The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(3)

Thirty miles further north, two men sat side by side on the grassy verge of a different riverbank deep in the heart of Northumberland. The sun had begun its gradual descent towards the horizon and cast long, hazy summer rays over the landscape, lending it the kind of vintage hue that could rarely be captured on film. There was a peaceful hush, broken only by the sound of summer insects in the brush and the distant thrum of civilisation at the Angler’s Arms pub further upstream.

“Do you think we’ll catch anything before I start drawing my old-age pension?”

Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips favoured his companion with a stern look.

“The trick is to be patient, lad. Let the fish come to you.”

“We’ve been sitting here for nearly two hours and my arse is getting numb. Maybe the fish have migrated.”

Phillips shuffled against the hard ground and wished he’d brought a foldaway chair.

“That’s City-boy talk,” he grumbled, for appearances’ sake. “The trouble with your generation is you want everything to happen immediately.”

Detective Chief Inspector Maxwell Finlay-Ryan looked across at his sergeant with an indulgent expression.

“That explains it,” he said, mildly.

“Explains what?”

“Why you haven’t asked MacKenzie out to dinner yet. You’re waiting for the fish to come to you, I take it.”

Phillips’ ruddy face flushed an even deeper shade of red.

“Don’t know what you’re gannin’ on about,” he muttered, hunching his shoulders defensively. It had been a full five years since his wife passed away—God rest her—and he had no intention of replacing her. But just lately it seemed that every time he turned a corner, he’d run into Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie and find himself jabbering nonsense or, worse still, saying nothing at all while she looked at him with those laughing green eyes of hers.

Damn the woman.

“I’m too old for all that,” he decided.

Ryan grinned and felt a tug on his fishing line.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re getting a bit long in the tooth,” he mused. “MacKenzie’s a few years younger, probably has a lot more energy—”

Phillips swung around to face him, squaring his stocky shoulders and jutting out his chin in the manner of a bull preparing to charge.

“I’ll have you know there’s still plenty of—”

“Fish tugging on your line?” Ryan offered.

“Aye! And I’m not too old to catch them, neither.”

“Just as well, because you’ve got some catching up to do,” Ryan said, as he unfolded his long body and began to reel in an enormous brown trout. There was a tussle by the water’s edge and sweat glistened against his forearms as he braced his legs and struggled to overpower the fish’s will to survive.

Phillips abandoned his own rod and jumped to his feet.

“That’s it, lad, you’ve got him now! Put your back into it!”

Ryan blew strands of dark hair from his eyes and hauled the protesting fish from the water, experiencing a quick surge of adrenaline followed swiftly by regret as he held its cold, quivering body in his hands. Quickly, he unhooked the fish and released it back into the shallows, heart thumping as he waited to see if it would recover.

“What’re you doing?”

Ryan’s shoulders relaxed as the trout flipped over and swam furiously towards the safety of deeper waters.

“I didn’t feel like fish tonight after all.”

Before Phillips could pass comment, a brassy rendition of the Indiana Jones theme tune sounded out across the quiet valley, disturbing a flock of birds nesting in the high reeds on the other side of the river. Ryan searched his pockets to find his mobile phone and, when he noted the caller ID, prepared to face death once again.

*

Northumbria Police Constabulary Headquarters nestled on the leafy western border of Newcastle upon Tyne, in a gentrified suburb far removed from the daily grind of the Criminal Investigation Department. Its boxy, sixties-style architecture stood out as a glaring anachronism but provided a welcome relief to the men and women tasked with investigating the worst that man could inflict upon his fellow being.

“Home sweet home,” Phillips said, from the passenger seat of Ryan’s car as they swung through the barriers and into the staff car park.

“Why is the car park so full—on a Sunday?” Ryan murmured, eyeing the rows of cars.

The two men exchanged a glance.

“Bugger,” Phillips said. “There goes my carvery dinner.”

Ryan nodded and made a mental note to cancel his plans for the evening. If he was any judge, they’d be in it for the duration.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go and see what all the fuss is about.”

The office was a hive of activity as they strode along the dingy, carpet-tiled corridors of CID and made directly for the executive suite on the top floor. Telephones rang and printers hummed as they passed offices and conference rooms staffed with people working overtime. There was a lingering smell of damp permeating the air, made worse by an unpleasant odour wafting from the general direction of the gents toilets.

“Howay, man, that’s criminal! Give it a courtesy flush, for pity’s sake!”

Phillips called out the directive as they passed the doorway and chuckled to himself as a stream of abuse followed swiftly from somewhere within.