He stood, and turned to leave.
Rutherford also stood. “I wish you well, Mr Black. I just hope you’re not being sent on some wild goose chase. Pamela will see you out.”
He stretched out his hand. Black shook it, and said, “A stranger made it his business to instruct lawyers to prepare a will nominating me his sole beneficiary. His estate is shrouded in mystery. Within two weeks, the man is dead. Let’s say, it’s aroused my interest. Hasn’t it yours?”
“I’ve more important business to attend to.”
“I guess you’re busier than me.”
Suddenly the man at the far end of the table spoke. Max Lavelle. Senior partner. His voice was low, gravelly. Not loud, yet it cut the air.
“Good luck, Mr Black. A strange set of circumstances, don’t you think?”
Black fixed his gaze on the man.
“As strange as it gets.”
Black left the conference room, Pamela leading the way. He followed her back down the stairs, past the front reception area. He turned to thank her. She pressed something in his hand. She gave him a tight, strained smile.
“My card, Mr Black.”
Before he could respond, she turned and disappeared back into the bowels of Raeburn Collins and Co.
He watched her go. He studied the card. On one side, in embossed black lettering, her name and the name and telephone number of the firm. On the other, handwritten in blue biro were the words:
Fiona Jackson
31 Brereton Place
Help her!
9
Extract of the transcript of evidence given during the subsequent Court Appearance of SAS soldiers, relating to their actions in the Iranian Embassy Siege, 1980 –
Crown – You were part of Red Team?
Sergeant A – Correct, sir.
Crown – You entered through the balcony?
Sergeant A – Yes, sir.
Crown – Upon entering the room, what happened?
Sergeant A – The room was empty. I ran out, to the foot of some stairs.
Crown – What happened then?
Sergeant A – I encountered a terrorist.
Crown – How did you know he was a terrorist?
Sergeant A – He was holding a grenade, sir.
Crown – What did you do?
Sergeant A – I fired my weapon.
Crown – What type of weapon were you carrying?
Sergeant A – A Heckler & Koch MP5 Sub-machine gun.
Crown – Do you know how many bullets you fired?
Sergeant A – Difficult to say. It has a 30-round capacity.
Crown – If I said the man had sixteen bullet wounds, would that be accurate?
Sergeant A – That makes sense.
Crown – That makes sense? Why the need to fire sixteen bullets into one man?
Sergeant A – I don’t believe in half measures, sir.
Black was in no particular hurry to return to Glasgow. He decided he would pay Fiona Jackson a visit. He made his way back to Princes Street, and bought a map from a tourist shop. He could have brought up directions on his mobile phone, but Black preferred to do things the old-fashioned way. Brereton Place was close, set in the heart of the west end, maybe only a mile from where he was. A trendy place to live, he thought. Not inexpensive.
It was a glorious afternoon. He would walk. Dressed in blue jeans, a pair of old running shoes, and a plain white shirt, he blended in with a million other tourists that day. He slung his leather jacket over his shoulder, and set off at pace to his destination.
Edinburgh city centre was packed tight with people. Cars in the centre had more or less been eradicated, replaced by buses and trams. Overlooking everything, sprawled on a hilltop, were the grey stone battlements and towers of Edinburgh Castle, replete with fluttering flags and glossy black cannons, gleaming in the sunshine.
Black headed back to Drumsheugh Gardens, and kept walking. The crowds thinned, dissipating to nothing. The buildings were old and grand, the streets and avenues wide. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at Brereton Place, and to a block of new-build flats, looking incongruous in their surroundings of vintage architecture. He wondered how the hell they’d got planning permission. No doubt bribes were paid, palms were greased. Edinburgh, the seat of the Scottish Government, was no different from any other place. Where human beings existed, corruption was never far away, as Black well knew.
Number 31 was communal for a block of ten flats – five levels, including the ground floor, two flats on each level. Black inspected the list of names by the front door, a press-button by each name.
F Jackson. Flat 3/2.
He pressed the buzzer. Several seconds passed. A voice responded. It was impossible to make out, static interference rendering it incomprehensible.
“Fiona Jackson?”
The voice responded, several staccato sounds, sounding more machine than human. Black had to guess.
“My name is Adam Black. We spoke yesterday on the phone. I’ve been to your office. Your friend Pamela gave me her card. Can we talk?”
A silence followed, another few seconds. The communal lock buzzed. Black pushed the door open, went inside. The hall was clean and functional and modern. Pale-blue tiles on the wall, clean tiled floor. A bicycle was parked by a door. Black made his way up.
Her flat was on the third floor. Her door had a small gold nameplate.
The door was open.
Had she opened it for him? Unusual. Not the normal reaction to a stranger. Suddenly, he was alert. Something, call it instinct, told him this was wrong. Alarm bells rang. One thing the Special Services had taught him – trust your instinct. Tried and tested. It had saved his life many times.
He knocked gently. No sound from inside. Silence. He shifted his position, standing pressed against the wall, and with one arm, pushed the door wide open. He waited, expecting to hear something, at the very least the routine sound of human activity. No such sound.
He had a choice. He could walk away. Or he could keep moving. Black was not the type to walk away.
He inched round. He was facing a hallway. A mirror hung on the far wall opposite. Black glimpsed his own reflection. Dark wood flooring, walls painted
