Borderlands: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 14) Read online

  BORDERLANDS

  – A DCI RYAN MYSTERY

  LJ Ross

  Copyright © LJ Ross 2019

  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

  DCI RYAN MYSTERIES IN ORDER

  1. Holy Island

  2. Sycamore Gap

  3. Heavenfield

  4. Angel

  5. High Force

  6. Cragside

  7. Dark Skies

  8. Seven Bridges

  9. The Hermitage

  10. Longstone

  11. The Infirmary (prequel)

  12. The Moor

  13. Penshaw

  14. Borderlands

  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

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  “The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.”

  —G.K. Chesterton

  PROLOGUE

  Helmand Province, Afghanistan

  August 2009

  He wore flip-flops, the day Naseem died.

  As the sun beat down upon the desert plains of Helmand Province at the end of the bloodiest summer of the Afghan War, he and his friend seated themselves on the banks of the Shamalan Canal and looked out across its muddy brown waters.

  “One day, I’ll show you my country,” Naseem told him, in broken English. “When all of this is over, we’ll take a boat and sail along the river. I’ll show you what we’re truly fighting for.”

  It was a pretty thought, and he allowed himself to imagine it. He saw a friendship that spanned continents and lasted a lifetime. Their wives would meet, their children would play, and they’d reminisce about their combat days over the thick black coffee Naseem liked to drink, and that he couldn’t stand—especially in the stifling desert heat.

  Pie in the sky, as his gran used to say.

  “You should come over and see my country, too,” he offered. “It’s colder than here, but there are mountains and streams, and meadows of green grass…”

  He trailed off, embarrassed to find a lump rising in his throat.

  “It sounds beautiful,” Naseem murmured, and then narrowed his eyes to look around what was left of his own war-torn land. “There were meadows here too.”

  They fell silent for a moment.

  “We’d better be heading back. I’m on duty in an hour,” he said, and reached for the rifle lying limply by his side.

  The Black Watch—or, to give their infantry battalion its full title, the Black Watch, 3rd Battalion, Royal Regiment of Scotland—had been stationed on the canal since June of that year. It lay to the north of Lashkar Gar, the capital of Helmand Province, and had been wrestled from Taliban control during ‘Operation Panther’s Claw’, one of the largest combined infantry and air assault operations undertaken by NATO forces. Coalition troops had succeeded in ousting the Taliban at three major crossing points on the Helmand River, hobbling their supply routes and forcing them further back into the dusty mountains.

  While the fanfare resounded back in Whitehall, the Black Watch remained to guard the canal alongside their comrades in the Afghan National Army. Over the weeks that followed, the fighting became less fierce, daily attacks from the Taliban dwindled and, slowly, they began to relax.

  Enough to wear flip-flops.

  “We have time enough,” Naseem replied. “Do you hear that?”

  His body went on full alert, and he cocked his ear to listen for the sound of gunfire.

  “I can’t hear anything,” he said, eventually.

  “Exactly,” Naseem replied, with a smile.

  The two men stayed a while longer, telling tales about home while the insects buzzed in the undergrowth, until Naseem let out a small sound of surprise.

  “He’s back!”

  A small, skinny-looking dog with the face of a wolf and a big, lolling tongue skipped its way through long grass further along the canal, stopping here and there to sniff the scorched earth.

  Naseem rooted around his pockets until he found the small package of food he’d saved, and pushed to his feet, letting out a low whistle.

  “He never comes when you make that noise,” he said, brushing the dust from his shorts.

  The animal was a stray and had never learned to come to a master’s call, but he’d developed an understanding with the gentle Afghan captain who shared his food and ruffled his ears.

  “He is proud,” Naseem declared, and set off towards the reeds while his friend waited.

  He cast his eyes over the canal, then back over his shoulder to the camp, which awaited their return. It had been a long summer, and an even longer tour, this time around. He’d seen too much destruction—too much for his soul to bear—and he was ready to go home.

  One more month, he told himself. Just one more month.

  In the early days, he’d believed in the cause; in fighting for Queen and Country. Now, he was tired, and bone-weary. He hated the sand and the heat, the blood and the toil. He longed for peace, that elusive thing they fought for, but feared would never come.

  Suddenly irritable, he turned to leave.

  “I’ll see you later!” he called out.

  Glancing back, he saw that Naseem was crouched a short distance from the reeds. His palm was outstretched, and he spoke softly to the dog, who raised his snout to the air and took a couple of tentative steps towards the food that was offered.

  The soldier’s breath caught in his throat.

  As the dog emerged from the grass, he saw that a small improvised explosive device had been strapped to th
e underside of the animal’s belly.

  He watched in horror as it trotted over to his friend.

  “Nas! Look out! Nas!”

  He lunged forward, but an explosion of heat threw him back. He smelled his own burning flesh and began to roll, writhing around the dusty floor to extinguish the flames that licked his skin. There was a ringing in his ears; a deafening bell that drowned out all else, even his own howling cries of pain.

  Across the sand, a small cloud of smoke rose up into the sunlit morning, taking his friend with it.

  CHAPTER 1

  Otterburn Army Training Ranges, Northumberland

  Friday 16th August 2019

  “CONTACT!”

  When the Range Conducting Officer’s voice broke into the quiet night air, Private Jess Stephenson threw herself to the valley floor with a thud, the force of the impact driving the air from her body in one hard whoosh. Unlike in a real combat scenario, no enemy shots were fired, but the section was supposed to role-play during the night-time live-fire tactical training exercise, because learning to react quickly could mean the difference between life and death on the battlefield.

  Jess lay there in the bog, her body tensed and ready for action. Only when she heard the order did she haul herself up and continue onward, her boots squelching over the uneven ground. The darkness was almost overwhelming; the blackness so deep it seemed to close in and contract around her, as though it were a tangible, living thing. In the daylight, she knew there would be sweeping hills rising up on either side of the river, with the mighty Cheviot towering above them all. There would be forests in shades of green, and barren moors in a patchwork of brown and gold, littered with the carcases of abandoned tanks and artillery weapons, now rusted with age.

  The Otterburn Ranges were situated in a remote corner of the world, covering ninety square miles of the Northumberland National Park, which was an area of outstanding natural beauty in the northernmost uplands where England met the border with Scotland. It was ‘Reiver’ territory; a wild frontier where battles had been waged hundreds of years before, and where men from both sides had slipped over the misty hills to pillage and rustle cattle from their neighbours by the light of the silvery moon. Now, the Ministry of Defence followed the tradition of warfare in that region by training its soldiers on its vast, open moorland.

  But, without the moon to guide their way, the small section of the 1st Battalion, The Royal Welsh Fusiliers relied on their knowledge of the terrain and the night vision equipment attached to the front of their helmets, which was designed to track thermal heat. Somewhere out there was a moving target—a thermal contraption operated remotely by a Target Officer—and they were tasked with finding and neutralising it before sunrise.

  Scanning either side of her, Jess counted two slow-moving figures to her left and another three to her right. She knew their names as well as she knew her own, but in this vast space of land and sky, they were little more than faceless, androgynous entities, just as she was.

  She could feel herself beginning to tire, the muscles in her arms and legs burning with the effort of remaining upright, and she hiked the rifle up a little higher in defiance. She’d had enough well-meaning advice from family and friends about her decision to enlist—according to them, the army wasn’t suitable for a woman and she would never have the physical strength or endurance required to be a soldier. No matter that she’d completed marathons and Ironman competitions, aced her basic training, and managed to outdo most of her male peers in the process.

  Remembering that, she shifted the pack on her back and dug in her heels for the duration.

  The section hiked over fences and through glens, along sodden burns and over rocky outcrops, clearing abandoned buildings as they went. It was slow, painstaking work, and her legs were trembling by the time the first, palest hint of dawn began to creep into the sky. It was little more than a lighter shade of navy blue, so it scarcely provided any respite and only served to remind them that they needed to find their target before the sun came up.

  By mutual accord, their footsteps quickened, and they came to a flat, open range with a forest on one side. The section separated into a line and scanned left and right, tracking every knoll, every shadow and rock for a heat source.

  Suddenly, there it was.

  Through the night vision goggles she wore, Jess saw a flash of thermal imagery streak onto the horizon, about fifty yards up ahead.

  “TARGET FRONT! CONTACT!” she shouted, and raised her weapon to fire.

  Reverting to training, the outermost members of their section peeled away to move quickly around the side of their axis of advance, while she and the other central firers continued straight ahead.

  Her finger curled around the trigger, and the first shot exploded into the night.

  * * *

  After the RCO called out, “STOP! STOP!”, the small section locked their weapons and began the process of self-congratulatory back-slapping that was traditional at the end of a training exercise. Jess held back, finding herself preoccupied with a small, niggling doubt that wormed its way into her mind.

  The target had gone down too quickly.

  Normally, in exercises such as these, the RCO didn’t press the electronic button for the target to fall until the section had expended most of their rounds trying to bring it down. But, in this case, the target had fallen almost immediately.

  She slid her night vision goggles back on and peered through the gloom.

  The target was still showing up as a heat source.

  A slow, creeping feeling of dread began to spread through her body, and she shivered beneath the layers of protective armour she wore. Electronic thermal targets stopped emanating heat when they were switched off, as this one should have been.

  Slowly, she began to walk towards the shadowy heap lying up ahead in the darkness, the toes of her boots scuffing the rocks at her feet. Behind the towering hills on the eastern edge of the valley, the sun rose higher in the sky, casting a thin, first light over the small group on the plains below.

  “Hey! Where you goin’?” one of her section called out.

  Jess ignored them and continued to walk towards the target, her heart hammering against the wall of her chest as she drew nearer.

  As the first shaft of daylight burst down into the valley, she saw the target clearly.

  “Oh—Oh, God, no—”

  There came the sound of running footsteps and a moment later the RCO, a security officer and the medical officer puffed their way to where the section were standing in a rough circle.

  “Packs and weapons on the ground, exactly where you’re standing,” one of them barked, while the other two ran ahead to where Jess stood frozen.

  “Stephenson! Stand aside, and return to the section—that’s an order.”

  Jess took a faltering step backwards while the medical officer went to work administering CPR, and the RCO made a hasty call back to camp, urgently requesting the emergency services.

  But there would be nothing they could do, because it wasn’t a mechanical target they’d fired upon; it was a woman, whose body now lay crumpled on the ground.

  Jess looked down at the rifle she still held and let it slip from her nerveless fingers.

  CHAPTER 2

  When the call came from the Control Room shortly before six a.m., Detective Chief Inspector Maxwell Finlay-Ryan awoke instantly. There was no groggy fumbling as he reached for the phone on his bedside table, nor any bleary-eyed struggle as he processed the news that a life had been lost. There was only the same, aching sadness he felt every time; a sense of impotence at the waste, and the knowledge he could do nothing to change it. He could not bring back the dead.

  But he could avenge them.

  Ryan looked across at his wife, Anna. She was sleeping peacefully, but he knew that, somewhere under the same sky, another woman had not been so lucky.

  He leaned across to brush his lips gently against hers, careful not to wake her, and then rolled out of bed to
get dressed. Soon after, he was on the road, covering the short distance from his home in the picturesque village of Elsdon to the Otterburn Army Training Camp, six miles further west in the Northumbrian heartland.

  * * *

  An hour earlier, in the pretty market town of Wooler, Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips had thrust out an arm to quell the persistent ringing of his phone and banged it smartly against the metal edge of his new campervan.

  “Yer bugger!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The question was delivered by his wife and boss in all things, including the police hierarchy. Having been rudely awakened, Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie now regarded him from the other side of their bed with a cool, green-eyed stare.

  “Sorry, love,” he muttered, still rummaging for the phone. “I’m trying to find the blinkin’—”

  A moment later, another irate female head appeared, hanging upside-down from the top bunk of the double bunk beds he’d fitted inside the vintage VW camper.

  “What’s all the racket?” Samantha asked, yawning hugely.

  “Never you mind,” Phillips grumbled. “I’m lookin’ for—”

  “Is this it?”

  Samantha dangled the phone between her fingers, and he didn’t bother to ask where she’d found it. The campervan might be small, but things had an uncanny knack of going missing, including most of the shortbread biscuits.

  When he saw who the caller was, he threw back the covers and grabbed his coat, before taking it outside. Some things were not appropriate for young ears to hear, calls about murder being one of them.

  * * *

  The road was scenic and winding, taking Ryan along the underside of the Northumberland National Park and through the Cheviot Hills to the ancient village of Otterburn, thirty miles northwest of the Northumbria Police Headquarters in Newcastle upon Tyne, and a mere sixteen miles from the Scottish border. In days gone by, it had been the site of a major battle between the English and the Scots, but nowadays it serviced a large army community as well as tourists, hikers and wildlife enthusiasts who flocked to visit the area.