Page 88 of Savage Justice

“Thought you might. I’ll come and pick you up in the morning.”

My wound is still throbbing like a bitch, despite the generous slug of pain relief provided by the lovely Staff Nurse Judy.

“That should be enough to see you home,” she assures me cheerily. “Doctor Alexander can administer more as required.”

I’m relying on that as I huddle in the helicopter for the short hop to Glasgow. The journey would have been several hours by car, and I’m not sure how I’d have coped. The chopper is faster, and smoother.

And I’m not missing this.

Magda is at the controls. Ethan and Tony are with me in the cabin.

Molly is waiting for me on Caraksay. I told her about this detour, and to say she wasn’t best pleased is an understatement. But I’m not prepared to start ‘seeing how things pan out’ on a fabric of lies and half-truths. I’m ready to shoulder her baggage, I only hope she can cope with mine.

I have to do this, it’s that simple.

We circle Caernbro Ghyll, and Magda brings the helicopter down on the gravelled forecourt. Tony and Ethan help me down from the chopper, then Ethan instructs Magda to grab a coffee or whatever and be ready to fly us over to the island in an hour or two.

“Where is he?” I grind out through clenched teeth.

“Downstairs,” Ethan answers.

I’d wondered if Megan might have insisted Mulligan be accommodated in one of the guest rooms, in view of his injuries, but apparently not. Probably better this way. The cells below the house are soundproofed and easy to clean up afterwards. And these days, we have women and children around the main house, so it’s best to keep the wet work separate.

The stairs to the basement are accessed off the main foyer. Megan is waiting for us there.

“Do you need me?” she asks.

Ethan shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Magda’s on her way in. We’ll be leaving for Caraksay in an hour or so if you want a ride back.”

Megan appears relieved. As a doctor, and one with battlefield experience in the US military, she has a strong stomach, but not for this sort of work. She’s loyal and capable. She’ll do what has to be done, and that’s the only reason Mulligan has lived this long. But we all know how uncomfortable she is with the more brutal side of our work, and we never directly engage her in it if we can help it. She’s been known to put a captive out of his misery before now, though no one ever refers to that.

Ethan is being considerate in letting her opt out.

We leave her to chat with Magda and make our way down the steep stone stairs to the underground tunnel with the various rooms leading off it.

There are half a dozen cells, each about two paces by three and equipped with just a bucket and a stone bench. Blankets and lighting are optional extras. There’s no heating and no sanitation apart from a regular swill down with bleach.

The kill room itself is bigger. The floor slopes to a large drain for easy sluicing, and there’s a cold tap set into one wall. A bench along the other wall is where we keep the various bits of kit likely to be needed—tools, rope, candles, matches, knives, tongs, and suchlike.

In the centre is a metal table, bolted to the concrete floor. That can also be tilted as needed and is equipped with straps for restraining unruly guests.

And that’s it. Nice and uncomplicated.

Jack is waiting for us down there and has had Mulligan moved from his cell already. He’s laid out on the metal table, held there by straps at his wrists, ankles, and across his belly.

Jack is leaning on the wall by the tap, messing with his phone. He straightens when we enter.

“You look like shit,” is his greeting for me. “I’ll get you a chair.”

“I’m fine,” I begin.

‘Get the chair.” Ethan overrules me.

He waits until I’m settled on a wooden high-backed chair at the head of the table before turning his attention to the man at the centre of this morning’s bit of business.

“Morning,” he begins. His tone is deceptively jovial. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr Mulligan. Do you remember who I am?”

“Ye’re Mr S-Savage,” the man replies.

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