A Memory in the Monsoon
An International Romantic Suspense Novel
One Encrusted Icon. Two Drifted Lives. Six Thousand Miles of Danger.As a bronze statuette clatters from a Cornish lobster pot, Dan Mapleton wonders if he has hauled up an artefact with a weight that belies its size. Hidden inside is an encrypted message leading to a legendary £2 million reward for recovering stolen treasure in Goa—the lifeline he needs to win back the woman he lost.
Half a world away in the Philippines, Katie Barnes is fighting for her life. A volunteer at a local conservation centre, she witnesses a dangerous poaching syndicate in action and is forced into a breathless escape across Southeast Asia. From the island of Cebu to the peaks of Nepal, Katie is hunted by a relentless network that won't let her go.
As the monsoon batters the Goan coast, their paths collide. Between them stand a relentless criminal mastermind, a life-altering bout of amnesia, and a treacherous vault of sacred gold. In a world of shifting loyalties, they'll discover their greatest fortune isn't the treasure—it’s surviving long enough to find each other.
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The Man Behind the Adventure.Gerry Skoyles is a former globetrotter who still lives life on the edge.
From navigating the overland route to India in a beaten-up campervan to boarding one of the last passenger ships from Southampton to Australia, Gerry’s life has been defined by the horizon. His journey has taken him across the rugged landscapes of Europe and the vibrant heart of South East Asia, living and working in the tropical locations that breathe life into his writing.
Now based in England, Gerry channels decades of adrenaline and wanderlust into gripping international romantic suspense and contemporary rom-coms.
For Gerry, every story is an expedition, and every page is an invitation to explore the unknown.
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Dan Mapleton and the Golden Glow of PolminanHis old potting boat, Lucky Lucy, salt-stained and with peeling paint, lurched through the final swell into the harbour. The clock on the church tower correctly showed six o’clock but only chimed four times as his boat chugged past the harbour wall. I expect they’ll fix that stupid clock one day. The summer sun, in a sky of cornflower blue, cast a warm, golden glow over everything, making whitewashed walls gleam.
The air was thick with the scent of salt and sun-warmed stone, mingled with the faint, comforting aroma of home-cooked food from the bustling harbour-side pub, The Mackerel Inn. Its weathered sign, depicting a fish and fishing rod, swung gently in the soft breeze, a cheerful creak accompanying the cry of gulls. Tables spilled out onto the cobbled quay, dotted with locals and tourists enjoying drinks and tasty meals. Those who’d flocked to that corner of South West England were enjoying a spell of warm June weather.
Cast up from the deep: an ancient relic that's about to change everything.After putting on sandals, he set about emptying the last wire and wood lobster pot into an insulated box on the boat deck.
He stared in amazement when a strange object fell out, landing on the edge of the box with a solid clunk.
He picked up the curiously shaped thing—about the size of his hand—and turned it round and round. It wasn’t particularly heavy but seemed metallic. A few taps and a good shake suggested it was hollow. Using a penknife to scrape away some algae revealed what looked like bronze. Hmm. Funny. Looks sort of oriental. Although encrusted with marine growth, he wondered if it might be a statuette of something ancient.
A fading tide, a final word. The moment Dan’s future slipped through his fingers.Katie told him, ‘It means I’ve made a decision about us.’ She struggled to keep her composure. ‘This isn’t easy, Dan. Things have been hard for us for a while now. I know you’ve done your best, but it hasn’t worked out, has it?’
Dan managed a slow, heavy nod, his eyes locked on hers, as if desperately searching for a flicker of doubt—a retraction of the already-spoken words.
‘I...I thought we were doing better,’ he choked out, his voice thin, raw, and barely audible. ‘I thought you seemed happier. We talked about things. I just need something to turn up so we can finally do what we planned.’
Katie took a small, steadying breath, her gaze soft but unwavering. ‘And you did try, Dan, you really did,’ she murmured, her voice laced with genuine sadness, not accusation. ‘But pretending things are fine isn’t fair to either of us any more. The decision I’ve made...’ She didn’t look away. ‘...is that I think we need some space—at least for a while. I’m thirty-three now, and I feel this growing need to do more with my life. Before starting the new job I’d like to do some voluntary work somewhere. Something worthwhile like environmental conservation.’
A tropical paradise. A deadly trade. The moment a volunteer mission becomes a fight for survival.The sun, not yet visible over the mountains of Cebu’s interior, was painting the eastern sky in soft, bruised hues of lavender and peach. The only sounds were the gentle, tireless shhh of the sea washing ashore and the occasional rustle of hermit crabs scuttling back into their shells at the women’s approach.
Katie said, ‘It sounds ridiculously complicated. Maybe it needs someone neutral to negotiate a workable solution with the developers.’
‘That’s already been tried and failed miserably. There are too many corrupt individuals involved. Turtle egg poaching is a complex issue driven by a mix of extreme poverty, high international demand, and the strategic location of nesting grounds near international borders. The operations range from local coastal residents to sophisticated transnational criminal networks.’
A longing the colour of the sea — The Cornish coast; several years earlier.Dan Mapleton. The name itself was a whisper of the wild Cornish coast. They’d met at The Mackerel Inn, a fortuitous downpour driving her into its warm embrace, and him, in from a day on the sea, seeking the same shelter and a pint of lager. Their eyes had met across the crowded room, hers, the colour of a deep summer sea, his, blue-green, framed by greying fair hair and a three-day stubble. The conversation had flowed as easily as the beer, punctuated by shared laughter and an undeniable spark.
Their romance had bloomed with the speed and intensity of a summer squall. Walks along the cliff paths, hands brushing as they navigated the uneven terrain. Shared pasties overlooking the churning sea. Late-night talks in the quiet of his tiny fisherman’s cottage, the scent of brine and old wood clinging to the air, and to him. He was salt and sun, practical and kind, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle as they traced the lines of her face. She was vibrant, intelligent, with a laugh that could chase away the Cornish mist.
In Nepal, Katie realises she’s a marked woman.‘Officially? I’m a security consultant. Unofficially?’ James leaned forward, lowering his voice beneath the café’s ambient noise and the drumming of rain on the windows. ‘I work for an organisation called the Environmental Security Initiative. We’re funded by a consortium of private donors and a few sympathetic governments. Our mandate is to track and disrupt environmental crimes that pose broader security threats—things like illegal logging that funds terrorism, wildlife trafficking that spreads disease, that sort of thing.’
‘And turtle egg poaching qualifies?’
‘It does when it’s connected to a network that also moves weapons, drugs, and people. The syndicate you’ve stumbled into isn’t just about turtle eggs, Katie. That’s their most visible product, but it’s far from their only one. They use the same routes, the same contacts, the same corruption networks for everything. Taking them down isn’t just about saving turtles—though that matters too. It’s about dismantling an entire criminal infrastructure.’
Fragments of Dan’s fraying mind — The Cornish coast; several years earlier.They slipped away from the noise of the party before midnight, driving back in his battered Ford Transit with the windows down. The air was cool and damp, smelling of damp earth and wild garlic. They didn’t go home. Instead, Dan pulled over at a hidden track leading down to a secluded cove.
‘Dan, it’s freezing,’ Katie laughed, though she followed him down the shifting dunes, her heels dangling from her fingers.
‘Trust me,’ he said. They sat on a driftwood log, wrapped in a rugged wool blanket he kept in the back of the van. The moon was a sliver of silver, casting a pale glow over the white foam of the tide.
‘I have to go back in six hours,’ she whispered, her voice heavy with the looming reality of the Monday morning train from Bodmin Parkway. ‘Sometimes I think I’ll just stay. I’ll open a little shop in the village. I’ll sell overpriced candles and driftwood art.’
‘You’d be bored in a week,’ Dan said, kissing the top of her head.
‘I’d have you,’ she replied. ‘I don’t think I could ever be bored of you.’ The peace of the beach, the rhythmic sigh of the ocean, and the warmth of her body against his had acted like a sedative.
Drenched in the Goan monsoon, Dan scours the salt-eroded fort. The treasure is within reach—if the ruins don't claim him first.He killed his headlamp, relying on the silvery moonlight to avoid detection. Reaching a line of trees, he slumped against a trunk, chest heaving. He rebalanced the pickaxe, crowbar, and spade on his shoulder, then adjusted the heavy coil of rope.
A sudden crack echoed through the trees. His foot slipped, dislodging a boulder that tumbled into the abyss. Dan lurched backwards, heart hammering against his ribs as he skidded toward the edge. He lunged wildly, fingers scrabbling until they locked around a gnarled root. He hung there for a heartbeat, gasping, before hauling himself back onto the path.
At the summit, he scrambled through a breach in the fortress wall and dropped into the shadows. Before him sat the old cannon, a rusted iron beast surrounded by weathered flagstones. He clicked on the headlamp for a split second. There—near the base—was a stone where the weeds looked too thin, the soil too fresh.