by LJ Ross
As if on cue, he heard the rustle of the baby stirring on the monitor, and he was already preparing to slink out of bed to intercept any bellowing cries when his wife’s sleepy voice stopped him.
“I don’t mind going,” Anna said, and gave a jaw-cracking yawn. “You haven’t been getting much rest, lately.”
Ryan heard the note of concern, and brushed his lips over hers.
“I’m fine,” he said, with admirable cheer, given the ungodly hour. “Try to get a bit more sleep.”
Anna’s brow furrowed, but her eyelids had already begun to droop.
“Okay,” she murmured. “Love you.”
Ryan smiled for a moment in the inky twilight, watching the way the moonlight fell across her face, and then grinned as he heard his daughter’s indignant cry, louder than before.
“I’m a slave to these two,” he muttered.
Unfolding his long body from its warm cocoon, Ryan shoved a tired hand through his dark hair, tugged on a pair of pyjama bottoms and padded across the hall to greet Her Ladyship.
“What time d’you call this?”
As always, he experienced a fierce surge of love. Emma was wide awake, standing up inside her cot with arms extended, ready to be set loose upon the world.
“I suppose it’s not that early,” he relented, and lifted her up into his arms, nestling her small body against his chest, breathing in her baby smell. “Let’s go and have some breakfast.”
Emma made a gurgling sound of agreement, and then sank her new teeth into his bare shoulder.
“Fu—fiddlesticks!” Ryan amended swiftly, and thought he heard his wife’s laughter wafting through from the next room. “No biting daddy. Or mummy. Or anyone, for that matter. In fact, don't bite anything, unless it’s food…”
He began to head downstairs, while his daughter giggled.
“This is no laughing matter,” Ryan said, conversationally. “For all I know, I might need to get a tetanus shot. You’re practically feral.”
Emma gave him another drooling smile, and watched from her highchair while Ryan made up a bottle of warm milk and some gloopy porridge.
As their eyes met across the kitchen, Ryan was struck forcibly by a new and certain knowledge; something that had skirted around the edges of his mind for the past two months and, perhaps, even before then. Looking into her beautiful face, so full of love and trust, he knew that he couldn’t continue to do a job that would put his family in danger. Too often, his work had been responsible for bringing evil to their door. Too many times, he might have lost everything that was important to him in the world.
And, for what?
Justice for the dead, his mind whispered. To make the world a safer place for others.
Ryan shook his head and sat down to feed her while the world slowly awakened.
“Luck doesn’t last forever,” he whispered, brushing a gentle hand over his daughter’s head. “What would I do, if something happened to you, hmm?”
A battle waged in his heart, between fulfilling his vocation in life, the work some would say he’d been born to do, and the family he loved.
“There are other vocations,” he told Emma, as she looked up into his turbulent silver-blue eyes. “Higher callings.”
Ryan glanced out of the window and across the Northumbrian hills, watching the skies melt from deepest navy to purple and mauve. Somewhere out there, he knew another parent might be suffering the pain of loss; the impotent rage of having that which was most precious to them snatched away.
You can help them, his mind whispered again. You can avenge their loss.
He closed his eyes for a moment and saw their faces swimming before him, the dead whose lives had been stolen before their time. He saw their killers’ faces, too; could picture the bright, ice-blue stare of Keir Edwards—The Hacker—as he’d wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat, and the contemptuous sneer as he’d stepped back again, unwilling to sacrifice his own soul for the sake of vengeance. Pulling the weeds of humanity had given him a sense of purpose, something he’d always lacked in his youth, and the thought that there would be one less degenerate roaming the streets had made every risk worth taking.
But was it time to hand over that responsibility to others, equally as capable? Any one of his friends and colleagues at Northumbria CID could continue their work without him, and perhaps he’d sleep better at night without the addition of any more nightmarish faces to haunt him in the wee, small hours.
Maybe it was time for a normal life, whatever that meant.
A nice, ordinary nine-to-five job, with a bit of work-life balance. No pressure, no stress, just an easy, clock-in, clock-out type of existence leaving plenty of time and energy to spare.
Except, he couldn’t quite imagine it—wouldn’t even know where to start.
While Emma finished the milk in her sippy-cup, Ryan sat there for a while longer with these troubling thoughts circling his mind, and wondered whether the world would send him a sign.
If only he believed in signs.
CHAPTER 3
Marsden Bay
Sunrise, Saturday 13th February
Marsden was beautiful in the early morning light.
Over the centuries, the North Sea’s relentless tide had fashioned the limestone cliffs into a bay and grotto, with stacks and caves that had provided shelter to smugglers and entertainment to local children, not to mention a picturesque tableau for the many photographers who strived to capture it.
Jill Price was one of them.
Though she made her living as a wedding photographer, snapping pretty, blushing brides in lace and tulle, her heart was in the landscape of her birth. It called to her on crisp, bright mornings, the sea and sky beckoning her to find that perfect image of sunrise over the water, never the same from one day to the next. That morning was no different, and, since there were no wedding bookings in the diary, she was free to make the short journey from her home in South Shields to the bay at Marsden, armed with her camera bag and a flask of coffee to stave off the worst of the February chill.
The streets were quiet at that time, since most people were still at home in their beds, and Jill pootled along the familiar cliff road until she reached a public car park, where she brought her natty little Suzuki to a standstill. Resting her arms briefly on the steering wheel, she looked out of the windscreen and smiled as the sky began to change. Soon enough, the misty shades of pale pink would dissolve into warm yellows and bold blues, and she didn’t want to miss it.
Zipping herself into an all-weather jacket, Jill tugged a well-worn beanie over her curly grey hair and began to make her way towards a steep set of stairs leading down to the beach. Technically, the stairwell was closed to the public for renovations—the concrete at the base of the stairs having fallen foul of generations of saltwater erosion, as had the old coastguard storage hut which used to sit beside it. Consequently, a large set of metal gates had been erected with appropriate signage warning of danger ahead, which she studiously ignored.
She slipped through a gap at the side of the freestanding fence and made her way down the concrete steps leading from the clifftop to the beach, dropping down onto her rear end to jump the distance between the ragged edge where the bottom steps used to be, onto the damp sand below. Her feet gave a satisfying crunch as she made her way south along the beach, feeling the brisk wind against her face while she watched sea birds circling high overhead, hearing their long cries that were as much a part of the fabric of her childhood as sandcastles and rock-pooling.
The beach was empty and, judging by the lack of cars, Jill realised she might be one of the first to head down to the bay. It gave her a thrill to know it, and she was eager to reach her favourite perch where she knew she would be able to capture Marsden Rock and the cave grotto opposite as the new day came alive.
“Oh, bring me a boatman, I’ll pay any money…” she hummed, trailing off as she caught sight of something she’d missed earlier.
Footprints in the sand.
Automatically, she snapped pictures, and wondered how so many people could have beaten her down to the beach, even before the sun had risen. Although the people of the North East were a hardy tribe, not averse to a brisk morning walk in adverse weather conditions, the temperature remained cold and she’d have thought most people would have waited for the sun to warm things up a bit, especially at the weekend. Yet, she counted several sets of prints converging beneath the shadows of the cliff, all coming from the direction of the rock and heading one way, back towards the slipway running up towards the car park. There were no footsteps to show how the early risers had accessed the beach, in the first place—the only prints leading from that direction were her own.
Puzzled, she followed their trail towards the rock, passing around its weathered western edge with the cliffs to her right. As she rounded the edge, she was met with the full force of the wind, which rolled in from the sea and whipped the hat from her head.
She managed to catch it before the wind carried it further off, and yanked the wool back over her ears—only then, did she focus properly on the scene that awaited her.
Shipwreck!
Her eyes widened like saucers. The shock and awe at having stumbled upon a real-life shipwreck momentarily overtook any finer feelings, and Jill fumbled for her camera again, marvelling at the aesthetic of the boat’s carcass wedged against the rock, sunken into the sand now that the tide had abandoned it there. Sea birds circled from their nests high on the rockface, clustering around the boat’s stern, and she found herself moving closer.
What had they found?
Fish, perhaps?
Her feet sank into the dense silt and, as she moved further out, it became harder to walk. She thought of turning back, but the same pull that had driven her from her bed that morning drove her to seek the answer to a question which, she would later realise, she had already known. Her trigger finger snapped again and again as she drew near to the boat—which had certainly seen better days, even before its ignominious end—and she congratulated herself on capturing the morning sun rising over the boat’s remains, casting it in silhouette.
With every passing footstep, the sound of the birds grew louder.
Suddenly, Jill no longer felt the urge to capture the broken boat or the sunrise—the rock she’d tried to climb as a teenager and the beach where she’d walked countless times before felt alien, and she was no longer merely alone, but lonely. By now, the path she’d taken along the beach was obliterated from sight, the rock and the cliffs beyond it blotting out any comforting view of civilisation. Jill shivered, hugging herself for warmth.
She could go back.
She should go back.
And yet…
And yet, the birds continued to circle.
With a growing sense of foreboding, Jill forced herself to continue towards the stern of the boat, stepping over planks of wood and other detritus littering the sand as she followed an instinct as old as mankind itself.
Curiosity.
And then, she saw it.
The camera strap fell from her limp fingers and onto the sand at her feet, acid bile rushing to her mouth as she sought to reject the horror of what lay washed up and tangled in the folds of sand. The body of what had once been a woman lay in a twisted pile of wasted flesh and bone, laid bare to the ravages of the sea and sky.
With a shaking hand, Jill reached down to retrieve her camera and held the weight of it in her palm, while she warred with herself. It was her life’s passion to record the full spectrum of humanity and the natural world, and death was surely a part of that—wasn’t it?
There would never be another opportunity like it.
Jill knew she could sell the images to the local papers—maybe, even the broadsheet nationals. There were bills to pay, and she couldn’t afford to be sentimental.
Except, it would make her the worst kind of voyeur.
There were many things that could be cropped, filtered, corrected, or adjusted…
But death?
Death had no filter.
CHAPTER 4
As Jill Price put a hasty call through to the emergency services, Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips opened one sleepy, button-brown eye and then the other, while his superior nose sniffed the air like a bloodhound.
“Here, Denise—d’you smell that?”
His wife and, as it happened, his immediate senior in the police hierarchy, mumbled something unintelligible, cocked one eye at the clock sitting on her bedside table, then rolled over to glare at him.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph…Frank! It’s barely eight o’clock in the morning,” Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie said, irritably. “What’s the emergency?”
“Bacon,” he said, reverently.
“What?”
“Fried bacon—smoked, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Frank…” MacKenzie was lost for words. “Are you feeling all right—in the head?”
“Never better,” he said, and gave her a smacking kiss. “Stay right where you are, bonny lass, and I’ll bring you some breakfast in bed.”
MacKenzie considered pointing out that she might have preferred another hour’s kip, but one look at his cheerful expression silenced her. Frank was, for the most part, the kindest and most thoughtful of men, who only ever acted with the best of intentions. It was just unfortunate that he had a blind spot when it came to the subject of fried meat.
And pasties.
And custard cream biscuits, Kit Kats, Jaffa Cakes…
Mind you, she had to credit him with having been very restrained, lately. Lord knew, she loved him no matter how he looked, but Frank wasn’t getting any younger and she was glad he’d taken himself in hand. There was already a noticeable difference to his waistline, and the muscles she’d always suspected lay beneath his Winter Hibernation Layer were beginning to re-appear. Twice-weekly sessions at Buddle’s Gym had helped, as had the lunchtime jogs he’d been enjoying with Ryan, when work allowed.
Phillips was about to trot downstairs, when her voice stopped him.
“You know, Frank, with all this working out and eating salads, you must be feeling awfully tired. Perhaps you should come back to bed for a while.”
She patted the spot he’d recently vacated.
Frank hesitated for less than a second, the lure of bacon sandwiches almost too great to bear, but—fortunately for his health—it was quickly overtaken by the more pressing invitation from a green-eyed, red-headed goddess.
“Well, y’ nah, come to think of it…”
Playfully, he let one side of his terry towelling robe fall off, and wriggled his preposterous eyebrows, to make her laugh.
He was about to pounce back on the bed, when the door burst open.
Phillips let out a squeal—there was no other word for it—and clutched the lapels of his dressing gown.
“Morning!”
Their daughter Samantha lounged in the doorway, oblivious to the fact she’d been perilously close to seeing a whole lot more than she’d bargained for.
“You know, it’s customary to knock,” MacKenzie said, gently.
At the age of twelve, Samantha was still learning about social niceties and, as her new adoptive parents, they were getting used to the fact that their life could no longer be as spontaneous as it once was.
“Oops, sorry,” Sam said, and raised her knuckles to knock belatedly against the doorframe. “I just thought I’d let you know I’ve cooked up some bacon sandwiches, if you fancy one.”
Phillips reflected that, whilst there were many things he loved about their adoptive daughter—her spirit, quick intelligence and fun-loving nature being chiefly amongst them—he decided that her sense of timing could use some work.
Then, he caught another whiff of the bacon, and decided he was being too hard on the lass. What father could complain about a daughter who, without any prompting at all, was independent enough to make breakfast for her parents at the weekend?
She was one in a mill
ion, and he told her as much.
MacKenzie might not have had Phillips’ nose for bacon, but she could sniff out plenty of other things.
“Not that I’m complaining,” she said, giving her daughter the beady eye, “but what’s all the fuss in aid of? I usually have to sound a foghorn to get you out of bed in the mornings.”
“Well, the thing is—”
MacKenzie pursed her lips. “Mm hmm?”
Sam fiddled with the hem of her pyjama top, which featured an embroidered slogan in bright pink that read, ‘YOLO’.
“Well, the thing is,” Sam began again. “This boy at school has asked me to go to Dibley’s for ice cream tomorrow, for Valentine’s Day…”
MacKenzie eyed her husband, who looked as if he might blow a gasket. “Frank, now, stay calm—”
“Boys!” he burst out. “They’re nowt but trouble—take it from me! I was one, once!”
He chose to ignore the look of disbelief on his daughter’s face.
“You’re too young to be thinkin’ about boys, and…and…and ice cream. I don’t know who this lad thinks he is, but he can just forget it—”
“What’s his name?” MacKenzie asked, cutting across Phillips’ diatribe. “How old is he, love?”
Sam blushed.
“He’s called Sam, just like me,” she said. “We’re the same age, except he’s in another class at school. He’s my friend.”
MacKenzie experienced a moment of maternal grief as she thought of how quickly they grew up, and yet, how sweet it was that Sam had come to tell them all about it—better still, to ask their permission. She’d have worried if the opposite had been the case.
“Do you mind if I check the messages you’ve been sending?”
They had an ‘open’ policy in their household, and it wasn’t merely because Frank and Denise were police officers. They were parents, first and foremost.
“Sure!” Samantha handed over her mobile phone, for which MacKenzie already knew the passcode.