by LJ Ross
LONGSTONE
– A DCI RYAN MYSTERY
LJ Ross
Copyright © LJ Ross 2018
The right of LJ Ross to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design copyright © LJ Ross
OTHER BOOKS BY LJ ROSS
Holy Island
Sycamore Gap
Heavenfield
Angel
High Force
Cragside
Dark Skies
Seven Bridges
The Hermitage
The Infirmary (prequel)
The Moor
Penshaw
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
“Beware the wolf in sheep’s clothing”
—Aesop
PROLOGUE
Autumn, 1995
Seahouses, Northumberland
The man they called ‘Hutch’ watched a woman wind her way through the punters in the main bar. His heart quickened at the sight of Gemma, just like the very first time he’d seen her, when they were only kids in the school playground. She was a woman now, no doubt about that. Tall and slim, with long blonde hair that fell in shining waves down her back, and the kind of self-assurance beautiful women often had; the kind that came from knowing they had only to look a certain way to have men like him falling at their feet.
The Cockle Inn was surprisingly busy for a Thursday night off-season and he watched as she fought her way past a rowdy crowd of locals, like an exotic flower trying to pick its way through thorny undergrowth, her eyes searching the sea of familiar faces as she made her way towards the bar.
Towards him.
He continued to pull pints, keeping his eyes firmly on his task.
“Hiya, Hutch,” she said. “Y’ seen Kris anywhere?”
His lips twisted.
“I thought you two were taking the boat out, today?” he said, buying himself more time.
“He was supposed to meet me at the harbour twenty minutes ago,” she muttered, casting a quick glance up at the old wooden clock on the wall.
“Only twenty minutes?” He smiled. “I’ve waited longer than that for Kris to turn up.”
When she smiled back, it was like a knife in his gut.
“I know,” she said. “He’s never on time. Maybe I should just head back down to the harbour and see if he’s there now—”
“Might as well stay inside, where it’s warm,” he said quickly. “How about a drink?”
He moved towards the shelf where he kept the white wine he knew she preferred, but Gemma shook her head.
“No, not today,” she said. “I’ll just have a coke, thanks.”
He shrugged.
“So, how’ve you been?”
Gemma slid onto a stool and folded her arms on the bar, only half listening.
“What? Oh, fine, thanks. Just trying to get Shell Seekers up and running but it’s the wrong time of year. Hardly anybody wants to go diving when the weather’s like this.”
He made a rumbling sound of agreement. Autumn in Northumberland was not the best time to start a new diving school; only the keenest amateur and professional divers would want to go down into the freezing depths of the North Sea and they already had their own diving gear—and probably their own boats, too.
But he didn’t have the heart to tell her any of that.
“They found another wreck near Beadnell,” he said instead. “That’s bound to attract a bit of new interest.”
The North-Eastern coastline boasted a high number of shipwrecks; unfortunate galleons and cargo ships, paddle steamers and military vessels having been lost to its rocky shoreline and tempestuous weather over the centuries. Whenever a new wreck was found, it attracted salvage divers and marine archaeologists from around the world.
“Hopefully,” she murmured. “I—”
Whatever she’d been about to say was cut off as a pair of sinewy arms wrapped around her waist.
“Here you are!”
Kristopher Reid—‘The Kraken’, to his friends—smiled broadly and then lowered his dark head to nuzzle at Gemma’s neck with an elaborate growl, which made her laugh. Hutch turned away to busy himself with the next order, trying to block out the image of her enraptured face, trying to forget the way it had come alive when she’d caught sight of his younger brother.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Kris lied, as he lifted his head. “D’ you still fancy a run out?”
Gemma’s forehead crinkled in a frown.
“I was down at the harbour. I thought we agreed to meet there—?”
“No, babe, we decided to meet here, don’t you remember?” He gave her a patient look, then brushed his lips against hers. “Oh well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”
Looking into his deep brown eyes, she might have believed anything.
“Sure, it doesn’t matter,” she agreed, all smiles again. “We can go now, if you like?”
With a wink for his brother, Kris helped her down from the stool and, a moment later, they were gone. Very carefully, Hutch set the glass of coke down on a bar mat, untouched. He watched his brother leave with the woman he loved, watched his hand trail down her back and further still, watched her pause and reach up to kiss him, lost in the moment.
Then he turned away, unable to watch any longer.
* * *
Three days later
He found Gemma on the beach at Bamburgh, a mile or so north of Seahouses. It was practically deserted at that hour of the morning and she was sitting amongst the sand dunes staring out to sea, lost in her own thoughts. It was a beautiful spot; a golden, sandy beach swept out for miles beneath a mighty castle fortress perched on a craggy hilltop where, once, early kings of England had reigned.
“Gemma?”
She turned distractedly.
> “Hutch?”
His feet sank into the fine sand as he made his way over the dunes to join her, turning up his collar against the sharp wind rolling in with the tide.
“Mind if I join you?”
Close up, he could see the ravages of tears that had dried in salty tracks against her pale skin.
“He hasn’t come back,” she said brokenly. “Kris left, and he hasn’t come back.”
“It’s only been a couple of days,” he replied. “You know what Kris is like—”
She closed her eyes and another tear escaped.
“This is different,” she said, raggedly. “He—I—”
Unable to stop himself, he reached across to grasp her hand, finding it limp and cold.
“I-I told him about the baby,” she whispered. “I told him he was going to be a father and, the next morning, he was gone.”
Hutch felt something inside him shatter, some hitherto untouched area of his heart breaking into tiny pieces. His eyes strayed down to her belly, hidden beneath the folds of her jacket. It was still flat but, somewhere within, life had blossomed.
“What did Kris say when you told him?” he asked quietly, working hard to keep his anger in check.
She raised shaking fingers to wipe away fresh tears.
“He was…surprised, at first. Then, he seemed happy. I thought he was happy,” she repeated, her voice breaking on the last word. “But I know he’s been worrying about money, about the business.”
Hutch knew it too. Kris had already come to him twice for hand-outs, although she knew nothing about that.
“We went to bed and, when I woke up in the morning, he was gone.”
“And you’ve heard nothing since?”
She sniffed and shook her head.
“I know—I know he’s not ready to be a father,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean he would be a bad one. I tried to tell him it would be okay, that we’d be fine.”
Hutch said nothing.
“He hasn’t gone to your mum’s house,” she continued. “I already rang her. I don’t have his dad’s number, though—”
The two brothers shared a mother but had different fathers.
“I’ll find it,” he said.
“But, if—if he isn’t there, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what we’ll do.”
His hand tightened on hers and he opened his mouth to say all that he longed to say, all the words of love he carried like a weight against his chest, but she was not ready to hear them.
“If Kris isn’t there, we’ll call the police,” he told her. “If they can’t help, maybe he doesn’t want to be found.”
His jaw tightened, thinking of the man who was his brother, of the years of disappointment and frustration. Kris had been blessed with a strong body and mind—and the kind of good looks that meant he would never be lonely. But he took them for granted, never thinking of the hurt and destruction he could wield.
He hated him.
Hutch sighed deeply, trying to expel the feeling, to cast it out, but it returned stronger, waves upon waves of hatred coursing through his body as he looked upon the devastation of the woman he loved.
“You’ll never be alone,” he promised her. “I’ll look after you.”
But Gemma wasn’t listening; she was far away, watching the sea roll back and forth against the shore in a timeless dance. On the far horizon, a boat bobbed across the water, only a speck against the sky that was awash with colour as the day came alive.
After a moment, she turned and looked at the man sitting beside her. There was a slight family resemblance, she thought. But where Kris’s eyes were dark brown, Paul Hutchison’s were a bright, bold blue and swirling with emotion.
She looked away, brushing away tears with the heels of her hands.
“I-I should get back,” she whispered.
He helped her to her feet.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I—”
But she merely shook her head and turned away, walking across the dunes; away from him, and the life he had offered.
CHAPTER 1
Thursday, 1st November 2018
Twenty-three years later
The sun was setting on the horizon, casting wide arcs of blazing amber light over the serene waters of the North Sea as it prepared to slip off the edge of the world. The little dive boat chugged through the waves, rocking precariously and tipping up at the bow as water swelled against its sides then fizzled away, before the cycle began all over again. It was a slow journey as Iain Tucker navigated his way through treacherous currents, renowned for centuries as a graveyard for much bigger vessels than the modest little boat he was proud to call his own.
The Farne Islands consisted of between fifteen and twenty-eight small islands depending on the tide, including a nature reserve that was home to thousands of protected birds and a pair of lighthouses that had been warding ships from the rocks for nearly two hundred years. All the same, they hadn’t been able to prevent the destruction of countless vessels whose skeletons lay beneath the darkening waters far below. It took an experienced sailor to command a boat on these waters, and an even more experienced diver to explore the underwater cemetery below.
Iain narrowed his eyes against the sun, calculating the amount of time he had left before the light would be lost completely.
Fifteen minutes, tops.
It would take thirty to get back to the harbour at Seahouses and he’d be foolish to traverse the narrow, rocky channels of the Farnes after dark without good reason.
All the same…
He thought of the charts he had painstakingly compiled over the past few years, of the countless diving trips and hours spent researching the past. He felt sure there was an undiscovered wreck somewhere beneath the choppy waters, one that would make headlines around the world.
If only he could find it.
Coming to a sudden decision, he changed course and swung the boat around, back towards the islands. If he was quick, there would be time for one last dive before nightfall.
As the boat turned aft, a white light began to blink through the dusk, flashing its warning at regular intervals. A foghorn followed, sounding two loud blasts into the surrounding air. Iain’s hands tightened on the wheel and his eyes skittered across to where a lighthouse was silhouetted against the purple-blue sky.
Go home, it said. Turn back.
He shook his head, gripping the wheel more tightly. There was always time for one last dive.
* * *
“Daisy!”
Gemma Dawson watched as the young barmaid flitted about the dining area of The Cockle Inn, chatting and laughing with the locals who’d come in for their usual Friday night fish ‘n’ chips. It was all very well being friendly, she thought irritably, but dirty plates were stacking up and empty glasses needed refilling.
Deciding to have a firm word later, she tucked a tea towel into the back pocket of her jeans and moved quickly around the room, gathering the plates herself and taking new orders for drinks.
Daisy hurried over.
“Sorry, Gemma—”
“Never mind,” the other woman snapped, with a little more force than she’d intended. “Just take these through to the kitchen.”
She thrust a stack of plates into Daisy’s arms.
“Number nine needs two pints of Guinness and number fourteen wants a large glass of chardonnay and a diet coke.”
Daisy nodded vigorously and bustled away.
Watching her, Gemma raised a hand to her aching temple and sighed deeply.
“Rough night?”
Hutch appeared beside her and gave her back a rub. If his hand lingered a fraction too long, neither of them mentioned it.
“No more than usual,” she replied, trying to ignore the loud clatter of plates coming from the general direction of the kitchen. “Business is good.”
They looked around the busy dining area where tourists and locals mingled, chattering about everything from Love Island to America
n politics. The atmosphere was warm, with a large fire crackling in the new log-burner. They’d renovated the old shipping inn over the past few years to create an upmarket place for people to come and stay, without becoming so fancy that their local punters would feel out of place. It seemed they’d found the right balance.
“Aye, it’s doing well,” Hutch agreed, looking across at her with a smile. “That’s down to you. I don’t have your eye for what goes where, or what needs painting in Pigeon’s Breath or Elephant’s Dung—”
Gemma laughed.
“It wasn’t all down to the paint. You’ve done a wonderful job with the place, Hutch. I’m only grateful—”
“Now, don’t start that again.”
She twisted the tea towel in her hands.
“I mean it,” she said softly. “I’m grateful you put a roof over our heads, all those years ago. I wasn’t sure I’d take to managing this place, but I’ve grown to love it.”
But not him, his heart whispered.
Never him.
“It’s your home,” he told her, and cleared his throat. “I, ah, haven’t seen much of Josh the past few days.”
Gemma closed her eyes, suddenly weary.
“Neither have I,” she confessed. Her son was becoming more like his father with every passing year: headstrong, handsome and with little regard for anyone or anything except his precious boat.
“He seems to be making a go of it, taking care of Shell Seekers,” Hutch pointed out.
When Josh Dawson had taken an interest in running his mother’s old diving school, it was fair to say that nobody had really expected it to last. There had been other projects, other ventures, none of which he’d stuck to, until now.
“He loves the sea,” Gemma replied. “Josh has always had an affinity with it, just like—”
Just like Kris, she’d been about to say.
Hutch rubbed her back again, in a silent gesture of support. It had been around the same time of year that Kris had gone, over twenty years ago, and the pain could still slice through the barriers they’d both built to guard against it.
“Speak of the Devil,” Hutch said quietly, and broke into an easy smile for the young man who sauntered into the main bar, the spitting image of his brother. So much so, his heart gave a funny little lurch and his smile slipped, just a bit.