Free The Cold, Cold Ground by Adrian McKinty Page A

know.
    I
know.
    I walked back to the apartment. I put the key in the lock.
    Quiet.
    The hall.
    Quiet.
    The bedroom.
    Quiet.
    â€œWhere have you be—”
    â€œSssshhh. Sleep.”
    â€œSleep?”
    â€œYes. Sleep.”
    And I got in beside her and we moved from one dream to another …

4: BONEYBEFORE
    I could smell coffee. She cleared her throat. I opened my eyes and looked at her. She was wearing my shirt, no kacks and she was holding a mug of Nescafé.
    She smiled but she didn’t look happy.
    I didn’t envy her her task today up at that awful morgue in Belfast.
    â€œThanks,” I said and took the cup.
    â€œI didn’t know how you liked it so I just made it with milk and two sugars.”
    â€œThat’s fine.”
    â€œYou want some breakfast?”
    â€œIf you’re having something.”
    â€œIt’s already made, come and join me in the living room.”
    â€œOk,” I said.
    She took off my shirt and laid it on the bed.
    â€œAnd get a move on,” she said.
    I admired her small breasts, trim, sexy body and pert arse as she walked away. She was like one of the girls you’d meet out in the country somewhere, you on a bike covered in mud spattle and she trotting past on some massive chestnut hunter. I liked that image. And I liked her. But it was evident that I was being given the bum’s rush.
    She wanted me to dress, eat and go.
    I pulled on me kit and shoes and followed her into the lounge.
    The place looked good in daylight. Very chic: blurry black and white photographs, pastel shades, German furniture and a kitsch kitty cat lamp (at least I hoped it was kitsch). The view through the big windows was of the harbour and the twelfth-century castle.
    She’d made porridge
and
an Ulster fry.
    My porridge came in a packet, hers had been slow cooked for twenty minutes with full cream milk, salt and brown sugar and was so thick that you could stand a spoon vertical in it.
    It was damn good.
    The fry was fine too, sizzling: sausage, egg, bacon, soda bread and potato bread. After this I’d last until dinner or my coronary – whichever came first.
    A doctor, a looker and a cook.
    She was a catch.
    â€œSo what’s your home number?” I asked as I started on the last egg.
    â€œUh, you won’t need it. We won’t be doing this again.”
    I looked for the kid, but there was no kid. She was serious.
    â€œWhat? Why?”
    â€œIt was a momentary … weakness. I am not the kind of girl who bangs on the first date.”
    She was looking at me, her eyes wide and her face frowning. It was, no doubt, an expression she had practised in the mirror for telling patients bad news.
    â€œNeither am I,” I said.
    She gave me a thin smile. “I’m no slag. And it’s not just that.”
    â€œSomething about me?” I wondered aloud.
    â€œNo. Not you. Timing. I just got out of a long-term relationship. It wouldn’t be fair on you.”
    â€œI’d be the rebound guy?”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œI’ll take my chances.”
    She shook her head. “No. No. It’s all too soon. You understand, right? And we’ll be friends. I’m sure I’ll see you around, on a, uh, professional basis.”
    She put out her hand again for that odd formal handshake.
    I was having none of it.
    I pulled her close and she was having none of that.
    â€œNo,” she said and
shoved
.
    She got up from the table, went to the radio and turned it on. Juice Newton was singing “Queen of Hearts”. It was a song I had grown to hate over the previous week.
    I regarded her with amazement and she returned my gaze with a fixed, impatient look of her own.
    â€œI suppose you think you’re better than me,” I very nearly said but didn’t.
    I finished my tea in a gulp.
    â€œAll right. I imagine I’ll see you around then, Dr Cathcart,” I said, pushing the chair back.
    â€œYes,” she