A reminder that he was spoken for. Cassie knew about Hannah, and that she was a cop. It was no secret.
‘Too right.’ They rounded another bend and he could see the pub ahead. ‘But if you’re in a hurry…’
‘No hurry at all.’
He swung off the road and into the deserted car park. There was a
‘What would you like?’
‘Whisky, please.’ She gave a theatrical shiver. ‘I need warming up.’
The landlord was a walking cadaver in a frayed cardigan; his false teeth clicked as he pulled on the pump. Scores of hostelries in the Lakes had reinvented themselves as gourmet restaurants, but all The Old Soldier had to offer was a dusty glass cabinet containing a couple of grey sausage rolls and a Cornish pasty. Marc supposed that any customers who hadn’t been driven away by the smoking ban and the smell of disinfectant from behind the bar counter would have been discouraged by the man’s monosyllabic dead-batting of conversation as he poured the drinks. A handwritten sign on the wall proclaimed this as a happy hour. The landlord might not be hot on customer focus, but he had a flair for irony. Beer and cheese-and-onion crisps were on sale at half price, yet there wasn’t another soul to be seen.
‘Slow night?’
The landlord shrugged. ‘About the usual. I’m getting out at the end of the month. The brewery’s selling up.’
Once upon a time, this would have been a sweaty, smoky drinking den, one of thousands across the land, a place where locals met up after a long day at work for a game of dominoes or darts. The younger generation would hate the lack of karaoke machines and football on satellite television. Kids today bought their booze from supermarkets and went bingeing on cheap Stella Artois before throwing up and fighting each other in the nearest village square or shopping parade.
At least he and Cassie had the lounge bar to themselves, and thirty minutes sped by. Marc spent most of them talking and Cassie’s eyes gleamed in the murky light; maybe it was his sparkling conversation, maybe the tumbler of neat Glenfiddich had something to do with it.
She interrogated him about the new house in Ambleside, and he made her laugh with an account of his incompetent efforts at do-it-yourself. He hadn’t even attempted to make the bookshelves himself: that was a job for a skilled tradesman, given the number and weight of books to be borne. He’d even had to check out whether there was a need to reinforce the first floor. But it would be worth it. The house was so close to the fells. You could walk up to the Serpent Tower without breaking sweat.
‘That’s an old folly, isn’t it?’
‘You know it?’
She shook her head. ‘Only read about it. I can’t claim to be much of a walker.’
‘It’s an easy climb, you’ll have to let me show it to you, one of these days.’ He hesitated, not wanting to make it sound like a chat-up line. ‘Come round for lunch one Saturday, perhaps, and then we could head up the fell.’
‘That would be nice.’ She smiled. ‘You never appreciate what’s on your own doorstep.’
‘Hannah and I made it as far as the Serpent Pool on New Year’s Eve, but we had to beat a retreat before the mist came down.’
‘The Serpent Pool.’ She frowned and emptied the tumbler in a single gulp. ‘The name rings a bell.’
‘It’s a narrow stretch of water, some people say it’s shaped like a snake.’ He grimaced. ‘The folly is further up the fell, a much better vantage point. The pool isn’t even big enough to count as a tarn.’
She didn’t say anything, seemed to want him to go on.
‘A woman drowned there, years ago.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, I don’t know the story.’ Not true, but he didn’t want to talk about Bethany Friend. ‘You’d best ask Hannah.’
‘We hardly ever see her in the shop.’
‘She calls in occasionally. Of course, she’s working most of the time.’
‘The hours must be tough if you’re a senior police officer.’
‘Yeah, it…can be difficult.’
Their eyes met for a moment, then Cassie checked her watch.
‘Time to go, I think.’
They didn’t talk much on the rest of the journey. Cassie’s flat was in a quiet backstreet, above a boarded-up sub-post office that had fallen victim to government cutbacks. It was happening all over Cumbria, this whittling away of the bonds that had tied communities together. Pubs, libraries, post offices, primary schools, all closing down. Traditional village life was fading like the worn inscriptions on the stones in country graveyards. In darker moments, he wondered if the day might come when people only talked to each other on social networking sites and Internet chat rooms.
He pulled up outside the building. It was behind Kirkland, a three-storey house, divided into bedsits. Would she invite him in for a coffee? If she did, would he accept?
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘It would have been so miserable waiting for the bus and then bumping along all the way into town.’
‘Any time.’
‘Careful. You wouldn’t want me to take advantage of your good nature.’
He returned her smile. ‘I’m sure you’d never do that.’
‘You don’t know that much about me.’
When he’d tried to find out more about her personal life, she’d parried his oblique questions. He knew nothing about her boyfriend, except that he lived in Grasmere. Maybe he was imaginary, a convenient excuse to avoid unwanted entanglements, like Stuart Wagg’s party, or the attentions of a boss who was stuck in a long-term relationship.
‘It’s early days.’
She gripped the door handle. He wondered if she might be about to kiss him on the cheek, but if that was in her mind, she had second thoughts. She opened the door and jumped out onto the pavement, before thrusting her head back into the car.
‘Goodnight, Marc.’
He nodded towards the building. ‘Convenient. Close to the town centre.’
‘It’s all right. A bit cramped, but space enough for one.’ She pointed to a window on the first floor. ‘That’s my room.’
The door to her flat was down an alleyway at the side of the building. As she fumbled in her bag for her key, she turned to give him a quick wave. He waved back as she disappeared inside.
He didn’t start up the car at once, but sat there in darkness and asked himself again whether he would have followed her in, if she’d invited him.
A light went on in the window above the shuttered post office. He saw her shadow, stretching out long slender arms. Impossible to tell whether she was yawning — or exulting.
He was sure she was taking off her clothes. Sure she knew that he was watching from his car. Why else point out her room?
He pictured her stripping naked. Pictured her beckoning to him, to come upstairs and join her in bed.
But her face did not appear at the window.
He wasn’t sure why he waited there. Ridiculous, really. Perhaps, somewhere deep in his subconscious, he hoped she would change her mind and call him in. Stupid, stupid fantasy. It must be the intoxicating combination of drink and her company.
The shadow disappeared, but he didn’t switch on the ignition for another ten minutes. He couldn’t squeeze her lovely face out of his mind.
