Cragside (DCI Ryan Mysteries #6)
L.J. Ross
“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 turned 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 Finlay-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.”