Savage Lovers: The Caraksay

Brotherhood. Book 4 Ashe Barker

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 SAVAGE LOVERS

THE CARAKSAY BROTHERHOOD : BOOK 4

ASHE BARKER
ASHE BARKER BOOKS
COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2023 by Ashe Barker

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author,
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Editing by www.studioenp.com
Cover Art by http://www.fiverr.com/designrans

Warning : This book contains sexually explicit content which is suitable only for mature readers. If
such content upsets you, please do not purchase this book
 CONTENTS

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Untitled
Chapter 3
Untitled
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Untitled
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Untitled
Chapter 8
Untitled
Chapter 9
Untitled
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Untitled
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Untitled
Chapter 19
Untitled
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Untitled
Chapter 22
Untitled
Chapter 23
Untitled
Chapter 24

Savage King (Book 1 in the Caraksay Brotherhood series)

Also by Ashe Barker
From the Author
From the Author
She needed a saviour. What she got was a savage protector.
Jenna is in trouble. She’s borrowed money and borrowed money, all from the wrong kinds of
people.
Even worse, her brother’s best friend has come sniffing around, wanting to know why she can’t
pay her debts. The only thing more embarrassing than admitting she’s broke is the shameful way her
body reacts to Tony’s humiliating discipline.
Now, one of her debtors has come to collect. And the price for not paying up is far steeper than
Jenna ever expected.

She came searching for her sister. What she found was a savage family.
All of Ruth’s sources say her sister is in Glasgow, in bed — literally — with the infamous Savage
family. Desperate to reconnect with Beth, Ruth breaks into their headquarters.
And finds herself in a holding cell, her bottom sore from the business end of Jack Morgan’s belt,
and the rest of her aching for his punishing touch.
The longer she stays in that cell, the more unlikely it seems that she’ll ever see her sister, or any
of her family, ever again. Because men like Jack don’t have patience for intruders.
PROLOGUE

L ondon, UK
November 1994

She covered her ears, but nothing would deaden the thin, high-pitched wailing. The baby was
hungry. Cold, too, probably. The last of the formula had been used this morning, so even if she had a
couple of pounds to put in the meter in order to boil a kettle, she couldn’t make any milk. Her own
meagre supply had long since dried up.
She picked up the fretful child, held her to her chest. “It’s okay, baby. Mummy will find a way.”
But would she? Could she? At seventeen, with no job, and soon to have no home either since she
had about as much chance of finding another month’s rent as flying to the moon, what possible way
could she find?
She’d managed to get this far, surely a few months more…
But how? And what then? As far as she could work out, the only sources of income open to her
were prostitution and begging, and neither of those could really be done with a six-month-old crying
baby in tow. There was no one she could ask to mind her infant daughter. No one she could trust
anyway.
She stiffened her shoulders. She would not give in now. They had come this far, her and Naomi.
She could manage. She had to.

THE NEXT MORNING she was awake at dawn, holding her whining daughter, waiting for the shops to
open. She had no money, but surely they wouldn’t deny a hungry baby a carton of ready-mixed
formula. That didn’t even need heating up. She could offer to work for an hour or so to pay for it. Mrs
Patel who ran the mini-market on the corner had four children of her own, she’d understand.
Mrs Patel understood nothing of the sort. “You pay,” was all she had to say on the matter.
When the bedraggled, desperate girl pleaded for help, she offered to phone the police if she didn’t
get out of the shop.
Trudging back onto the pavement, she was seized with one final mad impulse, one last act of
defiant desperation. One moment the empty cola bottle was in her hand, the next she’d hurled it
through the shop window.
Momentarily transfixed with shock at what she’d done, her feet broke into a run of their own
accord, but the police car parked on the corner was faster than one young woman carrying a baby. She
sobbed as she was bundled into the back seat of the car, begged the officers to let her go home.
 “My baby is hungry. I need to feed her, change her…”
“Well, love, we can do all of that at the station.” The policeman wasn’t unkind, but neither was he
changing his mind.
She was arrested for criminal damage.

“DON ’ T LOCK me in a cell. Please, my baby needs me…” She wept, clung to Naomi and huddled in a
hard plastic chair in the custody area. The sergeant brought her a cup of tea and sat next to her.
“How old are you, love?”
“Seventeen,” she sobbed.
“Is there no one at home to help? Your mam an’ dad, maybe?”
She shook her head. “They told me to go. It’s just us, me and Naomi.”
“And how old is Naomi?” he asked.
“Six months.”
“She’s certainly not very happy,” he observed.
Naomi had never let up her pitiful wailing.
“Sh-she’s hungry. I asked at the shop for milk, but they wouldn’t let me have any. I’ve no money to
pay for it, and they wouldn’t let me work.”
“You’ve no job then?”
She shook her head.
“A place to live?”
“Until the end of the week. Then the rent’s due, and I don’t have it.”
The sergeant shook his head. “Eh, lass. What a to-do.”
“I’ve tried. I swear I have. But…it’s so hard. I don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll have to let social services know. For the baby’s sake.”
She clutched her baby to her chest. “Please, they’ll take her away. Don’t let them take her.”
He was gentle, but adamant. “Love, it’s for the best. Just for a while. Until you get yourself
straightened out.”
She clutched the baby even closer. “I don’t want to lose her…”
“I know. I understand that, but you can’t take proper care of her on your own. Not yet anyway. At
least think about it.”
“Are you going to charge me?” She sniffled. “Over the window, I mean.”
“No, I don’t think so. How about I let you sleep in the interview room tonight? There’s a settee in
there. I’ll send out for some baby milk and maybe a pack of nappies as well. In the morning, we can
talk again.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
He offered her a sad smile and patted her on the shoulder. “We’ll see. For now, I think a nice cup
of tea and maybe a sandwich. Our canteen isn’t up to much, but they do a decent egg and cheese on
brown. Will that do?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Just doing my job, miss. I wish it could be more…”

“This is Miss Fellowes. She’s from the Child Protection service,” the sergeant introduced the
homely middle-aged woman at his side. “She needs to chat to you about Naomi.”
 For the first time in days, Naomi was quietly sleeping. Her belly was full. She had a clean nappy
on, and someone had even found a warm, soft blanket for her. She was content at last. These facts
were not lost on the defeated young woman who held her.
A good night’s sleep and some decent food in her own stomach had helped her to gain a sense of
perspective. And, perhaps, one of responsibility, too. Naomi depended on her to make the right
decision, to put her baby’s needs first.
I can’t keep her. She needs more than this. More than me… But, I can’t bear to say ‘goodbye’
either.
“I… I need the loo.”
“Of course. I can wait.” Mrs Fellowes offered her a reassuring smile.
“Please, look after her for me.” She passed the sleeping infant to the social worker. “I’ll be back
as soon as I can.”
“Of course. Yes, but—”
She glanced back, from the doorway. Just once. And said her goodbye in silence.
CHAPTER 1

C ambridge, UK
November 2021

RUTH

The stack of files lands on my desk with a resounding thud. I cast a baleful look at the pile of
documents, then at my sergeant seated opposite.
He smirks at me. “I hope you didn’t have plans for this evening, Lowison. That lot needs
processing before you go.”
I sigh. At no point during my initial police training did anyone mention spending days on end
filing. The police service is under-funded and overstretched as it is. Why not employ someone on
minimum wage for this sort of thing and let the actual officers get on with proper policing? After all,
that’s what the public wants. More bobbies on the beat, chasing real criminals, not form-filling. The
refrain is never-ending.
Not that my career as a detective has been exactly stellar so far. I’ve spent three fruitless days on
my hands and knees helping with a fingertip search, and on another occasion I traipsed the streets
door-knocking in the pouring rain. If I’m lucky I might get assigned to taking initial witness
statements, but that’s about as glamorous as it’s got. So far.
Not for the first time, I consider jacking it in. A career change would do me good. Even now, it’s
not too late to follow my dream of being a writer.
Except, it probably is. Policing might not set my soul alight, but it’s a steady job and it pays the
bills. Right now, that matters. I have bills, lots of them, and more to come, most likely. They need
paying, so here I am.
“Boss, I really could do with getting away on time today. My mother—”
“Tough.” Sergeant David Fisher is twice divorced and wedded to the job. Family considerations
are alien to him. If it doesn’t involve getting a decent collar or sinking half a dozen pints at the
Boltmaker’s Arms at the end of his shift, he doesn’t want to know. “The sooner you get this lot
shifted, the sooner you can be on your way.”
“But, Sarge…” I continue, only to be interrupted by the trill of the desk phone.
Sergeant Fisher picks it up. “Front desk.”
There follows a few moments of silence, then, “Right, sir. I’m on it. Ten minutes.” He gets to his
feet.
 “Boss, can I just—?” I’m determined to make one final effort to get away on time, today of all
days.
Sergeant Fisher pauses. “Look, Lowison, either you’re serious about your career or you’re not. If
you want to get on, then you’ll put the hours in now.”
“I am serious, sir. I just—”
I’m talking to empty air. The sergeant has already gone, the door swinging closed behind him. He
has more important business to deal with than the personal problems of one disgruntled probationary
constable.
I sigh and reach for the folder at the top of the pile.

Seven hours later, I let myself into the modest semi-detached house I share with my mother. All
is silent. She must already be in bed, though how she got herself upstairs is anyone’s guess
I take off my coat, then peer hopefully into the fridge. I really do need to find an hour or so to do
some shopping, but for now I’ll have to settle for a leftover chicken samosa and half a tin of baked
beans. I dump both in the microwave, set it to run for two minutes, then trudge up the stairs to check
on my mother.
“Is that you?” The thin voice croaks from the front bedroom.
“Yes, Mum.” Who else would it be? I open her bedroom door to peep inside. “How are you
feeling today?”
“Not so bad, love.”
It’s a lie. She looks like death warmed up, which isn’t that far from the truth. My heart sinks just a
little bit more. The doctor came only this morning and increased her pain relief, but it seems to make
no difference. She’s fading fast, though neither of us really cares to admit it.
But she knows. We both know. The truth is staring us in the face.
“Mum, have you thought any more about a hospice?” I sit on the edge of the bed. “Maybe just for a
short while, until you pick up a bit.”
She shakes her head. “I won’t be picking up, love.”
Pancreatic cancer is brutal. Barely three months since the diagnosis, and it’s all she can do to get
herself out of bed. Her condition has worsened sharply in the last few days, and I worry about her all
the time. I hate that she’s alone here at home for what will probably be her last few weeks, while I’m
stuck at work, messing about with filing and other such rubbish.
“I’ll get someone to come in and care for you,” I say, not for the first time. “Just a few hours a
day, while I’m working.”
“No, love. We can’t afford that. I can manage.” She sinks back against the pillows. “I was just
waiting up until you got back, but maybe I’ll get some sleep now. Just a few minutes…”
I kiss her forehead. “I’ll be downstairs.”
Her lips curve in a hint of a smile. In moments, she’s asleep.

I drag myself out of bed just before seven the next morning. I’m not due at the station until two, but
I’ve a lot to do before I can go to work. A pile of washing needs to be tackled if my mum is to have
fresh bedding. There’s nothing clean and hygienic about terminal cancer. And I should try to prepare
some nourishing meals that she can just pop in the microwave. I don’t want her living on Pot Noodles
and sandwiches. Then, if I get a move on, I could probably just fit in a quick trip to the supermarket to
restock the fridge. And in and among all of that, I want to spend some quality time with her. She never
complains, but she must be scared, and lonely.
 She’s not the only one. I can’t even bear to think of the weeks to come, how horrendous it’s going
to be. How much worse will it get before…?
And after…? What will I do when she’s gone? It’ll be just me, alone.
I banish those thoughts. I’ve enough to contend with dealing with the here and now, without filling
my head with what might be.
The bedroom is still dark when I enter, the curtains closed. She’s motionless, the only sound that
of her laboured breathing. I approach the bed.
“Mum, are you awake?” I keep my voice low. If she’s sleeping, I won’t disturb her.
“Love?” she croaks. Her fingers move on top of the quilt, as though searching for my hand.
I wrap her cold fingers in mine. “I’m here. Is there anything I can do for you?”
For several seconds she just grasps my hand, then she opens her eyes. For once, her vision is
clear. She holds my gaze. “Actually, there is.”
“Okay. What do you need?”
“My… my daughter.”
“I’m here, Mum.” I squeeze her hand.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I need both my daughters.”
Both?
“Mum, you’re getting a bit confused.” I keep my tone gentle, patient. The doctor warned that she
might become disoriented, the effects of her medication. “There’s just me, and I’m here, with you.”
“Naomi…” she whispers. “I need to see her.”
“My name is Ruth,” I begin. “You must remember…”
“Yes, I do. Of course I do. You’re Ruth. My little Ruthie. Such a good girl…”
I hug her, but almost wish I hadn’t. She’s so frail, so fragile. I’m scared I might break her.
“I was talking about Naomi… your sister.”
“I don’t have a sister.”
She nods. “You do. My Naomi. She’d be… six years older than you.”
I can only stare at her. Her eyes are lucid, there’s no hint of doubt or confusion.
“It was before I met your father,” she continues, a new note of determination in her voice. “But he
knew about her. He knew about Naomi.”
“What happened?” I whisper, no longer doubting that there is something here. Something she’s
hellbent on telling me. “Where is Naomi now?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t keep her, you see. She was adopted.”
“Oh, my God…”
“I was just a child myself then. Seventeen. I’d no one to help me, I just couldn’t manage. I tried, I
tried so hard, but it was no good. She was always hungry, always crying. I had nothing to give her.
She needed more. It wasn’t enough that I loved her. I loved her so much, but she needed security, a
safe place to live, to grow up.”
“Oh, Mum.” I grip her hand hard.
“I need to know she forgives me, that she understands why I did it. I need to tell her that I loved
her, I always have.”
“She’ll know. She must realise…”
“Why would she? What if I did the wrong thing? What if she wasn’t happy?”
“You did what you thought was best.” I don’t really understand what drove my mother to give up
her child, but whatever the circumstances, I have no doubt that she felt she was left with no option.
She’s the most loving person I know. She was a wonderful mum to me. It would have torn her apart to
give up her baby.
Tears roll down her cheeks. “I need to tell her. I need to explain. Or, if I can’t tell her myself, I
need you to do it for me. Make sure she knows how it was. Tell her about me, and that I had no
choice. I’d have done anything to make things different…”
“But how will I find her?” It never occurs to me to refuse, but I have nothing to go on. This Naomi
could be anywhere in the world.
“Your father knew…”
“Yes, but—”
“No. I mean, he knew where she was, at least to begin with.”
“Oh.” I furrow my brow, try to make sense of all this. “I don’t understand. How did he know?”
“He was in the police, like you.”
My father was a police sergeant, a career copper. Even so, these things are confidential.
“He made me give her up,” she continues. Her expression becomes wistful as she casts her mind
back. “He made me hand her over to social services.”
“Made you? No, he’d never…”
My dad has been dead for five years. It was because of him that I decided to apply for the police,
to make him proud. I wanted to be like him. He was thirty years in the job, but more important, he was
the kindest, gentlest man I ever knew. I adored him, and his death just two years into his retirement
was one of the greatest injustices ever. He deserved to end his days enjoying himself, and I suppose
he did. He dropped dead on the fourteenth hole when he was three strokes under par. A massive heart
attack. It was instantaneous, and there was absolutely nothing to be done.
I can’t believe that this kind, loving father wouldn’t have accepted a little girl into his life. He
loved children, loved me. Even if she wasn’t his, he’d have loved Naomi, too.
“We weren’t together then,” my mum goes on, as though she can hear my thoughts. “I was arrested,
for breaking a window. He was the custody sergeant, and he was kind to me. He let me sleep on the
settee in the interview room rather than locking me in a cell, and he found something for Naomi to eat.
Me, too. He was a nice man, but he knew I was out of my depth. And he was right. I couldn’t cope.
So, I did what he advised me to do. I gave her up, so she could have a better life. I… I just left her
there, at the police station. I walked out and never came back.”
For a few moments I’m speechless. Then, “Oh. Mum. That must have been awful.”
She nods. “It was. My heart broke that day. I thought I’d die of it. I was so miserable, so racked
with guilt. Inadequate, you’ll call it, I suppose. For the next couple of years, I just… well, I can
barely recall what I did. I slept rough, messed about with drugs and drinking, got in with the wrong
crowd, and naturally, I got arrested again. Several more times, actually. Drugs, theft, shoplifting.”
I’m speechless. What is there to say anyway?
“Your father was still there, still the custody sergeant. He got me into a hostel eventually. I got
probation and a fine that last time. I’d no money, obviously, so he paid the fine for me. We became…
friends. He was a bit like a big brother to me, but somewhere along the way that changed. Then, you
were on the way, so we got married.”
I’m still not sure what to say. My memories of my father take a battering. Did he take advantage of
a vulnerable, lonely girl? I’d known he was quite a bit older than her, but that never seemed to matter
to them. It never occurred to me to question their relationship. They were happy. We were a close
family.
“I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t like that.” She glares at me. “He was a good man, a
kind man. I wanted him. I loved him. He took care of me, always. And you.”
 “Okay. So…?” I’m not convinced, and I’m not entirely sure she is either. Whatever, it’s all water
under the bridge now, I suppose. “What about Naomi?”
“He made enquiries, soon after we got married. I wanted her back, so much. We would have had
her…”
“Why didn’t you?”
“She’d been adopted already. Almost immediately, they said. People want babies, you see. By
then, she was five years old. She was settled with a nice family. She wouldn’t even remember me. I’d
turned her world upside down once, I couldn’t do it again. Legally, she wasn’t mine anymore. We
talked, your father and me. We decided we’d no choice but to leave things as they were, and hope that
eventually she’d come looking. She never has, though.”
“Maybe she…” I trail off, uncertain what to say.
“She could have had her adoption file when she was eighteen. That’s years ago now. If she
wanted to find me, she could have.”
“I’m sorry.” It seems so inadequate, but it’s all I have.
“I’ve waited, hoping… But time’s run out. I thought I had longer, but I don’t. So I need you to go
find her, tell her about me.”
“I…”
“Please, Ruthie. Please, do this for me. There’s no one else I can ask.”
I close my eyes. Really, what choice do I have? “Okay, Mum. I’ll find Naomi for you.”
Christ only knows how, but I’ll try.

My first step is to find a hospice place for my mum. If I’m to go haring off to God knows where
looking for her long-lost daughter, I need to know she’s in good hands. Willowfield comes well
recommended, but it’s not cheap. Still, I reckon I can manage to cover the fees for a couple of months
or so, and hopefully that will be enough. If not, well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
I see her safely installed in her pretty new room at Willowfield with a view of the gardens and
ornamental lake. She even has her own personal nurse, a kindly soul by the name of Julie. The pair of
them hit it off straight away, so I don’t feel so bad about leaving my mother there.
My next task is to arrange compassionate leave from the police. I bypass Sergeant Fisher. What he
knows about compassion would fit on the back of a stamp.
I go straight to Human Resources and explain that my mother is in the final stages of terminal
cancer and I want to spend as much time as I can with her. The efficient and brisk lady in charge of
such matters expresses her sympathy and signs my forms happily enough.
It only remains to take up where my father left off. He always kept any papers of importance in a
bureau in the dining room of our house, so I ransack that. I can’t believe my luck when I find a large
brown envelope with ‘Naomi’ scrawled across the front, though I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised.
My father was always organised.
I tip the contents onto the rug and rifle through.
The social worker’s notes show that the baby was described as clean but undernourished, aged
twenty-nine weeks. Her date of birth is there, and my mother’s name. Esther Horowitz.
So, we’re of Jewish descent. I never realised that.
Naomi’s father is listed as unknown. She was born in London, but no address is given for Esther.
The adoptive parents are named as Faith and Harold Sampson. He’s a van driver, she works in a
hairdresser’s. They live in Basingstoke. They fostered baby Naomi within weeks of her coming into
care and formally adopted her two years later.
 There’s an additional note, in my father’s handwriting, saying that Mr Sampson took on a pub
tenancy, the General Grant in Stafford. He moved there with his family in June, nineteen ninety-nine,
and was still there at the time of my parents’ marriage.
I assume that must have been the point at which they decided to leave matters as they were and try
to move on. There is no further information in the file.
Right, then. Stafford, here I come.
CHAPTER 2

J ack
“Something’s amiss at the Hope.” I peer at the report before me, mentally sifting through
possibilities.
“Like what?” My colleague leans back and props his feet on the desk. Tony Haigh may be a
damned good lieutenant, and half-decent company when he works at it, but his manners aren’t the
best. “Young Jenna knows she’s on probation.”
“Whatever. There’s way too much police interest in the place. She’s getting visits from the local
plod most days. And she’s behind with her payments.”
Tony decides to take notice. His boots hit the floor, and he leans forward, elbows on his thighs.
“What are you thinking? She’s been recruited? On the take?”
I shrug. Jenna Delaney hasn’t been managing the Hope and Anchor for long, just a couple of
months, since her father got banged up. Not long enough for me to know if she can be trusted. She
wouldn’t be the first pub landlady to get tempted by a bit of extra cash. The police are always on the
lookout for a fresh-faced but well-connected informer, and Jenna would be in an ideal position. A lot
of business is transacted at the Hope and Anchor, and a fair proportion of it is ours.
“Maybe. Or maybe she’s got some little scam of her own going on. Either way, I think she needs a
visit, to remind her of her loyalties. And the consequences of letting us down.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You think I need a minder?”
He laughs. “Hardly. But I need a break from these four walls.”
“This isn’t a social call.” Though it doesn’t hurt that young Jenna is a lot easier on the eye than
most of our tenant publicans. Still, a pretty face and lush curves won’t help her if I find she has been
playing for another team. Her fingers will break just like anyone else’s if she’s had them in our till.

We pull up outside the Hope and Anchor. It’s a typical Glaswegian watering hole catering to a
clientele of dockworkers, engineers, and truckers, as well as a fair cross section of the criminal
underworld. The Hope is where anything that had the misfortune to fall off the back of a wagon gets
redistributed. It’s a favourite haunt of drug dealers and prostitutes, and something of a labour
exchange if anyone needs an extra hand or two to pull off a bit of business. Getaway drivers hang
around looking for work, along with thugs to hire, burglars, and counterfeiters. A regular hive of
activity is the Hope. And this is why it’s vital to make sure that the licensee is one of ours.
The Savages have protected the Hope for years. Jenna’s father, George, ran it for a couple of
decades, and his father before him. The Delaneys were always pleased to do business with us, and
the arrangement was mutually beneficial. In exchange for a guarantee that there wouldn’t be undue
hassle from the police, or other criminal firms, my boss, Ethan Savage, takes a twenty-five percent
share of the takings along with a cut of any additional revenues arriving through any other means. We
provide bar staff if needed, and security. We’ll even help out with a good lawyer should
circumstances call for it, though that didn’t help Old George when he was nicked for driving a lorry-
load of hot vodka up from Dover. A sharp eye for a legal argument will only go so far in the face of
overwhelming evidence. He’s currently doing a five stretch in Belmarsh, leaving his one and only
daughter to run the pub single-handed while he’s away.
Tony and I observe the exterior of the pub for a few moments. The place could do with a bit of
attention. New window frames, perhaps. A new sign, definitely. It’s looking decidedly run-down, not
an image we like to cultivate. Ethan Savage prefers the places he runs to be decent, at least on the
outside. I’ll need to have a word about that, too.
“Let’s go.” I reach for the door handle. “Whoa. Wait. Who’s that?”
We watch from our car as two men exit a dark-coloured Ford Sierra parked across the street.
They have to pass the bonnet of our car to reach the door of the pub, which I know should be locked
still as it’s only just turned ten in the morning. The Hope doesn’t open until noon.
One of the men knocks twice. Hard.
“Police,” Tony mutters. “I’d know their type anywhere.”
I’m inclined to agree. And it looks like they’re here on business. Pity, I quite liked Jenna, but there
you have it.
The man who knocked grabs the door handle and rattles it. “Open up,” he yells. “Police.”
Our suspicions confirmed, we wait until the door has been unlocked from within and the men have
gone inside before we make our move.
We enter a few minutes later through the door which has been conveniently left unlocked.
Careless.
I gesture to Tony to remain silent. We’ll listen in for a while before announcing ourselves.
Voices are coming from the bar area, but they are speaking too low for us to hear what’s being
said. A woman, though, and two men. We move in closer.
“…not the right answer, bitch.”
“I want you to go. I already said—” Whatever else Jenna Delaney might have had to say is
drowned by the sharp crack as a man’s fist connects with her face. The sound is unmistakeable.
“Like I said, wrong answer,” her assailant growls.
I don’t care for the way this is going. Tony and I exchange a glance and edge nearer. I peer around
the door from the outer hallway in time to see one of the men bend over and grasp the front of Jenna’s
sweatshirt. She was on the floor or, but he hauls her roughly to her feet and raises his hand to hit her
again.
“I’m done asking nicely,” he snarls. “That thieving thug of a father isn’t here to fight your battles
for you now. That makes you mine, bitch.”
“I think you mean ours,” his comrade puts in. “I get my share, too.”
“There’s plenty to go round.” The man holding Jenna grabs her breast and squeezes. “Isn’t that
right, darlin’?”
She’s fighting back sobs, struggling to get away. “Let go of me, you bastard.”
“Now, now. Let’s play nicely, shall we?” He lets out a cackle. “You could just be friendly an’
we’ll all get along fine.”
Jenna is fighting in earnest now, but it’s an unequal struggle. The front of her sweatshirt rips to
expose one creamy breast, and I decide we’ve seen enough.
I do one final check to locate the CCTV. My Glock is in my hand when I step fully into the bar.
“I think that’s enough, gentlemen.”
Both men whirl to regard me.
“Get out of here,” one of them orders.
“No, I don’t think so.” I advance on them. “The lady told you to go. You do seem to have
outstayed your welcome.”
One of the idiots actually produces his warrant card to wave at me. “Fuck off. We’re police,
doing our duty. Get out or we’ll do you for obstruction.”
I scrutinise the ID. “Detective Constable Waddington, is it?”
“Yes, and you’re pissing me off.”
“The feeling is entirely mutual, I can assure you.” I turn my attention to his colleague. “You
police, too?”
Another warrant card appears. “Detective Sergeant Steve Morris. Vice. And unless you want
locking up, you need to do one. Forget you were ever here.”
I make sure my gun is out of sight before I move into the view of the cameras. “I’ll be needing a
word with you two soon, but now’s not the time.”
The police officers look to one another in undisguised scorn.
“What the fuck are you babbling about. A word?”
“A word about what you’ll need to do for me, to avoid me turning the CCTV tapes over to your
superiors.” I raise my gaze to indicate the location of the cameras covering the bar, a system installed
just a few months ago which I personally commissioned. “Unless attempted rape is part of police
duties these days…”
“Rape? No one got raped. It was just a bit of fun…”
Tony has already wrapped his jacket around Jenna and settled her in a chair. She’s bleeding from
her lower lip. Her cheek is swollen and bruised. She appears dazed, ready to collapse.
“I doubt any jury would agree. Do you really want to put that to the test?”
“Who are you?” DC Waddington seems to be, at last, grasping the nature of the situation in which
he finds himself.
“Let me put it this way. You two are not nice men, but you’ll find we’re a lot less nice. And,
you’re on our property, messing with our employee. You can see how this is going to end, can’t you?”
“Now look,” his sergeant begins.
I’ve heard enough. I step back, out of the range of the cameras, and the fool follows me, thinking
I’m backing off. He even juts out his chin, trying to intimidate me, but all that does is provide me with
an easier target. I deliver a right hook that sends him sprawling.
“Get up, and get out,” I spit, stepping around him. “You.” I direct my next remark to Waddington.
“Grab that piece of shit and disappear. You can expect to be hearing from me.” A bent copper in my
pocket will be sure to prove helpful at some stage.
The DC is definitely the sharper of the two. He crouches to collect up his superior, then the pair
stumble towards the door. I wait until it slams behind them before turning my attention to Jenna.
Tony has got her a glass of water. Her hands are shaking as she attempts to grip it, but Tony wraps
his fingers around hers to help her take a few sips.
How touching. But we have business to do here.
Tony apparently has the same idea. “So, what was all that about?” he asks.
“They…they…”
 Jenna is shaking violently. I doubt we’re going to get a sensible word out of her for a while yet,
and since it’s pretty clear she wasn’t doing business with the police, at least not willingly, I’ve no
desire to rough her up any further. Still, we do need to know exactly what’s been going on.
I’m saved the need to offer further TLC by my phone pinging to signal an incoming text. I check
the screen.
“I need to go,” I tell Tony. “Can you finish up here?” He knows what needs to be done.
“Problem?” he asks.
“Could be. An intruder at the mansion.” Our cameras in the grounds of the Savage family home,
now serving as the headquarters for our operation in Glasgow and the rest of Scotland, have detected
unexpected activity. “It’s probably nothing, but I’ll go back and check.”
He gives me a sharp nod, and I exit the pub. I’ll take the car and send a vehicle back to pick him
up.
The mansion, formally known as Caernbro Ghyll, is the large house just outside Glasgow where
the Savages lived until the current head of the family, Ethan Savage, decided to move his home and
business headquarters to an isolated island in the Outer Hebrides. He purchased Caraksay, spent
several million pounds on renovating and restoring the existing castle and crofts, as well as
constructing a swimming pool, spa, offices, and entertainment facilities in order to accommodate his
massive organisation and the men needed to run it all.
But he retained the old house as his base on the mainland, and I manage that for him, as well as
heading up all his many and various interests in Scotland. I have an apartment in the mansion, and
several more of our soldiers live there, too. It’s a good place for conducting business that Ethan
doesn’t want to bring to his island. He prefers to retain just his closest circle on his private island and
rarely welcomes visitors.
We have offices in the mansion, and storage for weapons, as well as the interrogation facilities
and cells so essential to the smooth running of our business.
Intruders are not good news.
Tony

I grab a towel from the bar and dampen it under the tap, then dab the drying blood from around
Jenna’s mouth. I crumple the towel into a wad and press it against her swollen cheek.
“Hold that there. It’ll help.”
“Thanks,” she mumbles. “And, thank you for…for being here.”
I grunt. Neither Jack nor I exactly fit the mould of knight in shining armour, but we would never
have stood by and let a woman be assaulted right in front of us. Unless we were doing the assaulting,
and with a good reason. That pair of horny fucks were just taking advantage of a woman on her own,
and the more I think of it, the more I’m determined to make them sorry.
But that’s for later. Right now, I have a traumatised landlady to deal with.
“Were we in time?” I ask. “They didn’t…?”
She shakes her head. “They would have, though. Thank you. Again.”
“You’re welcome. But why were they here in the first place? And why did you let them in?”
“Are you saying it was my fault?” she demands. “That I asked for it?”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m asking. So?”
“They’re police,” she replies, at last. “What choice did I have?”
“Have they been here before?”
She hesitates, then nods. “A couple of times.”
“Why? Did they threaten you before?” Or worse?
“Yes. I mean, no, not really.”
“Which is it?”
“They came here in the first place looking for Timmy McRae.”
Young Timmy McRae is a small-time burglar and car thief. The rumour is he’s going up in the
world, or thinks he is. He’s taken to hanging around near cash machines and robbing people after they
make withdrawals, elderly ladies in the main when he thinks he can make better use of their pensions
than they can. I wouldn’t mind a word with him myself. That sort of thing gives honest crooks a bad
name.
“Does he drink in here?”
“Occasionally. Not often. I couldn’t help them, but they wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. They
kept coming back, when the pub wasn’t open and they knew I’d be here on my own. I…I knew
something like this would happen, sooner or later.”
“Why didn’t you tell us? It’s called ‘protection’ for a reason.”
She looks away, clearly embarrassed. “You know why.”
I do, as it happens. “You owe us money.”
She nods. “I do mean to pay but I just don’t have it right now. Next month…”
“You haven’t paid for two months,” I remind her. “That’s why we came over today, to discuss
your debt.”
“I’m sorry,” she blurts. “Please, tell Mr Savage I never…”
“Ethan hasn’t said anything — yet. And you know he doesn’t take kindly to anyone not paying
what they owe him. But, you and me go back long way, and Ethan likes your dad, so this is a friendly
nudge.”
“I’ll manage somehow. Thank you,” she murmurs.
“Speaking of going back a long way, how is your dad?” Last I heard, George Delaney was in
solitary for trashing his cell.
 She shrugs. “I’ve told him to keep his head down, just do his time quietly and come home. But you
know what he’s like…”
I do. We all do. George is as mad as a bucket of frogs. He wasn’t always, but the loss of his son
messed with his head. Marty Delaney was six years older than Jenna. He joined the army as soon as
he turned eighteen and died three years later in Afghanistan, courtesy of what the army like to call an
improvised explosive device. Translation : booby-trap bomb. His father has never really gotten over
it and went from being a decent enough bloke to a total madman. He seemed to just stop caring. I think
at some level he wanted to get banged up, as though he deserved to be punished for letting his boy get
killed.
Fucked up, but there you have it.
I miss Marty, too. He was in the same class as me at school. We used to be friends, and I spent
half my teenage years hanging around this pub. Jenna was just a kid then, but she trailed after us
whenever she could, until we got fed up with her and told her to piss off and play with her dolls. Then
she’d flounce away in a huff, until the next time.
I cast a critical eye over her now. Split lip and bruised cheek aside, she’s filled out well. No man
with a pulse would object to her company these days, not that this in any way excuses or accounts for
the actions of the so-called officers of the law. Rape is not about sexual attraction. It’s violence and
power, plain and simple.
I give myself a mental shake. Back to the business in hand. “I’ll need to see the accounts,” I tell
her.
She looks up at me. “Why? It’s all in order. You know I keep good books.”
“Do you?” I raise an eyebrow. “We know the pub’s doing all right. The bar’s full most nights, and
there’s plenty of ale swigged. So, what’s happened to the profits?”
“I just… It’s a temporary cash flow thing.”
“Why?” I press her. “What’s been going wrong lately?”
“Nothing. Trade’s slower than you imagine just now, but it’ll pick up.”
I shake my head. “Jenna, trade isn’t slow. You’re as busy as ever, and there’s money going into the
till. So, I’ll ask again. Why isn’t Ethan getting his cut?”
“He will, I swear.”
“You’re not answering my question, Jenna.”
“Please, just let me have a week or so, and I’ll make up the difference. You know me, I will pay. I
swear.”
I’d like to believe her, for old time’s sake if nothing else, but the facts are staring me in the face.
Even so, I decide to give her a chance to make good on her promise.
“Right, here’s what I’ll do. You can have one week, no more, then I’ll be back to collect what’s
owed.”
“Thank you.” She offers me a tremulous smile, somewhat wrecked by her swollen mouth. “I won’t
let you down.”
“You’d better not. You know what comes next if you don’t make this right. We need to make
examples…”
“I know.” She twists her fingers together.
I see no need to elaborate. “Right. I’ll be off. I’ll take the books with me.”
She nods. “I’ll go get them.”

I exit the pub to find Stefan Romanesque, usually known as ‘Rome’, waiting for me outside in one of
our four-by-fours. He’s one of the Savage soldiers currently working out of the mansion, and I assume
he was sent by Jack to pick me up since he dashed off in the car we’d been sharing. Rome waves me
over and opens the passenger door.
“Need a lift back?” he asks, grinning.
“Thanks.” I get in beside him. “We need to do a little detour on the way.”
“Oh. Where are we headed?” He starts the engine.
“Scotstoun,” I reply. “The high-rise flats, near the station.”
He nods and pulls away from the kerb.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re parked at the foot of a multi-storey block where I happen to know a
certain Detective Constable Nigel Waddington lives on the seventh floor. Another classmate of mine
from back in the day; I recognised him instantly at the pub. I’m not sure if he realised who I was, but
this is an oversight I mean to put right.
Nigel Waddington was a slimy little bully, even then. He never picked on me, he wouldn’t have
dared, but he made the lives of some of the smaller kids a fucking misery. I never got involved, it was
none of my business. This is another oversight to be rectified without delay.
“Do you need me to come up?” Rome offers.
I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’ve got this. Give me ten minutes.”
Rome settles in to wait, while I exit the vehicle and make my way to the main entrance to the flats.
I’m spared the bother of breaking in when one of the other occupants, a young woman with a
pushchair and a squalling baby, exits as I jog up the steps. She holds the door for me. Very helpful. I
thank her and slip inside.
I decide to go up in the lift, which takes a couple of minutes to arrive, and when it does it smells
of urine. I reconsider and head for the stairs. It’ll be good exercise.
A few minutes later, I’m at the door to number twenty-eight. I knock and wait.
“Piss off,” comes the reply from within. “I’m busy.”
Fuck that. I knock again, harder. This is his last chance before I boot the door in.
There’s a lot of shuffling and rattling, but eventually he’s at the other side of the door. I step to the
side so he can’t see me through the peephole.
“Who the fuck is it?” he snarls. “I told you, I’m busy.”
“Council. There’s a leak upstairs,” I reply. “I need to check your plumbing.”
“It’s fine. Piss off.”
“I have to warn you, sir, that the landlord has a right of access in such matters. If you fail to let me
inspect the property and do any necessary wok, you could be liable for the cost of repairs.”
“Oh fuck. Right then…” The lock grates, and the door swings inwards.
I help matters along by planting my boot in the door. Hard. It flies open, and Waddington is flung
backwards along his hallway. I charge inside, grab him by the front of his uniform shirt, and fling him
up against the wall.
“Now then,” I growl. “Where did we get to?”
He wriggles and squirms, tries to land a punch or two, then resorts to attempting to prise my fists
out of his clothing. I adjust my grip so my hand is around his throat and enjoy the sight of his Adam’s
apple bobbing up and down. I tighten my hold. He’s struggling for breath. His face goes crimson, and
he claws in desperation at my forearm.
“Not nice to be on the receiving end, is it?” I smile at him. “Jenna sends her regards, by the way.”
He’s in no position to answer. I squeeze harder and wait until he’s on the point of passing out
before I relax my hold and let him drag in a gulp or two of oxygen, then I start to throttle him again.
 It’s the most fun I’ve had all day, but all good things must end. I choke him almost into
unconsciousness one more time for luck, then I let him go. He slides down the wall, gasping and
coughing.
I drop to my haunches in front of him. “I need a word with you, Nigel.”
“You bastard,” he croaks.
I smirk and land my fist on his jaw. “Now, now, shall we keep this civil?”
“You’ll go down for this,” he manages through swollen lips. “You can’t come in here—”
“But, here I am,” I reply, “and I’m going nowhere. Not yet. So, I have two questions for you…”
He glares at me but sensibly remains quiet. Well, fairly quiet, if you ignore the wheezing and
coughing.
“First,” I continue, “Why did you and your pervy little chum decide to pester Jenna? You knew
she was one of ours. The Hope and Anchor is ours, and you lot keep your distance. That’s how it
works.”
“We had police business with her. Reports of underage drinking…”
I land another blow, this time to his midsection. “Try again.”
“It’s true. Our inspector…”
“Should know better. What’s his name?”
“Her. Her name. Susan Whymark.”
It’s not a name I know. “Is she new?”
He nods. “Transferred from Aberdeen two months ago.”
I know the type, and now this makes sense. Inspector Whymark is keen to make an impression,
assert authority or whatever. She needs warning off, and I’ll see to it that that gets done. We have a
special understanding with the divisional commander. Jack will suggest that he calls off his dogs or
the details of his affair with his chief superintendent’s daughter will suddenly come out.
Underage drinking. For fuck’s sake…
Mind, if the police information is accurate and Jenna has been serving alcohol to kids, I’ll need to
put a stop to it. Ethan Savage takes a dim view of such things, partly because he prefers not to exploit
young people, and also because it drives away the other punters who don’t want to conduct their
business in a kindergarten.
But now, back to the matter in hand.
“Second,” I go on. “Have you any intention of trying your luck there again? Or at any of our
places?”
I shakes his head.
“Excellent. Because I don’t want to hear you’ve been sticking your scrawny dick where it’s not
wanted. Do I make myself clear?”
“I wasn’t—”
I grab him and shake him warmly by the throat. “Do I make myself clear?” I repeat as he struggles
for breath.
He nods frantically, but I don’t let go at once.
“Again,” I press him. “Have I made myself quite clear?”
He’s going puce but manages another nod.
“That’s good,” I purr. “That’s very good. Because if any tales reach me to suggest you’ve been
giving women a hard time, I’ll be back. I’ll have a nice big pair of scissors with me, and I’ll cut your
miserable dick off. That should solve the problem altogether, I think. Don’t you agree?”
His eyes widen. He tries to speak, but you need air for that, and his ran out a while ago. The best
he can drum up is yet another nod.
“Right, then.” I release him again and stand. “I think that just about covers everything so I’ll be on
my way. Nice talking to you, Nigel. No need to get up, I’ll see myself out.” I take a couple of paces in
the direction of the door, then spin on my heel. “One more thing.” I boot him in the ribs and appreciate
the satisfying crack of bone. “I did say Jenna sends her regards, didn’t I? That was for her.”
CHAPTER 3

R uth
I start where my father left off, with the General Grant pub.
It’s in the town centre, a busy place, newly built and even more recently refurbished, though
entirely lacking in any charm or character. Plastic-covered furniture, garish tiled floors, and mock
lanterns illuminating a main bar offering international football matches and cheap pub food. The
clientele don’t appear especially discerning, and no one is remotely interested in a stranger walking
in. I suppose it’s that sort of place, no regular customers, just people who pass through.
I ask at the bar, but the girl serving there has no idea who ran the pub before the current
incumbent. Neither does the manager himself.
“Harold Sampson? No, love, never heard of him. How long ago did you say it was?”
“He was here in nineteen ninety-six,” I clarify, though without much in the way of optimism.
He shakes his head. “Way before my time, miss. The brewery might have records. Probably
confidential, though, come to think of it…”
I suspect he’s right but decide to chance my arm. It’s a national brewery chain, so I phone the HR
department and introduce myself as Detective Constable Lowison from Cambridgeshire Police,
making enquiries regarding Harold Sampson. I say that I understand he worked for them at one time,
rattle off the dates as far as I know them, and ask if they can provide further details. Namely, when
did he leave the General Grant, and where did he go?
The woman who speaks to me is reluctant initially, but I pull out my firm but efficient tone, one of
the skills drilled into us as soon as we join the police. It works, and she decides she can, after all,
assist me. I learn that Mr Sampson transferred to a more upmarket tenancy near York.
I jot down the details, thank her for her cooperation, then set my satnav for the Rose and Castle in
the leafy depths of North Yorkshire.
This time, I decide, Harold landed on his feet. The pub is lovely, dripping with olde-worlde
charm. Beamed ceilings, open log fire, hand-pulled real ale, and a decent kitchen. I order a meal of
steak and ale pie, roast potatoes, and red cabbage, and watch the world go by from the comfort of the
beer garden.
The waitress comes to collect my empty plate, so I take the opportunity to ask her who runs the
pub these days. “I used to know the landlord here,” I offer by way of explanation. “Harold Sampson.
Is he still here, by any chance?”
She shakes her head. “Me and my husband run it these days, but I think the landlord before us was
called Harry.”
“He had a little girl,” I prompt. “Called Naomi?”
 She shakes her head. “I think there was a kid, but that wasn’t her name.”
“Oh, well. Okay.” Maybe the Sampsons changed their adopted daughter’s name, or maybe it was
a different Harry. In any case, time to resort to the census records.
I access them on my phone, starting with the year two thousand and one.
Bingo! There he is, listed as the landlord of the Rose and Castle. Harold Sampson, with his wife,
Faith, and his daughter, Beth, aged seven years.
So, she’s no longer called Naomi. It’s my first real breakthrough.
I skip to the next census, two thousand and eleven. Harold Sampson is no longer listed as resident
at the Rose and Castle. So, where did he go next?
I take a room at the Rose and Castle, for want of anywhere else to go just yet, and settle in to
scour more public records in search of the Sampsons. I hit the jackpot, in a manner of speaking, when
I happen across a record of Harold Sampson’s death, registered by his widow, Faith. Her address at
the time was the Dog and Rabbit Inn, in Newcastle.
The next morning I reset my satnav and head further north.
The Dog and Rabbit is a typical inner-city drinking hole. Bustling with activity, the music is loud,
the clientele boisterous, and the food could best be described as wholesome. I make enquiries at the
bar but draw a blank. No one currently working there has any idea who ran it before. I order a glass
of sparkling water and take a seat in a corner to ponder my next move.
The elderly gentleman at the next table eyes me with interest. “Ye’re wantin’ old Harry then,
lass?”
I glance up sharply. “Did you know him?”
“Aye, that I did. Pulled a real decent pint did old Harry. It were a shame ’e went so sudden, like.
Dropped dead of a heart attack, ‘e did.”
I smile and nod sympathetically. “I was hoping to pay my respects to Faith, or Beth. You don’t
happen to know where they live now?”
“Can’t say as I do, lass. Faith didnae want to stay on, after ’er man passed away. She an’ the lass,
and the wee one, they moved on.”
“Wee one?” Surely Naomi would have been a teenager by then. Did they have another child as
well?
“Aye. The lass ’ad a bairn, a little boy as I recall.”
“I see.”
“Became a plumber, she did,” the elderly man continues. He seems happy to chat so I let him
rattle on. “Odd sort of a job for a lass if ye ask me, but they get up to all sorts these days.”
“A plumber? You mean Beth?”
“Aye. A plumber. Set ’erself up in business, up Berwick way, I ’eard.”
“You’re sure? Beth Sampson became a plumber with a business in Berwick?”
“Is that no’ what I said?” He takes another long slurp of his beer, then gazes sorrowfully at the
bottom of the half-pint glass.
I take my cue. “Would you like another?”
He beams at me, “Aye, lass, that’ll be right generous of ye. I’ll just ’ave a pint.”

I leave my new friend to nurse his pint of bitter and start Googling plumbers in Berwick. Beth
Sampson comes up almost straight away. I note the address of her business, make my excuses, leave
another half-pint behind the bar for my informant, and head off to reprogramme my satnav again.
Less than two hours later, I’m parked opposite a plumber’s yard on the outskirts of Berwick-
upon-Tweed. It looks to be locked up, deserted. A ‘For Sale’ sign is nailed to a post outside.
A semi-detached house adjoins the yard. On impulse, I decide to knock. There’s no answer, but a
neighbour opposite pauses on her way back with two bags of shopping.
“They’re not there anymore, love.”
“Oh. I see. Would you happen to know where they went?”
“No, sorry. She moved out at the start o’ lockdown an’ ’as not been back since.”
“Right.” My heart sinks. So close. So bloody close…
“For sale sign went up a few weeks back, so I suppose she’ll no’ be back now. Pity. They were a
nice lot.” The neighbour shrugs and disappears into her house.
I gaze up at the sign. The name of the estate agent is emblazoned across it, along with the phone
number to contact for details of the property.
It’s all I have left to go on, so I key in the number. “Hello. I’m interested in the property in
Berwick, the old builder’s yard.”
“Ah, yes,” comes the polished reply. “Very desirable business premises. Would you also be
interested in the house that goes with it?”
“Yes. Yes, I would. Can I have the particulars, please? Do you have details of the vendor? I… I
have some queries about the neighbourhood.”
“Well, we should be able to handle any queries, miss.”
I think fast. “Are there any dogs in the near vicinity? I’m allergic, you see.”
“Dogs, miss?”
“Yes. Dogs. Are there any?”
“Not that I know of.”
“It’s very important,” I insist. “So, you see, if I could have a quick word with the vendor…”
“Well, there are contact details in the particulars. You could follow those up if you like. I’m sure
they’ll be able to help you.”
“Excellent. Yes, I’ll ask. Could you email the details to me?” I rattle off my email address, then go
back and sit in my car to wait for the sales pack to arrive.
Ten minutes later, my phone pings to alert me to a new email. I open the attachment and scroll
through until I find the vendor’s details.
Any further enquiries to be made care of Caernbro Ghyll, Kirkintilloch, Glasgow.

I gaze up at the formidable iron gates. At over twelve feet high and securely locked, they don’t
exactly offer a warm welcome. There isn’t even a bell to ring.
This is definitely the place, though. The name of the house is carved into the stonework beside the
gate.
I peer between the bars but can’t make out anything beyond a few yards of gravelled drive and
some impenetrable shrubbery.
“Hello,” I call out. “Is anyone there?”
Silence.
I try again. “Hey. Hello. Can anyone hear me?”
Still no response. I rattle the gate with dwindling optimism. Surely I haven’t spent days tracking
Beth Sampson to end up here, staring at a locked gate and shouting into silence.
No bloody way.
I eye the gates and wonder how much effort it would take to scale them. Not a lot, really. Then I
could march up to the house and just knock. Maybe I could say the gates were open…
 I grasp the bars and try to find some sort of foothold, but there’s nothing. I kick the iron in
frustration and turn to get back in my car.
And, I see it.
Ivy. Thick, luxuriant ivy, trailing over the top of the wall and tumbling towards the ground. I rush
over and grab a handful, give it a sharp tug. It holds.
Using the vegetation to hang on to, I walk up the wall. I reach the bulk of the ivy and start to
climb. In moments I’m peering over the top of the wall at the lawned gardens beyond.
No one is in sight, but from here I can see the house clearly. The place is huge, sprawling. Four
storeys, turrets around the roofline, the main façade punctuated by neat windows. The place is well-
kept and is clearly lived in, going by the cars parked on the forecourt. I count four, and they do not
look like cheap motors. I spot an Audi, a couple of Land Rover Discoveries, and a low-slung sports
car.
Right. Here goes.
I scramble over the top of the wall and lower myself through the ivy on the other side, before
dropping to the ground.
I take stock and decide the best way is to brazen it out, as my dad would have said. I’ll simply
march across the lawn and go up to the front door.
I take a deep breath and go for it.

I’ve barely taken three steps before I’m seized from behind and flung to the ground.
What the—?
“Don’t fucking move.” The click of a handgun right beside my ear convinces me to do as I’m
told.
My wrists are seized and dragged behind me, then secured tightly. I’m hauled up onto my knees,
then the world goes dark when a hood is flung over my head.
“Please, let me go.” My voice shakes. My police training deserts me. I’m terrified, numb with
fear.
“Get up,” snarls a voice.
I try but can’t get my balance. Again, I’m grabbed and this time pulled to my feet.
“Move,” the voice instructs me.
I stumble forward, guided by rough hands at each of my elbows. I don’t know how many times I
would have landed flat on my face but for my captors keeping me upright.
“Who are you?” I whimper. “What are you going to do with me?”
“We’ll be asking the questions,” is the only response I get.
“Please, you have to let me go. I was just—”
“Trespassing,” comes the curt reply. “We don’t take kindly to uninvited visitors.”
“I…I’ll go,” I offer. “Please, just let me leave. I won’t say anything…”
“No, you fucking won’t.”
I sense the loss of the fresh air, the breeze against my legs. We’re indoors, and going down some
stairs. Again I stumble. There’s a muffled oath, then I’m lifted off my feet and slung over someone’s
shoulder. I’m bumped painfully down the rest of the stairs.
The sound of a lock grating is the only clue I have. The next moment, I’m dumped
unceremoniously on what I assume to be a hard bench. Still swathed in darkness by the heavy hood, I
wince at the sound of the door clanging shut.
And I know I’m alone.
Jack

I hit the remote control a couple of hundred metres before I reach the entrance to the mansion. The
iron gates swing open, and by the time I round the final bend my way is clear.
The neat little red Mini parked on the roadside opposite the gates is incongruous. It shouldn’t be
there. I brake to take a closer look, then dig out my phone.
“Mickey, there’s a car parked out front.”
“I know, boss. I was just on my way to check it over.”
“Do that, and let me know what you find.” The vehicle has to belong to our intruder. How else
would they have got all the way out here? Caernbro Ghyll is hardly on a regular bus route. Happy to
leave the car for Mickey Markham to deal with, I turn into the entrance to the mansion grounds.
“So, what do we have?” I ask the man closest to me when I jog up the front steps and enter the
foyer.
“A girl, boss.” Moses Tremayne beams at me. “We caught her as soon as she scaled the wall.”
“What the fuck?” I mutter. “How did she manage that?” Our boundary is supposed to be secure.
“The ivy, boss.”
“Get it cut back,” I snarl. Bloody hell! “Where is she now?”
“Downstairs,” Moses informs me. “We locked her up until you decide what’s to be done with
her.”
“Has she said anything?” I’m already striding across the parquet floor towards the door leading to
the basement. As well as storage, we have several cells down there, and an interrogation suite. We
already have one prisoner in residence, and I suspect I’ll be making even more use of the facilities.
“No, boss,” Moses replies, matching my pace. “Not that she had much chance, like.”
I descend the steep stairs and march along the underground corridor, past the wine racks and
weapons stores, until I reach the four steel doors behind which we hold prisoners who are not to see
the light of day again unless we decide otherwise.
“It’s getting quite crowded down here,” I observe, pausing at the first cell. I open the viewing
panel to check the prisoner within. Malevolent eyes meet mine, and I’m treated to a rapid-fire string
of Russian expletives. I know some of the words, you tend to pick things up in my line of work, but
most of it is lost on me.
“Good day to you, too, arsehole.” I slam the panel shut and continue on my way.
Marlon Logan has been my ‘guest’ for a couple of months now. Ethan is probably intending to kill
him eventually because he was one of the men who robbed our warehouse a year or so ago. Examples
need to be made. But there’s a possibility he’s linked to other enemies of ours and could provide
clues to trace back to them. Or her. The name we’ve been able to unearth is The Widow. But we’ve
no idea yet who she is or where we might find her. As long as Marlon might be useful, he can rot
down here.
“She’s in the end one,” Moses says, in answer to my unspoken question.
I reach the door indicated and flick open the viewing grille. It’s pitch-dark inside. The single light
bulb is activated from outside. I hit the switch to flood the cell with harsh white illumination, then
peer in.
She’s lying on the floor, curled in a ball. I suspect that’s exactly where she landed when Moses
brought her down here. Her hands are secured behind her back with a cable tie, and a rough hessian
hood covers her head. Even if the light had been left on, she couldn’t have seen anything of her
surroundings. Not that there’s much to see. Our cells are deliberately devoid of any furniture or
fittings apart from a solid stone bench built into one wall. We don’t provide for any creature comforts.
We find it helps to concentrate the mind.
“Is she conscious?” I ask.
Moses shrugs. “As far as I know.”
Right, then. I gesture to him to unlock the door. The lock mechanism grates as it operates, startling
her. She wriggles up to a sitting position and uses her heels to scramble backwards, away from the
sound. I enter the room and observe her in silence for several moments before nodding to Moses, his
signal to leave us and lock the door again.
“Who…who’s there?”
Her voice is broken, trembling. She’s been crying, that much is obvious.
I don’t answer straight away. Best to let her sweat for a while, let her own imaginings do my job
for me. She’ll frighten herself much more than I could. Well, maybe not much more, but it’ll do for a
start.
“Who’s there?” she whimpers again. “Why don’t you say something?”
I lean against the wall beside the door and regard her without speaking. She’s of average height,
I’d say. Slim build, and her accent suggests English rather than Scottish. Her head swings from side to
side as though she’s searching the darkness for some glimpse of me.
“Please,” she begins, “if there’s anyone there…”
“Oh, there is,” I growl, taking a step forward.
She lets out a startled gasp and cowers away from the sound of my voice. Unfortunately for her,
she’s reached the wall and there’s nowhere else to go.
I take a couple more steps until I’m standing over her, then I drop to my haunches.
“Do you want me to take this off?” I tug gently at the hood.
“Yes,” she replies.
“Say please.”
She hesitates, then, “Please take the hood off.”
“I’ll want something in return.”
“What?” She sounds wary.
“Your name.”
“M-my name?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Ruth. Ruth Lowison.”
“Thank you. See, we’re off to a good start.” I reach behind her neck for the ends of the drawstring
holding the hood in place.
She holds her breath while I loosen it, then I drag the hood up and off.
Pale-blonde hair spills from a loose knot at the back of her head. I catch a brief glimpse of deep,
kingfisher-blue eyes before she screws them up, dazzled by the sudden stab of light. Her face is heart-
shaped, and pretty if you’re turned one by the classic, English rose type. I realise, unexpectedly, that I
am. She really is quite a stunner.
I give myself a mental shake. I have a job to do here. I allow her a few more seconds to adjust,
then I bury my hand in her hair and grab a fistful. Tipping her head back, I issue my next command.
“Open your eyes and look at me.”
She tries to comply, I’ll give her that, but still the sudden blast of bright light is too much. She
squints up at me, blinking hard.
I wait until her gaze steadies. “So, Ruth Lowison, what the fuck are you doing here?”
 “I don’t know. I was just—”
I give her head a sharp shake, using my grip on her hair. “Of course you know. Why did you come
here? Who do you work for?”
“I… I don’t work for anyone.”
My nose is less than an inch from hers. I can actually smell her terror. “Liar,” I whisper. “Do you
want to try that again? I’m in a good mood, so you can have one final chance to tell me the truth.”
“I don’t understand. Why would you…?”
“Who do you work for?” I demand, injecting a deliberate sliver of menace into my tone.
She pales. The shift in my mood is not lost on her, but it fails to elicit the necessary information.
“I was just looking for someone. I never meant… I mean, obviously I made a mistake…”
She’s got that right. Her main mistake was letting herself get caught. As for me, I have shit to do,
and she’s already interrupted my day. I have no more time to waste playing nice.
I straighten, pulling her to her feet as I do. “That was your last chance, Miss Lowison.”
“No! I’m telling you the truth. There’s been a mistake…”
“Yup. Now it’s time to set things straight again. Starting with a little not-so-gentle persuasion.” I
spin her around and, using the pocket knife I always keep handy, I slice through the cable tie binding
her wrists. She barely has time to begin rubbing the stiffness from them before I spin her back to face
me. “Take your clothes off.”
She stares at me, wide-eyed. Her mouth opens in a startled ‘O’, and she shakes her head.
“Either you do as I say, or I call a few of my men in here to do it for you. Your choice.”
“You can’t. Please, don’t do this…”
She’s struggling to get free, but I have her elbows in a firm grip. She’ll be going nowhere.
“Am I to take it that you need some help to get naked?”
“You’re an animal,” she spits.
I shrug and smile. I’ve been called worse, and what I have in mind for this girl is relatively mild,
all things considered. “Moses,” I call over my shoulder.
He must have been right outside. The door opens at once, and the large guard steps into the cell.
“Boss?”
“Our guest needs to be naked. See to it, if you would, please.”
“Right, boss.” He only takes half a pace forward before Ruth Lowison capitulates.
“No! Leave me alone. I’ll do it.”
“That’s better,” I croon. “Things will be so much easier for you if you cooperate. And, of course,
there’s still time for you to tell me the truth.”
“I have told you the truth,” she protests.
“And, unfortunately, I don’t believe you. So, you see, that means you and I have a problem, Miss
Lowison. And the first difficulty as I see it is that you seem to still be fully dressed, despite my
instructions.”
“What are you going to do?” she whispers.
“I’m going to teach you what happens to pretty little girls who sneak into places they shouldn’t
be.”
“I didn’t know it was private,” she blurts. “I called out.”
“Get naked, Ruth. Then we can continue this conversation.” My tone is icy. She needs to obey and
she needs to do it now.
At last, that simple fact penetrates Ruth Lowison’s thinking, too. She fumbles with the buttons on
the front of her oversized linen shirt. I wait while she unfastens it and slides the garment from her
shoulders, then she begins to unzip her jeans.
She’s taking too long. “Get a move on. I don’t have all day.”
She toes off her training shoes and socks, then shoves the jeans down past her hips. She steps out
of them to stand before me in just her underwear.
The bra and pants are a matching set, functional rather than sexy, but still, my cock stirs. It’s a pity
I don’t have time to admire her as she probably deserves, and anyway, this is not the time or place.
“Naked,” I remind her, though not so sharply as I might have.
She turns her back and unfastens her bra. The garment hits the stone floor of the cell, to be
followed by her knickers.
“Thank you, Moses. I can manage from here.” I wait until he’s left the cell, then I walk around to
stand in front of the trembling girl.
“Are you cold?”
She regards me, her arms folded across her chest in a vain attempt to conceal herself from me. I
note that her mound is bare, which I rather like. It’s the difference between undressed and truly
naked.
“Give me your hands,” I instruct.
She doesn’t move, so I take hold of her right wrist and tug it towards me. She starts to resist, but I
raise my eyebrow.
“Really?” I ask.
She abandons her struggle. I’m not sure I care much for the defeat and misery in her eyes, though it
promises to make my task more straightforward.
I secure her wrists again, in front of her this time, then I tug her to the centre of the cell. I reach up
to grab the conveniently placed ring dangling from the ceiling and pull it down on a length of chain.
Ruth lets out a fearful gasp and struggles as my intention becomes clear. It does her no good, and
in moments, her wrists are bound to the ring with yet more cable ties. I hit a switch by the door to
raise the ring again, closer to the ceiling, forcing Ruth up onto her toes, her hands high above her
head.
Only when I’m happy she’s in position and as ready as she’s going to be, do I unbuckle my belt.
There are any number of implements that are good for this task, but I always believe in keeping
things simple. A supple leather belt is always to hand and does the job beautifully. I slip mine from
my belt loops and fold the leather strap in my hands, making sure the buckle is wrapped in my fist.
I walk slowly around my prisoner, pausing to cup her chin in my free hand. “Now that your
situation is clear, is there anything you’d like to tell me?”
“I d-don’t understand. What do you want from me? I t-told you…”
“Don’t play games with me, Ruth. You won’t win.”
“I’m not playing games. I came here searching for my sister. Please, you can’t do this. It’s…
it’s…”
“Are you going to tell me that beating you would be illegal? An assault, perhaps?”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“Have I somehow given you the impression I might care? You need to understand, Ruth. Here, I
make the rules.”
“You’re a—”
“An animal. Yes, you mentioned that already. Five strokes, then I’ll ask you again. Perhaps you’ll
be more cooperative once your arse is throbbing nicely.”
“I was looking for Naomi,” she sobs. “My sister… Aaagh!”
 The first stroke brings her even higher onto her toes. She dances on the spot, dangling from the
ring as the force of my blow expels the wind from her lungs.
I pick my spot, just below the crimson ribbon already blooming across both cheeks of her pretty
arse, and deliver the second stroke.
There’s another ragged scream. She jerks hard, fighting to be free, but her plight is hopeless. I
wait until her struggles subside, then swing the belt again.
She’s sobbing loudly now, her bottom glowing from my attentions. I take a moment to check that
her skin isn’t about to break. That would leave scars and really shouldn’t be necessary. I may be a
hard-nosed bastard, I know that, but I’m not clumsy.
Satisfied that all is well, I move into position for the fourth stroke.
“P-please, don’t. I swear I’m telling the truth. My s-sister, I thought she was here…”
“Why did you think that, Ruth?”
It’s a lie, I’m still fairly sure of that, but she’s sticking to the story, so it’s worth exploring.
“I… I traced her here.”
“How?” I ask.
“H-her father was a landlord. He ran pubs.” She’s babbling now, can’t get her tale out fast
enough. “He had a pub in Newcastle, but he died.”
I wait, allowing her the time to tell me whatever her story is. She rattles on about a house for sale,
and Caernbro Ghyll being mentioned in the sales pack. None of it makes sense. The Savage
organisation runs lots of pubs but none of them in England. And I don’t know any Naomi.
I let her finish, then, “Cool story. Needs more dragons.”
“It’s true,” she wails. “You have to believe me.”
I shake my head. I don’t have to believe shit, and every logical bone in my body is screaming that
this is pure fantasy. But there’s something about her, something in her demeanour, that makes me doubt
my own logic. I cup her face again in my palm and raise her chin so she has to meet my gaze. Her
pretty blue eyes are filled with tears. She’s shaking, biting back sobs.
“Tell me again,” I murmur. “Slowly. Take your time.”
She drags in a strangled breath. “Naomi was adopted, as a baby. I never met her, didn’t even
know she existed. My mum, Naomi’s birth mother, asked me to find her. She was adopted by a family
who ran a pub, so I’ve been tracing them across England, following her.”
“You fancy yourself as some sort of detective, then?”
“I just asked people and checked the records.”
“Records?”
“Electoral roll. And births and deaths…”
It has a ring of truth to it. I begin to wonder… “You think they came to Scotland?”
She nods. “They must have. I came across the name of a house. This house, I think. So, I came
here to ask.”
“There’s no Naomi here,” I tell her. “You’ve been on a wild goose chase.”
“I know. I realise that. I… I don’t know what sort of a place this is or who you are, but it has
nothing to do with me. Please, let me go. I won’t say anything to anyone. I just want to go home…”
If only it were that simple. Whatever her reasons for blundering into my domain, the fact is, she’s
here now and she’s already seen more than enough. It may have been an honest mistake, I’m almost
ready to believe that, but we still have a situation here that needs dealing with.
My thoughts are interrupted by a sharp knock on the cell door. I leave Ruth where she is and step
outside into the corridor.
 Mickey is there, and he has a woman’s handbag tucked under his arm.
“Found this in the car, boss.”
“Is that hers?” I ask, tipping my chin towards the handbag.
“Think it must be,” he replies. “We were searching for any ID, something to show who she is and
who she works for.”
“Right.” It’s what I’d have expected them to search for. “And?”
“And, this.” Mickey hands me a small wallet, the sort of thing people sometimes keep credit cards
in. It opens to reveal the Queen’s insignia embossed into the leather on one side and a photo ID card
in the little clear window opposite.
Constable 6129, Cambridgeshire Police. Ruth Lowison.
I stare at the words printed on the warrant card. So much for a missing adopted sister. I so nearly
fell for it.
“She’s fucking police,” I breathe.
“Looks like it, boss.” Mickey agrees. “I’m guessing this is awkward.”
“Too fucking right it is.” I spin on my heel and march back into the cell.
CHAPTER 4

R uth

HE’ S different when he comes back into the cell. Harder, somehow, though I wouldn’t have thought
that possible. He’s more focused. And even more terrifying than before.
He paces around me, glaring. I swear, I can almost hear his teeth grinding.
I steel myself for another stroke from his belt, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he ceases his prowling
and leans against the bare stone wall, arms folded, and regards me under lowered brows.
If he was just a little less scary, I might even think him handsome. His hair is blond, cropped
short, and he obviously works out if his chiselled biceps and sharply sculpted pecs are any
indication. A little over six feet, and built like an athlete, he’s the sort of man who would always
attract a second look. His eyes are a stormy grey and put me in mind of molten steel. His jaw is
square and has a firmness to it, a quality that suggests he is not accustomed to compromising or
dissent. This man means business, and he expects to be obeyed.
He expects me to obey him, to tell him the truth. Which I have. I had no choice.
He shoves himself off the wall and circles me again. He rests his palm on my throbbing buttock
and squeezes.
I wince but offer no protest. What would be the point? In any case, my police training was drilled
into me. Don’t escalate a situation if you can help it. Keep calm, remain quiet. Wait for backup to
arrive. Don’t provoke an aggressor unless it’s to save life or prevent further harm.
I doubt there’s anything I could do to prevent whatever he has in mind, and no help is coming, I’m
sure of that. Even so, I do as I’ve been taught and hope for the best.
“Sore?” he enquires softly, as though he actually cares about my comfort.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I can make you a lot more sore. You do realise that, I hope.”
“I’ve told you what you wanted to know.”
“I asked you to tell me the truth,” he replies. “Sadly, that’s not what you chose to do. A bad
choice, Ruth. Bad choices have consequences.”
I crane my neck to look at him. “I did tell you the truth. My sister—”
“— is a figment of your imagination,” he snarls. “A good story, though. I almost fell for it. You’re
an accomplished liar, Ruth, but that means I need to stop being gentle with you.”
Gentle?
“I wasn’t lying,” I protest. “You have to believe me.”
 “Well, that’s going to be awkward,” he replies. “I take it this is yours.” He holds my warrant card
before my face. “Police Constable Ruth Lowison?”
“I… I’m not on duty. I’m not here because of that.”
“Nice try,” he sneers. “Now, shall we start over?”
“What do you mean to do?” I whimper.
“My belt hasn’t been persuasive enough, obviously.” He smiles at me, without the slightest hint of
mirth. “You need something with a little more bite.”
He strolls back to the door and raps sharply. It is opened immediately, and the man who was
going to ‘help’ me undress pokes this head round. “Boss?”
“Bring me a cane, Moses.”
The man nods and disappears again.
I can only gape. A cane? He means to cane me! I tug at the restraints, desperate to escape.
He watches me struggle, his lip quirking. He knows I can’t escape, and of course, he’s right. I’m
still frantically dragging at the steel ring when the door opens again and the man returns. He hands
three narrow canes to his boss.
“Wasn’t sure which one you’d want.”
My captor smiles and nods. “Thanks, Moses.” He glances at me. “Do you have any preference,
Ruth?”
“Let me go,” I plead. “You’re making a mistake, I’m not—”
“This one, then.” He selects one of the canes and swings it sharply through the air.
It makes an ominous whistling sound, and I scream. I’m not going to be able to bear this. His belt
was awful, how much worse will a caning be? And it’s not as though I can stop what’s coming by
changing my story. I’ve already told him the truth.
He moves behind me and taps my buttock with the tip of the cane. Another scream is ripped from
my throat though it doesn’t hurt. The suggestion is enough to send me spiralling. I’m gasping for
breath, and my vision is blurring. In some dark corner of my mind I think I might pee myself, but I
don’t care. If it’s possible to die of fear, now’s the time to do it.
He strokes my bottom with the cane, back and forth, slowly. Then he raises it, and my knees give
way. My wrists are already scraped and sore from my struggles, and they are painfully wrenched
when my entire weight is suspended from the metal ring.
Then…nothing. Blackness engulfs me, and I stop feeling altogether.
CHAPTER 5

J ack

FUCK!
I spot it, the precise moment her eyes roll back in her head and she loses consciousness. I sling
my arm around her waist to take her weight, pull out my pocket knife, and reach up to slice through the
cable ties securing her wrists. She collapses into my arms.
I carry her to the bench set into one wall and lay her on it, then I take off my jacket and drape that
over her. I drop to my haunches to check her breathing, but that seems to be okay. Her pulse is fluttery
and shallow, but settling.
She’s fainted, and I never even touched her.
Bloody hell. This is no good to me. I need to find a new approach.
I stride to the door and bang on it with the side of my fist.
Moses opens it, and I issue my new instructions to him.
“Bring me a bottle of water. And a couple of doses of sodium thiopental.”
He glances past me, to the unconscious girl on the bench, nods, and hurries away. A few minutes
later he’s back, with the items I requested.
My prisoner is just beginning to come round.
I lift her head and shoulders and lay them on my lap, then smooth back the tangles of hair from her
face. “Ruth, it’s time to wake up now.”
She frowns and murmurs something incomprehensible.
I lean over her. “Open your eyes, Ruth.”
She shakes her head.
“Do as I say,” I insist, though I keep my tone low and gentle. The last thing I need is for her to
panic and faint again. An unconscious prisoner is no use to me.
Her eyelids flutter. She squints up at me, then lets out a startled cry.
“It’s okay,” I reassure her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She shakes her head. “The…the cane…”
“Gone,” I reply. “We won’t be using that.”
She appears bewildered, and I can’t say I blame her. But there’s more than one way to extract the
truth from someone, and I’ve decided on a more subtle approach.
“Here, take a drink.” I help her to sit up, then unscrew the cap on the bottle of water. I place it by
her lips.
 She shakes her head and tries to shove it away, but I’m not allowing that. She needs to get used to
doing as I say, and it starts here.
“Just a few sips,” I insist. “You’ll feel better.”
“I… I don’t…”
I press the bottle to her mouth and tip it up slightly. Water trickles down her chin, but she does
swallow a few drops.
“See, it’s not poisoned.” I offer it to her again.
This time she accepts it and takes several long gulps.
“Good girl.” I ease out from under her and set her down on the bench, then take the medical
supplies from Moses who has been hovering at the door. “Keep an eye on her.”
I measure out a fifty milligram dose and draw that into the syringe provided with the drug. Ruth
weighs around a hundred and twenty pounds, I’d estimate, so that should be the right amount. Possibly
a little on the low side, but I can give her more if I need to.
She regards me warily when I return to sit beside her, the syringe concealed in my hand, behind
my back.
“How are you feeling now?” I wrap my spare arm around her shoulders. “You were out of it for a
few minutes there.”
She tries to shrug me off. “Don’t touch me. You need to let me go.”
“Not yet, Ruth. We need to talk first.”
“I’ve nothing more to say to you. I answered your questions. I—”
I meet Moses’ eyes and nod, his signal to hold her still. Then, without further delay, I sink the
needle into her upper arm.
Ruth yelps and begins to fight, but her struggle is short-lived. In seconds she goes limp in my
arms, her head resting on my shoulder. I pass the empty syringe to Moses, then settle back to lean
against the wall and draw her up onto my lap. She’s still swathed in my jacket and snuggles against
me. The fight has completely gone out of her.
Her eyelids are closed, her breathing slow and even. I give her a couple of minutes for the drug to
take effect, then, “Can you hear me, Ruth?”
A few seconds pass before she nods.
“Good. Do you know who I am?”
She shakes her head. “No. But I don’t like you.” Her voice is thick, her words slurred but clear.
Fair enough. “Why don’t you like me?”
“You hit me. I’m scared of you.”
“There’s no need to be scared of me now, Ruth. All you need to do is tell me the truth.”
“I told you…”
I interrupt deliberately, to put her under pressure. The more stressed she is, the more difficult it
will be for her to formulate lies and remember them. The sedative works by slowing down reactions
and dulling reasoning power. The truth is simply easier, so that’s what she’ll default to. Probably.
“What’s your full name, Ruth?”
“Ruth Lowison,” she replies without hesitation.
“Thank you. Tell me, Ruth, what’s your job?”
“Police,” she mutters.
“What do you do in the police?” I press her.
“Constable. Trainee. Filing.”
“Filing?” Not quite what I expected. “What sort of filing?”
 “Crime reports. Evidence. That sort of thing.” Her voice has steadied now. She sounds more
certain of herself.
“Do you like being a police officer, Ruth?” I ask on a whim.
“No, I hate it. I don’t have commitment.”
Interesting “Oh? Why do you say that?”
“Sergeant Fisher says it. He’s right. I want to be a writer. Children’s stories. I’d be a good
writer…”
A tear rolls down her cheek. I brush it away with my thumb. “Why did you join the police, Ruth?
Why not be a writer instead?”
“My dad… He was in the Job, so I went in, too. I want to make him proud.”
“Is he proud of you?” I probe
She shakes her head. “He died. Heart attack…”
“I’m sorry. Is that why you’re crying?”
“I loved him. I trusted him.”
I file that away. It seems something may have happened to dent the hero-worship, but it’s probably
old news and none of my concern. I can come back to that if I need to. I’m more interested in the here
and now. “So, apart from filing, what else do you do in the police?”
“Witness statements. Crime reports, more filing.”
“What are you working on right now?”
“Not…not working. On leave.”
“Then why did you come to Caernbro Ghyll? You came here as a police officer, didn’t you? What
are you investigating?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m here to find my sister. Naomi…”
“Naomi isn’t here.”
“I know that now. I have to leave. My mother is ill, she needs me.”
“I need you. I need you to tell me the truth. I can’t let you go home until you do.” And possibly not
even then.
“I have.” She’s sobbing gently. “I told you, I came to find Beth.”
“You said your sister was called Naomi.” Is her story slipping, finally?
“She was, but her parents changed her name to Beth, when they adopted her.”
Ah, yes. She already mentioned that. “Tell me about Naomi,” I say. “Or Beth.”
“She was adopted, as a baby. A couple took her, and they changed her name.”
“I know that. What else?”
“They ran pubs. I followed them through each place they worked. Stafford, then York. Then
Newcastle. Harold — Harry — and Faith Sampson. And their daughter, Beth.”
I meet Moses’ eyes. We both recognise those names. He shrugs at me, so I continue.
“Where did you get those names from?”
“I found them out, from the adoption records. My dad was in the Job, police, like me. He tried to
find Naomi when he and my mum got married. They wanted her back, and he got the name of her new
family. But they decided to leave her where she was because she was happy and they didn’t want to
disrupt her life.”
“Very noble,” I observe. “So, what changed?”
“She’s grown up now. And…”
“And what?”
“My mum’s dying. She wants to see Naomi again, before it’s too late. She asked me to look for
her, to pick up where my dad left off. So, I did. I couldn’t refuse her. At the Newcastle pub, someone
told me Beth has become a plumber and had a little boy. I Googled her, then went to her business in
Berwick, but it was empty and for sale. The estate agent sent me the details when I enquired. The
name of this house was there, as the contact. So, I came here, hoping to find Beth.”
Her words have become sluggish again. She yawns, her eyelids droop. “I’m tired.”
I’m minded to press her for more but decide to do some fact-checking before continuing. Her
story has a distinct ring of truth to it. I know so-called truth serums aren’t foolproof, but they can
work, and in this case I’m inclined to think it did.
I’m also inclined to think I know exactly where this Beth she’s so keen to find is.
I know Beth well, assuming this is the same person. She is currently living on Caraksay with
Aaron Savage, my boss’s brother. The part about the sales details for Beth’s plumber’s yard is
certainly true. Aaron asked me to field any queries if they should come up, as I’m on the mainland
most of the time and he and Beth live permanently on Caraksay.
I pick up the water bottle again and place it on her lips.
“Drink,” I command her.
She obeys without protest, another happy side-effect of the sodium thiopental. I wait until she
finishes the bottle, then lay her down again. “You need to get some sleep.”
She half-smiles, and her breathing softens as she drops off.
Satisfied that she’s asleep, I pass the empty bottle to Moses. “Take that over to Caraksay and
make sure it’s handed to Megan.”
“DNA?” He’s clearly on the same track as I am.
“That’s right.”
Megan is the resident medic on the island, and she was involved in the tissue matching when
Aaron Savage’s son needed a new kidney. Young Jacob’s mother, Beth Sampson, is Aaron’s partner,
and, I suspect, she’s the Beth who Ruth is searching for. The facts fit. Beth was adopted as a baby, and
her adoptive mother was called Faith Sampson. Still is, in fact. Faith moved to Caraksay with her
daughter and grandson to isolate during the Covid pandemic and has stayed there. I’m not sure about
the father’s name, but they did run a pub in Newcastle.
If Ruth’s story is true, and I’m fast becoming reasonably certain it is, she must be genetically
related to Jacob. She would be his aunt.
Megan will be able to have the DNA on the bottle analysed and cross-checked, and we’ll know
one way or the other.
“I’ll text her to tell her it’s on its way and what to do with it.”
Moses takes the plastic bottle and hurries off to carry out my instructions.
Following another track now, I set the warrant card down on the foot of the bench and take a
picture of it. I send that to Casey Savage. She’s Ethan and Aaron’s sister, currently in the US with her
husband and baby but always happy to help out if we need her. Her personal superpower is IT,
especially hacking. There’s no computer system in the world she can’t infiltrate, given time. The
Cambridgeshire Police HR records should be a cinch.
I rattle off a quick text.
Can you check this out? I need to know if it’s genuine and what skills or specialisms this
officer has. And what she’s currently working on.
I don’t really doubt the authenticity of the warrant card, but the more I think about it, the less
likely I think it is that Ruth is here on police business. There are too many things not stacking up.
Why would Cambridgeshire Police be interested in us? Surely, if they were onto anything and
mounting an investigation, we’d expect to get attention from Police Scotland, not some force in the
south of England. And when did the police start sending lone officers to apprehend organised crime
bosses? Our house and grounds have been thoroughly searched, and I know she came here alone.
From what she’s said, and the way she reacted to my questioning, I’d lay money on her being a new
officer, and inexperienced. Hardly the sort to send on special and dangerous missions.
But I’ll know soon enough, once Casey has had a sniff around the personnel records.
Once I have the answers I need, then I’ll decide what to do with my unexpected guest.
I stride to the door then pause. I glance back at her. Still unconscious. I expect her to sleep for a
while yet. Her bare legs and hip are exposed, reminding me that she’s naked under my jacket. It does
get chilly down here in the cells. She might not be warm enough. And if she is Beth’s sister, that
makes her family. Sort of.
We have plenty of guest rooms, and I daresay I can make one of them secure enough to contain
Ruth Lowison, at least until we are certain of her identity. Then, I’ll decide what to do with her.
I return to Ruth and drag her into my arms, intending to carry her upstairs. As I straighten, the air
around me erupts, hurling the pair of us halfway across the cell. We land in a heap on the stone floor.
What the fuck…?
I shake my head to clear it. There are shouts outside, in the corridor, and the pounding of boots.
Male voices, men I don’t recognise. They’re yelling in a language I don’t understand, but I’m
reasonably sure it’s Russian.
I grab my phone from my back pocket and bring up my speed dial, then hit the emergency signal. It
serves to send a message instantly to various members of our organisation
Under attack. Need help.
Ethan Savage, Aaron, Tony, plus several more will be on their way here in seconds. Tony is close
by, but the others are a helicopter ride away. Right now, it’s just me and the handful of men actually in
the mansion. And for all I know they could be dead already.
Which just leaves me.
I take a moment to check that Ruth is uninjured. She’s still under the influence of the drug, her
breathing is fairly even and her colour good. There’s no obvious external sign of injury, but the cell is
filling up with smoke. Our attackers have detonated smoke bombs in the corridor to disorient us. I
take that as an indication that they haven’t killed all my men, at least not yet.
Right. Showtime.
I pull the Glock from the back of my waistband and check it’s fully loaded, then I move Ruth into
the space next to the door, on the hinged side. If anyone opens the door there’s a reasonable chance
they won’t spot her unless they come right inside. I haven’t discounted the possibility that this is a
rescue attempt aimed at freeing her, but my money is on Marlon, my other prisoner, as the most likely
target.
At a crouch, I emerge onto the corridor. The commotion is coming mainly from my right, the
direction of Marlon’s cell. It’s difficult to see through the clouds of billowing fog, so I edge closer
until the silhouettes take clearer form.
Four men, two at the door, the other two inside with Marlon.
I take out the pair outside the cell in rapid succession, one bullet each. Then I step over the gory
remains of the one closest to me, careful not to slip in the bloodstained pulp that was his head until
moments ago. I press myself flat against the wall to avoid the hail of bullets spraying from the open
cell door but don’t return fire. No point without a target.
Running feet to my left bring me around, the Glock raised to shoulder height. I relax, slightly,
when I recognise the figure as Moses. He spots me and skids to a halt.
I raise my hand to indicate silence and gesture to the cell where Marlon and his would-be
rescuers are now conversing in rapid Russian. I don’t need a command of the language to know
they’re panicking. Clearly, their plan did not take account of the fact that Marlon might not be the only
one down here.
Fucking amateurs.
Moses activates the digital lock and nudges open the door of the cell next to him, on the opposite
side of the corridor. He drops to a crouch, and from his vantage point he has a better view than I do.
Moses knows his job, and I rely on him now to do it and do it well. So, I watch him for the signal to
move.
The instant his head bobs, I roll out into the middle of the corridor, stay close to the floor so as
not to get in Moses’ line of sight, and I start shooting. Bullets fly over me in both directions. The din
is deafening in this enclosed space. Smoke is clogging my nostrils, and I can barely see more than a
few inches in front of me, but I know the moment the firing stops.
“Moses?” I call.
“Here, boss. You okay?”
“Been better,” I concede, shoving myself up onto my knees.
Beside me, the lifeless eyes of a man I have never seen before gaze at the ceiling. I help myself to
his gun and move to check the others.
Marlon is also dead, caught in the crossfire. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke, though
Ethan won’t be pleased. He still had plans for this piece of shit.
A moan from a few feet ahead of me suggests there’s a survivor. I scramble forward, gun at the
ready in case he decides to try his luck again.
The other intruder took two bullets, one in the shoulder, the other in the leg. He’ll live, probably.
Or he would if we decided to let him, which is about as likely as Moses being picked to perform a
ballet solo.
He squints up at me, naked fear in his eyes. Whether it’s me he’s scared of because I could end
him right here and now, or his bosses because the ‘rescue’ attempt failed, I really don’t know. And I
don’t give a fuck.
“Give me a hand to shift this motherfucker,” I snarl.
Moses rushes forward, and between us we drag the injured man across the corridor, past the
bodies of his colleagues, and back into the cell
“Please, no die.” He’s panting, fighting for every breath. The idiot shouldn’t waste it begging for
his miserable life.
“Who are you?” I demand.
He shakes his head, as if it’s up to hm whether he talks to us or not.
I settle that little bit of confusion by clubbing his temple with the butt of my gun. “Answer me,
arsehole.”
“Not…no one…”
I smirk at him. “So you’ll be dying for no one? For nothing? You’re even more dim-witted than
you look.”
“Please, I am…no one.” Blood dribbles from between his lips.
He really doesn’t have long, and neither do I if I’m going to get anything useful out of him.
“Moses, I need your boot.”
The soldier is beside me. “Sure, boss.”
 “Put it right…there.” I point to the gaping bullet hole in the man’s leg. Blood is pumping
copiously from it. “Apply a bit of pressure. Or maybe a lot of pressure…”
The wounded man lets out a strangled, gurgling scream when Moses places the heel of his boot on
the bloodstained limb and applies all his weight. At over six two, Moses is built like a brick
shithouse. It does the trick.
“We were sent for Marlon.”
“I figured that much out myself. Who sent you?”
He starts to shake his head but Moses grinds his heel into the wound again and he thinks better of
it. This time, after he stops screaming, he’s more forthcoming. “His mother. She want her boy back…”
“Her boy? You mean Marlon?”
He manages a slight nod, but his eyelids are drooping. He’s drifting out of consciousness. If I lose
him, he’ll be gone for good, and there’s more I want to know now he’s seen the wisdom of talking to
me.
I grab the front of his jacket and give him a shake. He opens his eyes, tries to focus. I don’t have
long, seconds at the most.
“Her name?” I demand.
“Can’t… She will kill me…”
“You’re already dead, you miserable fuck. Or as near as makes no difference. Don’t make it
harder on yourself. Tell me her name.”
“I… I cannot…”
I give Moses a nod, and he stamps on the bullet wound again. This time the man barely reacts at
all beyond a pained grunt.
“Her name,” I growl. “Tell me her fucking name.” I rip his bloodstained jacket open to expose the
shoulder wound and dig my thumb into it.
The added encouragement has the desired effect. “K-Kira…” he splutters.
“And the rest,” I snarl. “Her full name.”
“Semyonova,” he mumbles, his words slurred, his voice cracking. “The Widow.”
They are the last words he speaks. His eyes glaze over. He’s gone.
Good fucking riddance. I have what I want. I release my grip and wipe my hands on his shirt.
“Let’s get—”
“Drop your guns.”
I whirl to see Ruth Lowison in the cell doorway. She has a gun, a Russian RDh-12 if I’m not
mistaken. I assume she helped herself to it from one of the downed attackers littering the corridor.
I’ve no idea if she even knows how to fire it, but it looks suitably lethal. I’m taking no chances.
“Ruth, you need to put that down…”
“No. You need to drop your weapons, both of you.” Her voice is strong and steady.
I should have given her a bigger dose, obviously.
Moses sends a glance my way, silently asking if I want him to charge her. I shake my head. He’d
never make it in time, and there’s a fair chance we’d both end up as dead as our friend on the floor.
“This isn’t what you think,” I begin.
“I know what I saw. You tortured that man. You shot him. All of them.” She glares at me. “You’re
under arrest.”
“I’m what?” I gape at her, for once lost for words. “Really?”
“Is she serious?” Moses asks.
“She’s fucking deluded,” I reply. “That sodium thiopental must have been stronger than I thought.”
 She takes a step forward. “I said, drop your weapons.” She swings the handgun between the pair
of us, but I can see the shake of her hands, the near-panic in her eyes..
Will she actually fire? Has she ever shot anyone before?
Can I take that risk?
I’m spared the need to put it to the test. Another figure appears in the doorway behind her.
Tony meets my gaze. I raise my hand, palm out, signalling him to wait.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” I tell her, though more for Tony’s benefit than hers. “You need to
give this up or my friend standing behind you could get angry. That’s never pretty.”
A startled frown creases her forehead. “You think I’m an idiot.”
“That remains to be seen. Why don’t you turn around and have a look?”
She shakes her head. “You’re bluffing. I told you, you’re under arrest on suspicion of the murder
of…these men. You need to—”
Tony closes the distance and reaches around her to grab the gun. Moses and I both dive to the
floor as the weapon goes off, moments before it clatters to the flags beside me.
I roll over, grab it, and check. She didn’t even get the safety catch off.
The struggle between Tony and Ruth is short and decisive. She’s on her knees at his feet, her arms
behind her back. She lets out a pained cry when he tightens his grip, wrenching her shoulder sockets.
I get to my feet. “Okay, you can let her go.”
Tony’s eyes narrow. He looks from me to the girl on the floor, then back again.
I nod sharply. He releases her and steps back.
I offer her my hand. “Get up, Ruth.”
“I don’t need your help.”
I shrug. “Fair enough. On your feet.”
She rises slowly, warily, her faze flitting from me to Moses, then to Tony. She’s still wearing just
my jacket which reaches as far as her hips. She hugs it to her. “You won’t get away with this. You…
you need to let me go, before things become worse. Even more serious…”
“Do I?” I raise an eyebrow. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. Meanwhile, let’s get you back to
your cell.”
“No!” She whirls around as if to make a run for it but slams right into Tony.
“Now who’s making things worse? Come on, Ruth.” I take her elbow and propel her from the
cell.
Out in the corridor, she almost trips over one of the bodies slumped against the wall. I steady her
and manage to herd her back into her cell without further trouble. She stumbles over to the bench and
sinks onto it as her legs finally give way. She’s shaking when she peers back up at me.
“What now?” she asks.
A good question. I provide the only answer that springs to mind. “Now, we wait. You stay here
and cause me no trouble, and you might just survive the night.”
“But—”
“I’ll arrange for some food, and maybe a blanket. Remember, behave yourself.”

I LOCK THE CELL DOOR. Tony and Moses are in the process of dragging the bodies out of the way.
“Did you call in a clean-up team?” I ask, grabbing the ankles of a burly Russian corpse to help
manhandle it onto the pile of dead flesh at the foot of the stairs.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
centre of Russia, and on the other to the new northern through
route, which, via Kotlass and Archangel, is this year to bring
the cereals of Siberia to London."

Great Britain, Parliamentary Publications

(Papers by Command: Miscellaneous Series No. 533,
1900, pages 5-7).

"It may be a wild idea, but Russian engineers are actually

talking of a railroad from Stryetensk to Bering Strait, over a
comparatively easy route that does not enter the Arctic
Circle. This imaginary line, they hope, would connect with the
American line which is now being built to Dawson City, the
distance from which to Stryetensk is about three thousand
miles. If this road ever is completed they figure that New
York will be placed in railroad connection with London,
Calcutta and Cape Town."

A. H. Ford,
The Warfare of Railways in Asia
(Century, March, 1900).

"Siberia and the Amur lands are rich beyond belief. … This
vast territory, long looked upon as a barren waste, is
destined to be one of the world's richest and most productive
sections. In northern France, wheat ripens in 137 days; in
Siberia, in 107. Even heavy night frosts do not injure the
young seed. Under such conditions, the possibilities of
agriculture are practically unlimited. I may add that oats
require, in Siberia and in the Amur country, only 96 days, and
in the regions of the Yenisei only 107. The frost period lasts
only 97 days in the Irkutsk country. Transbaikalia lies
entirely within the agricultural regions; so, too, almost the
entire territory traversed by the Amur as far north as it
runs. Efforts are being made to obtain along the Amur at least
300,000 square kilometers (115,835 square miles) for the
higher forms of northern agriculture. Climatically, the best
of northern Asia's territory, for planting purposes, is the
Usuri country, which, in spite of its vast tracts of wood and
grazing lands, has 195,000 square kilometers (75,292 square
miles) of arable ground. The building of the Trans-Siberian
Railroad has already added to the Empire's wheat product.

"The mineral resources of western Siberia are vast. Between

Tomsk and Kooznesk lie 60,000 square kilometers (23,167 square
miles) of coal lands which have never been touched. The coal
is said to be excellent. In eastern Siberia, with its 280,000
square kilometers (108,112 square miles) of fruitful soil,
there are 400 places yielding gold. Rich mineral
deposits—graphite, lapis lazuli; iron mines, particularly rich
in quality (as high as 60 per cent); hard and soft coals, i.
e., black and brown coals—await hands willing to work for
them. To-day, thousands of colonists are hurrying to these
promising lands. Russia's output in gold and silver is already
very large, and is constantly increasing.

"The industries of Siberia are in their infancy; still, they

are growing and are bound to grow, so rich are the rewards
promised. Chemical, sugar, and paper mills have been put up in
several places and are paying well. Even Manchuria, a province so
vast that it might make an empire, is looking to Russia for
its future development. The wealth of this province, like that
of Siberia and all eastern Russia, is ripe for harvesting. The
traffic in Siberia and eastern Russia is increasing faster
than even the advocates of the great Trans-Siberian road
anticipated. The Ob, one of the world's big rivers, emptying
through the Gulf of Ob into the Arctic Ocean, has 102 steamers
and 200 tugs running already. On the Yenisei, 10 steamers
carry the mails regularly. The mouths of both these rivers
were visited last summer by English and Russian ships. This
proves the practicability of connecting eastern and western
Siberia with Europe by water."

United States Consular Reports,

 November, 1899, page 411.

An official publication of the year 1900 from St. Petersburg,

furnished to American journals by the Russian embassy at
Washington, is the source of the following statements relative
to the rapid development of the vast Siberian country along
the line of the great railway:

"When viewed with reference to colonization Siberia divides

itself naturally into two zones, extending east and west, and
differing essentially from one another. The first of these
embraces the region traversed by the new Siberian railway, the
more populous southern portion of Siberia, in which the
conditions of climate and soil are favorable to the
development of agriculture and colonization. The other zone
occupies the extensive, deserted northern region, the land of
tundras, or polar marshes, with a constantly frozen subsoil
and a severe climate, a dreary tract of land totally unfit for
agriculture. Between these two zones stretches a broad belt of
forests of tall trees, partly primeval pine and fir, partly
leafy trees. The wealth of these broad agricultural and timber
areas is, moreover, augmented by mineral deposits of every
conceivable nature, as abundant and diversified as those of
America, and into this whole region immigration is pouring in
volume unequalled except in the history of American
colonization. Ever since the serfs were emancipated in 1861
they have formed the bulk of the emigrants from the thickly
populated agricultural districts of European Russia, but the
great tide of settlers in the new territory is only now
assuming tremendous proportions. During the twenty years'
period of 1860 to 1880 about 110,000 persons emigrated to
Siberia, while for the thirteen years from 1880 to 1892 there
were over 440,000, and for the succeeding years since the
great railway has been building the number of immigrants of
both sexes has been as follows:

1893, 65,000;
 1894, 76,000;
1895, 109,000;
1896, 203,000;
1897, 87,000;
1898, 206,000;
1899, 225,000.
Total, 971,000.

According to the census of 1897, the population of Siberia had

risen to 8,188,368 inhabitants, of which the Russian peasantry
formed over 25 per cent."

RUSSIA IN ASIA: A. D. 1899 (May).

Steps toward the abolition of transportation.

See (in this volume)

RUSSIA: A. D. 1899 (MAY).

{430}

RUSSIA IN ASIA: A. D. 1900.

Russian railway building and railway projects in
Persia and Afghanistan.

By several writers who seem to have knowledge of what is doing

in those parts of the eastern world, it was reported in the
spring of 1900 that an active projection, planning, and
building (to some extent) of railroads in Persia and
Afghanistan was on foot among the Russians. From Tiflis, it
was said, their plans contemplated a line of rail to Teheran;
thence to be extended by one branch, southward, via Ispahan,
to the Persian Gulf, and by another branch westward to Herat,
in Afghanistan. From their Central Asian acquisitions they had
advanced their railway to within 70 miles of Herat, and were
said to be confidently expecting to push it on, through
Kandahar and through Baluchistan, to the Arabian Sea. If these
 extensive plans could be carried out, and if Russian influence
in Persia, said to be growing fast, should become actually
controlling, the Muscovite Power would have made an enormous
gain, by planting itself on the shores of the Indian Ocean.
How far Russia can continue to press forward in this line of
policy without collision with Great Britain and with
Germany—which seems to have aims in the same direction,
through Asiatic Turkey—is an interesting question for the
future.

The following is from a despatch to the "London Times" from

its correspondent at Vienna, February 24, 1901:

"According to trustworthy information from Teheran, Russia is

particularly active just now in Persia and the Persian Gulf. …
The road from Resht to Teheran, which has been built by a
Russian company, is of no value for European trade in the
absence of an agreement with Russia respecting the transit
traffic through that country. European commerce is dependent
upon the long and expensive caravan routes via Trebizond,
Bushire, Baghdad, Mochamera,&c. These occupy from four to six
months."

RUSSO-CHINESE BANK, Concessions to the.

See (in this volume)

CHINA: A. D. 1898 (FEBRUARY-DECEMBER).

S.

SAGASTA, Señor Praxedes Mateo:

Resignation from Spanish Ministry.

See (in this volume)

SPAIN: A. D. 1895-1896.

SAGASTA, Señor Praxedes Mateo:

 Return to power.

See (in this volume)

SPAIN: A. D. 1897 (AUGUST-OCTOBER).

SAGASTA, Señor Praxedes Mateo:

Resignation.

See (in this volume)

SPAIN: A. D. 1899.

SAGHALIEN.

See (in this volume)

SAKHALIN.

SAHARA, The: French possessions.

See (in this volume)

NIGERIA: A. D. 1882-1899.

ST. KITTS: Industrial condition.

See (in this volume)

WEST INDIES, THE BRITISH: A. D. 1897.

ST. LOUIS: A. D. 1896.

Republican National Convention.

See (in this volume)

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA: A. D. 1896 (JUNE-NOVEMBER).

ST. VINCENT, The British colony of.

See (in this volume)

WEST INDIES, THE BRITISH: A. D. 1897.
SAKHALIN.

"Of late years … its increasing importance as a place of exile

for Russian political and criminal offenders has invested
Sakhalin with a certain interest, derived, perhaps, more from
penal associations than physical resources, which latter may,
when fully developed, materially affect trade and commerce in
the far East. The island of Sakhalin is 584 miles in length,
its breadth varying from 18 to 94 miles. The southern
extremity is separated from the island of Yezo, twenty miles
distant, by the Straits of La Perouse, and its western coast
by the shallow Gulf of Tartary (at one point barely five miles
across) from the mainland of Siberia. Although Dutch explorers
are said to have landed here in 1643, the first reliable
survey of the island was probably obtained in the year 1787 by
La Perouse. Russian fur traders followed in the early part of
the present century, but it was only in 1853 that,
disturbances having occurred with the natives, a score or so
of Cossacks were stationed at Dui on the west coast. In 1867
negotiations were entered into by the Russian and Japanese
Governments for joint occupation of Sakhalin, but the
subsequent discovery of coal, and consequent influx of Russian
convicts, rendered this arrangement highly unsatisfactory.
Further negotiations, therefore, ensued, with the result that,
in 1875, the island was formally ceded to Russia, Japan
receiving, in exchange, the entire Kurile Archipelago.

"Sakhalin is by no means easy of access. Even during the open

season (from May to September) but very few vessels visit the
island, and, with the exception of the monthly arrival of
convict-ships from Europe, and a couple of small Russian trading
steamers, there is no fixed service with Vladivostok, which, with
the exception of Nikolaefsk, is the only Siberian port whence
Sakhalin may, in three days, be reached. During the winter months
the island is completely ice-bound and unapproachable by water.
Communication with the mainland is then maintained by means of
dog-sledges, and the mails for Europe are dispatched across
 the frozen Gulf of Tartary—a journey, under favourable
circumstances, of about three months. …

"Sakhalin is, for administrative purposes, divided into three

districts, viz.: Korsakovsky-Post in the south, Tymovsk in the
north, and Alexandrovsky-Post on the western coast. The
latter, which is situated in the centre of the coal district,
is a picturesque, straggling town of about 7,000 inhabitants,
consisting almost entirely of officials and convicts. This is
the most important penal settlement on the island, contains
the largest prison, and is, moreover, the residence of the
Governor of Sakhalin, a subordinate of the Governor-General of
Eastern Siberia. Alexandrovsky is garrisoned by about 1,500
men, and contains large foundries and workshops for convict
labour, but most of the prisoners are employed in the adjacent
coal mines of Dui. … Korsakovsky-Post, on the south coast, is
the next largest settlement, containing about 5,000 convicts
who are chiefly employed in agricultural pursuits. Although it
may seem a paradox, the remaining prisons in the interior of
the island, Derbynskaya, Rykovskaya, and Onor are not prisons
at all, but huge wooden barracks, innocent of bolts and bars.
Here, also, the work done is solely agricultural."

Harry de Windt,
The Island of Sakhalin
(Fortnightly Review, May, 1897).

SALISBURY, Lord Robert Cecil, Marquis of:

Third Ministry.

See (in this volume)

ENGLAND: A. D. 1894-1895.

{431}

SALISBURY, Lord Robert Cecil, Marquis of:

Correspondence with the Government of the United States
 on the Venezuela boundary question.

See (in this volume)

VENEZUELA: A. D. 1895 (JULY) and (NOVEMBER).

SALISBURY, Lord Robert Cecil, Marquis of:

Fourth Ministry.

See (in this volume)

ENGLAND: A. D. 1900 (NOVEMBER-DECEMBER).

SALISBURY, Lord Robert Cecil, Marquis of:

Tribute to Queen Victoria.

See (in this volume)

ENGLAND: A. D. 1901 (JANUARY).

SALISBURY PLAIN: Purchase by Government.

See (in this volume)

ENGLAND: A. D. 1897 (FEBRUARY).

SALVADOR.

See (in this volume)

CENTRAL AMERICA.

SALVATION ARMY, The:

Secession of the American Volunteers.
Late account of the Army's work.

Much feeling in the American branch of the Salvation Army, and

among those who valued its work, was caused in January, 1896,
by an order from the London headquarters of the Army recalling
Mr. Ballington Booth, who had been its American Commander for
nine years. Commander Booth and Mrs. Booth had been remarkably
successful in their organization and direction of the
Salvation Army work, and had won a high place in the esteem,
not only of their own followers, but of the American public at
large. A wide and strong movement of protest against their
removal from the field failed to change the London order,
which was said to be made in obedience to a necessary rule of
the Army against long service in any one post. Miss Eva Booth,
representing her father, General Booth, with Colonel Nicol, from
London, and Commandant Herbert Booth, from Canada, came to New
York as mediators, endeavoring to heal a threatened breach in
the ranks; but their mission failed. Commander Ballington
Booth resigned his office, and withdrew from the Salvation
Army service, declining to return to London. After a time, he
and Mrs. Booth became the heads of a new organization called
the "Volunteers of America," for religious work, not in
rivalry with that of the Salvation Army, but directed more
towards the awakening of the interest of the working people,
Mr. Ballington Booth was succeeded as Commander in America by
a son-in-law of General Booth, Commissioner Frederick St.
Clair Tucker. —For an account of the origin and growth of the
Salvation Army see, under that heading, in the Supplement
(volume 5) of the original edition of this work, or in volume
4 of the revised edition.

Of results accomplished in that part of the work of the

Salvation Army known as the "Darkest England Scheme," General
Booth wrote, early in 1900, an extended account in the "Sunday
Strand." He stated that the public had subscribed altogether
for his scheme about $1,300,000. "It is a debated point," he
wrote, "with the intelligent admirers of the scheme and the
careful observers of its progress whether the benefits
bestowed on the wretched classes for whom it was originated
have been greater within than without our borders. The
copyists of our plan have been legion, both at home and
abroad, in church and state. The representatives of the
different governments specially charged with the
responsibility for the outcast classes have been gradually
coming to appreciate the principles and methods involved in
the scheme, and to show willingness to cooperate in giving it
a chance. They have done this in two ways:

(1) In attempting similar tasks themselves;

(2) in using and subsidizing the army for doing the work for
them.

Many governments make grants to our various institutions in

varying amounts toward the cost of dealing with different
classes of the submerged."

The following is a summary of the agencies which have been set

at work by the general: "We have now 158 shelters and food
depots for homeless men and women, 121 slum posts, each with
its own slum sisters, 37 labor bureaus, (10 labor factories
for the unemployed, 11 land colonies, 91 rescue homes for
women, 11 labor homes for ex-criminals, several nursing
institutions, 2 maternity hospitals for deserted women, an
institution with branches in forty-five countries and colonies
for finding lost and missing persons, together with a host of
allied and minor agencies which I am not able here to
enumerate. The total number of institutions named above is now
545, under the care of more than 2,000 trained officers and
others wholly employed, all working in harmony with the
principles I have laid down for helping the poorest and most
unfortunate of their fellows, and all more or less experts at
their work.

"Nearly 20,000 destitute men and women are in some way or

other touched by the operations of the scheme every day. No
less than 15,000 wretched and otherwise homeless people are
housed under our roofs every night, having their needs met, at
least in part, with sympathy and prayer and the opportunity
for friendly counsel. More than 300 ex-criminals are to-day in
our houses of reformation, having before them another chance
for this life, and in many cases the first they have ever had
for preparing for the life to come. More than 5,000 women
 taken from lives of darkness and shame are safely sheltered in
our homes each year, on the way—as we have abundantly proved
in the case of others, in respect of a large proportion of
them—to a future of virtue, goodness, and religion. Over 1,000
men are employed on the land colonies. Many of them are working
out their own deliverance, and at the same time helping to
solve one of the most difficult problems of modern times, and
proving that many of the helpless loafers of the great cities
can be made useful producers on the soil. Over the gates of
every one of these homes, elevators, labor factories, and
colonies there might be written: 'No man or woman need starve,
or beg, or pauperize, or steal, or commit suicide. If willing
to work, apply within. Here there is hope for all.'" General
Booth adds that he has always 2,000 women in the rescue homes
of the army.

SAMOAN ISLANDS, The:

Ending of the joint control of the Islands by Germany,
England and the United States.
Partition between Germany and the United States.
Retirement of England.

Said President Cleveland, in his annual Message to the

Congress of the United States, December 4, 1893: "Led by a
desire to compose differences and contribute to the
restoration of order in Samoa, which for some years previous
had been the scene of conflicting foreign pretensions and
native strife, the United States, departing from its policy
consecrated by a century of observance, entered [in 1889] …
into the, treaty of Berlin [see, in volume 4, SAMOA], thereby
becoming jointly bound with England and Germany to establish
and maintain Malietoa Laupepa as King of Samoa.
{432}
The treaty provided for a foreign court of justice; a
municipal council for the district of Apia, with a foreign
president thereof, authorized to advise the King; a tribunal
for the settlement of native and foreign land titles, and a
revenue system for the Kingdom. It entailed upon the three
powers that part of the cost of the new Government not met by
the revenue of the islands. Early in the life of this triple
protectorate the native dissensions it was designed to quell
revived. Rivals defied the authority of the new King, refusing
to pay taxes and demanding the election of a ruler by native
suffrage. Mataafa, an aspirant to the throne, and a large
number of his native adherents were in open rebellion on one
of the islands. Quite lately, at the request of the other
powers and in fulfillment of its treaty obligation, this
Government agreed to unite in a joint military movement of
such dimensions as would probably secure the surrender of the
insurgents without bloodshed. The war ship Philadelphia was
accordingly put under orders for Samoa, but before she arrived
the threatened conflict was precipitated by King Malietoa's
attack upon the insurgent camp. Mataafa was defeated and a
number of his men killed. The British and German naval vessels
present subsequently secured the surrender of Mataafa and his
adherents. The defeated chief and ten of his principal
supporters were deported to a German island of the Marshall
group, where they are held as prisoners under the joint
responsibility and cost of the three powers. This incident and
the events leading up to it signally illustrate the impolicy
of entangling alliances with foreign powers."

United States, Message and Documents

(Abridgment), 1893-1894.

In his next annual Message, December 3, 1894, the President

thus summarized the later situation in the islands: "The
suppression of the Mataafa insurrection by the powers and the
subsequent banishment of the leader and eleven other chiefs,
as recited in my last message, did not bring lasting peace to
the islands. Formidable uprisings continued, and finally a
rebellion broke out in the capital island, Upolu, headed in
Aana, the western district, by the younger Tamasese, and in
Atua, the eastern district, by other leaders. The insurgents
ravaged the country and fought the Government's troops up to
the very doors of Apia. The King again appealed to the powers
for help, and the combined British and German naval forces
reduced the Atuans to apparent subjection, not, however,
without considerable loss to the natives. A few days later
Tamasese and his adherents, fearing the ships and the marines,
professed submission. Reports received from our agents at Apia
do not justify the belief that the peace thus brought about
will be of long duration. It is their conviction that the
natives are at heart hostile to the present Government, that
such of them as profess loyalty to it do so from fear of the
powers, and that it would speedily go to pieces if the war
ships were withdrawn. … The present Government has utterly
failed to correct, if indeed it has not aggravated, the very
evils it was intended to prevent. It has not stimulated our
commerce with the islands. Our participation in its
establishment against the wishes of the natives was in plain
defiance of the conservative teachings and warnings of the
wise and patriotic men who laid the foundations of our free
institutions, and I invite an expression of the judgment of
Congress on the propriety of steps being taken by this
Government looking to the withdrawal from its engagements with
the other powers on some reasonable terms not prejudicial to
any of our existing rights."

United States, Message and Documents

(Abridgment, 1894-1895).

In the Message of 1895 the subject was again pressed on the

attention of Congress without result.

In August, 1898, Malietoa Laupepa died. By the Berlin Treaty

of 1889 "it was provided that in case any question should
arise in Samoa, respecting the rightful election of King, or
of any other Chief claiming authority over the islands, or
respecting the validity of the powers which the King or any
Chief might claim in the exercise of his office, such question
should not lead to war, but should be presented for decision
to the Chief Justice of Samoa, who should decide it in
writing, conformably to the provisions of the Act, and to the
laws and customs of Samoa not in conflict therewith, and that
the Signatory Governments would accept and abide by such
decision. After the death of Malietoa an exchange of views
took place between the Powers, and it was agreed that there
should be no interference with the right of the Samoans to
elect a King, and that the election should proceed strictly in
accordance with the provisions of the Final Act. Some time
elapsed before any action was taken, pending the completion of
certain ceremonial usages customary in Samoa on the death of a
High Chief. … As soon as the funeral ceremonies were at an end,
deliberation and discussion among the Chiefs ensued. There
were in the first instance several candidates for the
succession. Their number was eventually reduced to two:

1. Malietoa Tanu, the son of the late King.

2. The High Chief Mataafa.

This Chief had been in rebellion against Malietoa Laupepa, but

had suffered defeat, and with other Chiefs had been deported,
by agreement between the three Powers, to the Marshall
Islands. On the recommendation of the Consular officers at
Apia, the Powers, in July 1898, consented to his return. … On
the 19th September, Mataafa and the other exiled Chiefs landed
in Samoa. It does not appear that he took any overt steps to
claim the vacant throne, but a section of the natives
pronounced in his favour and announced on the 12th November to
the Consuls and to the Chief Justice that he had been duly
elected King. On the 13th November the opposing faction
declared that the real election of a King had not taken place,
and on the following day announced that their choice had
fallen upon Malietoa Tanu. Both parties appealed to Mr.
Chambers, the Chief Justice, who considered himself then in a
position to take cognisance of the matter, according to the
provisions of the Final Act, a question having arisen 'in
 Samoa respecting the rightful election or appointment of
King.'"

Great Britain, Parliamentary Publications

(Papers by Command: Samoa, Number 1, 1899).

The decision of the Chief Justice was in favor of Malietoa

Tanu, and the adherents of Mataafa took up arms, defeating
those of the favored candidate and driving many of them to
take refuge on British and German ships of war. Subsequent
events were related by the President of the United States in
his Message to Congress, December 5, 1899, as follows: "In
this emergency a joint commission of representatives of the
United States, Germany, and Great Britain was sent to Samoa to
investigate the situation and provide a temporary remedy.
{433}
By its active efforts a peaceful solution was reached for the
time being, the kingship being abolished and a provisional
government established. Recommendations unanimously made by
the commission for a permanent adjustment of the Samoan
question were taken under consideration by the three powers
parties to the General Act. But the more they were examined
the more evident it became that a radical change was necessary
in the relations of the powers to Samoa. The inconveniences
and possible perils of the tripartite scheme of supervision
and control in the Samoan group by powers having little
interest in common in that quarter beyond commercial rivalry
had been once more emphasized by the recent events. The
suggested remedy of the Joint Commission, like the scheme it
aimed to replace, amounted to what has been styled a
'tridominium,' being the exercise of the functions of
sovereignty by an unanimous agreement of three powers. The
situation had become far more intricate and embarrassing from
every point of view than it was when my predecessor, in 1894,
summed up its perplexities and condemned the participation in
it of the United States. The arrangement under which Samoa was
administered had proved impracticable and unacceptable to all
the powers concerned. To withdraw from the agreement and
abandon the islands to Germany and Great Britain would not be
compatible with our interests in the archipelago. To
relinquish our rights in the harbor of Pago Pago, the best
anchorage in the Pacific, the occupancy of which had been
leased to the United States in 1878 by the first foreign
treaty ever concluded by Samoa, was not to be thought of
either as regards the needs of our Navy or the interests of
our growing commerce with the East. We could not have
considered any proposition for the abrogation of the
tripartite control which did not confirm us in all our rights
and safeguard all our national interests in the islands. Our
views commended themselves to the other powers. A satisfactory
arrangement was concluded between the Governments of Germany
and of England, by virtue of which England retired from Samoa
in view of compensations in other directions, and both powers
renounced in favor of the United States all their rights and
claims over and in respect to that portion of the group lying
to the east of the one hundred and seventy-first degree of
west longitude, embracing the islands of Tutuila, Ofoo,
Olosenga, and Manua."

United States, Message and Documents (Abridgment),

1899-1900, volume 1.

The compensations to England "in other directions" were given

by Germany, in the following provisions of a treaty signed at
London, November 14, 1899:

"ARTICLE II.
Germany renounces in favour of Great Britain all her rights
over the Tonga Islands, including Vavau, and over Savage
Island, including the right of establishing a naval station
and coaling station, and the right of extra-territoriality in
the said islands. … She recognizes as falling to Great Britain
those of the Solomon Islands, at present belonging to Germany,
which are situated to the east and southeast of the Island of
Bougainville, which latter shall continue to belong to
Germany, together with the Island of Buka, which forms part of
it. The western portion of the neutral zone in West Africa, as
defined in Article V of the present Convention, shall also
fall to the share of Great Britain. …

"ARTICLE IV.
The arrangement at present existing between Germany and Great
Britain and concerning the right of Germany to freely engage
labourers in the Solomon Islands belonging to Great Britain
shall be equally extended to those of the Solomon Islands
mentioned in Article II, which fall to the share of Great
Britain.

"ARTICLE V.
In the neutral zone the frontier between the German and
English territories shall be formed by the River Daka as far
as the point of its intersection with the 9th degree of north
latitude, thence the frontier shall continue to the north,
leaving Morozugu to Great Britain, and shall be fixed on the
spot by a Mixed Commission of the two Powers, in such manner
that Gambaga and all the territories of Mamprusi shall fall to
Great Britain, and that Yendi and all the territories of Chakosi
shall fall to Germany.

"ARTICLE VI.
Germany is prepared to take into consideration, as much and as
far as possible, the wishes which the Government of Great
Britain may express with regard to the development of the
reciprocal Tariffs in the territories of Togo and of the Gold
Coast.

"ARTICLE VII.
Germany renounces her rights of extra-territoriality in
Zanzibar, but it is at the same time understood that this
renunciation shall not effectively come into force till such
time as the rights of extra-territoriality enjoyed there by
 other nations shall be abolished."

To the treaty was appended the following "Declaration":

"It is clearly understood that by Article II of the Convention

signed to-day, Germany consents that the whole group of the
Howe Islands, which forms part of the Solomon Islands, shall
fall to Great Britain. It is also understood that the
stipulations of the Declaration between the two Governments
signed at Berlin on the 10th April, 1886, respecting freedom
of commerce in the Western Pacific, apply to the islands
mentioned in the aforesaid Convention. It is similarly
understood that the arrangement at present in force as to the
engagement of labourers by Germans in the Solomon Islands
permits Germans to engage those labourers on the same
conditions as those which are or which shall be imposed on
British subjects nonresident in those islands."

Great Britain, Parliamentary Publication,

(Papers by Command: Treaty Series, Number 7, 1900).

Article III of the general treaty between the United States,

Germany and Great Britain stipulated: "It is understood and
agreed that each of the three signatory Powers shall continue
to enjoy, in respect to their commerce and commercial vessels,
in all the islands of the Samoan group, privileges and
conditions equal to those enjoyed by the sovereign Power, in
all ports which may be open to the commerce of either of
them."

United States, 56th Congress, 1st Session,

Senate Document Number 157.

{434}

On the 17th of April, 1900, an "instrument of cession" was

signed by the marks of twenty-two chiefs, conveying to the
 United States the islands of the Samoan group lying east of
the 171st degree of west longitude, and the American flag was
raised over the naval station at Pago-Pago. From Pago-Pago,
March 27, 1901, a Press despatch announced: "The natives under
the United States Government number 5,800, according to a
census just taken, while the natives in the other islands
under German rule number 32,000. The population has increased
very slightly in the last thirty years, and the main cause of
this failure to increase is the infant mortality, due to the
violation of the simplest health principles in the care and
diet of children. … Reports from the six islands under United
States control show that the natives are improving in general
conditions, and that they show a desire to keep their houses
neat and to educate their children. Not a single native has
been arrested for drunkenness since the Americans assumed
control of Tutuila island."

SAMPSON, Rear-Admiral William T.:

Commanding North Atlantic Station.
Blockade of Cuban ports.

See (in this volume)

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA: A. D. 1898 (APRIL-MAY: CUBA).

SAMPSON, Rear-Admiral William T.:

Operations at Santiago de Cuba.
See (in this volume)
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA: A. D. 1898 (APRIL-JUNE).

SAMPSON, Rear-Admiral William T.:

Destruction of Spanish squadron.

See (in this volume)

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA: A. D. 1898 (JULY 3).

SAN DOMINGO.