“The afternoon we met in my hotel room. I told you not to tell anyone. Later that evening, men were waiting for me there. Killers. Only you knew, Pamela. How would they know where I was?”
Pamela’s face creased in puzzlement. “But I didn’t tell anyone, I swear. Except…”
“Except your husband,” finished Black.
Pamela turned to look at him. Thompson didn’t move. He stared straight at Black. Black stared right back.
“Little Natalie was taken. You left the window open, and somebody took her. That’s what you said.”
Another sip of coffee.
“What happened, David? The money was never paid. According to Boyd Falconer’s records, the price was to be £250,000. But the money wasn’t paid, because she wasn’t delivered. So, what happened?”
Pamela turned slowly to face her husband. Still puzzled. But slowly, slowly, it was dawning on her. Something was terribly wrong. Perhaps a suspicion she’d harboured all those sleepless nights. “What’s he talking about, David?”
He blinked, as if he’d come out of a trance. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.” The words were a whisper.
“Maybe this will help.” Black pulled out the photograph of Natalie, and placed it on the breakfast bar.
“Tell your wife what happened. She’s owed the truth. Let go of the burden, David. Look at all the deaths. Natalie’s mother, overdosed. Her father, murdered. Pamela’s sister, dead. And little Natalie. What happened to her, David?”
Thompson lowered his head, staring at the open newspaper. He snapped his head up, his face white, lips stretched back, defiant. “It was the fucking money!”
Pamela gasped. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, my business was going down the fucking shitter. I saw a chance. It could have put us back again. Back where we belonged. How the fuck do you think I pay for all this? This fucking house. Your fucking gym. The fucking cars. How do you think I do this?”
Pamela looked stricken. “I don’t understand…”
“Because you don’t understand anything. I was heading for bankruptcy. I knew the Grey Prince. He made a proposal.”
“How would you know the Grey Prince?” asked Black. “How could such a proposal ever come up in conversation.”
“You’re a bastard, Black.” Thompson’s voice was hoarse, ragged.
Pamela spoke, her voice suddenly cold. “Answer the question.”
“I don’t need to answer anything. This is all bullshit. I need some air.”
He got up to go. Black pulled out a pistol and pointed it inches from his right eye.
“It would be ill-mannered to leave, especially when you have a guest. I think you know I’ll use this. It will bring me pleasure to spread your fucking brains across these nice kitchen units. So, please. Answer the lady.”
Thompson took a deep shuddering breath. He started to cry. He stretched his arms out to Pamela. “Please…”
Pamela took a small step back. When she spoke, her voice was tight, strained. “Answer the question, David.”
Thompson sat back down, put his head in his hands. “I went to some parties.” He sobbed.
Black waited. He had all day.
“Parties with children.”
Pamela staggered back, clutching her chest.
Thompson continued. “Only one man knew our identities. He knew all about me. He knew who I was. He knew about my business. He made a proposal. He called himself the Grey Prince.”
“And the proposal?” asked Black.
“If I could procure a child, a young child, then in return I would get £250,000.” He looked up, at his wife. “We had Natalie for the night. It was planned. She was taken. I opened the window. I gave her to two men.”
“And?”
“She didn’t make it.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” screamed Pamela.
“They put her in the boot of a car. She suffocated. She died.”
Black regarded the man before him. Disgust, contempt? He couldn’t describe his emotion. “What did they do with her?”
“Buried, I think. Somewhere on the Eaglesham moors. Where no one will find her.” He sobbed into his hands, then collapsed on to the kitchen tiles, scrunched up, crying.
Black laid the pistol on the breakfast bar.
“There’s a bullet in the chamber,” he said to Pamela. “Just one. I’ll leave it here. If your husband has a shred of courage, he’ll use it. Or you can. Or you can call the police. The choice is yours. I’m sorry, Pamela.”
Black left the house, made his way down the manicured front garden. He turned. From within the building, a sound had emanated. An echo. A gunshot? Perhaps. Or perhaps it was his imagination, playing tricks, hoping for such a sound.
He walked on, past the row of terraced houses, down to the riverside, to the Water of Leith.
He took a deep breath. He felt the rain on his face, the chill wind on his cheeks. Suddenly he was deflated, hollow. Bone weary.
The affair was over.
76
Black had never visited Dublin. It was his final destination on the list. He arrived at a tower block, one of three standing next to each other, and took the elevator to the tenth floor. He got to the door with the nameplate, Clancy. There was no doorbell. He knocked gently.
A man answered. Mid-forties, glasses, balding. Tired-looking. Lines etched the corner of his eyes, his mouth. He looked older than he probably was. Black got that.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m wondering if I could see Alanna?”
“Alanna. My daughter?” The lines on his face hardened. “And you are?”
“I’m Adam Black.”
The man removed his glasses, took a step forward, face breaking into a sudden broad smile.
“Adam Black.” He gazed at Black, eyes bright, alive. “She talks about you. All the time. She’s been waiting for you. We all have.”
Black returned the smile, embarrassed.
The man stretched forward, embraced him, held him close. “Her guardian angel.”
Maybe he wasn’t all bad.
Maybe he really was a good guy.
Maybe.
77
Tricia told Black she would not be returning, at least not in the near future and Black understood. She needed to clear her head, to think, to rationalise.
Black would wait. He didn’t get a replacement. He could answer the phones and do his own filing.
Back to basics.
It was a chill February morning, and the snow had turned to a
