Cragside: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 6) Read online

  CRAGSIDE

  – A DCI RYAN MYSTERY

  LJ Ross

  Copyright © LJ Ross 2017

  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 artwork copyright © Andrew Davidson

  OTHER BOOKS BY LJ ROSS

  The Alexander Gregory Thrillers in order:

  1. Impostor

  2. Hysteria

  3. Bedlam

  The 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

  15. Ryan’s Christmas

  16. The Shrine

  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

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  “The villainy you teach me I will execute,

  And it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.”

  —William Shakespeare

  “Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.”

  —Mark Twain

  PROLOGUE

  Summer, 1975

  Joe Ramshaw had no idea he would be dead within the hour.

  Morning had broken much like any other, crisp and cool as summer turned steadily into autumn. Salty mist swept in from the North Sea and curled through the rows of identical terraced houses stacked against the hillside leading from the city to the water’s edge, their red bricks blackened by soot and grime. Gulls circled high in the steely grey clouds overhead, letting out their shrill cries before swooping down toward the river that ran like an artery through the city, a life force to the thousands of workers who moved inexorably toward the shipyard.

  Joe kissed his wife at the front door of their two-up, two-down before tugging on his cap and walking purposefully toward the docks. The little ’uns scuffed along beside him, their legs struggling to keep up with his longer strides and their bell-bottomed jeans trailing against the dusty pavement.

  “Da?”

  He cast his eye over the boy.

  “When’ll the ship be finished, Da? Can I come and see her launch?”

  Joe stuck his hand in the pocket of his thick coat and felt around for one of the cigarettes he’d rolled earlier.

  “It’ll be a few months yet, lad.”

  “But can I come and see?”

  “Me too, Da! I want to come too!”

  Joe took a long drag of his cigarette and turned to his daughter, whose pigtails flapped around a small face filled with righteous indignation. The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement and he reached out to ruffle the top of her head.

  “Aye, you can both come when The Valiant’s ready. Bring your Ma, n’all.”

  He imagined his wife standing proudly beside him with roses in her cheeks, as beautiful as the first time she’d strolled past the slipway. God only knew why she’d married him but he’d done his best to make sure she never regretted it. He wasn’t a rich man and never would be but he’d always put food on the table and a roof over their heads.

  Joe walked on, the children squabbling good-naturedly while he whistled beneath his breath in time to the sharp click of his work boots against the cobblestones. They fell into step with crowds of other working men who walked in the same direction, chatting about the match the previous Saturday and the beer they would enjoy at the end of the day.

  Suddenly, there she was.

  They rounded a corner and the ship rose before them, majestic against the skyline. She wasn’t finished but her lines were elegant and clean, dwarfing the people and houses so they appeared little more than dolls in miniature.

  Joe cast his gaze upward and felt his throat clog with pride.

  He’d built that.

  Along with hundreds of others, his plain, scarred hands had built the mountain of carved steel towering above them and it was glorious.

  He paused to crush the end of his cigarette underfoot, allowing himself a moment to wave off the children who followed him like small shadows.

  “Aye, well, best be getting on,” he said, tugging his cap again.

  “Will you be home for tea, Da?”

  He reached across to flick the girl’s nose.

  “Same as every night. Run along now.” He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder and knuckled his cheek in an affectionate gesture. “Mind you get straight to school, lad. No playing by the quays, that’s no way to get ahead.”

  The boy swept his eyes downward and a guilty flush crept over his freckled face but he nodded.

  “Off with you, then.”

  Joe stood with his hands thrust inside the pockets of his coarse work trousers and watched them trundle toward the primary school half a mile further along the quayside. The boy was on the cusp of adolescence, his puppyish face already starting to toughen into the lines of manhood. As for the girl, she was all big eyes and big heart.

  He was a lucky man.

  Smiling, he turned into the arched entranceway to the shipyard and a few minutes later he was climbing down a ladder toward the bowels of the unfinished ship. The machinery control room was stuffy despite its size and already laden with welders preparing to start work. The men chattered among themselves and, now and then, there was a burst of uproarious laughter.

  “Mornin’, Joe! Didn’t see you down at The Anchor last night.”

  Joe shook his head and watched his friend rummage around his pockets for a cigarette.

  “When you’ve a wife like mine waiting for you, there’s no need for a skinful before bed,” he said.

  The welder struck a match, letting out a bawdy laugh which promptly t
urned to confusion as his cigarette burned down to the filter tip before he’d had a chance to draw on it.

  “Bloody cheap rolls,” he muttered and started to light another one.

  Joe frowned at the cigarette, watching the little orange glow fizzing down to the tip again.

  All at once, it came to him.

  Too much oxygen in the air.

  He spun around to the other men in the room who were kitted out and ready to strike the first electric arc on their welding rods. Eyes wide and filled with horror, he let out a shout of warning and ran forward but he was already too late.

  * * *

  The children had almost reached the school gates when a fireball exploded into the sky, scattering men and steel against the docks and into the river. Flames snapped at the heels of the welders who tried to clamber and claw their way out the single escape hatch. Thick black smoke filled their lungs, choking the life from their bodies so they remained trapped forever inside the steel walls of The Valiant.

  CHAPTER 1

  Saturday 13th August 2016

  Forty-one years later

  “That’s it—the wedding’s off!”

  Detective Chief Inspector Maxwell Finley-Ryan stood with his feet planted and his arms folded mutinously across his chest as he surveyed himself in the bedroom mirror. The reflection staring back at him was of a tall man decked out in a navy three-piece Victorian-era suit bearing the label of a local fancy dress outfitter, complete with burgundy silk cravat and matching pocket square. His black hair had been slicked back with a generous dollop of gel and a top hat was balanced precariously on his head.

  There came a low chuckle from somewhere behind him, then a pair of slim arms wrapped around his waist and the author of his present misfortune peeped over his shoulder.

  “I don’t know what you’re making such a fuss about,” his fiancée said. “You look very handsome. Besides, it’s only for a few hours and you promised you would come.”

  “You caught me at a vulnerable moment,” Ryan muttered, thinking back to a very memorable evening the week before.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean…” Doctor Anna Taylor brushed an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve, then grabbed him by the lapels. “Look, we’ve been staying on the estate for almost four months, it would be rude not to go to the party.”

  Following the actions of a murderous madman known as ‘the Hacker’ the previous spring, Anna’s riverside cottage in Durham was now a burnt-out shell and Ryan’s apartment was up for sale after a deep clean and extensive redecoration. Unfortunately, no amount of industrial chemicals could remove the lingering trace of violent death. It stood empty while the couple relocated to a long-term holiday cottage for the remainder of the summer within the estate grounds of Cragside house, on the outskirts of the Northumberland National Park. The tranquil setting offered a perfect base where they could recuperate, allowing Anna to complete her latest historical textbook on Viking Northumberland before the start of a new academic term, while Ryan oversaw the tying up of numerous loose ends following the Hacker’s demise. Over the last four months, they’d become immersed in life on the estate and when a gilded invitation to a murder-mystery-themed party had come through the letterbox, it was clear they had finally been accepted into the fold of Cragside’s select community.

  “It’s the staff summer party,” Anna continued. “It’s very kind of them to invite us.”

  “Food, drink and a few laughs is one thing,” Ryan said. “Wearing this ridiculous get-up to a murder mystery night is another thing entirely. I have a reputation to uphold.”

  Anna laughed.

  “If you’re worried I’ll tell Phillips about your little foray into period costume—”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Ryan paled as he thought of his sergeant and the banter that would spread like wildfire through the hallways of the Northumbria Criminal Investigation Department once the word got out.

  “You should be more worried that I’ll make you wear something similar at our wedding…” Anna gave him a guileless smile and walked her fingers up his back. “I think you’d look rather fetching. There’s another couple of weeks before the big day, still plenty of time to make a few wardrobe changes.”

  Ryan let out a sound halfway between a growl and a whimper but he admired the way she’d neatly boxed him into a corner. He turned to look down into her mischievous face.

  “You’re a foxy woman,” he murmured, casually flicking the rim of his hat so he could dip his head to hers for a thorough kiss.

  * * *

  Cragside house stood resplendent against the summer sky, built like a gothic fairy-tale castle against a craggy hillside surrounded by acres of lush woodland. The air was fragrant and heavy as Ryan and Anna made their way along the footpath from their rental cottage toward the main house and a light breeze stirred the avenue of pine trees, providing a welcome balm to their overheated skin. The usual influx of tourists had departed hours ago and the estate was deserted, aside from the people who stayed on to celebrate another year as custodians of a slice of Northumbrian history. Ryan glanced across to where Anna walked beside him, long skirts rustling against the ground, dark hair swept back from her face. He tucked her hand inside his arm, thinking that he might as well embrace his old-world character for the evening.

  “You look beautiful,” he said quietly. “But doesn’t it hurt?”

  He lifted a hand vaguely toward the corseted waistline of her pale blue dress.

  “Like hell,” she said. “I’ve already decided to take this contraption off before dinner. Nothing’s going to stop me enjoying a four-course meal.”

  He grinned and moments later they emerged from the forest canopy, finding themselves at the foot of the hillside looking up at a dramatic house built on various levels into the rock face. Turrets and towers, arches and mock-Tudor beams vied for attention with Rhenish gables and gardens that were any landscape architect’s dream.

  Ryan let out a slow, appreciative whistle.

  “Remind me of the story behind this place?”

  Anna gave him a pained look, lamenting the fact he would never share her passion for local history however much she tried to convert him. Then again, she had no desire to solve grisly murders for a living, so it was horses for courses, she supposed.

  “The house belonged to William Armstrong, who was one of the world’s leading industrialists back in the nineteenth century; he built ships, arms, all kinds of innovative machinery. You might say he built most of Newcastle city centre too.”

  She continued with her potted history as they slowly made their way up the incline leading to the main entrance.

  “He was an inventor, really. Cragside was the first house in the world to be lit by electric bulbs, powered by hydroelectricity using water from the lakes on his estate. It’s privately owned by the Gilbert family now but they open it to the public most days.”

  Ryan frowned, trying to remember if he’d met Lionel and Cassandra Gilbert.

  “They’ve been on holiday,” Anna said, deciding to help him out. “They flew back from Barbados last week to throw their annual staff party, as a ‘thank you’ to everyone who keeps the place ticking over while they’re gallivanting around the world.”

  Ryan grunted.

  “How’d they make their millions?”

  “No idea,” Anna replied. “They’re both getting on a bit, though. He’s in his eighties and she’s somewhere around seventy.”

  “Children?”

  “No. Yes,” Anna corrected. “Cassandra has two children from her first marriage but neither of them live on the estate.”

  Conversation died as they reached the grand portico leading into the house and other figures dressed in lacy finery began to materialise, dispelling the whimsical notion that they had the place to themselves.

  “Showtime,” Ryan pronounced.

  * * *

  Balmy rays of early evening sunshine trailed across the countryside and turned the windows of
Cragside house into a glistening beacon for miles around but when Anna and Ryan stepped inside its thick stone walls, they were engulfed by Victorian décor. There was an abundance of dark panelled wood and fussy wallpaper bearing elaborate Chinese silk prints. Almost every mullioned window boasted a spectacular view but the interior remained oppressively dim, illuminated only by a small number of antiquated lamps dating back over a hundred years. They happened to know that the house was connected to the National Grid but it was a point of conservation that it continued to be powered by hydroelectricity, as it had been in the old days. Fortunately, the atmospheric lighting provided the perfect backdrop for a murder mystery party.

  The mistress of the house awaited them inside the hallway, dressed in a long navy-blue taffeta dress. Her grey hair had been arranged in a nest of curls above a fine-boned face bearing a deep tan leftover from a summer spent in the Caribbean. Fat pearls hung from her ears and a matching triple-strand was draped around her neck.

  “Welcome!” Cassandra Gilbert greeted them warmly and extended a bejewelled hand. “Mr and Mrs Ryan, isn’t it?”

  She might have been dressed for Ascot but they were delighted to find that Cassandra Gilbert’s voice was pure, unadulterated Geordie. The lilting, unpretentious sound of it made them feel instantly at home despite the grandeur of their surroundings.

  “Not yet,” Anna smiled. “But we’re getting married in a couple of weeks. I’m Anna.”

  “And you must be Maxwell,” Cassandra deduced, casting her discerning eye over the tall man with raven black hair and cool grey eyes.

  “Ryan is fine,” he said.

  “I’m so pleased you could come. I’m sorry we haven’t had an opportunity to meet in person before now but I understand you’re renting one of our cottages for the summer?”

  “We’re enjoying it very much,” Anna said. “You have a beautiful home, Mrs Gilbert.”

  “Cassandra. Thank you, dear.” She turned to Ryan again with open curiosity. “They tell me you’re a detective? I seem to recognise you.”

  Here it comes, he thought.