He threw the knife – a strong, hard movement. Spin style. It plunged, almost to the hilt, into Lampton’s upper chest, near his shoulder. He staggered back, mouth open, aghast.
Black strode forward. Lampton waved his knife in a desperate effort to fend Black off. To no avail. Black rendered him a thunderous blow to the side of the head. Lampton fell back, hitting the ground hard.
Black crouched down to the girl. She was breathing. Concussed. He turned his attention back to Lampton, who was trying to regain his feet, the knife protruding from just below his shoulder joint. He was losing blood fast.
“What have you done to me?”
“Here, let me help you up.”
Black hauled him to his feet, pulling the knife out. Blood was pumping, alarmingly. An artery was punctured. “You want to go – go! Hide in the desert. But first…”
Black worked the knife on Lampton’s lower abdomen – a quick, deep slice. Lampton stepped back, eyes bulging. He clamped both hands on to the sudden aperture, aware that he was holding in his internal organs.
“What have you done?”
“Made sure. Now hide in the sand dunes all you want.”
“I’ll die.”
Black loomed in close. “I know.” He pushed him away.
Lampton stared at Black for a second. Then at his stomach, his trousers saturated in blood. If he let go, his insides would spill on to the ground. His face was a white skull, lips drawn back in fear, revulsion.
“Please…”
Black looked on, without emotion. Lampton saw no salvation. He croaked something inarticulate, staggered off into the night. He wouldn’t last longer than two minutes. Maybe less.
Let the vultures pick his bones.
74
Black carried the girl back into the house, and laid her on a couch. He got the two children from the dining room – both sitting huddled together in a corner – and gently gestured them through to the living room. They followed, silent, like two wraiths. He retraced his steps, reached the door with the keypad, punched in the number. He made his way past the dead sentry, took the lift down, passed the second dead sentry. Death followed him, he thought.
He reached the hall with rainbow walls and silver globes. He kicked every door down. Nine shocked, silent children followed back to ground level. This was how the Pied Piper felt, Black thought sardonically. He grouped them all in the living room, and called the cops, providing them with the GPS co-ordinates. Sands’ body was still sprawled on the floor, but Black was too weary to drag it outside.
They waited together. Black and twelve children. Not a word was spoken.
Perhaps he really was a good guy. Perhaps.
He had one more thing to do, to see the saga to its end.
Black had to go right back.
To the beginning.
75
Leith Walk. Three months later.
A trendy section of Edinburgh, and one of its longest streets. Tourists strolled on the cobbled walkways running parallel to the Water of Leith. They might sample a pastry from a Sicilian bakery, or browse the quaint Georgian antique shops. Perhaps leaf through books at the several bespoke bookshops. Or peruse the Leith Market, perhaps pick up a bargain. Then there were the wine bars, coffee houses, restaurants. Or a person might linger on one of the many bridges, and watch the water beneath drift by. A place once frowned upon. Now a place upmarket, desirable. Like any city. Bad becomes good. Good becomes bad.
Black was in no mood to see the sights. He had other matters on his mind. He headed for a street a mere stone’s throw from the waterside. It was a Saturday morning, early. A wind whipped up, tinged with hail. The forecast was snow later. Above, clouds the colour of slate made the day feel dark. The place was quiet. Too early, and too cold, for most.
Black reached the street – Victoria Crescent. Either side, a row of mid-terraced houses, each over a hundred years old. B-listed. Manicured front gardens, stone balustrades lining marble steps to entrances. High windows, still single glazed due to stiff planning laws.
An expensive place to live, thought Black.
He made his way up a pathway, rang the doorbell. The front door had glass panes styled in Charles Rennie Mackintosh designs. Black saw a silhouette approach, a vague outline. A woman opened the door.
Pamela Thompson.
She stared at Black, speechless.
“My God. It’s you.”
“It’s nice to see you too. How are you keeping?”
“I’m fine.” She frowned, uncertain, searching for the right words. “Please, come in.”
“Thank you.”
Black entered a hallway some might have described as old-fashioned. High ceiling, intricate coving, a silver striped wallpaper, pale cream carpet.
“It’s good to see you again. Please, come through. We’re having breakfast.”
Black followed her, through a door into a large kitchen. One side comprised a breakfast bar, three red cushioned high stools on either side. On one sat a man, drinking coffee, eating toast, a newspaper stretched out before him.
“Adam, this is my husband, David.”
David stopped in mid-chew. Like his wife, he stared at Black for several seconds. He placed the coffee mug carefully down on the worktop, swallowed then stretched out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Black shook his hand, smiled.
“Would you like a coffee?” asked Pamela.
“Yes, please.”
She filled another mug from a percolator. “We like our coffee strong, if that’s okay.”
“Perfect. No milk. Just as it is.”
Black took a sip. Pamela gestured that he sit, but Black said he preferred to stand. He would not be long.
“How have you been?” she asked.
“Good. How’s life at Raeburn Collins and Co.?”
Pamela shrugged. “I don’t work there anymore.” She lowered her voice. “I changed jobs. After Donald Rutherford was killed. It didn’t feel right. Did it, David?”
Her husband hadn’t taken his eyes off Black. He shook his head.
“I understand that,” replied Black. Then to David Thompson, “I have a message for you.”
Thompson remained still.
“The Grey Prince is dead.”
Pamela looked to her husband, to Black. “Who’s the Grey Prince?”
Black kept a steady gaze on Thompson. “But you probably already knew that.”
