Page 44 of Boomerville at Ballymegille

Hattie guided Jo into the manor.

As she waited for Jo to finish her conversation with the florist, Hattie thought about the arrangements that were taking place in Cumbria. Melissa wouldn’t be travelling alone. Hattie knew that it wasn’t a good time to explain this to Jo as she’d only go off in a panic, worrying about accommodation and extra mouths to feed.

Hattie smiled as she envisaged the excitement at Hotel Boomerville.

‘Why are you smiling?’ Jo asked.

‘Nothing for you to worry your pretty head about.’

Jo looked doubtful. ‘I think I will have one of your pick-me-ups,’ she said.

‘Good idea,’ Hattie replied. ‘I’ll knock up a pitcher of the stuff and have a couple of glasses too.’

* * *

Malcolm satat a table on the terrace of his villa, where an umbrella shaded him from the glaring sun. The heat was at full blast and his deeply tanned skin glistened as he lifted a cold beer to his lips. He watched his son, Giles, in the pool. The boy leaned lazily on the tiled edge, waist deep in water and held a mobile phone to his ear. He smiled as he listened to the caller.

Malcolm stared at the boy’s naked back, the shoulders hunched, accentuating strong arms and torso, his skin olive and smooth. Giles had a sharp jaw and chin, sculptured cheek bones and cold grey eyes, full of intensity.

He was the image of his mother.

‘Giles!’ Malcolm called. ‘Come over here. I want to talk to you.’

Giles turned. He smirked as he reached for his sunglasses and tipped them above his nose to squint in the direction of his father’s voice. Replacing the shades, he turned away and continued his phone conversation.

Malcolm was furious.

Throwing back his chair, he let it crash across the terrace as he stormed over to the pool. ‘Speaking to your dealer?’ he yelled. He grabbed the phone and tossed it high in the air.

The phone spiralled then dropped like a stone into the pool.

‘Don’t ignore me!’ Malcolm yelled. ‘Get the hell out of the water.’ He struggled to resist the urge to wrench Giles by the shoulders and drag him across the terrace.

The boy was impossible. Since Allegra’s death, he had been uncontrollable and, most worrying of all, seemed oblivious to his father’s threats and commands.

‘Don’t get your blood pressure up,’ Giles said as he climbed out of the pool. He stretched then walked slowly to the upturned chair and picked it up. ‘What do you want?’

Malcolm took a deep breath. He felt like punching Giles. Or, at the very least, slapping the sneer off his face. But violence had no impact and however much Malcolm threatened, Giles paid little attention.

‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Oh, yeah? Got a job for me?’ Giles sat down and tapped his fingers on the table. ‘Am I to be pimping our wares across Spain or doing a Gibraltar trip with a delivery to the UK?’

He glared at his father.

Malcolm paced. Giles was obviously as high as a kite. His eyes were red, the pupils wide and dilated. Cocaine was no longer a recreational drug for his son; the boy was addicted to the deadly white powder and the confidence that it gave him. But this high would be short-lived, and paranoia would soon set in. Malcolm had seen it all before.

He sighed. Giles was no longer safe in the business. He was a loose cannon. There was no room for anyone who didn’t have total loyalty to Malcolm. Not even his son. Business was bad enough without the pressure and worry of Giles.

For years, Malcolm had dominated the Costas with his legal and illegal dealings and had made a fortune in the process. His enterprise was the go-to-team for anything not readily available on the open market. A highly profitable drug and gun empire ran alongside his more transparent businesses, of holiday time-shares in Spain and Ireland. But the time-share holdings were drying up. People weren’t as naive as they had been in the past and new laws tightening the process had slowed things down. It was getting harder to launder money through that business. Added pressure came in the form of drug barons from Eastern Europe, muscling in on the prime pickings that Malcolm had, at one time, solely enjoyed. These days he was under more pressure than he’d ever experienced and had much to lose.

But Malcolm was a fighter. He’d pulled himself up from the backstreets of Birmingham and wasn’t prepared to go back. Whatever the cost, no one stood in his way.

‘You’re a mess,’ Malcolm said. He stood before Giles, his shadow covering the figure sprawled on the chair.

‘Who made me like this?’

‘You’ve only yourself to blame.’

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