Page 79 of Savage Redemption

That’s the hard part over. Now, all I have to do is find Mr Kaminski and explain that he needs to let Adan go.

It’safter dark when we land at Tenerife International Airport. I skirt past baggage reclaim with my solitary duffel bag and head for customs and immigration. The border control staff wave us all through with barely so much as a cursory glance at passports as they slam their stamps down on the pages and I emerge into the arrivals hall. First things first. I spot a bureau de change and buy two hundred pounds worth of euros. At last, I head out onto the paved forecourt.

It’s still pleasantly warm. I shrug off my jacket, stuff my passport and cash back in my duffel, then scan the ranks of taxis queuing for business. They’re filling up fast, but I manage to secure one and hop in the back.

Where to now?

Mr Kaminski lives on a yacht, but I only saw it briefly and I can’t recall the name of either the vessel or the posh marina where he moors it. There must be loads of marinas on Tenerife. Sure enough, when I ask the taxi driver, he just shrugs.

Plan B, then. “Please take me toLos Vinedos. It’s…it’s a sort of farm. They have horses. It’s somewhere in the middle of the island, at the foot of Mount Tiede.”

The driver glowers at me but does punch some details into his satnav. “Ah, si,” he beams, triumphant. “Los Vinedos. Will be one hundred euros,señora.”

More expensive than the entire flight here, but I have no choice. “Yes, that’s fine.” I make myself comfortable and do my best to ignore the faint aroma of stale tobacco ingrained in the leather seats.

I’m exhausted, the combined result of stress and travel. I nod off in the back of the taxi and wake only when the driver reaches back to shake me by the shoulder. “We are here,señora.Los Vinedos.”

“What?” I shake my head, try to reassemble my wits. “Oh, yes. Right.”

“One hundred euros,” he demands, his palm outstretched.

I peel a couple of fifty euro notes from my stash and hand them over, then scramble out onto the road. The dour driver can whistle for a tip.

“You ring bell,” the driver yells as he reverses the vehicle in readiness to turn around. Before I have time to answer he’s roaring away, presumably back the way we came.

I take a moment to study the huge wrought-iron gates. They present a formidable barrier. It’s clear that visitors are not especially welcome, but I reach for the electronic bell nonetheless.

I can’t hear any sound. I press again and contemplate yelling for someone to come.

I disembodied voice breaks the silence of the heavy darkness, speaking to me in a torrent of Spanish and demanding to know who I am and what I want.

I naturally reply in the same language, glad of the recent practice with Adan. “My name is Rosie Darke, and I need to see the owner. Mr Kaminski.”

“Mr Kaminski is not here. You must make an appointment. Goodbye.” Silence falls once more.

I turn in a circle, surveying my surroundings, or what I can see of them in the dark. I’m miles from anywhere, my taxi long gone. There’ll be no bus coming along anytime soon.

I’m stranded.

Right, then.I press the electronic bell again.

There’s no response this time, so I stab my finger onto the button and keep it there. Theyhaveto let me in.

At last, that disembodied voice, and sounding impatient this time. “Señora, I suggest you leave. Now.”

I lean in to the keypad to answer him. “I can’t leave. I have no transport. I need to see someone. Whoever is in charge.”

“How did you get here, with no transport?”

“Taxi. He’s gone now.”

There’s a brief silence, then another voice, if anything more irritated than the first one. “What did you say your name was? And what is so urgent?”

“I’m Rosie. Rosie Darke. And… and I want to know what happened to Adan San Antonio.”

Another short pause, then. “Remain where you are. I will send someone to the gate.”

“Thank you,” I call into the night, but he’s already gone.

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