The Hermitage: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 9) Read online

  THE HERMITAGE

  – A DCI RYAN MYSTERY

  LJ Ross

  Copyright © LJ Ross 2018

  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

  OTHER BOOKS BY LJ ROSS

  Holy Island

  Sycamore Gap

  Heavenfield

  Angel

  High Force

  Cragside

  Dark Skies

  Seven Bridges

  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

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ‘Hatred is blind and anger deaf: the one who pours himself a cup of vengeance is likely to drink a bitter draught.’

  —Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, Alexandre Dumas

  PROLOGUE

  Wednesday, 21st February

  Warkworth, Northumberland

  The river was silent on the night Edward Charon died.

  Barely a whisper of breeze stirred the long reeds brushing against its muddied banks and the water was eerily still; a glassy mirror broken only by the ripple of the ferryman’s oars as he made his way towards the hermitage. The air was bitterly cold after a long northern winter and the old man tucked his chin further beneath his overcoat to stave off the chill.

  His eyes darted here and there, searching the shadows of the trees and peering into the darkness that had fallen quickly since the tourists left. He’d watched them go, chattering and squawking like magpies, trampling along the worn path back towards the ruined castle that dwarfed the landscape from its craggy hilltop. He glanced up at it now, tracing its murky silhouette against the ink-blue sky and his movements became jerky, sending waves across the moonlit water as he laboured.

  The sooner he finished, the sooner he could go home.

  When he clocked off, he’d make his way back to the cottage he’d bought a few months before. Maybe he’d even wander down to the pub at the end of the road and have a pint. He could almost taste the sweet, amber liquid and his throat ran dry at the prospect of oblivion; of the joy of not having to think.

  Or to remember.

  He cast his eyes across to the other side of the River Coquet, where a dim light shone through the undergrowth. He frowned, wondering how the light had come to be there. The hermitage had not been equipped with solar-powered lighting, the trappings of modern life seeming too much of an anachronism. The old priest’s dwelling had been carved into the cliff-face on the river’s northern bank hundreds of years ago and was accessible only by boat, to preserve the sanctuary of its surroundings.

  Once, a hermit had lived there, but nobody occupied it now unless he counted the thousands of people who visited each year to catch a glimpse of another world through the scattered remnants of the past. He rowed them across the water and they peered at the worn carvings on the walls, ummed and ahhed and shuffled their feet before he ushered them out and back across the river again, to their ordinary lives.

  That was the sum of his existence now.

  His jaw clenched as he thought of the cottage with its bare walls and freezer full of microwave meals. Once, there had been fine dining and wine tasting; there had been tailored suits and expensive holidays. He had been somebody.

  It didn’t matter now. He wouldn’t think of it.

  He turned back to the light glinting across the water and felt uneasy. His hands gripped the oars, the boat slowing to a glide as he warred with himself.

  Turn back, his mind whispered.

  And yet, it was barely four-thirty. In the distance, he could hear faint sounds of life in the village beyond the river bend. It was foolish to imagine spectres lurking in the darkness, roaming the riverbank.

  He let out a short, nervous laugh.

  “Soft bastard,” he muttered, and picked up his oars with renewed vigour.

  He would not be ruled by fear. He might lock and bar the doors of his cottage but that was good sense and nothing more. You could never be too careful, could you? And if he liked a drink to help him sleep at night, where was the harm? He deserved to unwind after a day spent chugging visitors back and forth across the river.

  No, he decided. There was nothing to fear. Certainly not here on the tranquil river. The setting might have been a postcard for all that was safe and beautiful. As for the light across the water, it was probably just kids messing around, that was all. He’d give them a good telling off and a lecture about trespassing when he got his hands on them.

  Kids had no respect these days.

  With righteous indignation flowing through his veins, Edward Charon ferried himself towards the light flickering in the gloom. From the undergrowth, another soul watched him approach; eyes burning with unshed tears and hands clenched tightly, waiting for the gaunt old man to complete his final voyage from one world into the next.

  There would be no going back.

  CHAPTER 1

  Thursday, 22nd February

  “Matthew! Can you give us a hand, pet?”

  The young man looked up at the sound of his supervisor’s voice and then wistfully back at the fresh cup of tea he held in his hand.

  Doreen’s head popped around the door.

  “Sorry, love, I need you to run down to the ferry and see if you can find Eddie. Apparently, he hasn’t turned up for work and I’ve just had an earful from one of the package tour guides telling me there’s a crowd starting to gather.”

  Matthew pulled a face.

  “It’s only just gone ten o’clock,” he grumble
d. “How come there are so many people with a burning desire to see the hermitage on a Thursday morning anyway?”

  Doreen gave him a stern look.

  “Matt—”

  He set the cup back down on the counter with a bit of a slosh and held his hands up.

  “I’m going, I’m going.”

  “Good lad,” she said, eyeing the tea covetously. “If you see Eddie, tell him I want a word with him.”

  Matthew grinned as he shrugged into a green jacket emblazoned with the castle’s logo and thought that the ferryman would be the one getting an earful, if Doreen had her way. He hurried out of the castle keep and towards the public footpath leading down to the river. As he stepped outside, his eyes watered as the wind slapped him hard in the face, stinging his cheeks as it whipped through the tumbled walls and crenellations of the old fortress.

  “Bloody freezing,” he muttered.

  Frost-coated leaves crunched beneath his feet as Matthew covered the half-mile between the castle and the boat landing, rubbing his hands together briskly as he followed the river path. The toes of his boots kicked at stones and sent them hurtling down the path ahead as he battled to relieve his general rancour at having to spend another month volunteering, when he’d rather be working as a club promoter or something else that held the vague promise of female attention. With the memorable exception of a Spanish exchange student he’d met the previous summer, his job at the castle was hardly a draw for the ladies.

  It was with such melancholy thoughts that Matthew eventually reached the small jetty advertising boat trips to the hermitage. As Doreen had warned him, a crowd of perhaps ten people had gathered and were clearly disgruntled about the cold weather and lack of a ferryman. Their ringleader spotted him and peeled away from the rest.

  “Do you work for the castle?” he demanded.

  Matthew drew himself up to his full height.

  “Aye, sorry to keep you all waiting. What’s the trouble?”

  “Well, there’s nobody here, is there? Now, look, our package included a visit to see the hermitage and that’s what we’re getting—”

  “I’ll just see where the ferryman’s got to. He’s probably just running a bit late today.”

  To forestall a tirade about the virtues of punctuality, Matthew hastily pulled out his mobile and dialled the office number.

  “Doreen? Any word from Eddie?”

  “Not a peep,” she replied, taking a sip of hot tea. “He’s still not arrived, then? I’ve tried his landline and he’s not picking up his mobile. I wonder if he’s poorly.”

  Matthew sighed and glanced over his shoulder at the baying crowd.

  “Probably just hungover,” he said, a bit unkindly. “He left the boat tied up, but the oars are just lying on the jetty.”

  At the other end of the line, Doreen sighed.

  “We can’t have that,” she said. “Eddie knows he’s supposed to lock the oars away at the end of the day. What if somebody decided to jump in the boat? The kids in the village could have found those oars and played havoc during the night. It’s an accident waiting to happen.”

  Matthew murmured his agreement, but it still brought them no closer to solving the immediate problem.

  “So, should I tell the visitors to come back up to the castle? No point in them hanging around if we don’t know where Eddie is, or when he’s likely to come back.”

  “What?” Doreen let out a tinkling laugh that grated on his nerves. “No, love, I’m sure a strapping young lad like you can manage to row them across. Just take it slow, a few at a time.”

  “Ah—”

  “Thanks, flower!”

  The line went dead, and Matthew glared at the offending piece of plastic in his hand, gripping it tightly and wishing it was Doreen’s throat instead.

  * * *

  Despite his misgivings, Matthew managed to ferry a heaving boatload of tourists the short distance across the river to the hermitage. By the time they reached the wooden landing, he was sweating profusely, and his ears were ringing with a litany of historical questions he’d been expected to answer whilst keeping them afloat.

  “Here we are,” he panted.

  Matthew’s legs wobbled as he stepped onto the jetty to anchor the ropes but, as he tied them off, he noticed a set of keys lying discarded in the undergrowth nearby. Automatically, he bent to retrieve them. He held their weight in his hand for a moment or two while he wondered who might have lost them, then he gave a slight shrug and pocketed them to hand in at the office later. As he did, there came a sudden gust of wind and Matthew spun around, searching the trees lining the river path.

  But there was no sign or sound of life other than nesting birds and the people who waited impatiently on the jetty for him to begin their tour.

  “Ah, right,” he said, with one final look towards the trees. “The hermitage was probably built as a private chapel for the first Earl of Northumberland in about 1400. If you’ll follow me up the stone steps to the main entrance, I’ll show you around. Please be careful on the stairs, they’re slippery at this time of year.”

  Matthew led them towards a set of stone steps and gripped the metal handrail that had been added for safety. When his skin promptly stuck to the iced metal, he wished he’d remembered to wear gloves. But as he climbed up to the hollowed-out entranceway and stepped inside its cavernous interior, all thoughts of winter clothing were shoved forcibly from his mind.

  The body of what had once been Edward Charon lay prostrate on the cold stone floor, dimly lit by the sun which shone weakly through the gaps in the stone. A pool of blood had formed around his head and was beginning to congeal against his skin, which was sickly grey and discoloured in parts. Matthew felt his stomach revolt as it sought to reject the sight and smell of violent death, and he began to see dark spots in his peripheral vision.

  “Oh, God,” somebody whispered.

  The animals had found him first, was all he could think.

  During the long hours of the night, scavengers had feasted, leaving the old man’s face ripped and torn. There was a ringing in Matthew’s head as he struggled to take it all in; a long, buzzing sound that seemed to come from far away as his body fought valiantly against the effects of shock.

  A piercing scream from one of the tourists penetrated his foggy mind and he was galvanised into action, stumbling over uneven paving stones and throwing out his arms to urge the small crowd back to the boat.

  “Hurry. Hurry,” he repeated. “We need to call the police.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “Oh, for the love of Alan Shearer!”

  Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie turned from her inspection of the road ahead to cast patient eyes over her sergeant and soon-to-be husband.

  “What on Earth’s the matter?” she asked him.

  Frank Phillips grunted from his position in the passenger seat beside her.

  “It’s the ceilidh band,” he said. “They’ve cancelled on us. Double-booked, apparently.”

  He said it with such an air of suspicion, MacKenzie almost laughed.

  “That’s a pity but what does Alan Shearer have to do with it?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered. “But in times of crisis, we all need a hero to look up to.”

  MacKenzie chuckled and flicked on the windscreen wipers to clear the film of drizzle that was beginning to settle against the glass.

  “It’s hardly a crisis, Frank. We’ll find another band.”

  Phillips tucked his smartphone back into his pocket and glanced across to study her profile as she manoeuvred the car. He admired the fall of glossy red hair framing her face and the capable way she handled the vehicle, just as she handled every other challenge that presented itself. Denise MacKenzie was a pragmatic, hardworking woman with a generous heart. In their line of work, she faced the worst of what one person could inflict upon another with grace and compassion and never complained. He knew she could look after herself but, to the best of his knowledge, she’d never in forty-four ye
ars been spoiled or pampered. He wanted to be the one to spoil her now; not just for a day but for the rest of their lives. A ceilidh band wasn’t much, but it would have been a good start.

  “Aye, you’re probably right,” was all he said.

  “I usually am,” she winked at him, then was serious as a thought struck her. “Besides, there are more important things to worry about at the moment.”

  Phillips made a low, rumbling sound of agreement.

  “That’s a fact,” he said, and then heaved a sigh. “I told the lad, if he’d only wait a few months, some new evidence might crop up. He wouldn’t listen, never does,” he grumbled, with a trace of pride. “He says he can’t live with knowing how many people might get hurt while he sits around waiting for something to happen.”

  The ‘lad’ in question was, in fact, his superior officer and a grown man of thirty-seven. But, regardless of age and title, Detective Chief Inspector Maxwell Finlay-Ryan would always be a ‘lad’ to Phillips, who was more than merely his sergeant; he was like family.

  “I told him, I said, ‘Mark my words, it’s dangerous to go flying around the world—’ ”

  “To Italy,” MacKenzie interjected.

  “It might as well be bleedin’ Borneo!” Phillips burst out, and folded his arms across his stocky chest. “He’s chasing a killer who’s already wriggled off the hook once before. Does Ryan think the bloke’ll hold his hands up this time and say, ‘Fair cop, guv’?”

  He shook his head as if to answer his own question, then turned to stare out the window at the passing scenery.

  “Nathan Armstrong won’t come quietly—it’s not in his nature. The man’s like a cockroach, bloody untouchable. It’d take a nuclear bomb to get rid of his type.”

  “Nobody’s untouchable,” MacKenzie murmured, echoing what Ryan might have said if he had been with them.

  She slowed the car to take the winding coastal road signposted for Warkworth and then reached across to give Phillips’ knee a quick, supportive squeeze. For all his bluster, genuine concern lay beneath it.