Page 104 of Savage Redemption

“What the fuck are you doing there?”

“Like I said, change of plan.”

“I’ll be there in thirty seconds.”

In no more than twenty, the battered bakery van trundles round the corner. I make a dash for the passenger seat and throw myself inside. “Drive,” I snarl. “Just fucking drive.”

CHAPTER 27

Two weeks later, Black Combe, Yorkshire, England

Adan

I actually stopa 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 overwalls 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 strollsaround 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.”

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