Frozen Grave (Willis/Carter #3)(67)

‘It’s the cold.’

‘Athletes use it to recover all the time.’

‘Not sure I need a cryochamber at the mo. Probably prefer a hot toddy.’

‘You poor old thing. You’re falling apart on me!’

‘Not quite. I need to fly off to Spain, I think. I need to warm my bones.’ He turned to her. ‘You do believe the house exists, don’t you, honey?’

She didn’t answer. ‘Let’s go and eat somewhere and get out of this cold,’ she said.

‘Okay.’

She steered him to a pub that they’d eaten in a few times. She wanted to sit under the patio heater outside but he ignored that.

‘Open a tab,’ he said to the barman as he ordered a large single malt and a large glass of white wine for Lisa. He didn’t ask her if she wanted it; he was hoping she’d soften a bit with alcohol. He took the menu from the counter.

‘Let’s sit over here.’ He picked up his coat and headed for a table that a group had just left. It was nearest to the fire. Lisa got there first and doubled up athletically as she slid behind the long oak table and into the corner of the old church pew, the fire to her side and the rest of the pub to her front.

‘You okay? Come on, Granddad.’ She laughed. Her voice came out squeaky and sharp in the soft ambience of the pub.

Ellerman didn’t answer. He stood tall by the side of the pew and slid the scarf from around his neck, then carefully placed his gloves on it before folding his coat on the top.

‘There . . .’ He pulled out a chair for himself, a little way from the fire, and smoothed back his hair as he settled down to take his first sip of the deep amber liquid. He was aware she was watching him. She knew she’d overstepped the mark. She’d been rude.

‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Here’s to . . . us?’

Even as he faltered, hesitated, he knew by the look she shot him that she wasn’t thinking along those lines.

‘What are you having to eat?’ he asked her. He’d already looked at the menu. He was having a man-sized portion of something stodgy that she would hate. No salad tonight. He needed potatoes or pastry and lumps of red meat. She would opt for the lentil pie, the beetroot salad. She wouldn’t have pudding. She wouldn’t have cheese. They ate their dinner in silence. They glanced at the others in the pub. They smiled at one another occasionally. Lisa didn’t want another glass of wine. It made her tired, grumpy. Ellerman was flying after three large whiskies. He finally felt ready to flirt. He didn’t want to go home. The thought of going back out into the bitter cold made him miserable. Lisa had become Lisa Long-face. She yawned and fiddled with her glass and she still wasn’t talking.

They trudged back to her cold house and went to bed. Ellerman lay awake, listening to the sounds of people passing outside. The orange from the street lamp made the room light. They hadn’t had sex. She hadn’t reached for him in bed. He was grateful. He hadn’t the stamina or the interest. She slipped out of bed in the morning and he sank into a deep sleep. He woke up in a panic, throwing himself out of a deep sleep that had become a nightmare. He was trapped, he was in danger. He was about to be killed – someone was strangling him. He sat up and shook his head to dispel the dream’s remnants. He pulled on his tracksuit bottoms and his socks and T-shirt and walked down the stairs. He could hear her in the kitchen.

‘Sorry – I was sleeping so soundly,’ he said as he poured himself a mug of coffee from the filter machine.

‘You were snoring constantly from two o’clock on.’

‘Must be the cold. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s over.’

He looked at Lisa and shook his head. He was just setting his coffee down on the table in the kitchen, just about to help himself to some cereal.

‘Sorry?’ He paused on the way to the cupboard. ‘You mean us? Our relationship?

‘Yes.’

She turned away from him and began tidying her breakfast things away.

‘Can I ask why?’

‘Do I need a reason?’

‘Well, I think you owe me one. We’ve been together for a while.’

She turned back from the sink. ‘Yes, and look how far we’ve progressed,’ she said sarcastically, her voice high-pitched. ‘Two years and we’ve got nowhere.’

He hated it when her voice took on a shrieky edge to it.

They stared at one another for almost a minute before he shook his head, turned back to the table and picked up his coffee.

‘I thought you understood the situation – the fact that I can’t leave my wife just yet but I fully intend to . . . and then there’s the house in Spain . . .’ He pulled out a chair to sit at the kitchen table. He was trying to stay calm. In truth, he was reeling a bit. He hadn’t expected it.

‘Yes.’ She went and picked up her trainers from their place beside the back door and sat down opposite him. ‘Let’s talk about that.’

‘Okay. Of course. What is it you want to talk about?’

‘When? I want to talk about when.’

‘As in?’ He swung his head from side to side and his expression screwed into an awkward smile.

‘There must be a timeline, a timescale? You? Me? This house I’ve invested in? When – when, for fuck’s sake?’