Craig Russell - Lennox

‘I’m not saying it particularly marked me out as being different,’ he continued, ignoring my question, ‘only I seemed to be aware of it, and my life would have followed a predictable course if the unpredictable hadn’t got in the way. By which, of course, I mean the war. But there again, you know exactly what I mean, Mr Lennox. You see, during the war, I discovered that my emotional deficiency was compensated for by an ability that others lacked. I could kill without compunction. Without thought or emotion or regret afterwards. I have a talent for it, you see. Just as some have a talent for music or art. My talent is as a killer. Something that is positively encouraged in the context of an armed conflict. I ended up being recruited into the Long Range Reconnaissance Group. I’m sure you’re aware of the group’s activity.’

‘Who are you? And how do you know my name?’ I started to stand.

‘Please, Mr Lennox. Sit down.’ With a movement so swift I almost missed it his hand darted into his briefcase. A very slender, very long switchblade snapped out of the knife handle. ‘Please, just sit down. And please be assured that, big and experienced as you are, any physical contact between us would have unfortunate consequences. I am very, very experienced with this thing.’

I sat down. I didn’t need to ask who he was again. I knew. What I couldn’t work out was how I could continue breathing with this knowledge. Like he said, I was big and experienced. If it came to it, I would take my chances. In the meantime I sat down and listened.

‘It was because of the skills I developed that I moved into the line of business I’m in now. A successful businessman. I have a wife and son you know, Mr Lennox.’

‘I didn’t. I don’t know anything about you, Mr Morrison. Other than your name isn’t likely to be Morrison.’

He smiled and laid the knife on the newspaper by his side, discreetly folding it over to conceal it. ‘I see… you think I’m going to kill you because you know too much, because you’ve seen my face.’

‘Something like that.’

‘I can understand that. German sailors believe in a small elf called the Klabautermann. He is invisible but brings good luck to those he sails with. But if you see the Klabautermann ’s face, you know you’re going to die. I have to admit that is the way I’ve always seen myself. But be assured that that is not the case here. Those I kill — human or animal — die quickly and most often without being aware that they are about to die. That is why I see nothing wrong in what I do. People die all of the time, in terrible pain from injury or illness. You will have seen for yourself the suffering of men in war. The agonies some die in. And not many passings from illness or accident are without great pain. But not my victims. Little or no pain. No foreknowledge and therefore no fear. So you see, Mr Lennox, if it had been my intention to kill you, you would have been none the wiser. You would be dead by now. And anyway, I chose this venue because it is ideal for a chat. If I had intended to kill you, I would have chosen somewhere with more immediate opportunities to distance myself from the act.’

‘At the moment I get the idea you’re trying to talk me to death. What is it you want, Morrison?’

‘This is about what you want.’ He smiled and the small eyes twinkled coldly behind his spectacles. I thought of how those tiny, ugly bank manager eyes had been the last thing so many people had seen. I could imagine their deaths the way he had described. A moment of shock. Of disbelief. Then a final gaze into those eyes.

‘However,’ he continued, ‘I do have a proposition of sorts to put to you. But we can discuss that later. Ah… our stop. Or at least my stop and I’m afraid I’ll have to prevail on you to accompany me part of the way. And, Mr Lennox, please don’t be silly. I also have a gun.’

We got off the train, Mr Morrison staying behind me with his raincoat draped over his arm to conceal the knife. It was a small station with two platforms and a siding. It sat on the edge of a small town in the middle of a landscape of unremitting moorland bleakness. It was getting dark now and Mr Morrison indicated the direction we should take from the station. I noticed we were heading away from the town and towards the empty uplands.

A thousand different images of a thousand different endings to our outing were spinning around in my head. Sure, Mr Morrison was known to be the best in the business, but by his own admission he took most of his victims unawares; I was very much aware of the little shit behind me, the stiletto blade still tucked under his raincoat. And sure, he had all kinds of combat experience, but so did I. And he was a little guy after all. After about fifteen minutes walking uphill we reached an ugly church shaped like a vast stone barn with an undersized steeple. A wrought-iron fence formed a tight square around a clustered churchyard of headstones, some tilted, a few broken. This was Scottish Protestantism given solid form: forbidding, sinister, bleak, hard.

‘Kirk o’ Shotts…’ explained Mr Morrison. He was reduced to outlines and shadows in the half-light. I looked around me. No one in sight. This was as good a place as any to do your killing. I cursed myself for not having had a go at him earlier. Now he would be ready for me if I came at him.

‘Take it easy.’ Mr Morrison seemed to read my mind. ‘I know this is a secluded spot for a killing, but that’s not why I brought you here. Listen, can I dispense with this?’ He raised the sliver of blade and snapped it back into its handle before pocketing it. ‘Please don’t give me any trouble, Mr Lennox. I brought you here for your benefit, not mine.’ He walked across to a corner of the churchyard and eased up a broken piece of headstone that had sunk into the mossy grass. ‘I have a particular affection for this place,’ he said, retrieving a tobacco tin from the concealed depression under the stone. ‘This was — still is — the Great Road between Edinburgh and Glasgow. In the fifteenth century this was a dangerous highway to travel, mainly because of Bertram Shotts. He was a highwayman who was reputedly also a giant. Seven foot tall. Some say eight. He was supposed to have had a hideaway near the Kirk. The place is supposed to have taken its name from him.’ Mr Morrison removed a folded envelope from the tobacco tin and put it unopened into his pocket. ‘Of course he wouldn’t have been a giant, but people like to make their villains larger than life. Literally. I’m sure you’ll agree I have a reputation that is more impressive than my physical presence.’

‘Why bring me up here? Other than for an I-could-give-a-fuck history lesson.’

‘It’s a quiet place to talk and I had to pick up my mail. This is how my clients tell me they have a job for me. They leave a time and a telephone number in the tobacco tin for me to call and I call it. I have several such “mailboxes”, but this one is a favourite. It’s a difficult place for the police to stake out, being so elevated and exposed. Of course some of my clients, the Three Kings for example, have a more conventional and direct line of communication with me.’ He pointed across the valley to where a needle of ironwork pierced the almost-dark sky. ‘Things are changing, Mr Lennox. They put that up about five years ago. Television transmitter. That’s the future, apparently. Things are getting more sophisticated. More technological. The police too.’

‘I still don’t get why I’m here.’

‘First of all, I want you to know how to get in touch with me.’

‘Living in Glasgow, I could do with a half-decent tailor. Sometimes it’s difficult for my landlady to find a plumber.’ I rubbed my chin in sarcastic thoughtfulness. ‘But no… I don’t think I ever really have much call for a contract killer.’