Colin scrambled away and thought about putting the stones back, pretending he had never found the body. Wouldn’t it be better just to carry on with his life? He didn’t like to become involved in other people’s dramas, other people’s problems. He sat on the dewy grass and gnawed at the inside of his lip, thinking about what to do for the best. It wasn’t too late to go home, close the doors behind him and try to forget what he had seen, was it?
No, he shook his head. He should not be a coward.
He fished around one of the inner pockets of his jacket and pulled out his mobile phone.
No signal.
Resigned and with the heavy, sick feeling in his stomach of a man whose life had just changed irrevocably, he headed back towards civilisation.
While Colin Hart trudged the lonely road back to his car, another man was taking advantage of a rare Sunday morning lie-in. Eyes still closed, Detective Chief Inspector Ryan struggled against the demonic hangover which had made itself very much at home inside his head. The nerves between his eyes throbbed and there was a distant ringing in his ears. Feebly, he grasped at the sheets and pulled himself upward.
He risked opening his eyes and everyday objects became reality. A bed. A wardrobe. Some sort of jingle-jangle wind chime which hung in front of the window that was thrown wide open to the morning breeze. His eye caught a movement and he braced. He saw a man, wild-eyed and rough around the edges staring back at him from the oval mirror above the dresser.
Why had he let Phillips talk him into the whisky? A “quick pint”, he was sure that was all he had agreed to by way of celebration.
Yesterday, Ryan had received a call from the ecstatic parents of Detective Constable Jack Lowerson to say that their son had finally emerged from his coma. Last Christmas, none of them had held out much hope that Jack would ever regain consciousness, following the attack on Holy Island which had plunged him into darkness and robbed him of six months of his life. There was now the hope that, one day, Jack would remember who had been responsible.
Ryan dragged his legs over the side of the bed and stood up.
Then, sat back down again with a thud.
“Too soon,” he muttered with a heavy helping of self-pity. “Much too soon.”
Before he could move again, the bedroom door swung open and brought with it the dreaded sound that had wakened him.
It was Chaka Khan on the radio this morning.
Looking like she was every woman and more, Doctor Anna Taylor stood in the doorway tapping her foot to the rhythm and regarded him with a mixture of pity and amusement. She set a tall glass of water on the dresser beside two aspirin.
“Good night?”
He let out a heartfelt sigh and stood on legs that felt as wobbly as Bambi’s.
“I’m not sure that’s the word I would use to describe it,” he muttered. “Water. Need water.”
Anna grinned. Watching him prowl around the bed like a bear with a sore head was comedy gold. This was the first time she had seen the illustrious DCI Ryan reduced to a physical wreck and she wasn’t above a bit of baiting.
“I thought we might go for a long walk along the river today, after we stop by the garden centre.”
He winced.
“Or, we could go shopping. I need some new shoes and handbags.”
“I don’t think –”
“Maybe we could offer to babysit the kids next door. It would be good practice,” she layered on the icing.
“Anna,” his voice croaked and he snatched up the water, gulping it down in three swallows. “The terrifying thing is that I don’t know whether you’re joking.”
He re-focused and took stock. The muscle at the side of her mouth was twitching. Dark eyes twinkled.
“Oh, you’re a real comedienne.”
“People tell me that all the time, but it never gets old.”
He slunk towards her smelling faintly like a brewery. Even crumpled and worse for wear, it was remarkable how he managed to look good. Thick, black hair stuck out at interesting angles and she watched him run a hand through its length. There was a layer of stubble on his jaw, which was rugged rather than unkempt. Then, there were those bright, silver-grey eyes which killed her every time.
All mine.
Smugly, she crossed her arms and tilted her chin up at him. He came to stand in front of her, swaying a bit.
“You smell like something which crawled out of a cave,” she said, deadpan.
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“I could light a fire on your breath.”
“Stop, you’ll make me blush,” he smiled slowly now, with intent.
“You could use a shower,” she sniffed.
“That’s an excellent idea.”
He edged her backwards, towards the en-suite bathroom.