The glass box, p.1
The Glass Box, page 1
THE GLASS BOX
KARL HILL
Copyright © 2022 Karl Hill
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The right of Karl Hill to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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First published in 2022 by Bloodhound Books.
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Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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www.bloodhoundbooks.com
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Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8186-3
CONTENTS
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Aftermath
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ALSO BY KARL HILL
The Adam Black Thrillers:
Unleashed
Violation
Venomous
Fury
Finale
1
THE INITIAL OUTRAGE
Two brothers. John and Billy. One fifteen, the other seventeen. John was the younger, but two inches taller. John was lean and lithe. Billy was heavier and stronger. He had fists like clubs and liked to use them. Billy had a quick temper and could be wild with it. Worse than wild. Manic.
Their parents were solid middle class. Father was an accountant with a mid-sized firm in town, mother taught geography in the local secondary school. They lived in a nice house in a nice area of Glasgow. All normal. Except it wasn’t. Billy was trouble. Billy didn’t seem to understand the difference between right and wrong. This had become apparent from an early age, escalating as the years progressed, until Billy hit seventeen, when matters reached a grim crescendo.
A new family had moved in next door. Mr and Mrs Purkis and their fifteen-year-old son Chadwick. Chadwick Purkis was a quiet, solemn boy. Some might have described him as reserved. Others, shy. He went to a different school from John and Billy. Chadwick went to a private, fee-paying school.
For some reason, this irked Billy. John, however, was unconcerned. It never occurred to him to dislike someone because they went to a different school, private or otherwise. He and Chadwick became fast friends.
At seventeen, Billy had left school and was at college. He had enrolled in Coaching and Sports Development, for no other reason than it sounded good and to please his parents. Plus, it looked piss easy. He took little interest in the course. More profitable was his extracurricular activity: selling drugs. Working for a dealer he’d met by sheer chance at a club, the dealer had seen Billy’s potential – that he lacked scruples. Billy saw money, and Billy loved money.
Billy sold class A drugs. Cocaine, MDMA, crystal meth. He got his batches from his dealer friend, sold them anywhere and everywhere. College campus, car parks, clubs, lock-ups, houses. There was no shortage of users. Their age was an irrelevance to Billy, so long as they handed over the cash. Billy got a ten per cent cut of the gross. He was the one taking the risks, but he didn’t care. The money was too good to pass. If he didn’t do it, someone else would. He was supplying a need. And the need was real.
One summer afternoon. July. The air was warm and still, the sky cloudless and pale blue. School had finished for the holidays. John and Chadwick were running. Training for a half marathon. John was fit, Chadwick still had work to do, but John kept his pace slow. It was 3pm. Queen’s Park was the best place to train – a mile from their houses, lots of inclines. Grass surface, so easier on the knees and ankles. No traffic. Plus, drinking fountains, which was helpful.
After maybe twenty minutes of running, the conversation between the boys tended to dry up. Certainly on the part of Chadwick. Talking used up too much energy. They jogged, silent and sweating in the heat. They reached a section of the park where the path snaked through dense shrubbery. They turned a corner. Suddenly, before them, a guy wearing a hoodie, and two young kids. They jerked round, startled. The kids ran off. The guy had a wad of money in his hand. The guy was John’s brother.
John and Chadwick stopped. Chadwick was puffing hard.
John spoke. He knew what he’d seen, but he asked the question anyway. “What you doing, Billy?”
Billy’s face, shadowed in the hood, contorted with anger. “What’s it fucking look like? You got a problem with that, Johnny boy? Tell me if you have a problem.”
John raised his hands, trying to soothe the situation. “No problem, Billy.”
“You breathe a word,” Billy said. He stared at Chadwick, slit-eyed. “You, Chadwick. What type of name is that? It’s only turds with arsehole names that can get into that fancy school. Am I right?” He switched his gaze to Johnny. “Am I right, Johnny?”
John didn’t respond.
Billy stepped closer. “What you looking at, Chadwick?”
“Easy,” John said. “No one’s going to say anything.”
“You trust him?” Billy said. He took another step closer. “Chadwick, you going to talk?”
Chadwick, blinking, confused, darted a glance at John. “I don’t know…”
Billy’s arm darted forward. A quick, savage movement. A flash of silver. Billy stepped back. In his hand a knife, its silver gleam a vibrant new colour.
Billy backed off, pointed at John. “Not a fucking word.” He sprinted away.
Chadwick stood for five seconds before his mind acknowledged what had just happened. He looked down at the hole in his running vest, an inch below his ribcage. He put his hand over the wound, and his fingers turned red. He tried to speak but was unable to articulate. He sank to his knees, toppled into the soil and leaves.
John remained still, caught in the moment, breathless, transfixed. Disbelief, horror. He experienced a range of emotions. One second, running in a park. Next, his friend lying in a puddle of blood. John knelt, tried to staunch the wound. Chadwick was unconscious and bone white. John screamed and sobbed. The blood kept coming, pumping with every beat of Chadwick’s heart.
John wept. But that didn’t stop the blood.
Chadwick Purkis lived. The blade had punctured a kidney, nicked an artery. But the boy survived. He stayed in hospital for three weeks. A month later, Mr and Mrs Purkis sold their house.
Chadwick never told a soul who had stabbed him. Neither did John.
The day after the incident, Billy disappeared. He never came home. His parents, distraught, did what they could, but he was never found.
2
THIRTY YEARS LATER
One of the men carried a turquoise zip-up Lonsdale sports bag, which, for effect, he dropped on the floor of the hotel bar. The contents clanked. It was 2.30am. The bar was empty, save the man with the bag, his associate and a third man, who was the owner of the hotel.
The man who dropped the bag was large
The smiling man did all the talking.
“I miss the smell of cigarettes in a bar. Don’t you?”
The owner swallowed, licked his lips, opened his mouth but said nothing. His forehead shone under the soft glow of the downlighters.
“But then I’m a smoker. I’ve been smoking since I was fifteen. I suppose I’m what you would call an addict.” His voice was soft, educated, each word clear and lacking any trace of an accent. He raised an eyebrow, prompting the owner to respond.
“I’ve never smoked,” the owner mumbled. “My mother did.”
“Filthy habit,” responded the smiling man. “My colleague here doesn’t smoke either. He’s an addict of a different sort. A keep-fit addict. Power lifts and bench presses. Isn’t that right, Mr Halliday?”
The man referred to as Mr Halliday reacted with the slightest shrug of his heavy shoulders, keeping an impassive gaze on the owner.
“We can work this out, Jacob,” the owner said. “I can get the money. I just need a little more time. Things are slow. Tell your boss there’s no problem here.”
When he spoke, his eyes blinked, darting from one man to the next, like dancing fireflies.
“My mother didn’t smoke either,” said Jacob – the smiling man. “Hated the things. You want to hear something funny, Raymond?”
Raymond – the owner – seemed bewildered. “What?”
“I said you want to hear something funny, Raymond?”
“Sure.”
“To be perfectly candid, it’s not very funny. It’s tragic. My mother died of lung cancer. Imagine that? You know how?”
Raymond shook his head, jowls reverberating like a slobbery dog.
“Passive smoking. My dear old dad. Smoked twenty cigars a day. You know what that is?”
“No.”
“Sheer bad luck.”
Raymond nodded, more blinking, sweat dribbling into his eyes. “Bad luck,” he said.
“Which brings us back nicely to the situation in hand. Doesn’t it, Mr Halliday?”
Halliday remained motionless, features lacking any clear expression.
“This matter of the money you owe,” continued Jacob. “Your failure to pay the allotted instalments is your bad luck. You’ve reneged on the wrong man. If a debt is owed, my employer doesn’t waste his time with the usual paraphernalia – letters and lawyers and suchlike. What does he do? He cuts out the wastage, deals directly with those individuals who owe. When I say ‘directly’, he uses us as his representatives. This method is simple and effective. So, to keep this matter completely by the book, we are here to collect £20,000 on his behalf. And I believe you’re telling us you can’t pay. Is this correct? For the record.”
“Jesus Christ,” croaked Raymond. “What the fuck is this? Give me a chance here. Business is shit–”
“Will you please just answer the question,” interrupted Jacob.
“That’s correct,” said Raymond, voice a whisper.
“Now we have clarity. And above all else, my employer welcomes clarity. Your response allows us to move to the next phase.”
“Next phase?”
Jacob gave a delicate shrug, nodded at Halliday, from which he appeared to derive exact information. He bent down to the sports bag at his feet, unzipped it, placed both hands inside, rummaged about, all to the sound of rattling metal.
He pulled out a carbon steel claw hammer.
“Phase two,” said Jacob, voice soft as silk.
Raymond took a step back, tried to speak, emitted only an inarticulate moan.
Halliday’s face registered no emotion. He turned, swung the hammer, let it fall on one of the wooden tables, causing it to splinter, the sound like the sharp crack of a gunshot.
Raymond jumped, started to sob.
“That noise,” said Jacob, “is very similar to the sound of a knee bone cracking. Or a skull splitting. Isn’t that right, Mr Halliday? My friend is experienced in this sort of thing. When it comes to administering pain, he is… how can I put it… an artist. He knows all the sensitive spots. I would go as far as to say he has a gift. Show Raymond what else is in your bag of tricks.”
For the first time, Halliday’s face displayed emotion. His jaw widened into a grin. He bent down once again, dipped his hands into the sports bag, pulled out a pair of pliers, which he placed on the table beside him. Then again, pulling out a Stanley knife. Then a coil of wire.
Raymond’s legs buckled; he sank to his knees.
“Please,” he whispered. “Just a little more time.”
Jacob regarded Raymond, his lips pursed, as if he were coming to some inward conclusion.
“We’ll give you more time,” he said.
Raymond looked at him, face flickering with a glimmer of hope.
“Two minutes,” said Jacob.
“Two minutes?”
“As long as it takes to come to an arrangement.”
“I don’t understand,” said Raymond.
“Why would you? But maybe speaking to the man himself might help.”
Jacob, wearing a close-fitting leather jacket, produced a mobile phone from a pocket, pressed the keypad with his index finger, and spoke softly to the individual who answered.
“He’s on his knees,” he said, looking at Raymond. “He doesn’t have the money, and Mr Halliday has opened up his sports bag.”
Jacob nodded as he listened to the response, then stepped towards Raymond, and handed him the phone.
“He would like to chat.”
Raymond raised the phone to his ear.
“Yes?”
The voice spoke. Raymond listened, nodded.
“Okay. Thank you.”
He handed the phone back to Jacob, who wiped it on his sleeve, then once again raised it to his ear. He smiled, disconnected.
“Easy, yes?”
Raymond heaved himself up, ran a fretful hand through the few remaining hairs on his head.
“What now,” he said, unable to keep his eyes from the objects Halliday had placed on the table.
“You have two daughters?” said Jacob.
Raymond’s lips twitched. “Yes. Ten and twelve.”
“That’s right. Let me think. Abigail and… Katie. One has little blonde curls. The other red as copper.”
“I don’t understand…”
“And Katie’s the one with braces. Abigail wears cute silver-framed spectacles.”
Raymond remained silent.
