Page 26 of Savage Redemption

“Battlements?” Even my curiosity is piqued. “Why are there battlements?”

The pilot obliges us with an explanation. “Caraksay was an ancient fortress, several centuries ago. A castle was built there in, I think, the fourteenth century. Ethan is the real expert on the history, you would need to ask him. It was a farming and fishing community back then as well, and a village sprung up. It was deserted after a couple of hundred years. I expect it was a harsh existence, and they just abandoned it eventually. It all fell into dereliction for the next five centuries or so. Until Ethan came along, bought the island, and restored the original buildings.There’s been a lot of additional construction, too. Converting the barns to provide leisure facilities, building the clinic, more cottages to accommodate all our men and their families.”

“Leisure facilities? A clinic?” Not quite so primitive as I’d assumed.

The pilot continues. “Oh, yes. We have a swimming pool, very popular with the children. A gym, a small cinema. We have our own resident doctor, so you’ll have no need to worry about the little one. And the mainland is only an hour or so away by helicopter. The castle is converted and modernised to provide apartments, conference facilities, a sort of business hub. It’s all very civilised, really.”

“We’re keen to start exploring. Aren’t we, Rosie?” Eva nudges me with her elbow.

“Oh, yes. Can’t wait,” I agree, managing to drum up a polite level of apparent enthusiasm. I think I do a good job, considering.

The helicopter circles the island twice which gives us a good opportunity to observe from the air. The entire place is dominated by the dour-looking castle perched on the highest crag, constructed in the dark-grey granite so typical of the Highlands. The crenelated battlements soar against the only slightly paler grey of the sky. A cobbled forecourt stretches away in front of the ancient portcullis, marked with an ultra-modern giant letter H to indicate where the chopper is to touch down. A second helicopter is already on the ground.

Several larger buildings surround the castle itself, barns originally, I would imagine, but I assume these now house the pool, gym, clinic, and so on.

The pilot-cum-tour guide continues her potted history. “The larger barns are original, and most of the cottages. Just updated to suit the twenty-first century. The clinic is that building directly below us, modern, built about two years ago. So arethose cottages at the foot of the incline. The harbour was already there but has been developed and upgraded to suit modern boats. The Savages’ yacht is moored about a mile offshore.”

About half a dozen small boats bob on either side of a sturdy stone-and-timber jetty. Clearly the Caraksay community don’t rely solely on their helicopters. I remember the beautiful Savage yacht, theLydia, from when I was on Tenerife. They arrived en masse on board and moored alongside Kristian Kaminski’s own sleek vessel. I dread to think of the wealth enshrined in those gleaming white hulls, and more particularly of the activities required to accumulate it.

The Savages may not partake in sex-trafficking, but I daresay they have their fingers in plenty more nefarious activity.

Eva delivers another sharp nudge. She may be my stepmother rather than a blood relation, but she was always finely attuned to my moods and she’s warning me not to be too judgmental. These people are offering me sanctuary of a sort, after all.

I meet her gaze and smile. Message received; I’ll do my best. After all, I should be used to all this after the last couple of years.

The helicopter descends to touch down gently on the spare H. The rotors slow, then stop. The pilot removes her headphones and unlocks the doors. “Welcome to Caraksay.”

The doors slide apart, and a set of stairs lowers automatically. I unstrap Erin from her makeshift cot on the floor and clutch her, still sleeping soundly, to my chest. Eva heads out first, and we make our way gingerly down to the cobbles.

The wind hits me as soon as I emerge from the cocoon of the chopper, taking my breath away. Erin finally stirs and complains loudly as we are buffeted by a chilly north-westerly breeze.

“I hope you brought warm coats,” the pilot observes as she hops down beside us and zips up her own fur-lined jacket. “Ah, here’s the welcoming committee.”

A man and a woman stroll down the stone steps from the castle main entrance. They are a striking couple, both tall, good-looking, supremely confident. And dressed for the weather in leather trench coats that probably cost a few grand apiece. The man is vaguely familiar, though I struggle to place him.

“Ah, Miss Darke. So good to see you again.” He offers me his hand, and I shake it. He continues in his soft Irish brogue. “And this must be Erin. And Professor Byrne.” More hand-shaking and muttered pleasantries.

I’m not entirely sure what to say; what’s the protocol when meeting gangsters, however affable?

I don’t need to worry. Eva has it covered.

“We’re so grateful for your hospitality, Mr Savage.”

“Ah, no. I’m Jed O’Neill, and this is my wife, Casey. Ethan is inside. He’s involved in a conference call right now. Business, you understand. But he’s looking forward to meeting you later.”

Jed O’Neill.This is the man my dad does business with, the one who came searching for me. I summon up some manners. “I should think you, sir. For trying to help me… before.”

“Ah, well, I just wish I could have done more. Still, you’re safe now. Let’s make sure you stay that way, eh?”

“Yes. Thank you. I?—”

“I’m so excited to meet you, Professor Byrne.” Mrs O’Neill, Casey, pushes herself forward and offers her hand to Eva. “I read your article in theJournal of Systems and Software, the one on linguistic digital programming. It was fascinating. Ground-breaking, actually.”

Eva’s eyebrows disappear into her auburn fringe. “That’s quite a select readership. Are you an IT professional, Mrs O’Neill?”

She shakes her head and shoves her glasses up her nose. “Not a professional, exactly. More an enthusiastic amateur.”

Jed O’Neill is having none of that. “My wife undersells herself, Professor. Her hacking and software development skills are second to none. I’m sure you’ll find much to talk about, the pair of you, doubtless in a language completely unknown to the rest of us.”

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