DCI Ryan 06 Cragside Read online

  MacKenzie zipped up her jacket as the wind whipped through the archway.

  “Your instincts are usually good. If there’s anything to find, we’ll find it.”

  Ryan gave a slight shake of his head.

  “I can’t afford to rely on instinct, not when there’s a pile of other cases waiting for me back at CID. They deserve at least as much attention as an old man who might have lost his footing.”

  Phillips heard the irritation in his voice and wondered what else was causing it. It wasn’t like Ryan to doubt himself.

  “Everything’s taken care of,” Phillips said. “There’s a capable team manning the fort and if something crops up, you can easily step in.”

  Ryan nodded, his eyes straying upward to where Lionel Gilbert watched them from a window on the first floor. He didn’t shy away from the scrutiny or raise a hand to wave.

  It was unnerving.

  “If Swann’s home hadn’t been ransacked, I would have signed it off as accidental death pending the post-mortem,” Ryan lowered his voice so that they could not be overheard above the sound of the pattering rain. “But Yates tells me they found a stack of compromising photographs in Swann’s bottom drawer, all of Cassandra Gilbert.”

  “In the buff?” Phillips exclaimed, with his usual finesse.

  “For God’s sake, keep your voice down. There are eyes and ears everywhere in this place,” Ryan muttered.

  “Maybe that’s what the intruder was looking for? Cassandra might have been embarrassed to think somebody would find them, so she tried to recover them before we found them, or asked somebody else to do it,” MacKenzie suggested.

  “It’s possible,” Ryan said but he was dubious. “The thing is, both Yates and Lowerson agree the photographs weren’t hard to find, especially considering our unknown perp pulled out almost every drawer in the house. He must have seen those photographs and discarded them.”

  They watched the rain for a moment while they considered other possibilities.

  “All the same, it’s a bit saucy, isn’t it?” Phillips pronounced.

  “More importantly”—MacKenzie gave him a withering look—“it calls her credibility into question because when we took another statement from her less than an hour ago, Cassandra was adamant she barely knew Victor Swann beyond social niceties and the usual employer-employee relationship.”

  “Either she’s telling porky-pies or Swann got hold of those photographs some other way,” Phillips said.

  “He could have stolen them,” Ryan agreed. “Which calls his integrity into question and forces me to wonder what else Victor Swann might have done to upset person or persons unknown.”

  His eyes strayed up to the first-floor window again but this time it was empty.

  “I don’t know that the circumstances of his death justify me bandying around accusations about what could have been a private dalliance that has no bearing on Swann’s death. If I raise it with Cassandra Gilbert, we could cause a lot of embarrassment and potential trouble with her husband.”

  “It’s not for us to judge people’s private affairs,” MacKenzie agreed but Phillips shook his head.

  “I dunno, love. Living in the nineteenth century with no telly, gaddin’ about the countryside in their birthday suits… they seem mad as hatters, if you ask me.”

  “Eccentric,” Ryan gave him a quick slap on the back. “Not mad, old boy. Rich people are always eccentric.”

  Their laughter echoed around the stone walls as they bade each other farewell but when Ryan turned away to make the short journey back to his rental cottage he felt the same creeping sensation return, trailing its way up his back.

  * * *

  Alice Chapman didn’t notice the rain, or that she’d worked long past her contractual hours. Within the cosy confines of Cragside’s uppermost turret room, she had become engrossed in the intricate business of returning an old painting to its former glory. Her hair hung in a shining curtain down her back, tucked behind her ears with two clips at either side, and her face was covered by a jeweller’s headset complete with visor and built-in magnifying lens. Her jeans were crusted with drying paint and the scent of turpentine was ripe on the air. Shifting slightly on the wooden stool she’d positioned at an angle to the window, Alice considered the painting on the easel in front of her. When Dave Quibble had first commissioned her to restore the portrait, it had been coated in a brownish-yellow tint which she knew had been caused by natural degeneration of the original varnish. Since then, it had taken several days inside a borrowed laboratory to meticulously clean away the discoloured varnish and dirt with cotton swabs, peeling away the delicate layers to reveal the true image beneath. It had taken almost as long to blend the right oils to match the original colour palette, systematically checking individual colours against UV light, or their chemical reaction with varying degrees of solvent to find just the right blend.

  Thankfully, she was a patient woman.

  Four years studying Art History at Cambridge and a further three as apprentice to one of the best restorers in London had taught her perseverance. Slow and steady hands were required to do justice to great masterpieces and hers would have made any surgeon proud.

  Today, she had finally begun the process of repainting the damaged areas of the portrait and, because it was the part she enjoyed the most, time had slipped by without her noticing. It was only when she heard the crack of thunder outside that she realised it was well after six o’clock and the light was no longer good enough to use. Reluctantly, she set her paintbrush down and stepped away from the easel, regarding it with a critical eye.

  “Two more minutes,” she promised herself, reaching for the brush again.

  Fifteen minutes later, she found her throat was bone dry. Looking across to the window ledge, she spotted a cup of cold coffee she’d left untouched hours earlier. A milky skin now floated on top, next to the half-eaten sandwich she’d also neglected to finish.

  “Time to go,” she murmured, stretching her arms above her head to ease her cramped muscles.

  It took another twenty minutes to pack away the equipment and clean her paintbrushes, by which time her stomach was rumbling and she had the beginnings of a dehydration headache. Alice grabbed her summer coat and started to shrug into it as she left the room, pausing to collect the dirty dishes and lock the door securely behind her. She made her way down a narrow flight of stairs and emerged onto the galleried landing to find it silent and empty but for the sound of the rain hammering against the windows. She wondered where everybody was.

  “Hello?”

  They’ve probably gone home already, she realised.

  The Gilberts were nowhere to be seen, either, and she wondered whether she should look into the main rooms to let them know she was still there.

  Deciding against it, she made her way down to the ground floor and dipped her head inside the staff common room, which bore the remnants of a forensic search earlier in the day.

  That, too, was empty.

  Feeling suddenly cold, Alice turned toward the kitchen. Another wave of dehydration washed over her and dark spots swam in front of her eyes.

  Foolish, she told herself. It was stupid to become so engrossed in work that she neglected to eat or drink.

  She entered the kitchen and flicked on the lights, which did little to relieve the melancholic atmosphere. She stacked her dishes beside the sink and decided to grab a quick glass of water, which ought to tide her over until she got home. The drive to Rothbury wasn’t long and she had a fully stocked fridge back at the little one-bedroom flat she’d rented for the duration of her assignment. After a bowl of pasta or maybe a nice homemade paella, she’d get an early night and rest her tired eyes.

  Another crack of thunder rumbled outside, bouncing off the walls.

  Alice gulped down a few mouthfuls of water and hurried out of the room. There was still no sign of anybody in the reception foyer and the hallways were eerily quiet; there was no distant sound of conversation nor the murmur
of a television, not even Lionel’s booming voice carried on the air.

  But she was not alone.

  The house seemed to breathe around her, whispering secrets through its wooden walls, watching her. Waiting.

  Warning.

  Alice had reached the front door when she heard a clattering sound somewhere over her shoulder. She tugged open the door and looked out at the rainy driveway, feeling the warm summer wind brush against her skin. Freedom awaited her and held the promise of a lifetime of rewarding work, perhaps a husband and children one day.

  But it was not to be, and the noise came again.

  She looked over her shoulder at the empty, shadowed corridor. It beckoned her to turn back and she began to wonder if one of the Gilberts needed her help. Lionel might have fallen, or Cassandra, for that matter. They were getting on, after all. Or it could be Dave, struggling with a box of artefacts in his office further down the hall. Her hand fell away from the doorknob and the door clicked softly shut again.

  Like Pandora, she was unable to resist her own fatal curiosity.

  CHAPTER 10

  The lights were blazing through the windows of their rental cottage when Ryan returned home. He’d taken the walk through the trees more quickly than usual, dodging puddles as he went. He didn’t mind getting wet, especially when the rain was warm against his face and smelled of freshly cut grass, but he minded the overwhelming sense of disquiet he’d been feeling all day and sought the comfort of home to remind him of everything that was right and good in the world.

  “Hello?”

  Ryan kicked off his sodden boots and began to shrug out of his wet shirt. Summertime in the north of England was universally acknowledged to be a temperamental season and he should have known better than to leave the house without a jacket. Clearly, the brief bout of warm weather had addled his brain and the sooner winter came, the better.

  He dipped into the downstairs bathroom to retrieve a hand towel and was in the process of scrubbing at his hair when Anna came to greet him.

  “Hi,” she said, lifting the edge of the towel to bestow a kiss. “How was the rest of your day?”

  “Tedious,” he replied. “Long, unproductive and full of unanswered questions.”

  “Welcome to my world,” she laughed, thinking of the hours she had spent poring over texts about the first Viking raids in Northumberland.

  Hearing her laughter was just the tonic he needed. Ryan moved forward and looped the towel around her waist like a lasso. She chuckled as he drew her toward him with a definite glint in his eye.

  “You sound as if you need a distraction,” he said, when they stood toe to toe.

  Anna pretended to consider the question.

  “I do enjoy a game of Scrabble.”

  “Mm,” he agreed, dipping his head to nuzzle at the sensitive skin of her neck. His breath was warm against her skin and she sighed.

  “Or chess,” she managed. “I like chess.”

  He lifted his head and kissed her deeply, letting the towel fall to the floor so he could spear his fingers through her hair to cradle her head.

  “I’ll show you my best gambits,” he promised.

  * * *

  A good while later, Ryan followed Anna through to the spacious kitchen where she had been working for several hours using the large oak breakfast table in lieu of a desk. He scented the air like a hungry lion and almost growled when he caught a whiff of meat roasting in the oven. “You didn’t need to go to all this trouble,” he said.

  Ryan didn’t expect anybody else to cook or clean for him; he could rustle up a pretty good meal and he enjoyed singing along to a spot of classic rock while he did the vacuuming, which thankfully drowned out any flat notes.

  “I had a yen for some comfort food and it was a welcome relief from reading Bede’s ecclesiastical history,” Anna told him. “You can do the washing up, if you like.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  While Anna tidied away lever arch files and closed her laptop computer, Ryan went in search of a bottle of red wine and a couple of glasses. It was the weekend, after all, and it would complement the meat nicely. If it managed to soothe his taut nerves, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing either.

  “So”—Anna re-entered the kitchen having deposited her paperwork elsewhere and accepted a generous glass of Malbec—“before I was carried off, you were telling me about your day.”

  They clinked glasses and took a sip of wine.

  “I’ve had worse,” Ryan conceded, thinking of recent history with a flashing smile. “There were no crazed psychopaths running amok, for one thing. If anything, the estate has been strangely quiet. I don’t know what it says about my psyche but I almost wish something would happen.”

  Anna frowned.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know.” He set his wine down again, his thirst having disappeared. “I’ve had a sense of foreboding all day. I can’t explain it.”

  “You think something bad is going to happen?”

  He walked across to the kitchen window and braced his hands on the countertop, eyes scanning the dusky garden outside.

  “I’m trying to figure it out,” he said quietly. “I know there’s something I’ve seen or that I’m missing and it feels important. I wish I knew what it was.”

  Anna rested a hand on his back in silent support.

  “You can’t stop somebody committing a crime, if they’ve set their mind to it.”

  He laughed shortly.

  “If I could, I’d be out of a job.”

  The smile died on his lips when he remembered the discussion he’d had with his Chief Constable. The intended candidate for Detective Chief Superintendent had been troubling him all day. He didn’t want the position himself and had never intended to apply but it might be better than allowing ghosts from the past to haunt his present and the future he hoped for with Anna. He made up his mind, there and then, to tell Morrison that he wanted the job after all. He’d tell her first thing tomorrow morning.

  Anna gave him a searching look.

  “Is something else on your mind?”

  Ryan had never lied to Anna and had no intention of starting, particularly on the cusp of their wedding. On the other hand, he saw no reason to worry her if a simple solution presented itself. That being the case, he tugged her against him so that the top of her head tucked snugly beneath his chin and wrapped his arms around her protectively.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he murmured, rubbing his cheek against her soft hair.

  He hoped it was true.

  * * *

  Phillips muted the evening news when MacKenzie walked back into the living room. He wrapped a sturdy arm around her shoulders as she sank onto the sofa beside him and snuggled into his chest. He noticed she’d washed and dried her hair into shining red waves and he could smell the aroma of coconut body cream on her skin. Until recently, it was all he could do to help her get out of bed in the mornings and his heart soared with optimism. “Nice bath, love?”

  “Mm,” she listened to the strong thud of his heartbeat and felt relaxed for the first time in months.

  “How did it feel to be back on the job today?”

  MacKenzie heard his heartbeat quicken and guessed he’d been worried about her.

  “I had a few uncomfortable moments,” she admitted, thinking back to the panic she’d felt walking through the trees earlier in the day. “I needed to do it, otherwise these walls would start to become a prison. It felt good to be part of the team again.”

  Phillips kissed the top of her head.

  “You never stopped being part of the team.”

  She nodded, watching silent newscasters mouthing their report on the television. The screen cut to images of drunken revelry in the city centre and a straitlaced reporter reciting statistics about binge drinking.

  MacKenzie reached across to stab the remote control and the screen went blank. What she was about to say required no distractions.

  “Frank
, you’ve been a rock these last four months.”

  “Oh, I hardly—” he began but she cut him off firmly.

  “No, let me get this out. I want you to know how much it’s meant to me, knowing you were beside me every step of the way. Hearing you breathing next to me when I woke up scared during the night or knowing you were only a phone call away helped me to push through. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “You’d have been just fine,” he said quietly.

  “I’ve always been one to manage alone,” she agreed. “The women in my family were so constrained, so tied to their roles, when I grew up I never wanted to rely on anyone or become too dependent.”

  “The day you become the Little Woman will be the day hell freezes over.”

  She smiled against the side of his cotton shirt.

  “I know I’ve been difficult at times.”

  Phillips sat back so he could look directly into her sad green eyes.

  “You are one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. What you went through…” His jaw clenched as he thought of it. “Some people would have buckled but not you. Not my Denise.”

  Her eyes glittered with emotional tears.

  “I’ve got two questions I want to ask you, Frank.”

  “Aye, lass?”

  “The first is whether you’ll teach me to box. I’ve done a bit of kickboxing in my time, but I’m talking about the real thing. I never want to feel weak or defenceless ever again.”

  Phillips simply stared, momentarily lost for words.

  He’d grown up sparring with his friends on the street and had spent many of his formative years training at Buddle’s Boxing Gym, which was a local institution in Newcastle. He knew a thing or two about the sport and he considered himself an enlightened man in all things, but he’d never been asked to teach a woman, especially one he happened to love.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, gruffly.