by LJ Ross
Ryan turned to look at him squarely.
“That’ll be for the coroner to decide, once we’ve done our jobs. Something’s off, here. I can feel it.”
Phillips opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. In the early days, he might have turned up his nose at what some called ‘intuitive policing’. But he’d worked with Ryan for years and his instincts had never been wrong.
He simply nodded.
“Call in the troops, Frank. We’re setting up camp first thing tomorrow.”
* * *
Long after Ryan made his impassioned call to arms, Mandy Jones shivered as she made her way quickly through the back roads of the village, head lowered against the wind. She glanced over her shoulder now and then, just to be sure nobody was following, but could barely see a few metres in either direction. The streets were shadowed and empty, the misty outline of periodic street lamps shining their watery light through the thick sea fret that had rolled in and curled itself around the buildings, like tentacles.
She heard only the soft click of her shoes against the pavement and the crash of distant waves against the sea wall. Nobody was on the streets at that hour; the people of the village were tucked up in their beds for the night, clinging tightly to their loved ones as the storm gathered force around them.
As she neared the meeting point, Mandy’s steps slowed and she wondered again whether she had made the right decision in coming here. She thought of Daisy, asleep back in the cottage where she’d been born half a mile away. She supposed there were few things she could be truly proud of, but her daughter was one of them.
Perhaps the only thing.
Rounding the corner, she found she was the first to arrive. She shuffled her feet to keep warm, and thought of the day Daisy had come into the world. It had been a night not dissimilar to this, she remembered, and her mother had perched beside her on the bed, clutching her hand while the midwife told her to push. It was funny, the things you remembered. Like the smooth feel of her mother’s hand and the scent of her skin as she’d held on; crying, begging for the pain to be over. She’d stroked that same hand to sleep when the cancer finally claimed her mother eight years later, and her scent had been different; the odd, sickly-sweet scent of the dying had circled around the hospital bed and she’d never forgotten it.
Daisy was so different, she thought, so fearless. Her daughter was unafraid of life, or death, for that matter. Since her very first moments, she’d been eager to grasp everything life had to offer and never shied away from the tough parts, whereas Mandy had spent a lifetime running away. Lord knew, Daisy wasn’t the academic type, but she was a beauty and she had a good heart.
A better heart than her mother, Mandy thought, and felt her chest contract.
Just then, she heard a whisper of sound somewhere to her left. She flattened herself against the wall where she stood and watched a figure emerge from the gloom.
“You came, then.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Look, I’m not here for the chit-chat,” Mandy said, with more bravado than she felt. “I told you what I think—what I know.”
“You know nothing.”
“Oh, I think we both know that I do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come here, sneaking about like a thief in the night,” Mandy replied, getting into the swing of it.
For Daisy, she thought. For her future.
“You know where the wreck is,” she whispered. “You killed Iain because you wanted to keep the treasure for yourself.”
Silence.
“You can deny it all you want—”
“I haven’t denied it.”
Mandy swallowed a sharp knot of fear while a small part of her brain told her to run!
Run, now!
But she had come this far. In another minute or two, it would be over and they would go their separate ways and never speak of it again. That was their bargain.
“I want half,” she said quickly. “Give me half and I won’t breathe a word. I’ll resign my job and go away, leave you to it.”
“How can I be sure?”
“You’ll have to trust me,” Mandy said.
Soft, harsh laughter.
“Or, I can go straight to the police,” Mandy threatened, feeling angry now, fuelled by indignant rage at having been scorned. “Maybe I’ll tell them who I saw skulking back into the harbour last night, in Iain’s dinghy. I’m sure they’ll be very interested to hear all about it.”
There came a short pause.
“I don’t have anything with me now. Meet me here again at first light and I’ll show you where it is.”
Mandy searched their face for signs of deception but could find nothing in the semi-darkness.
“Alright,” she said, nervously. “But if you mess me around, that’ll be it.”
Their business concluded for the evening, she turned to leave, already imagining the new life she and her daughter would enjoy. Her heart soared at the prospect of riches, of status, and of the anonymity wealth could bring.
She didn’t hear any movement until it was too late.
Something hard connected with the back of her head, cracking the skull with a sickening crunch. Her body fell forward in a heap of flesh, the fragile bones in her face shattering against the stone arch of the old lime kiln by the water’s edge, and she let out a single, muted cry that was lost on the wind. Her killer waited with cold, impassive eyes until Mandy’s limbs stopped twitching, the fight having drained out of her in less than half a minute. It was terrifying to feel the old power return, stronger this time, but the course had been set and there was no going back now.
You could never go back.
Moments later, muffled footsteps melted back into the darkness, as swiftly as they had come.
CHAPTER 14
Saturday, 3rd November
Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning.
That’s what they said, Gemma thought, as she strapped the dog’s lead onto his collar and set out into the early morning. The sky was blood-red, melting into shades of fiery orange and yellow as the sun rose higher in the sky to herald the dawning of a new day. It was peaceful at that hour, the small businesses only just beginning to open their doors to the Saturday crowd that had not yet awakened.
“Come on, lad,” she murmured. “Let’s shake off the cobwebs.”
She paused outside the inn, deciding whether to turn north towards the dunes and Bamburgh Castle, or south into the centre of the village. When the dog nosed towards the village, she was happy enough to follow.
“Alright then, lazy-bones,” she said. “Don’t feel like a long walk today, eh?”
She smiled ruefully at the old retriever and remembered when Hutch had first brought him into their lives, as a present for Josh. The boy had been delighted at first, and entertained by the novelty of an adoring, fluffy-haired animal to play with. But, soon enough, his interest had worn off and the dog had learned not to expect much, turning instead to the other two people who showed him affection and, most importantly, saw to his basic needs.
Gemma’s hand reached down to rub between the dog’s ears, careful not to love it too much, frightened to invest too much of herself in another living thing because she knew what would happen. It was inevitable.
The dog would leave her.
Just as Kris had done, and as her parents had done before him. She seldom chose to think about it but, there, in the quiet morning breeze, she fumbled around the recesses of her mind for the hazy, snatched memories she had left of her mother. She recalled a young blonde woman with sad, unfocused eyes she later learned were a product of her love affair with heroin. As a mother herself, Gemma could hardly stomach the thought of it, failing to understand how any parent could put their addiction above their children. But, unpalatable though it was, that was the unhappy story of her early childhood; a product of two parents whose interests rested only with themselves, and with finding the next hit.
“Shh,” she soothed
the dog as it tugged her along the harbour road. “Not so fast.”
As they reached the top of the harbour wall, directly above the old lime kilns built into the stonework below, she paused to look across at the shimmering water. It was like a watercolour, she thought; a perfect, blurred reflection of the blended colours of the sky. It was so different to the light-polluted cityscape she had known until the age of four, when a strange man and woman had come to collect her from the police station, after she’d been picked up once again for wandering the streets after dark. She’d been so frightened, then, so angry that they had taken her away from the world she was used to; the only one she knew.
The four-year-old girl hadn’t wanted clean sheets and clean clothes, softly-spoken words or a full belly. She hadn’t wanted the pity nor the kindness of strangers; hadn’t wanted the toys they’d gifted her, nor the trips to the park. She hadn’t wanted to see how much she had been missing, because the contrast was too painful.
She’d wanted her mother. Her stupid, messed-up, drug-addled mother, who’d given her life.
But soon, other feelings crept in. Disloyal, hopeful dreams where her stomach never ate its own lining, and nobody ever shouted or smacked or rolled around on the floor crying and laughing, like a mad person.
That’s when she’d run away from the foster home, back to where she belonged. It was wrong to dream like that.
Except, when she got back home, she didn’t belong. Not anymore.
With six-year-old eyes, she’d looked afresh and realised she was no longer a part of that old world and, soon enough, a family had come along, one who’d wanted the pretty little girl with sunshine blonde hair and big blue eyes. She’d looked nice in their family photos, not at all like the street urchin she’d once been and that was, she supposed, still buried deep inside.
Gemma let out a long breath, watching a flock of guillemots swoop low across the water. What good did it do to remember? It would only bring more pain. She didn’t want to think of her well-meaning adoptive parents who’d tried so hard to change her, to mould her into what they’d wanted. She didn’t want to remember her first, heady taste of love when she’d seen Kris Reid smile at her across the classroom of her new school.
Kris.
Her chest rose and fell as she fought to keep her emotions in check. Everybody left, including him, including Josh. She could see it happening a little more each day and she wanted to claw him back, to keep him close. But she couldn’t. She could only set the bird free.
Losing patience, the dog tugged again on its leash and she relented, allowing him to lead the way, following his nose around the harbour, down the slipway and towards the tall arches on the harbourside.
“What’ve you found, boy? Fish?”
Gemma’s footsteps slowed as they followed the stone pathway towards the cloistered lime kilns, a remnant from the eighteenth century when lime was quarried nearby and stored at Seahouses before it was shipped elsewhere. Nowadays, they were a visitor attraction, a pretty architectural talking point where kids sometimes gathered to smoke their first joint.
As they neared the second arch, the dog began to bark, straining against his leash with all the strength left in his ageing body.
“For goodness’ sake,” Gemma told him. “Calm down!”
At first, she saw nothing inside the archway but, as the clouds shifted, so too did the shadows. She grasped the lead tighter, her knuckles turning white against the frayed leather strap as she fought to drag the dog away, bearing down against the sickening waves of nausea.
“Help,” she mumbled, and then tried again, louder this time. “Help!”
But, for once, Hutch wasn’t there.
* * *
Forty miles further south, Ryan watched the changing shape of the sky.
He stood beside a set of tall glass doors leading off the living room onto a wide veranda, which held unspoilt views of the valley beyond. He cupped a mug of steaming coffee in one hand while he rested his long body against the edge of the frame, sipping from time to time as the morning came to life. They’d built a good life together, he and Anna. Despite all they had lost and all they had suffered, theirs was a charmed existence. Unlike so many people who grew up imagining they’d find a soulmate, marry and have children, Ryan had never thought it would be possible. It was a Hallmark card, a rom-com, a story people told their children—not real life. He hadn’t thought there was a person alive who could not only tolerate but understand the vocation he followed and his need to avenge the dead. How could they, when he was only beginning to understand it himself?
Then, he’d met Anna.
A historian who was anything but stuffy; a woman who liked eighties music and slapstick humour, with soft brown eyes and a sharp tongue to match an even sharper mind. A woman who seldom required an explanation, who had only to look at him or hear the tone of his voice to understand his innermost thoughts. He remembered how it had felt when they’d first met, because it was something he’d been unconsciously searching for his whole life: it had felt like home.
He stayed there for a while longer, quietly contemplating the world, and Anna watched him from the doorway, unwilling to interrupt the serenity of the moment, wishing she could capture it instead. It was rare that Ryan allowed raw emotion so near the surface, but it was written there now, for all to see. His blue-grey eyes shone with child-like wonder as he traced the path of the clouds across the sky, lost in the beauty of the infinite cosmos and not in the tawdry, visceral world of murder that took up so much of his waking life. His face—so strong, so beautiful to her—was relaxed in profile and a smile played around his lips as he watched a pair of squirrels chase one another around the garden they were cultivating outside.
“Penny for them,” she murmured.
When he turned, her heart gave a funny little lurch. Funny, she thought, even after all their time together he could move her with nothing more than a look.
“I was thinking we should plant some more trees,” he said. “Give those squirrels something to fight over.”
She smiled, pleased to talk about the mundane, simple things in life for a change.
“I thought we could plant some wildflowers, too, and create a meadow at the bottom of the garden.”
Ryan nodded, silently curving an arm around her waist as she joined him beside the window.
“You were up early,” she said, after a short, companionable silence.
“So were you,” he replied, and brushed his lips against hers. “You had a nightmare last night.”
Anna tensed, then deliberately loosened her shoulders again. It was an automatic response to trauma, a perfectly natural reaction. All the same, it irked that her psyche continued to be plagued by the past, invading her sleep with flashing images of horrors long dead and gone.
“I’ve had worse,” she said truthfully. “It’s only because Seahouses reminds me of home, on the island. Then, seeing Alex for the first time since our wedding… It isn’t his fault but seeing him reminds me of his father. Or, I should say, it reminds my subconscious.”
Ryan had experienced his fair share of night terrors and didn’t try to offer empty words or advice; she’d heard it all. Instead, he drew her close against his body, where there was safety and warmth.
“Nobody will ever hurt you again, so long as I have breath in my body,” he promised, and his arms tightened briefly around her waist.
She leaned her head back against his chest, accepting the comfort he offered, knowing she would do the same for him.
“I was thinking about Iain, too,” she said. “Trying to remember anything that could help you—”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“It’s more than just your investigation,” she admitted. “It’s a matter of protecting his reputation. Jasper’s gunning for Iain, now that he isn’t around to defend himself.”
“What do you make of Vaughn?” Ryan asked, seriously. She was a reliable judge of character and, besides, the world of acade
mia was unfamiliar territory.
Anna took a deep breath, telling herself to remain objective despite her personal dislike of the man.
“He’s a good academic,” she said. “But I also think he’s had a lot of good fortune in life, which has helped. I suppose the same could be said of many people.”
“Including Iain?”
“Actually, I remember him telling me he worked as a hospital janitor to fund his Masters’ degree,” she said. “Iain wasn’t afraid of hard work.”
“He was diligent, then,” Ryan surmised. It was good to capture the small, seemingly insignificant details that made up the fabric of a person. It helped to create a picture in his mind, which would make it all the easier to track his killer.
And there had been a killer, he was sure of it.
“Yes, Iain worked long hours in and out of the university,” Anna said. “He was always friendly to talk to, although he was generally a bit of a loner since his marriage broke down a few years ago.”
Ryan’s arms tightened around her in reaction, although she didn’t think he was aware.
“As for Jasper, he’s just a social climber,” she said simply. “A bit narrow-minded, a bit of a bigot; the kind of man who votes Tory but tells people he votes Labour because he likes the cachet of being seen as a liberal or a socialist.”
She felt the rumble of laughter pass through Ryan’s chest.
“Don’t hold back,” he chuckled. “Tell me what you really think.”
Anna twisted around to face him.
“I’m probably being too harsh,” she admitted. “Jasper’s no worse than your average ambitious academic, but I’ve seen his type before. They put self-interest ahead of principles and it gets on my nerves.”
“Unfortunately, it’s a fact of life.”
“It’s bad taste, so soon after Iain’s death,” she said. “I’m surprised Jasper hasn’t been rifling through his office at the university in his desperate quest to get ahead.”
“If he has, he’ll have me to answer to,” Ryan said, then rubbed gentle hands over her arms. “Seems like he gets under your skin. Anything I should know about?”