by LJ Ross
Without waiting for a response, she turned and clicked another button to bring up the visuals.
“Camera One looks out over the east pier, so you can see the boats leaving the harbour.”
He looked over her shoulder.
“And the other camera?” Ryan asked.
Mandy pointed at a plain black screen.
“Camera Two is broken,” she said. “It looks out over the north pier and slipway, usually, but it’s due to be replaced.”
“Vandals?” Ryan said. Or somebody else. “How long has it been down?”
“Oh, at least a week. It was probably the birds,” Mandy said, with a chuckle. “The gulls are a bloody nightmare, sometimes. I’ve had a couple fly straight into the window, and they’ll nest anywhere there’s a cosy nook. The camera was covered in bird mess.”
Phillips stepped back inside the office and caught Ryan’s eye.
“All taken care of,” he said.
“With your permission, I’ll ask one of our team to check that camera,” Ryan turned back to Mandy, who nodded her assent. “In the meantime, can you tell us whether you noticed anything unusual about the Viking Princess, before you left last night? Anybody sniffing around?”
She held up a finger again as the radio crackled into life and she had a brief exchange with a seafarer’s disembodied voice before turning back.
“Just a boat tour, wondering if they were okay to leave,” she explained, with a vague wave of her hand. “Ah, well, I can’t say I noticed anything especially unusual—sorry. All I know is that he came back into the harbour just before five, docked his boat over on the north pier next to the rest of them. Like I said, I clocked off around nine and it was still sitting there, as far as I know.”
Ryan paused, looking out of the expansive windows and across the picturesque harbour, thinking of a dead man’s last movements.
“Alright, thank you, Ms Jones. We’ll be in touch. In the meantime, if you remember anything else, please call us.”
He set his business card on her desk and the action drew attention to the third finger of his left hand, which bore a platinum band.
“All the best ones are taken,” she said, with a slow smile.
In silent accord, both men beat a hasty retreat.
* * *
Outside, Ryan turned to his sergeant.
“Frank, what the hell just happened in there?”
“I think she was puttin’ the moves on you, son.”
Ryan looked at him in blank confusion.
“Aye, I nah, it’s been a long time since anybody except Anna looked twice, hasn’t it?” Phillips said, patting his tall, good-looking friend’s shoulder. “Me, on the other hand? I’m practically fighting them off.”
“Naturally,” Ryan said, recovering himself. “Denise must be a very understanding woman, constantly having to fight off the hordes of adoring women clamouring at your door.”
“Aye, it’s a full-time occupation,” Phillips chuckled, as he thought of the quiet, happy life he shared with his new wife.
“It’s an odd time for Iain to go out on the water, after dark, without a good reason,” Ryan said, returning to their current problem.
Phillips turned to him.
“Sounds like you think it’s a bit suspicious,” he said, with a knowing glint.
Ryan weighed up everything they knew so far against everything they had yet to learn, and came to a decision.
“Given the state of the body, it was impossible to tell at a glance whether any of the injuries were sustained before Tucker went into the water. All we know is that he acted out of character and that his vessel is missing in unexplained circumstances. That sounds suspicious enough to me.”
Phillips rubbed his hands together.
“Goody. I like a bit of murder on the high seas.”
Ryan huffed out a laugh.
“You’re an odd man, Frank. God knows why I like that about you.”
“Great minds, and all that,” came the pithy response.
CHAPTER 6
Seahouses Police Station shared its premises with the local fire station and was set back from the harbour, towards the historic heart of the village. However, they had hardly made it halfway along Main Street when Phillips was waylaid by a small bakery shop called Trotters.
He came to an emergency stop and raised his nose to the air, like a bloodhound.
“I smell stottie,” he declared, and peered through the shop window. “There, I knew it!”
He turned to Ryan with a look that would have put Oliver Twist to shame.
“Howay, lad, have pity. I didn’t have time for breakfast…”
Ryan raised a single, disbelieving eyebrow.
“That’ll be the day,” he said.
“Alreet,” Phillips relented, and put his cards on the table. “I might have managed a couple of Weetabix. But a bit of dried grass isn’t enough to keep a man with muscles like mine going all day, is it?”
The last statement was said with such breath-taking sincerity that Ryan was moved.
“Fine. You’ve got two minutes to grab something and another two minutes to eat it before we get to the station,” he warned.
Phillips needed no further bidding, and soon returned brandishing two fresh bacon stotties, one of which he offered to his friend.
“Thanks,” Ryan said, and took a grateful bite.
“Y’nesdf pbbty bcon,” Phillips mumbled.
“What?”
Phillips swallowed and tried again.
“I was sayin’, you need plenty of bacon in weather like this. It’s all very well being athletic,” he said, with a sideways glance at Ryan. “But it’ll be a long, cold winter. You’ve got to give the lasses something to snuggle up to, y’nah.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Ryan assured him.
A minute later, Phillips was licking his chops like a satisfied lion.
“Better hurry up and finish—” He watched, open-mouthed, as Ryan threw away the remainder of his sandwich. “What the heck did you go and do that for?”
“I was full,” Ryan explained, as if to a child.
“But—why…” Phillips said, weakly. “It’s the southerner in you, that’s what it is.”
Ryan put a hand on his shoulder.
“We’ve just seen the corpse of a man who was dragged from the water, but you didn’t look half as horrified then as you did just now.”
Phillips let out a quivering breath.
“I’ve seen some things in my time, but nobody’s ever thrown away half a stottie. Not in my lifetime.”
Ryan burst out laughing.
“Let’s take your mind off it by talking to the man who found Iain Tucker.”
They pushed open a toughened Perspex door leading to the foyer of the Police and Fire Station and were met by a local sergeant by the name of Carole Kirby. She was dressed in uniform and had been looking forward to a quiet day occupied by petty crime and domestic disturbance until the unfortunate events of the morning had unfolded.
“DCI Ryan, DS Phillips? Thanks for getting down here so quickly,” she said, shaking hands. “Sad business, isn’t it?”
It was a hackneyed remark, but one that was true nonetheless.
“You said on the phone that it was the lighthouse keeper who found the body? Is he here?”
“Yes,” she nodded, tucking curly brown hair behind one ear in an unmistakably feminine gesture. She might have been pushing fifty, but she still had eyes in her head and there was no crime in looking. The police grapevine was a very active network and she’d heard plenty about the man who was now standing in front of her; remarks ranging from ‘film-star handsome’ to ‘cool and aloof’, depending on the messenger.
It turned out they hadn’t been wrong on either score.
“I’ve put him in one of the meeting rooms for the time being. He was a bit shaken up,” she said, in her most professional voice.
“Can’t blame him,” Ryan said. “This way?”
&n
bsp; She nodded, leading them towards one of the smaller rooms before knocking and opening the door.
“If you need anything, let me know.”
Ryan nodded his thanks, and Phillips gave him a subtle nudge as she walked away.
“Full house for you, today,” he joked. “Looked like she was having a hot flush—”
“Shut it,” Ryan muttered, and stepped inside the meeting room.
“Mr Tawny?”
A fit-looking man of around forty came to attention, sloshing the milky tea he cradled in his hands.
“I’m DCI Ryan and this is DS Phillips, we’re from Northumbria CID.”
Ryan produced his warrant card and then nodded towards the cooling mug the man held in his hands.
“Would you like a fresh one?”
Pete Tawny looked down at the chipped ‘Fire and Rescue’ mug and shook his head.
“No—no, thanks.”
Phillips shut the door behind them and both men took a seat at a cheap coffee table that had been placed too close to the chairs surrounding it, so they were forced to re-shuffle the seating arrangement before they could be comfortable.
Finally, Ryan leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees.
“So, it seems you got more than you bargained for when you left the house this morning, Mr Tawny,” he began, aiming for a touch of levity.
“You can say that again,” Tawny agreed. “You’d think, in all the years I’ve been a keeper, I’d have seen a body before. But that was the first.”
“Hopefully, the only,” Ryan said, with a trace of sympathy. “I know it’s unpleasant, but it would be very helpful if you could tell us how you came to find the body. It might help to get it off your chest, too.”
The other man nodded and set the untouched tea back down on the table, clasping his hands together instead.
“I’m—ah, I’m not sure where to start.”
“Why don’t you begin by telling us about your work,” Phillips suggested, to put him at ease. “I hear you’re the lighthouse keeper? Must be an interesting job.”
On safe ground for the moment, Tawny started to speak.
“Well, Longstone is operated remotely, nowadays, by a central office which oversees various lighthouses around the country. It’s a lot safer than the old days, when Grace Darling’s family lived there all year round and had to keep the light burning,” he said. “Still, I look after the place and run tours around the Farnes and into the lighthouse, itself. There’s a museum in there, if you ever fancy it.”
Ryan nodded, and didn’t have the heart to say he’d been blessed with a live-in historian at home, one who had already satisfied his appetite for local history for at least three lifetimes.
“Were you running a tour this morning?”
“Yes,” Tawny nodded. “We left Seahouses at around nine and reached the Farnes at about half-past, give or take. By the time we reached Outer Farne, it must have been well past ten o’clock.”
“Can you describe how you came to find the body?”
Tawny nodded slowly, remembering.
“I brought the boat around. There were six passengers on board, this morning. Not bad, considering the time of year,” he added, mostly to himself. “Anyhow, I skirted around the headland towards the landing point but, as we got closer, I spotted him. He was washed up on the rocks directly at the foot of the lighthouse, all tangled up. His arms and legs were…they were…”
He swallowed bile.
“What did you do, next?” Ryan interjected, firmly. It helped to focus on the facts, and not on the memory of how Iain Tucker had looked.
“Next? I radioed the coastguard,” he said. “Told them to get a rescue boat across as soon as they could, and I turned my boat around because I didn’t want anybody else to see. There were kids on board,” he explained.
They both nodded their understanding.
“Did you recognise the person on the rocks?” Phillips asked.
Pete shook his head.
“No, I wasn’t close enough and, even if I had been, I’m not sure I would have been able to recognise him,” he said, honestly. “I thought it was a man, judging by the general build.”
There was a short pause.
“Who was it?”
“I’m afraid we can’t discuss the identity until their next of kin has been informed,” Ryan replied.
“Of course,” Pete nodded. “When you’re able, can you let me know? A few of us would like to club together and send some flowers to his family.”
“That’s good of you,” Ryan replied, and looked towards Phillips, who shook his head. “I think that’s all we wanted to discuss, at this stage. We’ll most likely be in touch again but, if you remember anything you feel might be important, please contact us.”
The lighthouse keeper nodded, and it seemed he was about to say more.
“Was there something else?” Ryan asked.
“I’m not sure…well, I wondered if it might have been Iain.”
“Iain?”
“My mate, Iain Tucker. He’s a marine archaeologist. I’ve seen him out that way quite a bit, recently, and I haven’t been able to get hold of him this morning.”
Ryan and Phillips exchanged another look, and decided to make an exception to the usual procedure.
“In the strictest of confidence, I can tell you we strongly suspect the body is that of Iain Tucker.”
Pete Tawny’s face crumpled like paper in front of them.
“I’m sorry,” Ryan murmured.
Pete scrubbed his face, embarrassed to find tears in his eyes.
“Daft old bugger,” he said, tremulously. “I told him he should’ve taken a diving partner.”
“I need to ask whether you knew of any reason why Mr Tucker would have been out on the water alone, or whether he had arranged to meet anyone?”
“There was only one reason Iain ever went out,” Tawny replied, sadly. “He was searching for a Viking longship. Didn’t matter how often we told him he was wasting his time, it fell on deaf ears. Knew it’d kill him, one day.”
His voice thickened with grief.
“I bloody knew it.”
* * *
They spent another thirty minutes with Pete Tawny and agreed to take a trip across the water the following day to see the lighthouse for themselves, weather permitting.
“It’ll be good to get the lay of the land,” Phillips said, as they made their way back towards the harbour. “Can’t say I’m over-keen about getting on a boat, mind.”
Ryan held off a smile.
“Is there any form of transport that isn’t the Devil’s Work?” he enquired.
Phillips gave it some thought. He’d tried a pedal bike when he’d been at the Academy, years ago, before he could afford a car. But that had been a non-starter, considering the number of near-misses he’d had with other road users and he strongly suspected he’d been the common denominator in all of them.
He’d tried buses, instead, but didn’t feel entirely confident at the mercy of some of the kamikaze drivers, who clearly had a sweepstake going on how many passengers they could unbalance during a single journey.
As soon as he’d been able, he’d bought a natty little MG Midget in jazzy red, which he’d enjoyed cruising to the end of his street and back. On the open road, he’d been at the mercy of much larger vehicles and he’d found the whole experience mildly traumatic.
And that only covered land transportation; air and water travel were other matters, entirely.
“Look, son,” he said. “If God had intended us to gad about like birds, he’d have given us wings. As it is, I’ve got two stubby legs and they get me where I need to go. My Volvo does the rest.”
“That it does, Frank. Eventually.”
“Oh, haddaway, y’ cheeky git. It’ll not be like that, when your fancy Merc breaks down on the A1 because it’s too chilly. You’ll be glad of the trusty Volvo, then.”
“I’ll be eating humble pie,” Ryan agreed, and spo
tted Trotters as they passed by. “Don’t even think about it, by the way,” he said, by way of a pre-emptive strike.
“The thought never even crossed my mind,” Phillips said, gravely, and put his plans for an early lunch on hold.
CHAPTER 7
The Cockle Inn commanded a relatively isolated position on the far side of the harbour, overlooking the sea and the dunes which spread northward towards Bamburgh. When Ryan and Phillips stepped inside, they found it teeming with locals who were enjoying more than just a pub lunch. Heads were bent and voices hushed as they chewed the fat, drumming up all manner of wild theories about how Iain Tucker, Professor of Marine Archaeology, had come to die. Gossip was ripe on the air and Ryan spotted at least one person skipping from table to table, presumably comparing notes.
“It’s like Chinese Whispers in ‘ere!” Phillips exclaimed. “Anyone’d think this was the most exciting thing that’s ever happened since Robson Green’s Tales From Northumberland.”
As several heads swivelled in their direction, Ryan took hold of his sergeant’s arm.
“Perhaps it is,” he muttered. “Quick, let’s find Anna, before we’re cornered.”
They rounded the bar and spotted Ryan’s wife perched on one of the stools. He allowed himself a moment to admire the elegance of her profile, the sweep of long leg as she crossed one over the other. Sensing him, she turned and he watched her face light up in a broad smile, the kind she reserved only for him. Just the sight of her was enough to banish the recent memory of Tucker’s broken body, if only for a while.
“Hello stranger,” he said, and leaned down to brush his lips against hers.
When Phillips cleared his throat, he became acutely aware that he was still very much on duty.
“This must be your husband,” the woman behind the bar said.
“Yes. Gemma Dawson, this is Detective Chief Inspector Ryan and Detective Sergeant Phillips.”
They nodded politely.
“Are you the landlady?” Ryan asked, switching easily back to business.
“You could say that,” she replied. “Hutch is the one who owns the place, but I help him run it. I s’pose you need to have a word with us about poor Iain?”