Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(12)

Laughing at the image in his mind’s eye, Ryan left them to go in search of his sergeant. As he made his way down the wide corridor towards the stairwell, he realised that, for a few precious minutes, he’d been able to laugh with his friends and colleagues as if life were back to normal.

He’d almost forgotten what that felt like.

*

Ryan jogged down to the basement, where he found Phillips pounding one of the treadmills while singing along to whichever seventies disco classic was playing through the ancient headphones adorning his shiny, balding head. Sensing his arrival, Frank waved a cheerful hand and jabbed a button to slow the machine to a walk, his rounded face red and dripping with hard-earned sweat. He wore a pair of running shorts that were, at a conservative estimate, over thirty years old and spread alarmingly tight across the man’s buttocks, and his burly chest was encased in a t-shirt bearing a logo Ryan could no longer make out, given the number of washings it had evidently seen since it was made at the turn of the century.

Grinning openly, Ryan reached for the towel slung over a nearby rail and tossed it over to him.

“Need this?”

“Aye, thanks,” Phillips said, and scrubbed it over his face and neck before checking the clock on the wall. “Shaved off a minute or two since the last run.”

Ryan tried not to goggle at this gym-going stranger, presently masquerading as his friend and sergeant.

“You didn’t tell me you were getting back on the health wagon,” he remarked. “Are you feeling all right…in the head?”

“Har bloody har,” Phillips replied. “For your information, I’m feelin’ top o’ the bill.”

Ryan raised a single, dark eyebrow, both in surprise and delight.

“I like jogging myself,” he said, quite genuinely. “We could head out for a quick run at lunchtimes, now and then, if you fancy it.”

Phillips cast a beady eye over his friend’s six feet two inches of solid athletic muscle, then considered his own somewhat…cuddlier frame, and sighed.

“Well, the thing is, lad, that’s a nice thought but…well, look at me, and look at you.”

Ryan gave him a blank stare, so he tried speaking plainly.

“I mean to say…look, there’s no beatin’ round the bush. I’m a fat bastard, and you’re not. I’d only slow you down.”

His friend blinked, then let out a rich peal of laughter.

“Frank, I’d hardly describe you in those terms,” Ryan said, recovering himself. “Carrying a few extra pounds here and there isn’t the end of the world. Besides, I thought you said a bit of extra padding keeps you warm in the winter, and ‘gives the lasses something to hold on to’?”

That was true enough, Phillips thought.

“There’s a world of difference between a bit of winter padding and walking around wearing a whole bloody duvet,” he said, with brutal honesty. “Anyway, I thought it was about time I shifted some of the bulk, especially as…”

He stopped and took a sip of water.

“Especially as—what?” Ryan prodded.

Phillips sighed. “Y’know I’m older than Denise,” he said, quietly. “She might not mind, and I don’t mind it so much, any more…but now there’s Samantha to think of. I want to be around as long as possible for both of them—that poor lass has seen too much heartache, already.”

As ever, Ryan found himself humbled by his friend. Despite his gruff exterior, Phillips was all heart and fiercely loyal to those he loved—qualities you couldn’t teach down at the training academy.

“They’re lucky to have you,” he said simply. “And, for the record, you’d never slow me down, Frank. For starters, you’re as stubborn as an old mule. When have you ever let me get one over you?”

“True,” Phillips mused, rubbing a thoughtful hand over his chin. “All true.”

“So, what do you say?” Ryan prodded. “Fancy a run around the block, tomorrow?”

Phillips narrowed his button-brown eyes, then gave a reluctant smile.

“Aye, you’re on. But don’t think I’ll go easy on you, just because you haven’t slept in five months.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ryan said. “And, don’t think I’ll go easy on you, just because you haven’t had a bacon stottie in three weeks.”

Phillips gave him a knowing look.

“Might’ve known Stevie couldn’t keep that one under his hat,” he said, with a rumbling laugh. “Bet he’s been burstin’ to tell you.”

“In the man’s defence, I think he was worried you’d suffered some sort of mental break,” Ryan said.

“He might be right,” Phillips muttered, and began limping towards the shower room, grumbling under his breath about the things he did for love.

“Briefing in ten!” Ryan called after him.

“Aye, if I make it that far!”





CHAPTER 6


Nine months had passed since the robbery at Durham Cathedral, which had enabled a small band of criminals to steal what many believed to be Saint Cuthbert’s original golden pectoral cross. To create a diversion while the theft was underway, they’d staged an explosion that had caused minimal damage to the cathedral, but serious damage to Anna. Ryan would never forget the moment he’d learned the news that she’d been taken to hospital nor the long hours and days that followed, when he’d thought he might lose his wife, his soulmate, best friend, and their unborn child, as well as all the dreams they’d had of growing old together. Luckily, both Anna and Emma had survived, for which he was eternally grateful.