Venomous: A Must Read Crime Thriller

1

3rd January

Truth lies in the heart of combat

Hattori Hanzo

Adam Black had devoted an entire wall of his living room to the task ahead. Also, a good proportion of the floor. Files. Case notes. Medical reports. Psychologists’ opinions. Photographs.

It was a task few would gladly have accepted. Why then, had he? He couldn’t provide an instant answer. Maybe the challenge, the danger, the huge risks involved.

Or maybe something else. Something darker, bobbing always to the surface of his thoughts, like flotsam, incapable of sinking away. Maybe it was the prospect of dying, which in this case, was a likely outcome, and which, if Black were to bare his soul, was something he welcomed. Craved.

He sat on a chair, in the centre of the room, and gazed at the photographs he’d pinned to the wall. They filled almost every space, in neat rows and columns. Before and after. Photographs of ten young women. Pretty, fresh-faced, smiling, frowning, sad, drawing dramatic poses. Pictures of them growing up, as school kids, with parents, siblings, at birthday parties, Christmas time. Pictures of everyday life. Then more photographs of an altogether different sort. The same ten young women, in locations in various parts of Glasgow. Naked, mutilated, dead. Smiles and frowns vanished, expressions stricken.

In the centre was a photograph of a man. He was looking directly at the camera. It was taken on the day this man had pled guilty at the High Court in Glasgow for the abduction and murder of the same ten young women. Six months earlier.

Black stared at the face, which stared back. The eyes. They wormed deep into his soul.

And soon they would meet.

Black stared.

The Red Serpent stared back.

2

Four days earlier – 30th December

The room was at the end of a long corridor, at the back of a squat, stone-built, pre-war structure near the centre of Dumfries, a building drab and square and unremarkable, with tall metal-framed windows blanked out by closed blinds. The only indication of what it was used for was a small sign bolted onto the wall by the main front door – Infrastructure and Development . A non-title, thought Black. As it had to be.

The front double door was entered by pressing a buzzer on the wall outside. A man, sitting at reception, unlocked it from a panel on his desk. He had greeted Black with a terse nod, unsmiling, entering his name in a book. Room 7. First floor. The interior was basic. Bare clinical corridors, devoid of any ornamentation. Tiled floors, white walls. Strip lights at regular intervals providing harsh illumination. There was no name on the door to the room Black was in. There were no names on any of the doors, in fact. Only numbers. More secrecy. Layer upon layer, until the truth became so hidden, it got forgotten. This was the world Black had been asked to enter.

He sat on one side of a large walnut veneered desk. It was clear, save a telephone, a tray of papers, a laptop, and two cups of coffee. Also, a single sheet of A4-sized paper. The walls were blank, except a clock. It was 8am. The room was large. At one end, a cracked dark leather couch, and some chairs round a cheap coffee table. In a corner, a drinks cabinet, glittering with bottles and glasses.

On the other side of the desk sat Colonel Stewart Mackenzie. A small, compact man. Neat features. Weathered skin. Grey hair shaved above the ears, a bristling salt and pepper moustache. Blue eyes, sparkling with inquisitive intelligence. Immaculately dressed – crisp white shirt, dark tie, dark suit. A military man, a lifetime serving Queen and Country, and he looked every inch of it. Black was less formally dressed. In fact, the opposite end of the spectrum. Jeans, open-collared shirt, somewhat-worn running shoes. He didn’t give a damn about dress code. He openly rebelled against it. If it bothered the Colonel, the Colonel didn’t show. Not that Black would have cared particularly if it had.

They each had a coffee. Black liked his strong, no milk, no sugar.

The Colonel spoke in a clipped, neutral voice. A hint of an accent. Perhaps Yorkshire. The Colonel had never volunteered his origins. Black had never asked.

Thanks for coming, Adam. I wasn’t sure you would.

"Your call was intriguing. Bordering on the theatrical. A threat to national security. Not something you hear every day. You caught my attention."

The Colonel gave a small sad smile. That was the idea. And I wish it was theatrical. But this is a million miles from theatreland. This is more – how can I put it without being clichéd – the stuff of nightmares.

You can’t get much more of a cliché.

But it describes the situation well enough. Read this.

The Colonel pushed the piece of A4 paper across the desk. Black picked it up and read the words typed on it.

Elspeth wakes screaming in the night. When she is lucid, her conversation can be stimulating, if a little distracted. But she is most revealing. She confides in me. She tells me all her secrets. And she has many.

I listen to Elspeth with the patience of a god. And when she reveals her last secret, when she has given me all she can, then we become eternal.

Like a circle. Like a serpent swallowing its tail.

She’s Mummy’s little girl.

Soon, she’ll be mine.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tempus fugit.

28 th December, and counting.

Forever yours,

Red Serpent

x

Black placed the piece of paper back down on the desk top.

The Red Serpent?

This is a copy. The original was sent to the Chief Constable’s office. By special delivery. To avoid the Christmas logjam.

Black frowned. Sorry for not catching on. What am I looking at, exactly?

The Colonel lifted the cup of coffee to his mouth, took a sip, grimaced. Hate instant shit.

You should visit my office. I live on the stuff. You become hardened to it, after a while.

The Colonel placed the cup back on the desk. He cleared his throat. His tone was exact and clear.

A twenty-two-year-old woman went missing four days ago. On the 26 th December, to be precise. She was visiting Edinburgh to spend Christmas with some friends. Innocent enough. They’d gone to a club. She went to the bar to get drinks, and wasn’t seen again. Her friends got worried and called the police that evening. The police responded instantly. They carried out an immediate search of the building and the surrounding area. But there was no trace. She’d vanished.

Black raised an eyebrow. They called the police? And got an immediate police response? Wow. Things happen fast nowadays. A young girl getting drinks goes AWOL from a nightclub in Edinburgh at the height of party time. It won’t be the first time it’s happened. But yet, the police were called, and the police came running. Imagine that.

Keep that thought, the Colonel said. I dare say, under normal circumstances, matters would have plodded along, the police stirring after twenty-four hours or so, the wheels of law enforcement grinding into action.

But the circumstances were not normal.

Abnormal, the Colonel replied. Monumentally abnormal.

Which brings us back to my opening remark.

Remind me.

The Red Serpent.

Ah yes. Him.

Black waited.

It seems he’s back.

Which was impossible.

3

The Colonel cleared his throat once again, as if about to commence a presentation. I don’t need to remind you of the details, but I shall. To give you context. Most of the civilised world followed the exploits of the psychopath referred to as the Red Serpent, christened by the media on account of his predilection for tattooing his victims in a particular and somewhat distinctive style.

A serpent swallowing its tail. Black knew the case well. The Colonel wasn’t exaggerating. The Red Serpent’s antics had captured the interest – and fear – of an entire nation.

Ten young women, over a period of five years. Two every year. A conveyor belt of death. He was methodical and consistent in his timetable. Two days after the initial kidnap, the police would receive a typewritten letter. In his later letters, he’d adopted his given name, referring to himself as The Red Serpent. I think he was rather fond of it. Exactly two months from the date of the letter, the victim would be dumped, in random places throughout Glasgow. Left at night, to be discovered the next morning. Maybe a park, a quiet street corner, a multistorey car park. Each victim mutilated and dead. A five-year killing spree. Until…

Until he was caught.

Until he was caught, the Colonel repeated. Six months ago. He pled, he was sentenced, case closed. The world rejoiced. One less serial killer.

Which brings us back to the letter, Black said.

The Colonel picked up the A4 piece of paper, gazed at its contents. The letter, he said softly. The letter that shouldn’t be.

Black took another sip of coffee. We have what… a copycat thing going on here? Or, dare I say it, you got the wrong man.

The Colonel gave a brittle smile. If it were so simple. The right man was caught. He admitted to things only the killer would know. Plus, the evidence was overwhelming. Victim’s blood on his clothes, little keepsakes found in his house. And of course, he pled guilty.

Compelling.

"Now the really compelling bit. The letter received two days ago is in the same style as the previous ones. Also, and crucially, it contains words featuring in every letter sent, details of which were kept from the public domain. He uses the Latin phrase – tempus fugit. Time flies. He finishes off, forever yours. Identical wording in ten letters. You see the conundrum we face."

Right guy captured. No copycat. Looks like he had a pal. Not so much of a conundrum, more like one major fucking headache.

Succinctly put, the Colonel said, but it’s only half the story.

I wondered when we were getting to this. Her friends called the police, and they came immediately. Who then is Elspeth?

I thought you’d never ask.

4

The Colonel opened a drawer in his desk, took out a folder. In it were photographs, which he handed to Black. A young woman, smiling, in different settings. On a beach, with friends. In a library, sticking her tongue out, rolling her eyes. At a restaurant, toasting with a glass of wine. Loose blonde curls framed her face, delicate chin, pale clear skin. Blue eyes charged with intelligence and vitality. Appealing, thought Black.

That’s Elspeth, the Colonel said. "In her final year at St Andrews University, studying English and Politics. Twenty-two years old. On the cusp of a glorious career, no doubt. The promise of a full and happy life. Like a million other young women, I dare say. Only she’s not. She’s unique. Her full name is Elspeth Owen. As you’ve just read, she’s Mummy’s little girl."

And who’s Mummy?

The Colonel ran a fretful hand through his hair.

Elspeth Owen is the daughter of the Prime Minister.

Black didn’t speak, as he tried to compute. A threat to national security didn’t seem to do the situation justice. More like one huge fucking shitstorm. The shitstorm of the century.

How’s the law? asked the Colonel suddenly.

Black took several seconds to answer, mind adjusting to the switch in conversation.

The law? As in my legal practice? Seeing as you’ve asked, ranging from torpid to profound boredom. Glad you’re taking an interest.

The Colonel’s face broke into a wintry grin. How would you like a change of scenery?

I don’t follow.

Of course you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come. You know I can offer you something no one else can.

Which is?

First, let’s ditch the coffee. A whisky perhaps?

It’s 8.45 in the morning.

We’re both out of bed.

Black shrugged. Why not.

Let’s sit.

The Colonel gestured him over to one of the chairs at the far side of the room, then went to the drinks cabinet, fixed two whiskies in little crystal glasses, gave one to Black. Black sat on a rather faded cloth armchair, the Colonel sat on the leather couch opposite.

I asked you once if you’d like to work for us. The government. You never really gave me an answer.

I was in the army for over twenty years. I think that counts towards working for the government. Then I retired.

You retired? Really? That’s an interesting expression. I don’t think people like us ever retire.

Black hovered the whisky under his nose. Glenfiddich. Even in the morning, it had a perfect smell.

You were a captain in the Special Air Service, continued the Colonel. You won the Military Cross. You’ve fought all over the world, including countless excursions behind enemy lines, in both Afghanistan and Iraq. You were a guest in Saddam Hussein’s dungeons, from which you escaped, and saving the lives of your men. I’ve read the dossier.

I have a dossier? I’m flattered. All in the past.

Bullshit. Let’s confront certain realities. Your wife and daughter were murdered. As a consequence, you single-handedly wiped out of existence a Scottish crime lord and his drug empire. You destroyed an international paedophile ring, saving the lives of many children. Again, on your own. You’ve faced the most dangerous men in the world, and come through. You are a quite unique individual, Adam. Do you want to know why?

Black cocked his head to one side. There seems little point in answering, seeing as you know so much about me.

Because you like it, said the Colonel, undeterred. "More than that. You need it. And you were trained to be the best. Which you are. Men like you feed on danger. Without it, what are you? Almost all your adult life, your job was to kill. Period. You don’t turn that off. It’s in your DNA. It’s carved deep into your soul. I’ve been watching you for a long time, Adam. When this shit happened, I only thought of one man."

One man to do what, exactly?

The impossible. Will you help us? Will you help Elspeth. Because right now, make no mistake, she needs someone like you.

Black took a long slow breath. The Colonel had given a fair assessment. But he didn’t know the full truth. He didn’t know the real reason Black embraced danger. It wasn’t the danger itself which Black enjoyed. It was the killing. The killing of men. Evil men. And in the killing, he harboured a hope. The hope that in the process, he took a bullet and went straight to hell, where he believed he belonged, well and truly. The Colonel talked about his soul. Black didn’t have one.

I take it you have some sort of plan? Black asked.

The Colonel gave a frosty smile. Barely. And it’s drastic. And it’s life-changing. And you’ll have to give up everything you know. How can I put it? There’s no going back.

Is that all?

"Not quite. We’re on the clock. We have until the 28 th February, should he keep to his schedule, which we have to assume he will. Tempus fugit. What do you think, Adam?"

I think I need a top-up.

And you’ll need something else.

Yes?

A target.

5

Black got back to Glasgow that afternoon, was back in his flat for 3pm. He was hungry, but food wasn’t an essential. The first thing he did was reach for the bottle of Glenfiddich he kept in a kitchen cupboard. It was something he found he was reaching for more and more. And he made sure, when he’d killed off a bottle, another was replaced with marvellous efficiency.

The drink helped. It softened the edges of the darkness. But the darkness still crept in, and as the years drifted by, its presence intensified. The operations, deep in enemy territory, Afghanistan and Iraq, had left latent scars. Sometimes, he would close his eyes, and they would come. The faces of those he’d killed, some just boys dressed in uniforms too big for them, holding weapons they didn’t really understand, their eyes wide in childlike fear as Black put a bullet in their heads. Many of his friends had suffered from PTSD. Some indeed had paid the ultimate price. Suicide was common amongst veterans. Generally, it was an overdose. Or they drunk themselves into oblivion. One had jumped from a plane without a parachute. When Black left the army, he thought, at the time, he could handle it. And he did, for a spell. But it was never going to be easy, swapping a Heckler and Koch MP5 sub-machine gun for an office desk. A Glock semi-automatic for a Tesco trolley. And slowly, slowly voices began to whisper on the fringes of his mind. Whispers of the dead. Shapes hovered and floated. Images, flashbacks, scenes. Black had killed many people. Now they were coming back, blowing dark clouds in his head.

The drink helped. Death would be more complete. He sat in a worn armchair in his living room. He took a swig of the whisky, topped it up. A young woman had been kidnapped, and Black had a mission, bestowed upon him by Colonel Mackenzie. Probably because he knew Black was mad enough to undertake it.

Black wasn’t mad. He was bone weary, and looking for an excuse to find the exit door. The Colonel had given it to him.

Black would take up the task, and do what he was required to do. And if he died in the process, then he guessed it would be better than jumping from a plane without a fucking parachute.

He finished his glass, and immediately topped it up, pushing out the darkness.

But it came anyway.

6

15th January

Death is watching you all the time, make no mistake. That’s okay. Death watches everybody. It’s when it smiles. That’s when you have a problem. But soldiers of the Regiment know exactly what to do. They smile right fucking back.

Observation raised by Staff Sergeant to 22 nd Regiment of the SAS.

The place was quiet. Pauline Jardine checked her appointment book. The first one was scheduled for noon. Nothing for the next three hours, unless she got a walk-in. Which she wouldn’t expect. It was a bleak, freezing Wednesday morning in the middle of January. Snow wasn’t far away. The air bit the skin, made the lungs tingle with every breath. People were either working, or staying indoors, if they had any sense. Popping early into a beauty salon in the south side of Glasgow was not something she anticipated happening. Not today.

She’d been in a short while, switching the heating on, the lights, tidying. Though not much tidying needed to be done. Pauline was obsessive about neatness. Everything in its proper place. Everything scrupulously clean. A little order in a chaotic world.

One thing was certain. Pauline Jardine’s world at this moment was chaotic. Dangerously so.

She usually opened the salon at 10am. Pauline had worked in the industry long enough to know most ladies desiring a makeover were not early risers.

She had come in an hour early for a very specific reason. A meeting had been arranged. There was no way to avoid it. That had been part of the problem. She had avoided people who did not take kindly to being ignored. Her lip quivered. She took a deep inhalation of breath, fighting an urge to break down, sob into her hands.

A nightmare was coming. She glanced at her watch for the tenth time.

In five minutes, to be exact.

7

Pauline took up position behind the reception desk, and waited. There was nothing else for her to do. Her salon looked out onto the main road. Traffic was dwindling. Rush hour had ended. People waited at a bus stop across the road. People going to work perhaps, or into the city centre for any number of reasons. They could see her; she could see them. She’d kept the front window blinds open. Which was why she’d asked to meet here. Too public. Too exposed.

Surely they wouldn’t try anything here.

Though if she were dragged into one of the back rooms… She couldn’t finish the thought. She had to keep calm. They were businessmen. They would see reason. They would understand, consider, reach an agreement.

Who the fuck was she trying to kid?

As if from nowhere, two men stood outside at the door, peering in. One was smiling, and fluttered his fingers in a little wave. The other was not smiling. They entered. She stood up. A bell, fastened at the top of the door, tinkled.

Hello, Pauline.

Hello, Danny, she said, hardly able to keep the shake from her voice. Thanks for coming.

Thanks for asking us, replied the smiling man, his voice rich in sarcasm. The second man turned, and locked the door, flipping the sign over to closed. Now both men stood, side by side, focusing on her, and all Pauline could do was stare back.

The one who spoke was dressed in jeans, a heavy parka, gloves. His features were regular, forgettable. Pale-blue eyes regarded her from a round, bland face, blond hair receding back from a smooth, slightly bulbous forehead. Maybe five-ten. A man who was in middle ground, between portly and just plain fat. Another couple of years, and he’d get there.

The other was altogether different – smaller, but broad, his neck wider than his head, close brooding eyes under a heavy brow, dark hair shaved almost to the bone. He wore a close-fitting sports top, showing off his physique to full effect, oblivious to the cold.

The first man was Danny Brogan. Money lender, pimp, extortionist, drug dealer, gangster. Highly intelligent. The other was Ian Johnstone. Full time thug. Brogan’s enforcer. The man sent to maim and disfigure. The man who delivered Brogan’s message, and then some.

I have the strongest feeling you’ve been trying to avoid us, Brogan said. I hope I’m wrong. Because that would be plain rude. Wouldn’t that be rude, Ian?

Ian Johnstone didn’t respond. He kept his eyes fixed on Pauline.

Brogan continued. How’s your father keeping?

Pauline swallowed back her fear, did her best to keep her voice level.

Not so good. He barely recognises me.

Sorry to hear that. Must be hard, seeing a man like that, your own dad, reduced to a shell. Like a husk. Nothing inside. Hollow. All the lights switched off. If I end up like that, I hope to Christ they give me a pill.

Pauline nodded, but said nothing. She had nothing to say.

But we’re not really here to talk about him, are we, Pauline?

I suppose not.

We’re here to talk about money. And money makes the world go round. Doesn’t it, Ian?

Johnstone didn’t move an inch.

Money, money, money, continued Brogan. Or lack of. You’re late, Pauline. By two weeks. And you know it. Let’s remind ourselves. You – or more specifically your father – came to us. We didn’t come to him. And when people come to us, we explain in detail that we’re not like normal lending institutions. If you can’t repay the money and the interest within the allotted time, we don’t send letters, or emails, or hire fancy lawyers, or any of that stuff. As you well know. We prefer to use other means. Which is why we’re here.

Brogan tilted his head down, kept his eyes on her. The smile was gone. His voice was soft when he spoke, laced with menace. Do you have the money, Pauline?

Pauline had placed her handbag on the reception desk in front of her. She opened it, and pulled out a brown envelope, which she held out to him.

It’s all there. Twelve thousand pounds.

Brogan took it. He tucked it in an inside pocket.

Aren’t you going to count it? she asked.

You’re short.

Pauline felt the heavy drum of her heart. It’s what was owed… she stammered.

"Twelve thousand was the amount you owed before you were late. It’s now £24,000. It’s called penalty interest. So that’s another twelve. And I want paid. Right now."

Pauline couldn’t think of a response. She tried to speak, but her mouth was suddenly dry.

Do you have £12,000?

She shook her head. Where can I find that type of money? she mumbled.

You managed to scrape this together, Brogan said, patting the pocket where he’d put the envelope.

That was stock money. And six months’ rent. I don’t have any more.

That’s not strictly true. You need to open your eyes. Look around.

I don’t understand.

You have all this. Your business. All the equipment. The products. Maybe we can put in some tanning beds.

What are you saying?

Hear that, replied Brogan, nudging Johnstone. Johnstone looked immovable, like a chunk of granite. His gaze did not waver. Brogan continued in a silky voice. I think she understands exactly what I’m saying. I think she’s trying to be cute.

His lips curled into a crooked smile.

"What I’m saying, you stupid bitch, is that you work for me now. This is my business. I have acquired it. Which means you’ll launder my money. And you’ll work your little cunt off until the debt’s clear. That could be a considerable while, what with compound interest, and penalties, and anything