Page 4 of Savage Justice

“We’ll be more or less passing Caernbro Ghyll on the way. Could you drop me off?” Tony asks me.

“Got somewhere you need to be?” I ask.

“Jenna’s been feeling off it. I promised I wouldn’t be late. And as I don’t even have the bloody humbugs…”

“Language,” I mutter with a nod towards our passenger in the back. “Fair enough.”

The journey passes in silence, more or less. Lucy seems okay, though I can’t imagine she’s anything other than traumatised. She doesn’t show it, just watches the passing scenery, her nose pressed to the tinted window.

I pull up in front of the huge wrought-iron gates that guard the property at Caernbro Ghyll. The mansion was once the family home of the Savages, our employer, but since the main base had been relocated to the Hebridean island of Caraksay, the house now serves as the mainland headquarters for the Savage empire. It offers storage and office space, state-of-the-art detention and interrogation facilities, and accommodation for those of our soldiers who choose to live there. Which includes both me and Tony.

I open the gates using the remote control in my glove compartment, then drive up to the house.

Tony jumps out, then leans back into the rear window to say goodbye to Lucy.

“It was nice meeting you, Lucy. You take care now.” He gives her a cheery wave and sprints up the front steps, two at a time.

“Does your friend live here?” Lucy asks me as we drive back towards the gates. “It’s very posh.”

“He does. So do I. It’s a big house, but not really that posh. It’s divided into a lot of flats.”

“Oh.” She falls silent, then, “My mummy would paint it.”

“Sorry. What?”

“My mummy paints houses. She’d paint your house if you ask her to.”

“What, like the windows and doors? A decorator?”

“No. All of it. Like in a picture.”

“Ah. She’s an artist?”

Lucy shrugs and is quiet once more.

It’s just a few minutes’ drive to Lucy’s neighbourhood, about three miles from Caernbro Ghyll. I turn into the main thoroughfare through the leafy estate and cruise slowly past the detached suburban homes, looking for the correct turn-off. “Is it this one?” I ask when I spot what I think is the right street.

“Yes. That’s my house.” She points to an attractive, modern dormer bungalow sporting a neat lawn and a swing in the front garden.

I twist around in the seat. “Do you want me to come in with you and tell your mummy what happened?”

She chews on her lower lip. “I don’t know. Do you think she’ll be cross?”

“Yes, but not with you. She’ll be cross with that man. She’ll want to tell a policeman all about it, and that would be the right thing to do. He needs to be caught and locked up for what he did.”

“He’ll have run away by now. They’ll never catch him.”

Not with two broken legs. “He won’t have gone anywhere,” I assure her. “Tell your mum to tell the police they can find him at the North warehouse on Dockland Way. Can you remember that?”

She repeats the address back to me.

“Good stuff. So, do you want me to come in?” Maybe I ought to, just to make sure someone is at home and she’s in safe hands. I unfasten my seat belt.

“No. It’s all right. There’s my mummy now.” She points to a woman standing in the open doorway of the bungalow, a baby in her arms. She’s peering suspiciously at my vehicle parked outside her house.

I get out and walk around to open the rear passenger door to let Lucy out. “Off you go then.”

She jumps to the pavement, waves to me, and trots off down the path. By the time she reaches her mother, she’s weeping again.

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