His face seemed suddenly drawn, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets.
Black wrenched the pen free. Reith clasped his hand. Blood poured from the wound, on to his robes.
Black had a cloth handkerchief in his pocket, which he used to wipe the pen clean. He tossed it over to Reith.
“It was a pleasure, Lord Reith. I hope the case goes well.”
Black turned, and left.
It had been a productive day.
He left the court building, and headed back to his car. It was 4.30 in the afternoon, the sun still bright in a blue sky. For the first time in months, Black felt good about life.
Until his mobile phone buzzed. It was Tricia.
“Bad news, Adam,” she said.
“What?”
“Got a call from some Edinburgh law firm. Your friend Gilbert Bartholomew is dead.”
Black
