Towards him.
He continued to pull pints, keeping his eyes firmly on his task.
“Hiya, Hutch,” she said. “Y’ seen Kris anywhere?”
His lips twisted.
“I thought you two were taking the boat out, today?” he said, buying himself more time.
“He was supposed to meet me at the harbour twenty minutes ago,” she muttered, casting a quick glance up at the old wooden clock on the wall.
“Only twenty minutes?” He smiled. “I’ve waited longer than that for Kris to turn up.”
When she smiled back, it was like a knife in his gut.
“I know,” she said. “He’s never on time. Maybe I should just head back down to the harbour and see if he’s there now—”
“Might as well stay inside, where it’s warm,” he said quickly. “How about a drink?”
He moved towards the shelf where he kept the white wine he knew she preferred, but Gemma shook her head.
“No, not today,” she said. “I’ll just have a coke, thanks.”
He shrugged.
“So, how’ve you been?”
Gemma slid onto a stool and folded her arms on the bar, only half listening.
“What? Oh, fine, thanks. Just trying to get Shell Seekers up and running but it’s the wrong time of year. Hardly anybody wants to go diving when the weather’s like this.”
He made a rumbling sound of agreement. Autumn in Northumberland was not the best time to start a new diving school; only the keenest amateur and professional divers would want to go down into the freezing depths of the North Sea and they already had their own diving gear—and probably their own boats, too.
But he didn’t have the heart to tell her any of that.
“They found another wreck near Beadnell,” he said instead. “That’s bound to attract a bit of new interest.”
The North-Eastern coastline boasted a high number of shipwrecks; unfortunate galleons and cargo ships, paddle steamers and military vessels having been lost to its rocky shoreline and tempestuous weather over the centuries. Whenever a new wreck was found, it attracted salvage divers and marine archaeologists from around the world.
“Hopefully,” she murmured. “I—”
Whatever she’d been about to say was cut off as a pair of sinewy arms wrapped around her waist.
“Here you are!”
Kristopher Reid—‘The Kraken’, to his friends—smiled broadly and then lowered his dark head to nuzzle at Gemma’s neck with an elaborate growl, which made her laugh. Hutch turned away to busy himself with the next order, trying to block out the image of her enraptured face, trying to forget the way it had come alive when she’d caught sight of his younger brother.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Kris lied, as he lifted his head. “D’ you still fancy a run out?”
Gemma’s forehead crinkled in a frown.
“I was down at the harbour. I thought we agreed to meet there—?”
“No, babe, we decided to meet here, don’t you remember?” He gave her a patient look, then brushed his lips against hers. “Oh well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”
Looking into his deep brown eyes, she might have believed anything.
“Sure, it doesn’t matter,” she agreed, all smiles again. “We can go now, if you like?”
With a wink for his brother, Kris helped her down from the stool and, a moment later, they were gone. Very carefully, Hutch set the glass of coke down on a bar mat, untouched. He watched his brother leave with the woman he loved, watched his hand trail down her back and further still, watched her pause and reach up to kiss him, lost in the moment.
Then he turned away, unable to watch any longer.
Three days later
He found Gemma on the beach at Bamburgh, a mile or so north of Seahouses. It was practically deserted at that hour of the morning and she was sitting amongst the sand dunes staring out to sea, lost in her own thoughts. It was a beautiful spot; a golden, sandy beach swept out for miles beneath a mighty castle fortress perched on a craggy hilltop where, once, early kings of England had reigned.
“Gemma?”
She turned distractedly. “Hutch?”
His feet sank into the fine sand as he made his way over the dunes to join her, turning up his collar against the sharp wind rolling in with the tide.
“Mind if I join you?”
Close up, he could see the ravages of tears that had dried in salty tracks against her pale skin.
“He hasn’t come back,” she said brokenly. “Kris left, and he hasn’t come back.”
“It’s only been a couple of days,” he replied. “You know what Kris is like—”
She closed her eyes and another tear escaped.
“This is different,” she said, raggedly. “He—I—”
Unable to stop himself, he reached across to grasp her hand, finding it limp and cold.
“I-I told him about the baby,” she whispered. “I told him he was going to be a father and, the next morning, he was gone.”
Hutch felt something inside him shatter, some hitherto untouched area of his heart breaking into tiny pieces. His eyes strayed down to her belly, hidden beneath the folds of her jacket. It was still flat but, somewhere within, life had blossomed.
“What did Kris say when you told him?” he asked quietly, working hard to keep his anger in check. She raised shaking fingers to wipe away fresh tears.
“He was…surprised, at first. Then, he seemed happy. I thought he was happy,” she repeated, her voice breaking on the last word. “But I know he’s been worrying about money, about the business.”
Hutch knew it too. Kris had already come to him twice for hand-outs, although she knew nothing about that.
“We went to bed and, when I woke up in the morning, he was gone.”
“And you’ve heard nothing since?”
She sniffed and shook her head.
“I know—I know he’s not ready to be a father,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean he would be a bad one. I tried to tell him it would be okay, that we’d be fine.”
Hutch said nothing.
“He hasn’t gone to your mum’s house,” she continued. “I already rang her. I don’t have his dad’s number, though—”
The two brothers shared a mother but had different fathers.
“I’ll find it,” he said.
“But, if—if he isn’t there, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what we’ll do.”
His hand tightened on hers and he opened his mouth to say all that he longed to say, all the words of love he carried like a weight against his chest, but she was not ready to hear them.
“If Kris isn’t there, we’ll call the police,” he told her. “If they can’t help, maybe he doesn’t want to be found.”
His jaw tightened, thinking of the man who was his brother, of the years of disappointment and frustration.
Kris had been blessed with a strong body and mind—and the kind of good looks that meant he would never be lonely. But he took them for granted, never thinking of the hurt and destruction he could wield.
He hated him.
Hutch sighed deeply, trying to expel the feeling, to cast it out, but it returned stronger, waves upon waves of hatred coursing through his body as he looked upon the devastation of the woman he loved.
“You’ll never be alone,” he promised her. “I’ll look after you.”
But Gemma wasn’t listening; she was far away, watching the sea roll back and forth against the shore in a timeless dance. On the far horizon, a boat bobbed across the water, only a speck against the sky that was awash with colour as the day came alive.
After a moment, she turned and looked at the man sitting beside her. There was a slight family resemblance, she thought. But where Kris’s eyes were dark brown, Paul Hutchison’s were a bright, bold blue and swirling with emotion.
She looked away, brushing away tears with the heels of her hands.
“I-I should get back,” she whispered.
He helped her to her feet.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I—”
But she merely shook her head and turned away, walking across the dunes; away from him, and the life he had offered.
CHAPTER 1
Thursday, 1st November 2018
Twenty-three years later
The sun was setting on the horizon, casting wide arcs of blazing amber light over the serene waters of the North Sea as it prepared to slip off the edge of the world. The little dive boat chugged through the waves, rocking precariously and tipping up at the bow as water swelled against its sides then fizzled away, before the cycle began all over again. It was a slow journey as Iain Tucker navigated his way through treacherous currents, renowned for centuries as a graveyard for much bigger vessels than the modest little boat he was proud to call his own.
The Farne Islands consisted of between fifteen and twenty-eight small islands depending on the tide, including a nature reserve that was home to thousands of protected birds and a pair of lighthouses that had been warding
eyes skittered across to where a lighthouse was silhouetted against the purple-blue sky.
Go home, it said. Turn back.
He shook his head, gripping the wheel more tightly. There was always time for one last dive.
“Daisy!”
Gemma Dawson watched as the young barmaid flitted about the dining area of The Cockle Inn, chatting and laughing with the locals who’d come in for their usual Friday night fish ‘n’ chips. It was all very well being friendly, she thought irritably, but dirty plates were stacking up and empty glasses needed refilling.
Deciding to have a firm word later, she tucked a tea towel into the back pocket of her jeans and moved quickly around the room, gathering the plates herself and taking new orders for drinks.
Daisy hurried over.
“Sorry, Gemma—”
“Never mind,” the other woman snapped, with a little more force than she’d intended. “Just take these through to the kitchen.”
She thrust a stack of plates into Daisy’s arms.
“Number nine needs two pints of Guinness and number fourteen wants a large glass of chardonnay and a diet coke.”
Daisy nodded vigorously and bustled away.
Watching her, Gemma raised a hand to her aching temple and sighed deeply.
“Might have known you’d be thinking of your stomach,” Hutch chuckled. “What’ll it be?”
“Ah—” Josh looked around the room again. “Is Daisy working tonight?”
Gemma’s mouth flattened.
“Yes, and don’t go distracting her, either,” she warned him. “That girl needs no encouragement.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, and then flashed a roguish smile as he caught sight of the petite brunette crossing the room laden with steaming plates of food.
“In fact, I’ll lend a hand.”
“We don’t need—”
But Gemma’s words were lost on the air as her son moved to take the plates from Daisy, gallantly dishing them out to waiting customers as the girl looked on with stars in her eyes. A fierce, unexpected pain stabbed at her chest as she recognised that look; it was one she had worn herself, many years ago.
“They’re only young,” Hutch murmured, steering her away.
“So was I,” she said huskily. “I just—”
She broke off as the door to the main bar was flung open and Iain Tucker burst into the room bringing a rush of cool, salty air with him. He still wore his diving suit with a pair of worn trainers and an overcoat slung on top of it all.
“Evening, Iain,” Hutch said, affably. “You lookin’ for a spot of dinner?”
The other man grinned like a fool and shook his balding head, which glistened beneath the overhead lights as drops of sea spray fell onto his shoulders.
“Iain’s been coming here every year looking for some old Viking longboat he read about sometime or other. Even if it existed, it would probably have been lost to the sea centuries ago, but try telling Iain that. He’s obsessed.” Hutch paused to hand out a couple of glasses of wine, before continuing. “Once or twice, he found some bits and bobs, cannons or old swords from the eighteenth century. Mind you, I’ve never seen him this excited,” he admitted, with a slight frown. “Maybe he’s finally found something big, after all.”
“Don’t know how he can be sure,” Josh remarked. “It’s darker than Satan’s heart, out there.”
Hutch made a murmuring sound of agreement, then nodded towards the ceiling and the room that Iain occupied upstairs.
“All the same, he should be careful what he says. There’ve been plenty of businesses going under these past few years, enough to make people desperate. Back in my day, people would go out on the water at all hours of the night to loot a wreck, if they thought it was worth their while.”
Josh shuffled uncomfortably.
“They wouldn’t find much, since nobody knows where to go.”
“Aye,” Hutch said, giving him a long, level look. “Maybe that’s just as well.”
CHAPTER 2
Friday, 2nd November
Doctor Anna Taylor-Ryan steered her car along the winding country lane towards the historic fishing village of Seahouses, enjoying the dappled light as it filtered through the trees on both sides. It was a road she knew well from childhood, having been born only fifteen miles further north on the tiny, scenic island of Lindisfarne. As she wound through the hedgerows and followed the coastline towards the village, she reflected that it had been a while since she’d visited her childhood home. Perhaps it was time to go back and rediscover the island with fresh eyes, ones that were untainted by death and sadness.
But even as she thought of it, her mind slipped back to a time when she’d almost lost her life and when others had been even less fortunate.
No, she thought. It had not been long enough to overcome the nightmares that had plagued her since the last time she’d made the journey across the causeway.
“Maybe next year,” she murmured.
As she reached the outer limits of Seahouses, she shook off the memories and slowed the car to a crawl as she followed the main road towards the seafront. The long promenade overlooked a quaint harbour with multi-coloured boats and kiosks advertising diving excursions and trips to see the puffins and seals. Amusement arcades and numerous fish restaurants touted the catch of the day and the place bustled with life, despite the fact autumn was swiftly marching towards winter and the tourists would soon return home.
Close to the harbour, she spotted an old stone building which bore a hand-painted sign declaring it to be The Cockle Inn and pulled into the small car park alongside. Stepping out of her car, she breathed deeply of the damp air that slapped against her skin and whipped through her hair, raising her face to the wind as if to capture the scent of the sea before heading across to the main entrance.
Inside, Anna found the place almost empty except for a couple of residents polishing off the last of their Full English Breakfasts.
“Would you like a menu?”
She turned to face a tall, broad-shouldered man of around fifty. His face was pleasantly weathered by the sun and rain, telling tales of a life spent outdoors whenever he got the chance.
“Ah, no, thank you,” she replied. “I’m here to see Iain Tucker, if he’s around?”
Hutch eyed the tall, lovely-looking brunette with frank scepticism.
“Iain? Ah, I don’t think he’s come down yet. Must be having a lie-in. D’ you want me to call up and see?”
Anna checked her watch, which read quarter-past-ten.
“He said to meet him here at ten o’clock, but I don’t want to disturb him, if he’s still sleeping. Let’s give it another fifteen minutes.”
Hutch nodded politely.
“Would you like a coffee, while you wait?”
Anna smiled.
“You just said the magic word,” she replied. “Black, please, no sugar.”
Fifteen minutes later, there was still no sign of Iain.
“How’d you say you knew him?”
Hutch paused in his task of emptying the dishwasher and leaned against the bar, wincing as Daisy cleared the breakfast plates with a noisy clatter.
“I didn’t,” Anna said, with a small smile. “But he’s a colleague of mine from Durham University. He’s part of the Archaeology Department, specialising in marine archaeology, whereas my focus is on early religious history in Northumberland. Our paths sometimes cross and he asked me to come along for a chat about something he’d found yesterday.”
Hutch nodded.
“Aye, he was in here last night, raving about it,” he said. “Said he’d found some old Viking wreck and then offered to buy everyone a drink.”
“He must have found something important,” she murmured, excitement creeping into her voice. “I wonder what’s keeping him?”
Hutch glanced up at the clock.
“It’s been more than fifteen minutes now,” he said. “I’ll go upstairs and knock on his door.”
Anna waited while he climbed to the first floor, listening to the creaks and moans of the old building as the beams contracted beneath his weight.
But a couple of minutes later, Hutch returned alone.
“Nobody’s answering,” he told her. “Are you sure he said ten o’clock?”
Anna nodded.
“I wonder where he’s got to.”
“Where who’s got to?”
They both turned at the sound of a new voice, this time from a blonde woman who entered the room carrying a cardboard box full of small packets of bar snacks.
“This should do us,” Gemma said, setting the box on the bar.
“Have you seen Iain, this morning?” Hutch asked her. “This lady was expecting to meet him at ten.”
Gemma gave Anna a quick, discreet assessment.
“No, I haven’t seen him at all. Haven’t heard anybody moving about, either,” she added, as an afterthought.
“Come to think of it, that’s a bit unusual for Iain. He’s usually up at the crack of dawn. Let me check with Daisy, in case he came down earlier.”
She headed off to find the barmaid.
“I’ll try calling him,” Anna said, reaching for her mobile. But the number rang out.
“Daisy says she hasn’t seen him,” Gemma said, returning to the bar. “Have you called him?”
Anna nodded, holding up the phone that was still in her hand.
“I’ve left a message,” she said. “It’s not like Iain to be late for an appointment. He’s usually a stickler for punctuality.”
“He might have passed out with a hangover,” Gemma joked. “He took a bottle of champagne upstairs with him last night, so he probably missed his alarm.”
“I’ll try his door again and take the master key, just in case,” Hutch decided. “Why don’t you ring Josh and ask if he can see Iain’s boat in the harbour?”
“Good idea,” Gemma said, from her position beside one of the windows. “Iain’s car’s still outside, so he can’t have gone far. Maybe he got his times mixed up and decided to go out on the water, since the weather’s fine. He was hopping around with excitement, last night.”
Anna waited while the other woman put a call through to her son, at the Shell Seekers diving school.
“There you go,” Gemma said, after the call ended. “Josh says the boat isn’t in the harbour, so Iain must have got up early this morning and taken it out for a spin.”
“Not in his room,” Hutch said, returning to the dining area. “I let myself in, just to check. Bit weird, though—it doesn’t look as though he slept at all last night.”
Having started to relax, Anna’s system went back on full alert.
“What do you mean?”
Hutch shrugged.
“The bed was still made, and he’s hardly touched his champagne,” he said, looking between the pair of them. “It was still sitting there, on the coffee table, with a full glass beside it.”
Anna felt something curl in her stomach, something like dread.
“What’s the name of his boat?”
“The Viking Princess,” Gemma replied. “Why?”
“Because I need to know what to tell the Coastguard.”
CHAPTER 3
Fifty miles further south, Detective Chief Inspector Maxwell Finley-Ryan stepped into the open-plan office area of the Northumbria Criminal Investigation Department. He had barely crossed the threshold before coming to a skidding halt at the unexpected sight of an enormous, mechanical snowman. It stood in the central aisle separating the rows of workstations on either side and was at least six feet tall, with a carrot-shaped nose that looked sharp enough to cause grievous bodily harm. While there were very few certainties in life, Ryan knew he could be sure of one thing: the expression in its glassy black eyes would haunt him for years to come.
“Frank!”
His sergeant’s balding, salt-and-pepper head popped around the side of a nearby computer screen.
“Mornin’!”
Ryan kept an eye on the snowman, half expecting it to morph into life and come charging at his jugular.
“C’mon, big lad. Some people just don’t know how to get into the festive spirit.”
While he dragged it off, Ryan turned to MacKenzie.
“Good luck keeping that thing out of the house,” he said.
“Over my dead body,” she vowed. “Speaking of which, Control have just sent through a new one. Unidentified male, washed up on the rocks at Longstone lighthouse.”
“Longstone?” Ryan frowned. “Where have I heard that name before?”
“You probably recognise it from the story of Grace Darling,” MacKenzie replied. “She was the young lighthouse keeper’s daughter who helped to rescue survivors from the Forfarshire in the 1800s. Longstone was the lighthouse where she lived with her family, on Outer Farne—it’s northernmost island in the Farne Islands.”
Ryan remembered the tale, and the afternoon he’d spent with Anna at the Grace Darling Museum in Bamburgh. He considered himself lucky she wasn’t there to witness the fact he’d retained very little of their excursion, particularly given her enthusiasm for local history.
“Looks like the rocks around there have claimed another life,” he said. “Did his boat capsize?”
MacKenzie lifted a shoulder.
“Too early to say. There’s no sign of a boat but Control have dispatched a team of first responders and notified the coastguard, who’ll send a lifeboat out to help to transfer the body across to the mainland.”
“Anybody reported missing lately?”
“Plenty,” she replied. “But none from the local area. The body was reported by the lighthouse keeper, who was running a boat tour when he spotted it.”
“Not what you need, just after breakfast,” Ryan said. MacKenzie nodded.
“You can get a boat across from Beadnell or—”
“Seahouses,” Ryan put in, as his phone began to rumble, and his wife’s number flashed on the screen. It was the same place Anna had been headed, that very morning.
He exchanged a look with MacKenzie, all business now.
“Tell Phillips to put his wellies on,” he said. “We’re going to the seaside.”
It was an hour’s drive from Northumbria Police Headquarters, in the old shipping heart of Newcastle, to the coastal village of Seahouses. Thanks to a combination of bad luck and lunchtime traffic, Ryan and Phillips found themselves caught behind a slow-moving tractor and several lorries making their routine journey to Scotland along a stretch of the A1 that was not a fully operational dual carriageway.
“You’d think they’d widen the road a bit, after all these years,” Phillips complained. “Even I could drive a bit faster than this.”
Ryan’s lips twitched. It was a truth universally acknowledged that his sergeant was a cautious driver.
“Careful, Frank. Next thing, you’ll be telling me you’re buying a motorbike and touring South America.”
The very thought was enough to bring Phillips out in a cold sweat, but he wasn’t about to admit that. Instead, he folded his arms across his burly chest and fixed his younger companion with a dignified stare.
“The trouble with your generation is, you think anybody over a certain age has lost their sense of adventure. I could ride a motorcycle, y’ nah, if I wanted to.”
“Of course you could.”
“And I could tour South America and see the pyramids,” Phillips continued.
“They’re in Egypt,” Ryan said, dryly.
“Eh? Maybe I’m thinking of the other pyramids.”
“Promise me, whenever the grand tour does happen, you’ll take a map,” Ryan muttered, putting the car back in gear as the traffic began to move again. “Only another few miles to go, now. Has anything else come through?”
Phillips checked the e-mails on his work phone, then shook his head.
“Nothing we don’t already know. Some feller was found on the rocks at Longstone lighthouse, just after eleven this morning. No identity yet, and that could take a while depending on the state of the body,” Phillips added, with a note of sympathy. “Did you say Anna reckons she knows who it could be?”
“It’s a possibility,” Ryan said, slowing the car to indicate right. “She heard from a colleague of hers— Iain Tucker—late last night. He’s some kind of marine archaeologist who reckoned he’d found a Viking