Savage Redemption (The Caraksay Brotherhood #10)

Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

A dan

“What do you have for me?”

De Podesta shifts from one foot to the other. I make him nervous, a fact that may serve to keep him alive. He’s been on this job for a year now, and after the first gush of useful intelligence, things have pretty much dried up. His role is to keep Savage’s island under surveillance but given the tight security he’s had to do that from a distance. He succeeded in getting the local boatman who operates their ferry onto his payroll. Correction, my payroll. The expenses have been horrendous, but it has given some insight into the comings and goings. Helicopter flights to and from the island are frequent, several a day to various locations on the mainland. I’ve discovered that Savage operates a second site on the outskirts of Glasgow where most of his men are based with just a select handful of his inner circle resident on Caraksay with him.

There have been no sightings of Rosie, but Nathan Darke and his other daughter, Rosie’s younger sister, have made the crossing a couple of times, on one occasion bringing a large crate with them. There’s a clear connection there, and the presence of the younger girl convinces me it isn’t just business. I strongly suspect that Rosie, Erin, and probably Darke’s wife are holed up on Caraksay, safely out of my reach. Or so they think.

I’m not relying solely on de Podesta for intelligence. I suspect he’s spinning the job out to milk more cash out of me, so I’ll be terminating his contract pretty soon. In the meantime, I’ve not been idle.

My first priority has been to pay Kaminski what he thinks he’s owed. A few hundred thousand euros every month, and now, a year later, he’s had the five million we agreed. Well, I agreed. It’s yet to be seen if he’ll back off now.

I’m not entirely convinced that he would make a move against my family even if I defaulted, but I’m taking no risks. I won’t be antagonising him or his underboss, at least not before I’m certain I’m in a position to protect Rosie and Erin.

Bartosz was the one issuing the threats, but I know he’s not a violent man by nature. If he was, my captivity would have been even more unpleasant than it was. My accommodations were frugal, but I was well-fed, given medical care, and generally not ill-treated. I find it hard to visualise him harming an innocent woman or a small child, but you never know. If business requires it…

The threat was his way of ensuring I complied with the terms of our deal. I have. They had their money. It was crude, something of a blunt instrument, but it served its purpose. Now, the debt paid, I need to establish my freedom once and for all.

I eye de Podesta with dwindling patience. “Well?”

“Savage is building something,” he informs me proudly. “Been shipping construction materials over.”

I narrow my eyes. “What is he building?”

“I don’t know, but that architect, Darke, has been supervising the loading, so I guess he’s project managing it all. Probably designed the new building.”

“Anything else?”

“Darke is advertising for construction crew. Bricklayers and suchlike.”

“Right.” As it happens, I already knew all this. Nathan Darke is a businessman, not Mafia. He plays with a straight bat and makes no serious attempt to conceal his tracks. I’ve been monitoring the business communications of Darke Enterprises, and there’s not much he does that I’m not aware of. I know that Savage is building two new cottages and an annex to the main castle itself, all sympathetically designed by his favourite architect. He’s very picky, insists on using construction methods and materials compatible with the original structures, determined to preserve the historical character of his property at whatever cost.

Apparently, this particular crime lord has a desire for his own play dungeon, designed to his exact specifications. Who would have thought it? Still, each to his own, and I don’t mind admitting a preference for a spot of light BDSM myself. As long as he doesn’t have Rosie in mind to enjoy the new facilities. That privilege is reserved for me, and I intend to collect. Eventually.

It’s a heaven-sent opportunity. Nathan Darke has designed the works, and I’ll be the one supplying his labour. I already tendered for the job using a company created for the purpose, and I’m confident I can undercut any other construction contractors. After all, I have an interest which is more than purely financial.

My attention is dragged back to the weasel in front of me. “Anything else?” I demand, eager to be rid of him.

“No, boss. But I could?—”

“No need. That’s enough. What do I owe you?”

“Boss, we still need to?—”

“No, I’ll take it from here. Let me have your final invoice by the end of the day.”

He gapes at me. “But I thought…”

I suspect I know exactly what he thought. This job was a welcome meal ticket, and a decent earner without requiring him to exert too much effort. Well, all good things come to an end. I’m done with Leonardo de Podesta.

“That’ll be all.”

“Right, sir. Of course, but?—”

“Are you still here?” I glare at him, and he finally gets the message.

The door has barely closed behind him before I reach for any phone. I need to finalise the deal with Nathan Darke.

“So, we’re clear?”

“Not exactly, sir. Could you just run all that past me again?” Rebecca Bartley — Bex — came highly recommended, the best project manager in the business with a price tag to match. This is our first face-to-face meeting, in my recently established Glasgow office. Her experience is impressive, several major construction projects including residential developments, highways, and a hospital. I’ve hired her, along with a dozen hand-picked labourers, and I suspect her reputation rather than my keen price was what convinced Nathan Darke to award the contract to my company. “You’re saying you actually want to be one of my crew, to work on the job?”

“That’s right.”

“I only use skilled trades. What do you do?”

“I pay your wages, Ms Bartley. That’s enough.”

She regards me with a thoughtful expression, then, “No, sir. It isn’t. Construction sites are dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing. You’d be a liability. It’s out of the question.”

I’m on the point of hammering my point home with threats of finding another manager, but she forestalls me.

“I can’t accept those terms, sir. I’m sorry, it’s a matter of safety, you understand. Yours and that of anyone working with you. If you insist, you’ll find there are plenty of less stringent firms out there, firms who may be prepared to take risks. I’m not one of them. I’m sorry, but if that’s all…” She gets up to leave.

“Wait.”

She pauses, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m a plumber.” Not strictly true, but I could see my way clear to rolling my sleeves up and fixing a dripping tap. How hard can it be?

“A plumber? You have the certificate to prove it?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“It’s not that, sir. I always require sight of qualifications when I hire new crew.”

Lord spare me from honest traders! “Not here, obviously. I can have it to show you by tomorrow.” I can arrange a forgery by then.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. Provided I’m satisfied with your documentation, I’ll put you down to join the crew when we reach that stage.”

“Stage? What do you mean?”

“I won’t require plumbers or electricians until later on, once the outer shells are up and the roofs on. Six weeks or so. That’s when we start the fit-out, as I’m sure you know, being a plumber…”

I swear she smirks at me.

“I’ll do labouring until then. Unskilled work.”

“Do you have a CSCS card?”

Even I know that’s the standard health and safety requirement before anyone can set foot on a construction site. It indicates an awareness and basic training in site safety.

“Of course,” I lie. Another item to forge. “I’ll show you it tomorrow.”

“Will you also have my contract drawn up by then and be in a position to make a downpayment?”

“Of course. And one more thing, Ms Bartley.”

“Yes?”

“I need you to keep our arrangement to yourself. As far as the customer and client are concerned, I’m just an ordinary labourer.”

“Plumber, not labourer.”

“Plumber, yes. Same goes for the rest of the crew. No special treatment. And stop calling me sir. I just want to blend in.”

“May I ask why, sir? This is… unusual.”

I trot out the explanation I dreamed up earlier. “I make it my business to know at first hand what’s going on in any projects I fund. There’s no substitute for direct experience on the job, I find. But it’s vital to remain incognito to get an accurate picture.”

“May I assure you, my record is second to none. There’s no need to check up on me, I can provide regular updates as the work progresses. And you’ll have client feedback as well.”

“It’s no reflection on you, Ms Bartley. As you say, your credentials are exemplary. But I do find it pays to be thorough.”

“I see.” Her expression suggests she doesn’t, but she appears satisfied. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Same time, okay?”

“Tomorrow, Ms Bartley.” I offer her my hand.

She shakes it. “Oh, and it’s just Bex.”

A month has passed, and the works on Caraksay are scheduled to commence. I’m to join the crew, initially as an unskilled labourer. I’m hoping my purpose will be accomplished before there’s any need to demonstrate my questionable prowess as a plumber.

Ethan Savage insists that the crew are ferried across each morning, and back to the mainland every evening, despite it being over a four-hour crossing each way. No one is allowed to remain on his island overnight, and access to areas not directly involved in the works is strictly prohibited. Any workman not complying with his terms will be removed from the job.

It’s an early start, even for this industry. We assemble on the harbour at Oban at five o’clock in the morning, ready to board Savage’s private ferry. The boat bobs at anchor as final supplies and materials are loaded, and I join the men assisting in humping sacks of concrete along the jetty.

It pays to show willing.

Bex Bartley was here before any of us, dealing with last-minute details, and is now supervising the loading. Nothing gets past her eagle eye. I make a mental note to keep her in mind should I require a construction crew in the future.

“What happened to your leg?” she asks me as she checks a docket I hand to her.

“My leg?”

“I couldn’t help noticing the limp. Are you injured?”

“It’s an old war wound,” I joke. “Still troubles me from time to time.”

“Are you fit to work?”

“Absolutely.”

“Are you sure? It’s just that?—”

“It’s fine,” I snap. “Do you want a bloody medical certificate?”

She tips up her chin. “Please do not swear at me. It’s my responsibility to be sure that everyone on my site is fit to be there. No exceptions. And no medical certificate will be required, but if you seem to be flagging, you’re out. Is that clear?”

I glare at her but bite my tongue. She is only doing her job, after all, and unlike many, seems to take it seriously.

We embark on the crossing by five-thirty. Our likely arrival time will be somewhere around nine-thirty, depending on the weather. Today is a fine, dry morning, though there’s a chilly easterly breeze which gets colder and rougher as we emerge from the Inner Hebrides and reach the open sea. I’m not prone to seasickness, which is more than can be said for many of my new workmates who spend most of the crossing hanging over the rail. I give them a wide berth, best to keep myself to myself.

By eight-thirty the island is just visible, an indistinct grey blur on the horizon. The ferry ploughs on through the choppy waves, and eventually the details can be made out. The outline of the castle dominating the entire island, the cottages and outbuildings scattered on the lower slopes, the sturdy little jetty and the rocky beach. We moor alongside the handful of smaller craft, and Bex is the first to leap onto the jetty.

“We’re late, get moving, everyone. We need to get those supplies unloaded and onto the site.”

A battered pickup truck was waiting for us and reverses onto the jetty alongside the ferry. Bex hops onto the back and directs us in heaving the sacks off the ferry and onto the vehicle. Only when it’s all there does she allow the driver to start trundling up to the castle. Decked out in steel toe-capped boots, hard hats, and regulation fluorescent waistcoats, we make our way on foot, a distance of about a quarter of a mile.

“Follow me, all of you. No wandering off. And remember, this isn’t a sight-seeing excursion. No one leaves the site until tools down at four o’clock, then it’s straight back to the boat.”

She leads us on the hike uphill, and despite the strict instructions, I’m taking in every detail as we approach Savage’s stronghold.

There are several men about, who I assume to be guards, though they are not toting weapons. They watch us as we pass, and a couple fall in alongside, clearly to ensure no one deviates from the agreed path.

We arrive in a cobbled courtyard, the castle looming in front of us. Nathan Darke is waiting for us on the castle steps, another man at his side. They march down to meet us.

I remain at the back of the pack, partly obscured behind the massive form of Bertie, a bricklayer built like a small mountain. I need to avoid being noticed and recognised, though I did take the precaution of dying my hair a lighter shade of brown and wearing sunglasses.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Bex. I’m Mr Darke, the architect. You’ll be seeing a lot of me. This is the owner of the property, Mr Savage.”

“You’ll be seeing a fair bit of me as well,” his companion informs us. “This way.”

He leads us in a straggly procession around the outside of his castle. At the rear we find the supplies shipped over already neatly stacked, and the pickup already unloading. The development area is clearly marked out with stakes, and some preliminary excavations have taken place already. Clipboard in hand, her bright-yellow hard hat perched on her head, Bex strides this way and that, pointing and issuing orders. She occasionally consults with Nathan Darke, who has also donned protective clothing, while the rest of us fall in and obey her instructions.

I find myself alongside Bernie, shovel in hand, digging footings. Despite the contribution of the mechanical digger already on site, the work is backbreaking. We need frequent breaks, but Darke has ensured no shortage of bottled water to keep us hydrated.

The architect remains on site, but Ethan Savage himself clearly has more pressing matters to attend to, and he disappears after several minutes. I keep my heard down, do my work, and stay well out of Darke’s line of sight. There’s little opportunity to discover more about my surroundings just yet, but my time will come.

The day passes without incident, and by four o’clock I’m as exhausted as the rest of the crew. A hooter denotes the end of the working day, and we form up to make our weary way down to the harbour. With another four-hour crossing ahead of us, none of us will be home before nine this evening to catch a few hours’ sleep and be ready to do it all again at five.

Despite the generous pay packets offered by Nathan Darke, there’s no shortage of discontented muttering as we trudge downhill.

“Why don’t they put us up somewhere?”

“A couple of caravans wouldn’t break the bank.”

“We could doss down in a barn somewhere. That’s got to be cheaper than shipping us back and forth and shelling out for overtime every day.”

There are one or two dissenting voices.

“Shut your mouth. This is a good little earner, this is.”

“Money for old rope. We’re being paid to sit on our arses and watch seagulls.”

I don’t offer an opinion, preferring to relax against the rail and watch the island recede into the distance.

This procedure is repeated five times over the rest of the week. They are long days, the work strenuous and tedious, but already the foundations of Ethan Savage’s annex are taking shape. The footprint of the new building is obvious, and the skilled bricklayers are coming into their own.

I’m on stone-hefting duty. Ethan Savage insists on natural materials which will blend in with the original structure, so we’re working with solid granite shipped over from quarries on the mainland. My role is to load a wheelbarrow with as much as I can shift at a time, and keep the skilled men supplied.

Bertie is on cement-mixing duty, and we constantly pass each other as we march back and forth. “I could murder a cup of tea,” he mutters. “Forgot my flask this morning.”

I sympathise. The regular tea breaks are an essential part of the day. There are plentiful supplies of water provided, but the rest is up to us. Bertie won’t forget his flask again in a hurry.

A commotion up ahead halts me in my tracks. A fight has broken out between Bertie and one of the other men. Everyone else downs tools to shout and cheer them on.

Bex and Mr Darke are on it, hurling themselves into the fray, but not before Bertie has landed a perfect uppercut on his adversary’s chin. The other man, by the name of Smiffy, I think, is out cold.

Bex crouches beside him while Nathan Darke demands to know what this was all about. He glares at Bertie. “I told you already, no throwing punches. Don’t bother to show up tomorrow. You’re fired.”

“But ’e accused me o’ nicking ’is tea,” Bertie protests. “What were I meant to do?”

“I don’t fucking care. You’re out.” Darke is already on his phone. “Go wait on the ferry. And you needn’t think you’re getting paid for today.”

Bertie continues to protest just cause, but no one is listening. Eventually he accepts the inevitable and trudges off the site. That was a costly drink of tea he nicked.

Meanwhile, a diminutive female figure has arrived, sprinting around the perimeter of the castle and dropping to her knees beside the injured man. Smiffy is starting to come round, but he’s still groggy and confused. The newcomer opens her bag and produces a torch and a stethoscope.

A doctor then, or possibly a nurse.

She performs a cursory examination. “Concussion,” she concludes. “I need someone to help me get him to my clinic.”

Bex glances around. “You,” she declares, pointing to another of the labourers. “And you.” This time her gaze falls on me. “You two can do it. And be quick, we’ve lost enough time already, and now we’re two men down.”

I dart forward and thrust my arm under one of Smiffy’s. The other man selected does the same at the other side, and between us we haul him to his feet. The doctor sets a brisk pace, and we fall in behind, half dragging, half carrying the stricken Smiffy.

“He did nick me tea,” Smiffy keeps repeating. “I saw ’im, wi’ me flask, the thieving sod.”

Personally, I don’t doubt it, but I keep my mouth shut. It doesn’t pay to get involved, and I’m too busy taking advantage of this unexpected stroke of luck, a chance to see a bit more of the island.

We skirt the cobbled courtyard, Loud voices greet us, the sound of children playing. A bunch of around half a dozen children, boys and girls, aged from perhaps ten or eleven to mid-teens are enthusiastically kicking a ball about. Two sets of goalposts have been created out of bikes on their sides, and several men have joined in the game. I recognise Ethan Savage among the players and can’t help noticing when one of the smaller boys takes a tumble. Savage helps him up, crouches to dust dirt off his knees, and gives him a quick hug. It’s easy, casual affection, taken for granted by the child.

I assume the boy to be one of his sons. I know he has two, a boy called Tomasz and a toddler, Sebastien. He’s obviously a caring father, which chimes with my research. Family is important to Ethan Savage. He looks after his own.

He glances up at us as we pass and gets to his feet. “What’s going on?” he demands.

The doctor halts. “Fight on the site,” she calls out. “One of the men has concussion. I need to observe him in my clinic.”

He nods. “Just make sure he’s on that ferry later. No one stays overnight.”

“She waves. “Got it,” then she’s on the move again.

The clinic is unexpected. I’d imagined a fairly basic surgery, but this is a well-equipped facility with X-ray capabilities as well as two or three individual rooms for patients needing overnight care. One door is marked ‘laboratory’ and another ‘theatre’.

“Put him over there, on the trolley.”

We do as the doctor tells us, and she immediately repeats her observations. Blood pressure, pulse, temperature, before turning to us. “I can take it from here. You two go back to the site.”

We leave Smiffy in what seem to be capable hands and make our way back the way we came.

Work has resumed when we arrive at the construction site, under the watchful eye of Bex Bartley. At her side, Nathan Darke also surveys the activity, clipboard in hand. The pair of them converse quietly but pause when we appear.

“Everything all right?” Bex calls.

“Yes,” I reply. “Safely delivered.”

“Okay. We need more concrete. Give Richards a hand, will you?”

Harry Richards is a chargehand and a shit-hot bricky. It’ll probably take two of us to keep him supplied with cement, so I drag over a sack of coarse sand while my workmate digs out a the sacks of cement. We empty both into the cement mixer, throw on a couple of buckets of water, and stand back to let it do its thing.

“Dad.” A female voice echoes across the site.

I duck behind the cement mixer and find it necessary to retie the laces on my steel toecaps. Concealed from view, I have the chance to observe as a familiar figure picks her way carefully through the piles of bricks and timber.

Rosa — no, Rosie — has gained a little weight, and it looks good on her. Her dark hair is longer and caught back in a low ponytail. She wears jeans and a thick sweater, protection against the stiff breeze that never seems to let up.

My first sighting of her since we were attacked in that cottage on Tenerife, and I’m pleased she appears so well. And happy. No sign of Erin, though.

She reaches her father, they exchange a few words, then she leans up to kiss his cheek before negotiating a path back through the construction materials again.

I wait until she disappears around the edge of the castle before emerging from my hiding place. I’m not the only one to notice Rosie’s presence on the site. More than a few interested eyes watch her departure, and Harry Richards lets out an appreciative whistle. Not loud enough to draw attention, but I hear it and barely manage to stifle the urge to sink a trowel into his eye. I’m consumed by an unexpected and uncharacteristic wave of protective possessiveness.

Mine! Every impulse and nerve ending screams at me. The urge to go after her is almost overwhelming.

“Okay, the fun’s over. Get on, you lot.” Bex puts a stop to any further ogling.

I reach for the bucket and go in search of more water.

I never doubted that she was here, but a positive sighting seals the deal. Now all I need to do is work out where on the island she’s living. I need to create an opportunity for a really good scout around.

The following morning, I phone Bex at five o’clock to tell her I’m sick.

“What’s wrong with you?” she wants to know.

“Must have been something I ate.”

“Ugh. Right. See you tomorrow.”

I spend the day on the dark web digging around for any and every snippet of information I can find about Ethan Savage. He runs a tight ship, and I draw a blank, pretty much. Time to try a different approach.

I had been hoping to identify a time when he’ll be off his island, ideally with most of his men. Failing that, I’ll have to manufacture the opportunity.

I resume my usual entrepreneurial persona and conjure up a business deal he won’t be able to turn down. A prime slice of Dundee waterfront which I acquired several months ago, ripe for development, price negotiable. I offer it to him. Naturally, he wants to view the site, with his preferred architect.

Two birds with one stone, just the sort of deal I like. I arrange the meeting for a couple of days’ time and invite him to bring his wife. After the site visit, we can discuss terms over a decent steak.

On the appointed day, I turn in for work as usual. We arrive on the island, and I take up my usual duties with the cement mixer, one ear cocked for the sound of the helicopter.

The drone of rotors has only just faded into the distance when I make my move.