Page 17 of Savage Redemption

“You will be hungry, no doubt. You’ll find fruit and snacks on the sideboard. Dinner is at six, in the main dining salon.”

“Thank you,señora.”

She offers me a tight smile. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” She’s already backing towards the door. “I believe my husband wishes to speak with you, once you are… presentable.”

Presentable? That’s one way of describing it.A year in an underground cell with no running water would leave most men somewhat less than fit to be in decent company. Clearly,SeñoraBartosz does not want her nice dining salon contaminated, and I find myself happy to oblige.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind her, I take a moment to check that it isn’t locked. Having satisfied myself on that score, I swing around and head for the en suite.

The facilities are every bit as grand as I might have hoped. Walk-in rainfall shower big enough for half a football team, an array of gels, shampoos, and body lotions that wouldn’t disgrace the most expensive spa, piles of fluffy towels, and a soft towelling robe. I waste no time in stripping off my tattered garments and stuffing them in the trash bin. I turn on the jets and step into the steaming warmth.

The shower is heavenly. I spend about three times as long in there as I need to, just basking in the luxury. Yes, I’m expecting the other shoe to drop at any moment, but I see no reason not to enjoy the unexpected hospitality while it lasts.

I do eventually emerge to drag on the robe and lean over the sink to examine my features in the mirror. My face is thinner, my skin sallow. I find wrinkles I’m sure must be new, and my hair is a tangled, overgrown mess with wisps of grey in among the deep mahogany. I’m sporting a couple of weeks’ growth of stubble, and I conclude I’d not appear out of place begging for coins at the roadside.

I amble back into the bedroom and take a look around for the first time. My old cell would fit in here a dozen times over and still leave room to spare. The four-poster bed dominates the space, upholstered in a deep burgundy to contrast with the ash-grey shagpile on the floor. An alcove with a French window opens onto a balcony, and I can’t resist trying the doors to find out if they’re unlocked. They are, and I step out into the open air for the first time in over a year. I lean on the railing, breathing in the heady scents of the Tenerife countryside and taking in the mountainous panorama. It’s too dry, too arid to be described as scenic, lacking the lush, verdant fertility of my native Andalusia, but beautiful, nevertheless. The shrill buzz of cicadas fills the air, punctuated by the occasional whinny from the paddock below. A half dozen magnificent Arabian horses canter round in the late afternoon sunshine. There’s no sign of Lily Bartosz.

A light knock on the door brings me back inside.

“Yes?” I call out.

“Barber,señor,” comes the reply.

Ah, yes. As promised.I open the door and gesture the diminutive Spaniard to come in. He does, lugging a huge holdall behind him which he dumps in the middle of the floor. He treats me to a cascade of rapid-fire Spanish, the gist of which is thathis name is Egberto, he’s the finest barber on the island, and I’m to sit on the chair he’s positioned in the centre of the room and allow him to perform his magic.

My hair is still dripping wet from the shower, but that doesn’t deter him. He sets to, snipping and clipping and combing, chattering away the entire time. The unruly locks fall away to form a pile around my feet. Twenty minutes later, he dangles a mirror in front of me.

“Is good,señor?” He nods excitedly, positioning the mirror one way and the other.

It’s a definite improvement. I manage a brief nod before my jaw is plastered with shaving foam and Egberto gets to work again.

My scruffy beard is transformed into a fair rendition of designer stubble. By the time the mirror is pressed into service once more, my appearance is better than presentable. All I’m short of is a tux and I could grace the finest social gathering or boardroom. Just the look I’ll need if I’m to regain my standing in the world of enterprise and entrepreneurship.

Satisfied with the result of his efforts, Egberto throws his gear back into his holdall. He hands me his rather tattered business card, assures me of his excellent work at all times and the cheapest prices to be had anywhere on Tenerife, and scurries away still chuntering to himself.

I check out the clothes supplied by Julia. Her taste is conservative but acceptable. A crisp light-blue sports shirt, grey trousers, and a flannel jacket make up my outfit, and incredibly they seem to fit. I slip into them, just in time. Baz Bartosz chooses that moment to stroll through my door.

“Don’t bother to knock,” I mutter, adjusting my jacket sleeve.

“Nice threads,” is his response. “You scrub up well.”

I don’t dignify that with an answer. “I suppose you’re here to spell out the terms of our deal.”

He settles into a seat by the window and casually crosses one ankle over his knee. “I like things to be clear. Avoids… misunderstandings down the line.”

“It’s simple enough. I pay you five million euros and you let me go.”

“Nice try. Five million euros settles the little matter of the ransom, then we renegotiate. Our deal is open-ended.”

“No deal lasts forever. You and I both know that.”

He leans forward, his dark gaze intense. “What we both know, is that no deal survives at all without collateral. A downpayment, shall we say?”

Just as I feared. The other shoe is about to drop. I hitch a hip on the windowsill and return his stare. “What do you have in mind?”

“You’ve never asked about Rosie.”

“Rosie?” I search my memory for some clue. “What Rosie?”

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