5
Z ayn
I’m back at the clinic a quarter of an hour later, having made sure that Frankie is in his den and expecting us. I also took the opportunity to update Ethan on my progress so far. I reported on what I’ve discovered, or should that be confirmed? I already suspected I knew what had been going on and I was right. I told him about the cancelled email address and what I intend to do about it.
“Good idea,” he agreed. “Frankie should be able to retrieve the messages. Let’s hope it’s good news.”
Fingers crossed.
I also told him about the stolen college fund.
“How much was it?” he asked.
“Leila said it was around thirty-five grand when she last saw the account details a few months ago.”
He whistled. “A handy little sum. I assume you’ll be intending to take it back?”
“I thought I’d have a word with Frankie while we’re there. He should be able to hack into Abdul’s bank account and move the money.” Some years ago, Casey developed a really nifty bit of software for tracking cash between transactions and moving money from one account to another. Abdul won’t even know we were there until he checks his account balance.
“One more thing,” he said as I was leaving. “She won’t be here long, will she?”
“No, boss. I guess not. I need to find somewhere safe for her to go, as she clearly can’t go back to her family.”
“I get that, but keep her stay as brief as you can. And the less she sees while she’s here, the better.”
I nod and close the door softly behind me.
Leila is seated in the chair beside her bed, dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater, probably borrowed from Megan. She gets to her feet when I arrive.
“You came back.”
“I said I would. Are you ready?”
“Yes, but I don’t know what…”
“You’ll see. Come with me.” I extend my hand and.
I suspect as much to her surprise as mine, she takes it.
“Where are we going?”
“To visit a friend of mine.” Something of a stretch, I barely know Frankie. But I reckon he can do the job, and Ethan seems to think so, too.
Megan raises her hand in a wave as we leave. “Don’t forget, two hours and you bring her back. Right?”
“Right.”
Once outside in the open air, Leila halts to look around her. “Where is this place?”
“It’s called Caraksay. It’s an island, not far from where you…went overboard.”
“Where was that?”
“Out there.” I point to the south. “About a mile away.”
“You saw me? From here?”
“Frankie did. You have him to thank for raising the alarm.”
“He must have good eyesight.”
“Or a telescope. Come on, it’s this way.”
I take it slow. She’s still unsteady on her feet, and the terrain is somewhat uneven. She clutches my arm, allows herself to be led.
“I’ve been thinking,” she begins. “Maybe I should report what happened to the police. With that video, they’d have to believe me.”
I can’t argue with that, and I understand why this seems the natural course to take. Leila was brought up to be a law-abiding citizen, to trust the police.
“You could,” I agree. “And yes, the video is compelling evidence, especially if it was backed up by statements from us. All four of the men in the video would get lengthy prison sentences.”
She stops, startled. “Oh, no. Not my dad. It wasn’t his fault.”
“He may not have been the ringleader, but he stood and watched while it all played out.”
She shakes her head vehemently. “That’s not true. He’s never been able to stand up to Abdul, but he did try.”
Not that hard, as I recall. “The video puts him in the frame. I realise you want to protect him…” Though I’m baffled as to why. “But the police won’t see it that way. He’ll be arrested with the others and charged.” I don’t add that he’d fucking deserve it.
“I couldn’t do that. My family would be torn apart. The community…”
The fucking community again. There are times when I think God has a lot to answer for, but I leave that conversation for another time.
“There is another reason why it might be better to let us handle this our way.”
“Oh? What’s that then?”
“The police won’t get your stolen college fund back for you.”
“Maybe they could…”
I shake my head. “Abdul is a thief. He conned that money out of your dad, and he intends to hang on to it. He’d deny it was yours. He’d swear it was gift from your father, and if your dad is so much under his thumb, he’d not contradict that. Would he?”
She drops her gaze. “I suppose not.”
“He’d swear you had no claim on that money, and you’d never see a penny of it.”
“And you could do better?” She glares at me, bristling. “Why would he listen to you?”
Well, I can think of several reasons, but I don’t elaborate. “I’ve no intention of asking him.”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
We round a bend in the gravelled path, and the castle itself comes into view.
Leila would probably have more to say, but she pauses, eyes wide. “Oh, wow. What is that place?”
“It’s a castle,” I reply, rather unnecessarily. “Fourteenth century. It’s been restored, made into apartments and offices for our…organisation.”
“What organisation is that?”
“We run a number of businesses,” is all I say by way of explanation. I don’t imagine she’ll be here very long, so the less she knows, the better.
“We’re in the Outer Hebrides, right?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Isn’t that a bit remote for a business headquarters?”
“Not really. We have phones, the internet. And transport.” I wave my arm in the direction of the two helicopters in a corner of the cobbled courtyard. “It suits us fine.”
She falls silent and trots along beside me. This gives me the opportunity to study her profile as we approach the castle entrance. Despite the belligerent set of her jaw, she’s a pretty little thing. More than pretty, really. I’d say she was stunning. Tall for a girl, and slim. Her waist-length, dark-brown hair is arranged into a loose plait, with tendrils left to frame her oval face. Dark eyes, a small, straight nose, and a tempting mouth that I wouldn’t object to kissing.
I give myself a mental shake. She’s not for me. Too young, for a start. Just eighteen. And she’s been traumatised enough already.
We mount the half dozen or so steps up to the main doors and run into Ethan and Jack on their way out. They step to one side to let us pass.
“Miss Mansour. It’s good to see you up and about again.” Ethan is polite, as always, though his raised eyebrow directed at me expresses his surprise.
“Leila, this is Ethan Savage, and Jack Morgan. They helped to get you out of the water.”
“Thank you, Mr Savage, Mr Morgan. I think I owe you my life.”
Ethan returns her smile. “It was Zee who was the first to dive in after you, and he was the one who got you to the surface. The rest of us just helped out a bit at the end.”
Not entirely true. I may have been to one to save her, but Ethan definitely saved me. Still, I don’t suppose she wants to hear more details of her recent brush with death.
“We were just on our way up to see Frankie, boss.”
“Okay. Last I saw he was in the kitchen scrounging shortcake from Mrs McRae. If you hurry, there might be some left.”
“Most of us are headed back to Caernbro Ghyll this afternoon, Zee. We leave at two,” Jack informs me.
“I see.” I check my watch. I have just enough time to get this quick errand out of the way and see Leila safely back with Megan.
“Maybe Zayn could stay here bit longer,” Ethan suggests. “I’d welcome his help, just until we decide what to do with Miss Mansour.”
Leila starts beside me. I don’t blame her, Ethan can be intimidating, Jack even more so, and I should know. I sling my arm around her thin shoulders. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t mean that to be as threatening as it sounded. You’re quite safe here.”
“My apologies, Miss Mansour.” Ethan actually appears just a tiny bit contrite. “I prefer not to frighten innocent women, certainly not by accident. Zayn is right, you’re perfectly safe now, but it’s probably best if you don’t wander around too much on your own.
The warning is meant for me. The less our unexpected ‘guest’ sees, and the sooner we can send her on her way, the better.
“Right, boss. We’ll be getting on, then. The kitchen, you said.”
“That’s right. Nice to meet you, Miss Mansour.” He continues down the steps.
“We’ll see you back at Caernbro Ghyll when your mission here is done,” Jack says, following Ethan.
“Is he your boss, then?” Leila asks me as we enter the Great Hall. “Oh, wow. This place is awesome.”
I look around, imagining it through her eyes. I suppose it is pretty impressive. Much of the original medieval architecture is still very much in evidence. The huge open fireplace, the high, arched windows, now triple glazed but otherwise unchanged. The ancient wall lamps still remain, but illumination is now provided by subtle lighting set into the walls and floors. The same with the heating, though I have seen the enormous fire in full blaze in the winter.
The tapestries on the walls seem original, but I’m not sure. I wouldn’t be surprised, though. Ethan has an eye for historical accuracy, and all his alterations have been sympathetic to the original structure.
The hall is dominated by the massive oak table and chairs in the centre. The huge carver at the head is where Ethan usually sits when the hall is used for anything formal, though most meetings take place in the modern conference room adjoining his office.
The most regular use of the hall nowadays in as a play area for the many children who live here. The climate in the Outer Hebrides is often less than conducive to outdoor play, so on those days the table and chairs will be shoved to one side to make way for a game of cricket, or a bike track for the little ones. A tricycle and a kids’ scooter have been abandoned in one corner, and a pair of basketball hoops are propped against the fireplace.
The children themselves are at school right now, but in a few hours’ time this room could be bedlam. The younger children, the under-fives, tend to spend their time upstairs in the playroom where they are cared for by Magda and Faith. Magda is one of our pilots who doubles as a nanny, and Faith is Aaron’s mother-in-law. She came to Caraksay with her daughter and grandson when Aaron moved his family here. They have since gone back to the mainland, but Faith chose to stay.
I don’t tell Leila any of this. Instead, I hustle her through and down the stone corridor to the kitchen at the back. There we do indeed find Frankie guzzling a plate of home-made shortcake while Mrs McRae busies herself at the sink.
She turns around when we enter. “Well, who d’we have here, then?” She wipes her hands on her apron, smiling.
“This is Leila,” I explain. “We were hoping to find Frankie.”
“Ah, well, ye’ve found ’im, then, and no’ before time. Take ’im away wi’ ye, afore he eats me out o’ house ’n home.”
“That’s the plan, Mrs McRae. Frankie, you were supposed to be up in your den.”
“Aye, well, I got peckish.” He gets to his feet and sweeps the crumbs from the front of his T-shirt. “What is it you want?”
“I’ll explain as we go.”
I’m keen to get on, but Mrs McRae has other ideas, as does Leila, it seems.
“Mrs McRae? You made my lunch today.”
“I did, lass. Was it good for ye? Zayn told me tae stick tae veggie, until we kenned whether ye’d eat meat or no’.”
“Well, thank you. Both of you. It was wonderful. I do like meat, though, but not pork.”
“Aye. He’ll nae touch the stuff neither.” She jerks her thumb in my direction. “I were thinkin’ a nice lamb masala for later. Ye’ll take some o’ these cookies wi’ ye, will ye?”
“We’re fine, Mrs McRae,” I begin, only to be overruled by Leila and Frankie in unison.
“We’d love some,” she says.
“I’ll take the plate, then,” he announces, already cradling the shortbread in his arms. “Shame to waste it.”
I admit defeat on that front and herd the pair of them out of the kitchen. Frankie leads the way to the stairs.
His ‘office’ is on the first floor. Strictly speaking, the IT lab was set up by Casey Savage, now Casey O’Neill, Ethan and Aaron’s sister. She’s an internationally famous IT geek and hacker extraordinaire. Since she married one of Ethan’s main allies, Jed O’Neill, who heads up the Irish Mob, she’s lived mainly in New York and Dublin. She likes to maintain her presence here, though, so hasn’t shipped her state-of-the art equipment out.
Frankie is a sort of apprentice who she’s helping to train up. He’s about the same age as Leila, and at Ethan’s insistence is studying computer sciences at university, only returning to Caraksay between semesters. It’s lucky for Leila that he was here for the summer. She’d be dead otherwise.
We troop into his den on the first floor to be met by whirring and flashing lights. At least half a dozen screens glare at us, a baffling series of numbers, characters, and images flashing across them.
He drops into a swivel chair and regards us through heavy-rimmed spectacles, the plate of shortcake precariously balanced on top of a pile of computer magazines.
“Right, what is it you want, then?”
I briefly explain Leila’s predicament. “Is it possible to log back in to an account, even if it’s been closed?”
“Oh, yes. Easily. I just need the password and the name on the account.”
Leila rattles off the details, and we both watch as Frankie keys them in and does some other techy wizardry to bring up the lost account. It’s the work of moments, then Leila’s inbox miraculously materialises on the screen.
Frankie gestures Leila to come forward. “You’ve got mail.”
She scans the list eagerly, then, “It’s there. Look. A message from Edinburgh, and one from St Andrews, too. Oh, and there’s Glasgow. They’ve all made me offers.”
“Well done.” I lean in to view the emails. “Medical school, no less. So, you’re going to be a doctor.”
“I got four A’s,” she gasps. “Four A’s. Shit.”
“I take it that’s good?”
She can only nod. “I worked hard, but I never expected that.”
“You deserve it. So, you have the pick of all three?”
“It looks like it.”
“Which do you prefer?” I find myself hoping it’s not St Andrews. It’s too far away for my liking.
Her face falls. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t be going. I can’t afford it.”
“What about a grant? Or a student loan?” I’ve heard of those; isn’t this how most students fund themselves?
“I applied for a grant for the fees, and I got that, but I’d have nowhere to live and nothing to live on.”
“All the more reason to reclaim your college fund.” And I have an idea about accommodation, too, if she opts for Glasgow or Edinburgh.
She shakes her head. “It wouldn’t matter. As soon as I register, they’d know. My uncle would know I’m alive, and he’d be back for me. He’d have to, wouldn’t he? To stop me talking about what they did.”
She’s right, but I won’t be letting Uncle Abdul throw his weight around anymore. If she can be persuaded not to rely on the police locking him up, I have another idea. He won’t be bothering her again; I intend to make sure of it.
“Leave Uncle Abdul to me. You need to get on with deciding which university is for you and accept their kind offer.”
“But—”
I lay my fingers across her lips. “Enough. Trust me. Reply to those emails.”