by LJ Ross
“Hi,” Josh greeted them, leaning down to bestow a quick peck on Gemma’s cheek before casting his eyes around the room. “Any chance of a bite to eat?”
“Might have known you’d be thinking of your stomach,” Hutch chuckled. “What’ll it be?”
“Ah—” Josh looked around the room again. “Is Daisy working tonight?”
Gemma’s mouth flattened.
“Yes, and don’t go distracting her, either,” she warned him. “That girl needs no encouragement.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, and then flashed a roguish smile as he caught sight of the petite brunette crossing the room laden with steaming plates of food. “In fact, I’ll lend a hand.”
“We don’t need—”
But Gemma’s words were lost on the air as her son moved to take the plates from Daisy, gallantly dishing them out to waiting customers as the girl looked on with stars in her eyes. A fierce, unexpected pain stabbed at her chest as she recognised that look; it was one she had worn herself, many years ago.
“They’re only young,” Hutch murmured, steering her away.
“So was I,” she said huskily. “I just—”
She broke off as the door to the main bar was flung open and Iain Tucker burst into the room bringing a rush of cool, salty air with him. He still wore his diving suit with a pair of worn trainers and an overcoat slung on top of it all.
“Evening, Iain,” Hutch said, affably. “You lookin’ for a spot of dinner?”
The other man grinned like a fool and shook his balding head, which glistened beneath the overhead lights as drops of sea spray fell onto his shoulders.
“I couldn’t eat,” he said, excitedly. “But I’ll have a glass of champagne. No! Make that a bottle—and I’ll buy a drink for everybody else, as well!”
Gemma and Hutch exchanged an amused glance, while his loud declaration earned several curious stares.
“You won the lottery or something?” Josh called out.
“Better than that,” Iain said, still grinning. “Much better than that. I’ve found it! I’ve found the wreck!”
Across the room, Daisy slopped a bowl of pea and ham soup into a customer’s lap.
“For goodness’ sake,” Gemma muttered, and hurried over to minimise the damage.
“You want to be careful shouting about things like that,” Hutch turned back to Iain, speaking in an undertone. “Most of the people in here are divers themselves, and one or two have been known to loot the old wrecks for stuff they can hock to foreign collectors. Be careful somebody doesn’t beat you to it.”
“They could try, but they’d never find it,” Iain said, confidently. “It’s taken me thirty years to find the right spot and I’m not even sure I’ll be able to find it again.”
Hutch shrugged and handed the man his champagne, before starting to hand out the drinks orders around the room. When Iain took himself off to the guest suite he occupied upstairs to shower and change, Josh stepped behind the bar and nudged his uncle.
“What d’ you make of that, then?”
Hutch didn’t so much as look up.
“Iain’s been coming here every year looking for some old Viking longboat he read about sometime or other. Even if it existed, it would probably have been lost to the sea centuries ago, but try telling Iain that. He’s obsessed.” Hutch paused to hand out a couple of glasses of wine, before continuing. “Once or twice, he found some bits and bobs, cannons or old swords from the eighteenth century. Mind you, I’ve never seen him this excited,” he admitted, with a slight frown. “Maybe he’s finally found something big, after all.”
“Don’t know how he can be sure,” Josh remarked. “It’s darker than Satan’s heart, out there.”
Hutch made a murmuring sound of agreement, then nodded towards the ceiling and the room that Iain occupied upstairs.
“All the same, he should be careful what he says. There’ve been plenty of businesses going under these past few years, enough to make people desperate. Back in my day, people would go out on the water at all hours of the night to loot a wreck, if they thought it was worth their while.”
Josh shuffled uncomfortably.
“They wouldn’t find much, since nobody knows where to go.”
“Aye,” Hutch said, giving him a long, level look. “Maybe that’s just as well.”
CHAPTER 2
Friday, 2nd November
Doctor Anna Taylor-Ryan steered her car along the winding country lane towards the historic fishing village of Seahouses, enjoying the dappled light as it filtered through the trees on both sides. It was a road she knew well from childhood, having been born only fifteen miles further north on the tiny, scenic island of Lindisfarne. As she wound through the hedgerows and followed the coastline towards the village, she reflected that it had been a while since she’d visited her childhood home. Perhaps it was time to go back and rediscover the island with fresh eyes, ones that were untainted by death and sadness.
But even as she thought of it, her mind slipped back to a time when she’d almost lost her life and when others had been even less fortunate.
No, she thought. It had not been long enough to overcome the nightmares that had plagued her since the last time she’d made the journey across the causeway.
“Maybe next year,” she murmured.
As she reached the outer limits of Seahouses, she shook off the memories and slowed the car to a crawl as she followed the main road towards the seafront. The long promenade overlooked a quaint harbour with multi-coloured boats and kiosks advertising diving excursions and trips to see the puffins and seals. Amusement arcades and numerous fish restaurants touted the catch of the day and the place bustled with life, despite the fact autumn was swiftly marching towards winter and the tourists would soon return home.
Close to the harbour, she spotted an old stone building which bore a hand-painted sign declaring it to be The Cockle Inn and pulled into the small car park alongside. Stepping out of her car, she breathed deeply of the damp air that slapped against her skin and whipped through her hair, raising her face to the wind as if to capture the scent of the sea before heading across to the main entrance.
Inside, Anna found the place almost empty except for a couple of residents polishing off the last of their Full English Breakfasts.
“Would you like a menu?”
She turned to face a tall, broad-shouldered man of around fifty. His face was pleasantly weathered by the sun and rain, telling tales of a life spent outdoors whenever he got the chance.
“Ah, no, thank you,” she replied. “I’m here to see Iain Tucker, if he’s around?”
Hutch eyed the tall, lovely-looking brunette with frank scepticism.
“Iain? Ah, I don’t think he’s come down yet. Must be having a lie-in. D’ you want me to call up and see?”
Anna checked her watch, which read quarter-past-ten.
“He said to meet him here at ten o’clock, but I don’t want to disturb him, if he’s still sleeping. Let’s give it another fifteen minutes.”
Hutch nodded politely.
“Would you like a coffee, while you wait?”
Anna smiled.
“You just said the magic word,” she replied. “Black, please, no sugar.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, there was still no sign of Iain.
“How’d you say you knew him?”
Hutch paused in his task of emptying the dishwasher and leaned against the bar, wincing as Daisy cleared the breakfast plates with a noisy clatter.
“I didn’t,” Anna said, with a small smile. “But he’s a colleague of mine from Durham University. He’s part of the Archaeology Department, specialising in marine archaeology, whereas my focus is on early religious history in Northumberland. Our paths sometimes cross and he asked me to come along for a chat about something he’d found yesterday.”
Hutch nodded.
“Aye, he was in here last night, raving about it,” he said. “Said he’d found s
ome old Viking wreck and then offered to buy everyone a drink.”
“He must have found something important,” she murmured, excitement creeping into her voice. “I wonder what’s keeping him?”
Hutch glanced up at the clock.
“It’s been more than fifteen minutes now,” he said. “I’ll go upstairs and knock on his door.”
Anna waited while he climbed to the first floor, listening to the creaks and moans of the old building as the beams contracted beneath his weight.
But a couple of minutes later, Hutch returned alone.
“Nobody’s answering,” he told her. “Are you sure he said ten o’clock?”
Anna nodded.
“I wonder where he’s got to.”
“Where who’s got to?”
They both turned at the sound of a new voice, this time from a blonde woman who entered the room carrying a cardboard box full of small packets of bar snacks.
“This should do us,” Gemma said, setting the box on the bar.
“Have you seen Iain, this morning?” Hutch asked her. “This lady was expecting to meet him at ten.”
Gemma gave Anna a quick, discreet assessment.
“No, I haven’t seen him at all. Haven’t heard anybody moving about, either,” she added, as an afterthought. “Come to think of it, that’s a bit unusual for Iain. He’s usually up at the crack of dawn. Let me check with Daisy, in case he came down earlier.”
She headed off to find the barmaid.
“I’ll try calling him,” Anna said, reaching for her mobile.
But the number rang out.
“Daisy says she hasn’t seen him,” Gemma said, returning to the bar. “Have you called him?”
Anna nodded, holding up the phone that was still in her hand.
“I’ve left a message,” she said. “It’s not like Iain to be late for an appointment. He’s usually a stickler for punctuality.”
“He might have passed out with a hangover,” Gemma joked. “He took a bottle of champagne upstairs with him last night, so he probably missed his alarm.”
“I’ll try his door again and take the master key, just in case,” Hutch decided. “Why don’t you ring Josh and ask if he can see Iain’s boat in the harbour?”
“Good idea,” Gemma said, from her position beside one of the windows. “Iain’s car’s still outside, so he can’t have gone far. Maybe he got his times mixed up and decided to go out on the water, since the weather’s fine. He was hopping around with excitement, last night.”
Anna waited while the other woman put a call through to her son, at the Shell Seekers diving school.
“There you go,” Gemma said, after the call ended. “Josh says the boat isn’t in the harbour, so Iain must have got up early this morning and taken it out for a spin.”
“Not in his room,” Hutch said, returning to the dining area. “I let myself in, just to check. Bit weird, though—it doesn’t look as though he slept at all last night.”
Having started to relax, Anna’s system went back on full alert.
“What do you mean?”
Hutch shrugged.
“The bed was still made, and he’s hardly touched his champagne,” he said, looking between the pair of them. “It was still sitting there, on the coffee table, with a full glass beside it.”
Anna felt something curl in her stomach, something like dread.
“What’s the name of his boat?”
“The Viking Princess,” Gemma replied. “Why?”
“Because I need to know what to tell the Coastguard.”
CHAPTER 3
Fifty miles further south, Detective Chief Inspector Maxwell Finlay-Ryan stepped into the open-plan office area of the Northumbria Criminal Investigation Department. He had barely crossed the threshold before coming to a skidding halt at the unexpected sight of an enormous, mechanical snowman. It stood in the central aisle separating the rows of workstations on either side and was at least six feet tall, with a carrot-shaped nose that looked sharp enough to cause grievous bodily harm. While there were very few certainties in life, Ryan knew he could be sure of one thing: the expression in its glassy black eyes would haunt him for years to come.
“Frank!”
His sergeant’s balding, salt-and-pepper head popped around the side of a nearby computer screen.
“Mornin’!”
Ryan kept an eye on the snowman, half expecting it to morph into life and come charging at his jugular.
“What the hell is that… thing doing in CID?”
Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips swung around in his desk chair to face the six-foot effigy.
“D’ you like it? They had them on offer down at the garden centre,” he said, cheerfully. “Thought it might brighten the place up a bit.”
Giving the snowman a wide berth, Ryan shrugged out of his jacket and slung it over the back of his own chair.
“It’s…certainly bright.”
“Aye, and it plays Christmas carols, too. Here, I’ll show y—”
“Don’t even think about it,” Ryan growled. “For one thing, it’s barely November, and, for another, it’s just plain…creepy.”
“Aw, howay, man, it’s not that bad.”
“Its eyes are staring into my soul,” Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie chimed in, from across the room. “Small wonder they were selling them off for peanuts!”
Phillips swung around to grin at his senior officer and—as it happened—his new wife.
“It’s not that bad,” he argued. “Once we get a few fairy-lights up, it’ll be grand. Besides, it was only a few quid and they threw in some fake snow, too.”
“You were robbed,” Ryan muttered. “For God’s sake, Frank, shove it in a cupboard before it gives us all nightmares.”
With a sigh, Phillips heaved himself out of his chair and slung a companionable arm around the snowman’s plastic shoulders.
“C’mon, big lad. Some people just don’t know how to get into the festive spirit.”
While he dragged it off, Ryan turned to MacKenzie.
“Good luck keeping that thing out of the house,” he said.
“Over my dead body,” she vowed. “Speaking of which, Control have just sent through a new one. Unidentified male, washed up on the rocks at Longstone lighthouse.”
“Longstone?” Ryan frowned. “Where have I heard that name before?”
“You probably recognise it from the story of Grace Darling,” MacKenzie replied. “She was the young lighthouse keeper’s daughter who helped to rescue survivors from the Forfarshire in the 1800s. Longstone was the lighthouse where she lived with her family, on Outer Farne—it’s northernmost island in the Farne Islands.”
Ryan remembered the tale, and the afternoon he’d spent with Anna at the Grace Darling Museum in Bamburgh. He considered himself lucky she wasn’t there to witness the fact he’d retained very little of their excursion, particularly given her enthusiasm for local history.
“Looks like the rocks around there have claimed another life,” he said. “Did his boat capsize?”
MacKenzie lifted a shoulder.
“Too early to say. There’s no sign of a boat but Control have dispatched a team of first responders and notified the coastguard, who’ll send a lifeboat out to help to transfer the body across to the mainland.”
“Anybody reported missing lately?”
“Plenty,” she replied. “But none from the local area. The body was reported by the lighthouse keeper, who was running a boat tour when he spotted it.”
“Not what you need, just after breakfast,” Ryan said.
MacKenzie nodded.
“You can get a boat across from Beadnell or—”
“Seahouses,” Ryan put in, as his phone began to rumble, and his wife’s number flashed on the screen. It was the same place Anna had been headed, that very morning.
He exchanged a look with MacKenzie, all business now.
“Tell Phillips to put his wellies on,” he said. “We’re goin
g to the seaside.”
* * *
It was an hour’s drive from Northumbria Police Headquarters, in the old shipping heart of Newcastle, to the coastal village of Seahouses. Thanks to a combination of bad luck and lunchtime traffic, Ryan and Phillips found themselves caught behind a slow-moving tractor and several lorries making their routine journey to Scotland along a stretch of the A1 that was not a fully operational dual carriageway.
“You’d think they’d widen the road a bit, after all these years,” Phillips complained. “Even I could drive a bit faster than this.”
Ryan’s lips twitched. It was a truth universally acknowledged that his sergeant was a cautious driver.
“Careful, Frank. Next thing, you’ll be telling me you’re buying a motorbike and touring South America.”
The very thought was enough to bring Phillips out in a cold sweat, but he wasn’t about to admit that. Instead, he folded his arms across his burly chest and fixed his younger companion with a dignified stare.
“The trouble with your generation is, you think anybody over a certain age has lost their sense of adventure. I could ride a motorcycle, y’ nah, if I wanted to.”
“Of course you could.”
“And I could tour South America and see the pyramids,” Phillips continued.
“They’re in Egypt,” Ryan said, dryly.
“Eh? Maybe I’m thinking of the other pyramids.”
“Promise me, whenever the grand tour does happen, you’ll take a map,” Ryan muttered, putting the car back in gear as the traffic began to move again. “Only another few miles to go, now. Has anything else come through?”
Phillips checked the e-mails on his work phone, then shook his head.
“Nothing we don’t already know. Some feller was found on the rocks at Longstone lighthouse, just after eleven this morning. No identity yet, and that could take a while depending on the state of the body,” Phillips added, with a note of sympathy. “Did you say Anna reckons she knows who it could be?”
“It’s a possibility,” Ryan said, slowing the car to indicate right. “She heard from a colleague of hers—Iain Tucker—late last night. He’s some kind of marine archaeologist who reckoned he’d found a Viking shipwreck. He wanted to speak to Anna about it, to verify dates or something.”