Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(33)
“That’s ‘His Excellency, The Former Ambassador, Grandad’, to the likes of you.”
It was only the truth, Ryan thought, and wondered what Phillips would do if he knew that was the formal title of an ambassador, which his father had been for seven years.
He’d probably transfer to the Diplomatic Service, that’s what he’d do.
“Yeah, well, don’t expect a tray of Ferrero Rocher any time soon.”
Charles laughed richly, enjoying himself despite the circumstances.
“Get six straight bullseyes in the trunk of that tree, and I’ll serve you a tray myself,” he said.
“Is that a bet?”
“Mm hmm. I’ll even start calling you ‘Ryan’.”
His son paused, saw that he was quite serious, and raised the rifle again.
“You’re on.”
*
Anna awakened from another nightmare and scrambled out of bed to check the baby, who slept soundly in her cot. Skin clammy, heart hammering, she watched her daughter’s steady breathing for a few minutes, to calm herself, before sitting down shakily on the edge of the bed.
What is the matter with me? she wondered.
Was this post-natal depression?
She’d read about it, of course, so that she would be prepared for any eventuality, and it was true that some of what she was experiencing seemed to match the symptoms.
Bad sleep patterns
Night terrors
Weight loss
Inability to concentrate…
Yet, her mood in general remained as positive as it had always been. Despite any evidence to the contrary, Anna continued to believe the best in people, and felt overwhelming joy whenever she was with her daughter.
Well, except when Emma was screaming, she amended. She’d have to be barmy, or a masochist, to feel joyful about that.
Just then, she heard the front door open and close again with a soft click, followed by Ryan’s quiet tread on the stairs. A moment later, he appeared around the edge of the door.
“Morning,” he whispered, upon finding her awake. “Can I get you a coffee?”
She shook her head and tried to smile.
“No—no, thanks.”
Worried now, Ryan stepped fully into the room, tiptoeing past the baby to sit next to his wife. He brushed a strand of hair away from her face and then lowered his head to brush his lips against hers, tenderly, carefully, before drawing her into his arms.
“Your skin is cold,” she said, with her face pressed against his neck.
“I went for a walk with Dad,” he replied. “We had a few practice rounds with the rifle.”
Anna drew back to look into his eyes, finding them tired but clear. If anything, he seemed more alive, despite having been up at the crack of dawn, and she was glad to see it.
“How are you?” he pressed. “Did you have another nightmare?”
Anna nodded, wearily.
“It’s getting to be every night,” she said. “I’m exhausted with it.”
Ryan thought carefully about how to word his next question, for it had been playing on his mind for the last month or so, since her nightmares began.
“You know, I was reading about how hormones can affect a woman’s body post-partum,” he said. “Apparently, sometimes, there can be a bit of a delayed reaction and—ah—they can feel a bit less like themselves…”
Anna smiled. “I know,” she said. “I’ve thought about the possibility, myself, but I’m so grateful that you brought this up. It makes it easier for me to know that I can talk to you, even though you have so many other things going on. Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me, Anna. Loving you, caring for you…it’s as easy as breathing.”
Her lip wobbled a bit, but she reached for his cold hand and warmed it between her own.
“I don’t think it’s PND, but I’m keeping an eye on it,” she said. “If it gets worse, I’ll let you know.”
Ryan brought her fingers to his lips. “I may have a lot on at work, but none of it compares with you and Emma,” he said, deeply. “None of it, d’you hear? I’m never too busy to listen, Anna, and I want to help with the baby as much as I can.”
Right on cue, his daughter let out her first plaintive wail of the morning, and Anna batted her eyelids at him.
“You can change the first nappy, in that case.”
“I walked straight into that one.”
“You sure did—nappies and wipes are in the changing bag.”
CHAPTER 16
It would happen soon.
Mathieu Lareuse—street name, ‘Rodin’—had spent another uncomfortable night in the cells at Pentonville Prison. Whilst the surroundings were hardly salubrious, it wasn’t the standard of accommodation that had kept him from sleeping. Rather, it was the unsettling knowledge that he was going to be murdered.
Today or tomorrow—who could say?
The only thing he knew for certain was that it would happen, and it was likely to happen soon.
Lareuse had accepted his last commission on the understanding that he would take a little hiatus immediately afterwards, and he’d been true to his word on that score. He’d spent a very enjoyable three years living in Egypt, in an expansive villa directly overlooking the Nile, where he’d entertained a series of nubile young men on a casual basis. He’d sunbathed by day, and by night he had sailed his little felucca boat to one of the many hotel jetties for dinner or a nightcap. All with the comfortable knowledge that Egypt had no extradition treaty with the United Kingdom, nor with his native France.