Bamburgh: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 19) Read online

  BAMBURGH

  – A DCI RYAN MYSTERY

  LJ Ross

  Copyright © LJ Ross 2022

  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

  The Alexander Gregory Thrillers in order:

  1. Impostor

  2. Hysteria

  3. Bedlam

  4. Mania

  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

  17. Cuthbert’s Way

  18. The Rock

  19. Bamburgh

  The Summer Suspense Mysteries in order:

  1. The Cove

  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

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  For Ethan and Ella

  “It is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in ourselves.”

  —Cassius, from Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare

  PROLOGUE

  June, 2007

  Newcastle upon Tyne

  Gemma heard raucous laughter coming from the direction of her sister’s bedroom.

  She looked up from where she’d been studying a textbook covering advanced mathematics for A-Level students, mildly irritated. Technically, she wasn’t due to start the course until the new term began in September, but she liked to be prepared.

  Goody-Goody Gemma, her sister called her…amongst other things.

  More laughter filtered across the hall and, if she’d been more confident, she’d have set aside her book and gone to find out what was so funny, but she knew Melanie wouldn’t welcome the intrusion. It wasn’t that she and her sister didn’t love one another, they were just polar opposites—despite having been born only a minute apart, with identical features. Where she was quiet and studious, Mel was vivacious and worked just hard enough to get by without their parents having to cut off her allowance. Where she kept her hair long and wore minimal make-up, Mel had recently cut hers into a shorter style she knew their mother hated. Mel never lacked friends, or boyfriends, whereas she…

  Gemma sighed.

  Between sports practice, schoolwork and helping at the local animal shelter, there never seemed to be any time left for boys or make-up or…well, fun.

  She heard the bedroom door open across the hall and, a moment later, hers swung open without so much as a cursory knock.

  “I’m going out,” Mel declared, leaning her slim body against the doorframe. “Mum and Dad aren’t back until tomorrow, but I need to know you won’t rat me out when they get home—okay?”

  Gemma looked down at her book, to hide sudden tears.

  “I’ve never told them about any of the other times, have I?”

  Melanie heard the note in her sister’s voice and felt a stab of guilt. It was true that Gem never squealed, but there was always the possibility her innate honesty would lead her to do the worst of all things when it came to dealing with their overbearing parents: tell the truth.

  “Okay, cool,” she said, in bored tones.

  Gemma looked up again, and her eyes were drawn to Melanie’s risqué attire, which consisted of a black miniskirt barely larger than a belt, fishnet tights with knee-high boots, and a red ‘boob tube’ style top that left her midriff bare to the summer winds. To complete the look, she’d applied a liberal layer of make-up and any number of bangles and rings that jangled every time she moved.

  “Dad would never let you go out in that,” she said, with the ghost of a smile.

  Mel grinned.

  “Why d’you think I’m wearing it?” she said, with a flick of her new fringe, and then cast her eyes over Gemma’s simple jeans and t-shirt combo. “You should try getting your legs out, some time. They could probably use the vitamin D.”

  Gemma thought of the contents of her wardrobe and wondered whether she even owned a skirt or a pair of shorts that still fit. She should probably go shopping for some new clothes, but she wouldn’t know where to start.

  Her eyes slid over to where her sister still hovered in the doorway. “What is it?” she asked.

  Mel shrugged. “I’m down to my last tenner,” she admitted. “I need to borrow a few quid—I’ll pay you back.”

  It wasn’t the first time Gemma had subbed her sister’s lifestyle; in fact, it was an almost weekly occurrence. Yet, this time, she hesitated.

  “It isn’t as if you need it,” Mel pressed. “You never go out.”

  Gemma looked up sharply.

  No, she thought. She didn’t.

  She came to a sudden decision. “I’ll lend you the money,” she said slowly. “But, this time, I’m coming with you.”

  Melanie laughed harshly. “You must be kidding. Goody-Goody Gemma underage drinking? Going clubbing? You’d be breaking the law, you know…”

  There was a challenge in her voice, and Gemma heard it. “Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “I might not like the same things as you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to have a good time. You aren’t the only one who can wear a miniskirt—or maybe you’re worried I’ll look better in one?”

  Melanie’s eyes widened—not in offence, but in newfound respect.

  “
All right,” she said. “You’re on. What are you going to wear? You can’t go out clubbing looking like that.”

  Gemma tipped up her chin. “I’m lending you beer money,” she said. “You can lend me one of your skirts.”

  Melanie laughed, and folded her arms across her chest. “You won’t like it,” she decided.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Gemma argued, and went off to raid her sister’s wardrobe.

  * * *

  As it happened, Melanie was right.

  Gemma didn’t like the skirt.

  More accurately, the dress, which was a skin-tight electric-blue sheath that clung to her body in all the right places. Paired with long, curled hair and heels she could scarcely walk in, let alone dance in, she felt like a Barbie doll—all stiff limbs and frozen features.

  “It isn’t too late to go back,” Melanie told her, as they made their way from the train station towards the bright lights of the city centre. Her friends trailed behind them, already half-cut after a session drinking the cheap corner-shop booze they’d bought and consumed in her room.

  “I’m fine,” Gemma lied.

  Some sense of common decency compelled Melanie to convey a simple truth. “You look…really good,” she said.

  Gemma shot her a surprised glance. “Thanks…so do you.”

  And Melanie did, in her own way. Not everybody could pull off charcoal eyeshadow without looking like they’d suffered a black eye.

  “Where are we going, anyway?”

  “The Boat,” Mel replied.

  Gemma gave her a blank look.

  “It’s a party boat called the Tuxedo Princess, moored on the Tyne,” she explained, with a roll of her eyes. “Most people call it ‘The Boat’. It has a revolving dance floor and a few different rooms playing all kinds of music, but mostly dance stuff or R ’n’ B. Best of all, a tenner gets you inside with free drinks all night.”

  “A tenner?” Gemma queried. “That seems…cheap.”

  “Yeah! Great, isn’t it?”

  Gemma thought privately that there must be a catch somewhere…perhaps they watered down the drinks—which wouldn’t be such a bad thing, in her case.

  “The options are pretty limited,” Melanie admitted. “A few of the bouncers at the other clubs know we’re not eighteen, so they won’t let us in.”

  “I thought everywhere had to check ID?”

  Mel’s smile held a touch of condescension.

  “Yeah, maybe they’re supposed to, but they don’t,” she said. “They’re always a lot more lenient with the girls, anyway. All you have to do is spin some sob story about forgetting your provisional licence at home, and they wave you inside.”

  “What if they don’t believe me?” Gemma wondered aloud, and could only hope they turned her away so that she could go home and rest her weary feet.

  * * *

  Fate was not kind to Gemma that night, nor any other night that followed.

  The two overweight, pigeon-chested men who stood like sentries at either side of The Boat’s entrance cast an appreciative glance over the young woman in the bright blue cocktail dress and evidently decided she would be a decorative asset to its interior, so didn’t bother with trifling things like identity checks. The other young woman who, upon closer inspection, bore a strong resemblance to her fine-boned sister, was also granted admittance since she had a nice pair of legs too.

  As for the rest of their cohort, they flashed a set of fake ID cards and avoided eye contact, which did the trick, no questions asked.

  The small party made their way along the gangplank and onto the boat, which had probably seen better days as far as marine vessels went, but for a sixteen-year-old girl who’d never stepped inside a club before, it was a floating palace of colour and sound. The air was hot and carried a heavy scent of body odour and methane, offset by a layer of cigarette smoke. A nationwide smoking ban was due to come into effect but, until then, clubbers continued to puff on their little white sticks and shoved all thoughts of cancer or passive smoking out of their minds for a few short hours.

  “What d’you think?” Mel asked, raising her voice to a shout, so that she could be heard above the thumping notes of Voodoo Child.

  Gemma looked around at the gyrating bodies of men and women. “It’s…loud,” she decided.

  Melanie slung an arm around her sister’s shoulders, feeling a rare moment of kinship.

  “Your ears’ll be ringing in the morning!” She laughed, and then tugged her in the direction of the bar to claim their first ‘free’ drink.

  * * *

  Dancing in a circle with Melanie and her friends, laughing with them while sipping an over-sweet alcopop in a dubious, radioactive shade of bright green, Gemma felt she was part of a tribe for the first time in her young life. Finally, a barrier had been breached; a wall between her and Melanie had fallen away, and the two girls were almost giddy with delight.

  Gemma couldn’t have known she had only a few, precious hours left to enjoy it.

  Melanie couldn’t have known it, either; and, in the long years that followed, would berate herself for not telling her sister the words she longed to say above all else…

  That she loved her.

  CHAPTER 1

  Spring, 2022—fifteen years later

  Bamburgh Castle

  “Howay, man, I look like a reet knacka in this!”

  Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips threw his friend a pained glance, which was met with a similar expression of long sufferance. Detective Chief Inspector Maxwell Finley-Ryan could think of many things he’d rather be doing on a Saturday evening, but he’d promised his wife their attendance at the fancy dress ball, and he was a man of his word.

  Besides which, if he was going to be subjected to several hours of costumery, he knew one single, unassailable fact…

  He’d be taking Frank down with him.

  “I distinctly remember you tellin’ me there’d be live music,” Phillips said, pointing an accusatory finger. “And a buffet. You definitely used the word, ‘buffet’.”

  He paused to pat his paunch which, though vastly diminished since its hey-day of chip butties and bottomless bacon stotties, remained in a limited capacity to provide an extra layer of warmth on chilly days.

  “Speakin’ of which, I’m narf clammin’ for a bite to eat…”

  Ryan pressed his advantage.

  “Coming from someone who has more comedy ties than Krusty the Clown, what difference does it make to you?” he argued. “And there is a buffet—it starts in half an hour.”

  Phillips sniffed, and began counting the reasons on his fingers.

  “For one thing, the last time we all dressed up like prize turkeys, the lights went out and some poor sod ended up dead,” he pointed out, recalling their time spent at Cragside House. “If that isn’t enough to make us think twice, the material on these trousers is narf itchy…”

  He gave his arse a good scratch, to illustrate the point.

  “I don’t make the rules,” Ryan said, with an elegant shrug. “I’m a slave to my Better Half—and so, I might add, are you.”

  Phillips opened his mouth to deny the charge, possibly to say something incredibly manly along the lines of standing one’s ground, showing one’s wife who was ‘boss’ and so on and so forth, but before he could formulate the words, he caught sight of a red-headed goddess standing across the room—one he happened to be married to—and the words evaporated on his tongue.

  “Aye, well,” he said, clearing his throat and lowering his hand for another surreptitious scratch. “Let’s not let this happen too often, eh? Some of us have a reputation to uphold, y’nah.”

  Ryan raised a single black eyebrow. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say, he doth protesteth too much.”

  Phillips craned his neck, which was being strangled by a starched white collar.

  “I’m just cheesed off that you get to be Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “Why’ve I got to be Doctor bleedin’ Watson?”

&
nbsp; He scowled, which had the effect of twitching the ostentatious fake whiskers stuck to his upper lip.

  “If the shoe fits,” Ryan said, and raised a false pipe to his mouth, getting into character.

  “If the hat fits, more like,” Phillips shot back, nodding at the deerstalker adorning Ryan’s crown. “You need a big one, with a heed the size o’ yours…”

  Ryan let out an appreciative rumble of laughter.

  At that moment, his wife and aforementioned ‘Better Half’ approached them, balancing several drinks in her hands. Doctor Anna Taylor-Ryan wore a costume that was part-Game of Thrones and part-Wonder Woman, consisting of breast plate and short skirt, leather cuffs on her forearms and knee-high leather boots. The ensemble was completed by a large, plastic sword tucked into a leather belt around her waist. When Ryan had politely enquired which famous historical figure she was supposed to be, she’d told him, “Boudica, Warrior Queen of the Iceni people, of course”—as if it should have been obvious.

  Whoever she was, he certainly wasn’t complaining.

  “Having fun?” she asked them.

  Both men pasted broad smiles on their faces, nodded dumbly, and made effusive sounds of agreement.

  She grinned at the pair of them.

  “Only a couple of hours to go,” she promised. “Just think, it’s all in a good cause—and at least the venue is beautiful, isn’t it?”

  They couldn’t argue with that. They stood in the King’s Hall of Bamburgh Castle, a mighty fortress perched atop a crag of volcanic rock on the edge of the North Sea, whose original foundations dated back to the fifth century, when it was the capital of the old kingdom of Bernicia. It had passed through various hands over the years, before eventually being purchased by the Victorian industrialist, William Armstrong, whose dazzling wealth had enabled him to restore it to its former glory. It remained privately owned by a family trust, albeit various apartments and wings were open to public use and leasehold tenancy. For Ryan and his team of murder detectives, the castle would forever be associated with their former Detective Chief Superintendent, Arthur Gregson, whose fall from grace almost coincided with a literal fall from the castle’s outer wall a few years earlier. Ryan and Anna’s wedding on the green below the castle walls had gone some way to dispelling that memory, but the echo of past events still lingered, much like the ghosts who were rumoured to haunt the castle walls.