by LJ Ross
“Daisy?”
He found nobody in the Manager’s Apartment, so he pulled on a sweatshirt and padded downstairs, careful to mask any signs of stress before he faced his family. As it turned out, he needn’t have worried about hiding his anxiety, for all emotions were trumped by the surprise he felt when he walked into the kitchen to find his mother locked in a passionate embrace with his uncle.
He must have made some small sound because they jumped apart like a pair of guilty teenagers.
“Oh! Josh! I’m sorry, we—ah, we didn’t see you there.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
Gemma exchanged a worried glance with Hutch.
“We were going to tell you, love. We just felt it was a bit thoughtless to talk about relationships when Daisy’s just lost her mum.”
Once he managed to block out the mental image, Josh made a quick assessment of his feelings on the subject and found that he was happy for them both.
He folded his arms and affected an air of disapproval.
“Just how long has this been going on?”
Hutch stiffened a bit, ready to step back and do whatever was necessary not to hurt the boy.
“Not long—”
“About forty years—”
They spoke at the same time and then looked at one another; she in confusion, he with a sad smile of understanding. He had been under no illusion that Gemma had loved him in the same way he had adored her for more years than he could count.
“I’ve loved your mother ever since she was the new girl at primary school when we were kids.”
The words were spoken softly and with such devotion, Josh couldn’t keep up any kind of pretence.
“I’m happy for you both,” he said. “It’s about time you stopped tip-toeing around each other, anyway.”
Hutch walked across to look at the boy who was his brother’s son, the son who might have been his.
Should have been, his mind whispered.
“You really don’t mind?”
In answer, Josh drew him in for a hard embrace and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, thinking of all the times this man had been there, filling his father’s shoes. He let himself imagine what it might be like to confide in him about the nightmare he was living; to purge himself and seek help. It was tempting, but he couldn’t be the one to ruin this moment in their lives. They’d waited so long to be happy after his father had taught them both never to trust and never to love again. How could he disappoint them? How could he confirm their worst fear, that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree?
He drew back again, a ready smile on his face.
“Where’s Daisy?” he asked, injecting a false brightness into his voice.
“The police needed to ask her a few more questions,” Gemma told him. “They’re down at the station, now.”
Josh felt his heart skip a beat, imagining the worst.
“I’ll head down to meet her.”
After he left, Hutch smiled across at Gemma.
“He’s a caring lad, isn’t he? Always thinking of others,” he said. “He’s a credit to you.”
She reached across to grasp his hand.
“And you,” she corrected him. “There’s more of you in Josh than you know.”
Such simple words, he thought, but they made his heart soar.
* * *
At Knivestone, the process of geophysical surveying was already underway. For all their personal differences, Ursula Tan and Jasper Vaughn worked well side by side, huddled over their calculations as the sonar data began to roll in. Ryan had completed a beginner’s diving course a few years earlier, but his skills did not stretch to the kind of experienced scuba diving that was required should they strike lucky and discover a wreck. He therefore had to be content with observing the process from the cabin via an array of computer screens and video monitors that had been linked up to the sonar and magnetometer, learning as much as he could about a world that was entirely new to him. He had imagined, somewhat naively, that it would be a fairly straightforward process to find a ship but, as it turned out, there was a very specific science to confirming the existence and accurate position of a wreck.
Time and again, the Jolly Roger was turned around and the process repeated. The air was bitterly cold, but the crew didn’t seem to notice, taken as they were with the task in hand. There was a thrum of excitement amongst divers and archaeologists, police and coastguard as they waited for the verdict from the expensive machinery that was trawling the sea floor.
“Pulls you in, doesn’t it?” Alex Walker said, from his position at the wheel. “For some people, all this water and sky is a bit overwhelming, but I love it.”
Ryan nodded.
“It’s a reminder of your own insignificance in the grand scheme of things. I guess some people would prefer not to be reminded.”
“I’d rather people were cautious than just plain stupid,” Walker said, and adjusted his sunglasses. “You wouldn’t believe the number of people who get caught on the causeway on Holy Island, or who find themselves in a bit of bother out here in the Farnes. City folk—they take a few boating lessons and, suddenly, they fancy themselves as Captain Jack Sparrow.”
He paused, listening to Ursula calling out for him to bring the boat around one more time.
“Not exactly glamorous, is it?” he complained, but did as he was bid. “Pity they didn’t use side-scan sonar and send a few people down, instead.”
“Apparently, this will give them a higher resolution image.”
“Aye, well, any time this year would be good. I’m freezin’ my balls off, out here.”
Ryan laughed.
“Seems a long time since you last visited us, Alex. Don’t be a stranger,” he said.
The coastguard gave a self-conscious shrug.
“For a while, there, it seemed like I was under a dark cloud,” he replied. “I s’pose I didn’t want it to rub off on anyone else.”
Ryan shook his head and thought of how similarly their minds worked, leading them to seek isolation in order to protect those they cared about.
Just then, there came a commotion from the other end of the cabin.
“Ryan!”
He hurried across to join the small crowd who had gathered around one of the monitors.
“What is it? Have you found it?”
Vaughn drew him forward and pointed towards a multi-layered image of what appeared to be two separate entities on the sea floor.
“Is that two ships?” he said, incredulously.
“We don’t know yet,” Ursula cautioned him. “It could be two parts of the same ship.”
“But it’s a ship,” Ryan said.
They looked amongst themselves, like children who’d just discovered Santa’s Grotto.
“It’s a ship, alright,” Vaughn said. “Looks like Iain was right, after all.”
It served as a poignant reminder of why they were here, and Ryan shut down any boyish excitement about a shipwreck, turning his mind back to murder instead.
“How soon can we get a diver down there, to see for ourselves?” he asked.
“The water level is already much higher than before,” Ursula said. “Soon, the current will pick up and I can’t send divers down in such bad conditions. We need to wait until the next period of low-water slack tide.”
Ryan told himself to be patient. They had just found a shipwreck, after all.
“When will that be?”
“Later this afternoon, according to the tidal forecast,” she said. “We can control plenty of things in life, but the tides aren’t one of them.”
A thought struck Ryan and he pointed towards one of the monitors.
“This one’s linked to the magnetometer, right?”
They nodded.
“That wouldn’t pick up a wooden vessel, would it?” he asked. “That would rule out a Viking longboat, surely.”
“The magnetometer’s picked up one of the objects on the seabed, but the sonar has picked
up two,” Ursula explained, and tapped a different screen. “There’s no record of any shipwreck on existing charts for these coordinates. They’re both new.”
“We could send down one of the AUVs,” Jasper suggested.
“AUV?” Ryan queried.
“He means an autonomous underwater vehicle,” Ursula explained. “They’re a lot like drones. They’re able to navigate themselves, so you can use them independently of the boat without having to tether them. But they’re very expensive to use and—”
“A bit above our pay bracket?” Ryan guessed.
“Yes, but surely now that we’ve found two independent structures on the seabed, that warrants further exploration,” Jasper argued.
“Why don’t you call the university and ask them to pay for it, then?” she snapped. “MAST can’t be expected to fund the entire expedition; even with a little help from the police, it’s not enough to justify that kind of prospecting, especially not when we only have to wait a few hours and we can dive ourselves.”
Ryan judged it the opportune moment to step in.
“The wrecks aren’t going anywhere after all this time and, besides, all good things come to those who wait. If we’re lucky, we’ll be getting two shipwrecks for the price of one.”
Reluctantly, Jasper agreed, and their faces broke into silly grins.
“We’ve really found something, this time, Jasper,” Ursula said, their private history forgotten in a shared moment of victory.
They broke into a jig, laughing around the boat deck like a pack of lunatics, and Ryan moved to stand at the edge of the boat. He looked out across endless gallons of water and wondered if Iain Tucker had danced around the deck of the Viking Princess, wherever she was laid to rest now.
“No wonder somebody wanted this for themselves,” he murmured.
CHAPTER 27
At the Coastguard’s Office, Phillips celebrated the news of a shipwreck having been found by christening a fresh tin of biscuits.
“The Receiver of Wreck won’t be happy,” he remarked, twiddling his fingers as he mulled over his selection. “The poor bloke’s only just flown back home. He’ll have to get straight back on the plane again.”
“If they find a hoard of treasure for Her Majesty’s coffers it’ll soften the blow,” MacKenzie replied.
“That remains to be seen,” he said, making a grab for a chocolate wafer before the tin was confiscated by the Biscuit Police. “How’s the Mandy Jones investigation coming along?”
“Mel and I went to see Hugh Vernon this morning,” MacKenzie said, moving the tin firmly out of reach. “He’s the only one of the Harbour Commissioners who wasn’t out of the country or otherwise uncontactable. He’s the current MD of Vernon Salvage, a marine salvage company based out of South Shields. It’s a national operation that takes care of salvage operations around the British coastline, making sure a load of oil drums and lost cargo doesn’t clog up the ocean floor when a tanker goes down.”
“What does he have to do with anything?” Lowerson asked, tipping back his chair with the toe of his shoe.
“The Harbour Master is employed and supervised by the board of Commissioners,” Yates explained. “Technically, he was Mandy’s boss.”
“He says he was a lot more than that, too,” MacKenzie added. “The account statements came through yesterday afternoon from Mandy’s bank. It didn’t take much to notice a regular £150 weekly deposit being made every Saturday morning or thereabouts. It made us wonder, so we asked Mr Vernon about his accounting arrangements—at the company and in his capacity as a Harbour Commissioner. He didn’t like it, did he, Mel?”
Yates chuckled.
“The bloke’s got classic Small Man Syndrome,” she said. “I think he was bothered about the fact he was being asked awkward questions by two women, more than anything else.”
“You could be right,” MacKenzie said. “Anyhow, he ended up telling us he’d been giving Mandy Jones cash hand-outs, so she wouldn’t tell his wife about an affair they once had. He didn’t go into any further detail about how regularly he gave her money or where the exchange took place—”
“That’s weird, isn’t it?” Lowerson cut in. “Why wouldn’t he just arrange a bank transfer and save himself the hassle of a personal exchange?”
“Maybe he wanted the personal exchange,” Phillips suggested. “Or maybe his wife checks his account statements, so he wanted to keep it cash only.”
MacKenzie gave him the beady eye.
“I’m choosing to overlook the way your mind immediately came up with both of those suggestions,” she said.
“Aye, probably for the best, love.”
The other two were still chuckling when the door opened to admit the missing member of their small team.
“Oho! Blackbeard ‘imself has returned,” Phillips cried out, and spread his hands in a wide, theatrical gesture. “Howay then, m’hearty, where’s the booty? Divn’t tell us you walked straight past the fish shop without picking up a bag of chips.”
Ryan rubbed his chilled hands together.
“Remarkably, I managed to walk past a food establishment without feeling compelled to make a purchase,” he said. “I just came in off the boat—”
“It’s been said many a time before,” Phillips quipped.
“—and we have to wait for the water level to reduce before we can send the divers down,” Ryan finished, with a glare. “Even then, we’ll have to move quickly to make the most of the light. I’ve got about an hour before we need to head back out again, so I thought I’d pop in for an update while they’re refuelling.”
“We were just talking about Hugh Vernon,” Yates said, helpfully.
“The salvage guy?” Ryan said, pulling up a chair.
“That’s the one. He’s claiming responsibility for a series of small but regular cash payments made to Mandy Jones, but he says they were hush money, so she wouldn’t tell his wife about an affair they had.”
“What does he look like?” Ryan enquired.
“What?”
“It’s a serious question,” he said. “Let’s not try to pretend that people aren’t just a teensy bit superficial when it comes to matters of the heart. Mandy Jones was a good-looking woman and she wasn’t shy, either. From what we’ve heard, she had boyfriends who tended to be younger than she was. No judgment,” he added. “But that’s a pattern. I don’t remember seeing his Facebook profile and thinking that Hugh Vernon would win any beauty contests, or that he was particularly young, either.”
“He’s neither,” MacKenzie confirmed. “And I agree, it’s a strange match. But stranger things have happened.”
But Ryan wasn’t buying it.
“Have you come across a single scrap of evidence to suggest that she’d had an affair with him, other than what Vernon told you himself? And what about the dates of this alleged affair—do they tally with the dates he claims he began paying Mandy hush money?”
Yates flicked through her notebook, then shook her head.
“He didn’t tell us the date the affair was supposed to have started, he only told us that the affair lasted around eighteen months.”
“Could be pure fabrication,” Ryan said, crossing one long leg over the other. “Let’s look at this thing objectively. The Harbour Master is a bribe-risk, simply by virtue of their position. Now, I’m not trying to cast aspersions on the late Mandy Jones, but it wouldn’t be the first time somebody accepted a kick-back for looking the other way, would it?”
“You’re thinking our pal Vernon might have slipped her a few bob to keep quiet about something she’d seen down on the harbour?” Phillips asked.
“I’m thinking Mandy saw—or didn’t see—things on a regular basis,” Ryan replied. “This wasn’t a one-off payment; it was an ongoing arrangement. There had to be a reason for that.”
“There’s something else, too,” MacKenzie said, pulling up a report on her laptop. “The tech team say that her recent internet browsing history included frequent sea
rches on ‘how to get a work permit or visa’, property searches on the south coast as well as in Spain, plus flight comparison websites. What does that tell us?”
“She was planning to get away,” Lowerson said.
“Exactly.”
“What about forensics?” Ryan asked. “Any other suspect items down at her office, or at home?”
“They’re still going over her electronics,” MacKenzie replied. “But Faulkner did find a burner mobile, pay-as-you-go, in the pocket of one of her jackets. The messages had all been deleted but there was a record of recent numbers dialled. We’re in the process of trying to identify each of those.”
Ryan nodded his approval.
“I don’t recall any mention in Daisy Jones’ statements of her mum thinking of emigrating,” he said.
“Perhaps she didn’t know,” Phillips said. “Or maybe she thought it wasn’t important.”
“Perhaps.” Ryan was unconvinced. “I’ll tell you something else, though. You don’t often see Shell Seekers open for business.”
The others were surprised.
“You mean, Josh Dawson’s business?”
“That’s the one. I’ve never seen that diving school open, not once during the time we’ve been here. I know there’s been a lot of upheaval in the past few days, but other diving companies have remained at least partially open.”
“Do you want to question him?” Phillips asked. “We could bring him in for a chat, if you like.”
But Ryan shook his head.
“Let’s see how things pan out with Vernon,” he said. “We don’t have enough to throw at Josh Dawson, yet, but I wouldn’t mind a look at his business accounts down the line.”
MacKenzie nodded her agreement.
“What about Iain Tucker?” she asked. “How’s that side of things coming along?”
Ryan rolled his shoulders and rearranged himself in the uncomfortable wooden chair as he ordered his thoughts.
“We might have found a wreck, but there’s still no sign of the Viking Princess—unless we discover that’s the wreckage we all thought was a Viking longboat,” he added, wryly.
