Chapter 1
Anglesey, 24 June 2021
Laura had set her alarm for just before dawn. It was late June – the summer solstice – so that meant 4.45 a.m. She didn’t mind. She rarely slept properly anymore.
In a dozy, fumbling haze, she got out of bed and put on her swimsuit, woollen hat, hoodie and trackies, and tiptoed through the still, sleepy darkness of the house. Looking at her reflection in the hall mirror, she pulled her wavy blonde hair back into a ponytail.
Elvis, their three-year-old Mountain Mastiff – a Bernese Mountain and English Mastiff mix – turned his big brown eyes towards her from where he lay in his basket by the back door. Elvis was a beautiful caramel colour with a black and white muzzle. Not only was he a big softie with the kids, he was also a great guard dog as he was enormous, and his deep, thundering bark would make it clear to burglars that it wasn’t just a designer cockapoo standing behind the front door.
‘Come on, Elvis,’ she whispered as they slipped out of the kitchen door and into the darkness.
The beach was within walking distance and she let Elvis off the lead almost immediately. He trotted over to the grass verge and sniffed like his life depended on it.
On the journey down, she gazed up at the sky, which still twinkled with stars, then looked low towards the north-east. She read that Venus and the waning crescent moon, which were only nine degrees apart, would be visible, and to her delight, they were. For a moment, she imagined what it might be like to look back at herself from the moon’s surface. There was such relief to realise she would be just another indistinguishable speck on the surface of a tiny planet. If only she could keep that perspective throughout the day.
She undressed on the vast, empty beach, the only sounds the rhythmic whoosh of the waves and buffeting moan of the wind. The air was pregnant with the familiar salty fragrance of the sea. To the left was the endless span of wind-scoured coastal land that stretched to the north. A rugged kiss where the grey rocks met the indigo waves of early morning, as if they were playing a game where neither worried about who would win. Below the tide line, the rocks were festooned with swathes of glistening, dark green seaweed.
She and Jake, her eleven-year-old son, had recently explored the rocks, which were covered in exquisite crystalline flecks. There were many V-shaped ravines containing screes of colourful stones and small pools of seawater. Crannies that were filled with flowers: pink thrift, mauve mallow and white sea campions. At certain places, the water had worn the rocks into holes, like tiny, secret caves, and a stunning arched bridge of rock. Standing on the bridge, she and Jake had watched the violent force which the powerful waves generated within such a confined space. The noise and sheer energy had been thrilling and scary.
To the right was the long, dune-backed sweep of white sand that dusted this part of the island. Elvis settled himself down and lay by her clothes, as he did on mornings like this.
She padded down the beach, realising that somehow the flat, wet sand that she dug her toes into had become her natural habitat.
A wave raced towards her feet and covered them as she waded in. Soft ribbons of birch-coloured oarweed, the local kelp seaweed, gently curled around her toes and then disappeared as the wave receded.
Across the icy water that now lapped at her calves were the dark, colourless shadows of the Snowdonia mountains on the Welsh mainland. It was only three miles across the narrow strip of sea. Yet, because of there being two tidal pulls, the Strait was a lethal mixture of powerful undercurrents and whirlpools.
Come in, Laura, you can do it, came the encouraging refrain from her reluctant mind.
Steeling herself for a second, she dived into the freezing water. Fully submerged, her whole body sparked, and she broke the surface with a tremendous gasp. It was like nature’s defibrillator, shocking her back to life. Endorphins raced through her neural pathways and found their way to her brain, bringing exhilaration. All the pain, frustration and grief had been blasted away. She felt saved, reborn.
It’s good to be alive, she thought.
Now dressed, Laura traipsed through the sand dunes with Elvis at her side. Her legs had that satisfying ache she got after exercise. The rising sun burnt a strip of orange across the horizon, and the air felt several degrees warmer than when she’d arrived forty minutes earlier.
A figure appeared out of the dunes in front of her and startled her.
It was Gareth. Or Detective Inspector Gareth Williams, to give him his full title.
‘Christ, Gareth! You scared me!’ She laughed a little too hard.
He pulled an apologetic face. ‘Sorry. I was miles away.’
Crouching down to calm Elvis, she looked up at Gareth. In his early fifties, he was tall and muscular, with dark, hooded eyes and a shaved head. She definitely fancied him.
‘How is it?’ he asked, gesturing to the sea. He wore a grey hoodie and was carrying a sports bag, which she assumed contained his swimming gear and a towel. It had been Gareth who suggested she get involved in the early morning cold-water swimming club, the Bluetits.
‘Colder than I thought it was going to be,’ she admitted.
‘Given the state of my head, that might be a good thing,’ he said with a rueful smile.
‘Hangover?’ she asked.
‘Either that or someone played football with my head last night,’ he joked.
‘That bad?’ She snorted. ‘Full-fat Coke and bacon seem to work for me.’
‘Thanks for the tip.’
A couple seconds of silence followed before Gareth leant down to give Elvis a stroke. ‘And who’s this?’
‘Elvis.’
‘Elvis! Brilliant!’ He chortled. ‘He’s beautiful, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah, he’s a big softie.’
‘I had a dog once. I called him Shark,’ Gareth joked. ‘Bit of a nightmare when I took him for walks on the beach.’
Laura groaned and rolled her eyes. ‘Gareth, that is terrible.’
He grinned. ‘Hey, it’s dawn, so it’s the best joke I’ve got.’
Their eyes met again. There was something reassuring, even soothing, about the way his soft brown eyes just rested on her.
‘I didn’t know you came down here on your own,’ she said, fumbling for the right thing to say. ‘I mean, I thought you only did the Saturday morning thing?’
‘I haven’t swum solo for ages,’ Gareth explained. ‘But I quite like having company. I think I have to be in the right frame of mind to come on my own.’
‘Or seriously hungover?’
He laughed. ‘Yeah. That too.’
‘Hey, let me know you’re coming next time and I’ll meet you here,’ she suggested and wondered if she was being too forward. ‘I mean, if you want?’
‘That would be great,’ he said with a nod and a smile. ‘I’d really like that.’
‘You need to promise not to laugh at the noises I make getting in the water,’ she said with a grin. ‘I can be a bit of wimp.’
‘Yeah, well, I sound like a ten-year-old girl being attacked by a wasp when I get in, so you’re in good company,’ he quipped.
She laughed and then caught his eye for a second longer than felt appropriate. There was definitely an attraction between them. She could feel it.
‘I’d better go and drag the kids out of bed,’ she said. ‘Enjoy your dip.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, looking directly at her. ‘I’m going to hold you to that morning swim.’
‘Good.’
Turning to go, she walked away with an extra spring in her step as she clicked her fingers to beckon Elvis.
Does swimming together count as an actual date? she wondered. She felt a little tingle of excitement.
Two hours later, Laura’s eyes flickered open slowly. She blinked as she felt the warmth of a tongue running down her body, over her breasts, rounding her belly button and heading further south.
Straightening her back, she took a breath in anticipation. A soft hand guided her legs open gently.
She moaned.
‘Sam, Sam, what are you doing to me? We’ve got to go to work,’ she said, but she wasn’t the sort of wife to offer too much resistance to her husband’s morning attention.
His breath was hot against her neck and he bit her gently, and then with increasing force. He whispered in her ear and goosebumps shivered down her spine.
Then she felt the weight of him on top of her. This would be the perfect way to start the day.
As she wriggled in anticipation and moved the duvet away from her face to look at him, Laura realised that the hand and tongue had vanished.
Was I dreaming? Really? How is that fair? said the grumbling voice inside her head.
Reaching out her left hand, she could feel that the other side of the bed was cold and empty. An overwhelming sense of disappointment descended.
Sod it.
When she thought of her husband, Sam, she always imagined his face first. His strong majestic forehead, dark thick eyebrows and deep blue eyes. When she first met him, her sister said he looked like the film star Paul Newman. She couldn’t see it herself – she thought he was more along the lines of Oasis frontman Liam Gallagher. She thought of the tiny lines around his eyes that made them twinkle, like he knew something she didn’t. Or the flick of his eyebrow just before he said something sharp and witty. Because that was Sam. Sharp and witty. And if he said nothing, she would give him her usual quizzical look and ask, What are you thinking, Sam? Always a dangerous question in a marriage that had lasted over twenty years. Did she really want to know what he was thinking? Not those transient thoughts about what he might pick up for tea, questions for that night’s parents’ evening or whether there was enough petrol in the car to get to work. No, the deep, dark questions about life, its meaning and its future.
‘You’d better get out of bed,’ said a voice she recognised.
Sitting up on her elbows, she glanced over and saw that Sam had dressed for work and sat cross-legged in an old armchair on the other side of the room. He had an inner stillness that she found incredibly sexy. Other men his age were balls of nervous or awkward energy, weighed down by the stresses of middle age. But not Sam. He was a constable in the Manchester Met Police and he walked into rooms like a cowboy. Her cowboy, thank you very much.
‘Were you just sitting there, watching me sleep?’ she asked him with a knowing smile.
He smirked. ‘Yes.’ His accent contained a trace of Leeds, where he was born and brought up. Yet he was anything but the dour Yorkshireman.
‘And you know that’s creepy?’
He shrugged. ‘You always say that, but there are wives who might think it’s cute, or even romantic.’
‘Not me, buster,’ she joked, shaking her head with a grin. ‘First, it’s the watching you sleep. Then it’s the demands to know where I’ve been. Then a tracker in the car. Finally it becomes stalking, divorce and a restraining order.’
‘Bloody hell, love!’ Sam chuckled. ‘At least your career as a police officer hasn’t darkened your view of the world.’
‘I prefer it that way.’
The sunlight from outside had started to prod through the frail curtains. It was going to be another glorious day on the Isle of Anglesey.
Anglesey. A beautiful, historic island off the north-west coast of Wales. With Holy Island to its west, and Puffin Island to its south, Anglesey had 260 square miles of stunning mountains, lakes and beaches. An island steeped in the folklore of druids, Arthurian legend and dark tales of Roman and Viking invasion. Laura had travelled the world and yet found Anglesey to be a unique place with a character and mood all of its own. More importantly, their kids, Rosie and Jake, loved it and the move allowed them a new start with a chance to lay some of the ghosts of the past to rest.
Laura and Sam had first met when they both worked as uniformed officers in West Didsbury in Manchester in the late 1990s. They connected over their dry and inappropriate sense of humour and love of music and film. On their second date, she played him the whole of Nick Drake’s Five Leaves Left album as they smoked a spliff. When Sam got up to go, she made him listen to her favourite Velvet Underground song, Sunday Morning, telling him they could listen to it again while having breakfast.
Within four months, they had moved into a tiny flat in north-east Manchester, five miles from where they worked as their Sarge had told them to keep a decent distance from where they worked as coppers. You didn’t want to be popping into your local for a pint, only to bump into someone you’d nicked the week before. It could still happen, but it was far less likely.
The first two years of living together were a blissful mix of working hard and playing hard. Sam’s genuine passion lay within ‘on the ground’ local community policing. He had a real knack for winning the trust of locals, and an ability to communicate with and listen to everyone. From community leade...
