Savage Redemption (The Caraksay Brotherhood #10)

Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

T wo weeks later, Black Combe, Yorkshire, England

Adan

I actually stop a couple of times to take in the view. This area in northern England is truly spectacular. No wonder Rosie was so keen to return to her childhood home.

I pull up in a lay-by overlooking a reservoir and get out to stretch my legs. It’s been a long drive from Heathrow, but my hired BMW is a dream on the road, especially now that I’ve left the motorway behind. The narrower, winding roads of the Yorkshire moors require concentration, but the backdrop is nothing short of spectacular.

I lean on one of those odd little drystone walls so common around here and which seem to defy gravity. The Yorkshire farmers of old apparently had scant regard for the laws of nature, they shaped their world as they saw fit.

I take in the vista generously spread out before me. Green hillsides sprinkled with purples, yellows, and browns stretch endlessly before me, eventually giving way to the craggy greys of the hilltops. Lazy sheep with an apparent death wish amble among the rocks and boulders in the uplands, scrambling over walls and any other obstacle in their path and strolling into the roads. I’ve narrowly missed several already.

Below me, the morning sunlight glistens on the surface of the water. The reservoir sparkles, mirror-like, the still water only slightly ruffled in the breeze. It’s an idyllic spot, atmospheric, dramatic and timeless.

I draw fresh, cool air into my lungs. It tastes of space, and freedom.

I check my watch. Rosie is expecting me, but not quite yet. I phoned from Tenerife before I left, but I managed to catch an earlier flight so I’m ahead of schedule. I take one final, lingering sweep of the majestic panorama, then get back into the BMW. According to the satnav I’m only twenty minutes or so from Black Combe, Nathan Darke’s imposing family home set in the heart of this wondrous wilderness.

I miss the narrow lane at first, but the satnav puts me right, and I execute a tricky nine-point turn and go back to look for it. I spot the junction this time and make my way up a secluded track, climbing steeply on this final stretch. Hedgerows brush the sides of my car as I pass, and I cross my fingers that I don’t meet another vehicle coming the opposite way. There will be no fancy nine-point manoeuvres in this narrow lane, and I seriously don’t relish the prospect of reversing all the way back.

I’m out of luck. I round a sharp bend to be confronted by a man on a quad bike. Aged around forty, he’s wearing a serviceable Barbour jacket, and unless I’m mistaken, that’s a sheepdog peering at me over his shoulder. Obviously a local. I wonder if he actually built any of those sturdy little walls. We both come to a stop, nose to nose.

I wait, tapping my steering wheel. No way am I backing up.

He doesn’t seem inclined to move aside either, though his vehicle is much more manoeuvrable than mine. He squints at me in the morning sun, then lazily gets off the bike and strolls around to my driver’s window. He leans on the car door, and I feel obliged to wind down the glass and hear what he has to say.

“You lost, mate?” he enquires amiably, peering past me to take in the leather upholstery and ultra-modern dashboard. “Nice motor.”

I ignore the compliment and answer his question.

“I’m good, thanks. Can you shift your bike? And your dog?” I add, as the animal is now sniffing around my tyres. I swear it’s about to cock its leg.

“Oscar, jump up,” he murmurs quietly. The dog immediately hops back onto the bike.

“Thanks. Now, if you could just…”

“You headed to Black Combe?” he asks. “Because there’s fuck all else up here.”

“Yes. I am.”

He straightens. “Ah, then you’ll be young Rosie’s fella. Adan, is it?”

I regard him with suspicion. “Who the fuck are you?”

He thrusts out a hand, surprisingly clean, given his obvious vocation tilling the soil. “Tom. Tom Shore. I farm the land hereabouts. Been hearing a lot about you.”

“Oh.”

“You’re lucky, Nathan’s not here right now.”

“I know. I’m here to see Rosie.” If you ever get out of my way!

He nods, cocks his head to the side, and regards me critically. “So, you’re some sort of Mafia type, so I’m told.” His features break in a broad grin. “Young Rosie knows how to pick ’em. Still, makes a change from the usual crop of boring accountants and software engineers. Mind, I’m the only one with a licence to tote a gun in these parts.” He straightens. “Ah, well, best be getting on, then.” He raises his hand in a semblance of a salute, then strolls back in the direction of his bike, leaving me staring speechless after him.

Did that fucking peasant just take the piss out of me?

“And don’t you be worrying overmuch about Nathan,” he calls back over his shoulder. “He’s a mardy old sod at the best of times, but he’ll come around. Eva’ll see to that. Meanwhile, try not to shoot him, he’s a mate of mine. I’ll see you soon, I daresay. My place is Greystones, a mile or so that way.” He waves an arm generally to his right. “Get Rosie to bring you over.”

He hops on in front of his dog and throws the bike into reverse, only to suddenly execute a sharp left turn and disappear into the hedgerow.

I inch forward, half expecting to find him, his dog, and his bike crumpled in a ditch. I groan at the prospect, but I suppose I’ll have to do what I can to extricate him. Instead, I find him grinning at me from a concealed gate.

Bemused, I lift my hand in a wave and drive on, leaving Worzel Gummidge to get on with whatever business calls today.

A couple of minutes later, the huge wrought-iron gates loom in front of me, marking the very end of the lane, conveniently open and sporting an ornate sign proclaiming this to be the place. Black Combe. I drive through, my wheels crunching on gravel, and follow the gently winding drive. I round a sweeping bend, and the house comes into view.

Yet again, I stop and stare.

Constructed of Yorkshire stone, the dwelling looks to be several cottages and farm buildings combined into one, with half a dozen or so outhouses arranged around a wide gravelled forecourt. I suspect I see the hand of the renowned architect, Nathan Darke, in the inspired design. Traditional rural construction meets twenty-first century conceptual style.

The outer stonework has been retained, the mellow sandstone offset by pristine white windows and door. Much use has been made of glass, the generously proportioned French windows offering views of the forecourt and lawn. An extension made entirely of glass graces one end of the home, and closer inspection suggests it houses an office. Maybe Nathan actually works from here, or more probably his learned wife.

The front gardens are dominated by the expanse of gravel, but with neatly tailored lawned borders and an ornamental fountain.

I drive slowly up to the entrance and park between a chic bright-red MG sports car and a classy Mini complete with private number plate. EVA 1. Sort of says it all. The MG must be Rosie’s. I’m no sooner out of the car when the front door bursts open and the lady herself hurtles towards me.

“You’re here,” she squeals. “I didn’t expect you for hours yet. When Tom phoned and told me you were on your way up the lane, I thought he must have got it wrong.”

Ah, the welcoming committee. I open my arms in time to catch her when she hurls herself against my chest.

“Are you okay? Truly?” She steps back to look me up and down. “I was so worried, after last time…”

“I’m fine. It all went to plan.” Well, almost.

“What happened? Why did it take so long? I expected you back last week.”

“I told you everything was all right.” I’ve phoned her every day, in fact, and told her the same thing over and over.

Mission accomplished, all safe and well. Home soon, but some details to tie up first.

She plants a kiss on my mouth, then grabs my hand and tugs me towards the front door. “Erin just woke up,” she tells me. “She’ll be excited to see her daddy.”

I suspect, after such a short acquaintance and an absence of over two weeks, she may not even remember me, but I can hope.

Eva appears in the open doorway as we approach, baby Erin perched on her hip. A bright smile lights up my daughter’s face when she sees us, but I hedge my bets by assuming it’s for her mother, not me.

“Look who’s here, sweetheart. Daddy’s back.”

The toothy grin widens. She babbles something that I suppose could be generously interpreted as ‘dada’.

“See. She knows you. We’ve been practicing saying ‘Daddy’.”

“We certainly have,” Eva confirms. “Nice to see you again, Adan. Welcome to Black Combe.” She flashes me a warm smile. “Come in. You must be exhausted after that drive.”

She leads the way indoors, along a spacious hallway and into an elegant but homely lounge. There, she passes Erin to Rosie. “I have some work to finish. I’ll be in my office if you need me but I don’t suppose you will. You’ll all want to get reacquainted, I don’t doubt. Shall I ask Glenda to rustle up some tea? Or coffee?”

“Yes, please. Tea for me,” Rosie replies. “Adan?”

“Oh, coffee.” Glenda? I don’t ask.

Rosie bounces onto a plush sofa and pats the cushion next to her. “Sit down. Tell me everything.”

I sit, and Rosie plants Erin in my lap. “Say hello to Daddy. And you, what took you so long?”

I kiss the top of the baby’s head and take a moment to admire her utter perfection. Her tiny fingers claw at my chin.

“She’s so beautiful,” I breathe, barely able to believe my luck. How did I have any part in creating such a thing of absolute wonder?

“She is, obviously, but what about you? Why did you stay so long in Tenerife?”

“Loose ends to tie up.”

“What loose ends? You said he was dead.”

“He is. Very. But it appears we weren’t the only ones keen to see the back of Kristian Kaminski.”

Her eyes narrow. “So, who else…?”

“His own men, it seems. Especially the ones closer to the top of his ranks. The ones who could see at first hand the fucking mess Kaminski was making of things.”

“But, it’s only been, what, three weeks or so.”

“Seems that was long enough.”

“Oh. So, what happened?”

I don’t dress it up. She knew our plans, broadly, which were to do the hit and run. “I did the deed. At his racecourse. Lethal injection of ketamine. Fast and painless, or so it looked.”

“Right…”

“Problem was that his guards reacted faster than we anticipated and shut the gates. My exit route was blocked.”

“Fuck,” she breathes, quickly covering Erin’s ears. “So, how did you escape?”

“I was contemplating scaling the outer wall, but I’d have been a sitting duck. Then, out of nowhere, one of Kaminski’s underbosses appeared and showed me the way to a service entrance. He had the key and let me out.”

“One of his underbosses? Why? Why would he do that?”

“Discontent in the ranks. Seems Kaminski was losing money, they weren’t getting paid, and he was sending men on stupid, pointless missions. Several had been killed already, or slung in jail. They’d had enough and wanted rid. So, I did them a favour.”

“I thought Mafia guards were fiercely loyal. Ethan’s men would die for him.”

“But the difference is, Ethan’s a great leader and they all trust him. He sees them right. Good money, lots of perks. He has their backs, and they have his. Loyalty has to be earned, and it can easily be squandered. Baz was the main brains behind their entire operation, and even if Kaminski didn’t appreciate his worth, they did. It was all falling apart, their livelihoods were at stake. Their families, too, not to mention their lives. They wanted Baz back, end of.”

“But you’re not Baz. Why did this man help you?”

“Feliks — that was the guy’s name — is a sharp cookie. Kaminski’s money man, not one of his thugs. He recognised me, worked out what had happened because the crowd around where Kaminski had gone down were panicking, and backed a hunch. He guessed I was working with Baz and gave me a message for him.”

“What message?”

“Please come back, all is forgiven.” Near enough.

“Did you pass it on?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“And Baz went back?”

“Eventually. Obviously, he needed to check it out first, gauge the likely support, suss out any guards remaining loyal to Kaminski.”

“I’m assuming it all checked out?”

“It did, more or less. There was the little complication of Kristian’s baby son. His heir.”

“But the baby is only…”

“Less than a year old, yes. Hardly the stuff of which Mafia bosses are made. Yet. Baz swore to protect him, and when the time comes, if the boy wants it, to make him his own heir.”

“What about his own family?”

“A wife who dislikes all things Mafia, and a daughter whose only interest is horses. I think young Leon is welcome to his inheritance. His mother’s not happy, though.”

“Well, no. She wouldn’t be. How is Janey?”

“Distraught. Refusing to leave her yacht. Spends all day sobbing in their cabin and swearing to get even with everyone who was involved in murdering her precious husband.”

“Awkward. How’s Baz taken that?”

“He let her have the yacht. It actually belongs to the firm but it’s her home for as long as she wants it, and he’ll keep an eye on her. If she’s silly enough to make a move against him he’ll deal with her then. Personally, I doubt it will come to that. It’s grief talking right now, but when she calms down, considers her son’s precarious position and the need for Baz’s protection, well, she’ll come around. Or at least learn to live with what’s happened.”

“I didn’t know her very well, but I got the impression she and Kaminski were close.”

“Devoted to each other, by all accounts. That was part of Kaminski’s problem. He’s neglected the organisation for months now to spend all his time playing happy families. It was okay while Baz was around to keep things running, but… His men resented it, resented her . She’ll struggle to attract anyone prepared to back her in any plan to attack Baz and seize back what she’s lost.”

“She could always go back to Caraksay.”

“That’s what Ethan wants, and he’d take care of Leon, too. Baz trusts him, so that could be a good solution. We’ll see.”

“So, Baz has stayed on the island?”

“Yes. Moved back into Los Vinedos .”

I thought that belonged to Kaminski. Isn’t it Janey’s home now? And Leon’s?”

“Same as the yacht, it’s the property of the firm, tied up in some complicated trust arrangement. As head of the ‘family’, the terms of the trust state that Baz has first claim to the use of it

“I suppose Julia will be glad to be back. She loved it there.”

“She’s still in Brazil, with Lily. But Baz is arranging to medevac the pair of them back to Tenerife.”

“How’s Lily doing?” Rosie hugs her own little girl to her chest.

“No change. She’ll live, but…”

She nods. We all know the chances of Lily walking again are slim, a stark reminder of how precious children are. And how fragile.

A gentle tap on the door disturbs our tête à tête. A middle-aged woman enters when

“Coffee, miss. And tea. I brought some scones as well, fresh baked, they are.”

“Thank you, Glenda.” Rosie gets up and takes the tray from her.

“Will your visitor be staying for dinner, miss?”

“Yes, he will. And for breakfast, too.”

The woman never turns a hair. “I see. I’ll prepare a guest room?”

Rosie hesitates, then, “No, thank you, Glenda. That won’t be necessary.”