Dead Ground in Between Read Online Free

The girl he had fallen for when they were children together. She’d left him once before, and he’d bounced into a marriage doomed from the start to be unhappy. Then, for a brief, brief, glorious season two years ago, she’d returned. To his arms, to his bed. A tantalizingly short time together.
    Give your love to somebody else
. Yeah? Who? Who could replace Clare?
    He slid out of bed. Christ, it was perishing. Usually he heard the friendly sounds of his sergeant as Rowell trotted around the kitchen preparing breakfast, but not even that early bird was up yet. Tyler knew he was getting spoiled. Every morning, Rowell made the toast, had the kettle on the boil ready for tea. Almost as good as a wife but without the intimacy of sex. Sex! He’d practically forgotten what that was like.
Give your love to somebody else
. At this moment, it almost felt like good advice.
    He hopped over to the window, his toes curling against the cold of the linoleum, and pulled back the blackout curtain. Rain fell in sheets past the window. He wondered if the weather was this bad where Clare was. Probably not. Probably Switzerland was bright and sunny with a blue sky and crisp white snow. If that’s where she was. He didn’t even know that for sure. She might have been reassigned to another country. She might even have been back in England and just not able to tell him. Perhaps the truth was that her love had died, and this dismissal was just a ploy to get him off her conscience.
    No, in spite of his distress, he believed the letter. He trusted in Clare’s loyalty. For whatever reasons, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t be coming back for a very long time.
    He leaned his forehead against the icy windowpane. He hoped she was at least safe.
Give your love to somebody else
. How the hell could he do that unless he knew what had happened to her? He dropped the curtain and skittered to the wardrobe. Might as well get dressed and make himself useful.
    Not for the first time, he made a mental note to do something about cheering up his living quarters. His bedroom was pretty basic in terms of furnishings, but he’d hung up two pictures after he’d moved in. One was a photograph of Jimmy and Janet taken on the boardwalk at Rhyl, where they’d all gonefor a holiday one summer. They were skinny kids in bathing suits, sand still clinging to their legs. Jimmy had lost his front teeth but it didn’t stop him grinning like a Cheshire cat. They were happy.
    The other was an oil painting he’d discovered in the Whitchurch market two years ago. It was a portrait of Clare done by an artist she’d met in Europe. He’d bought it on the spot when he’d recognized her. Moving into this house had given him his first opportunity to actually hang it. He regarded it for a moment. Perhaps he should take it down, stuff it in the wardrobe. Why torment himself?
    —
    Tim awoke with a start. The oil lamp was lit, and he could make out Sam on his hands and knees on the floor.
    “What’re you doing?”
    “I decided to check our earnings,” said Sam. He slipped the chamber pot out from under the bed.
    They never used it for its intended purpose but kept it to hold the profits from their little business. Mrs. Mohan never came into their room, and wouldn’t have checked the chamber pot if she had. Sam removed the lid and upended the contents on the coverlet.
    “Do you want to count it, Timmy, or shall I?”
    “You. I trust you.”
    Sam glared at him. “What do you mean, you trust me? What the hell do you think I’m going to do? Slip a couple of shillings into my pocket?”
    Tim raised his hands in a placating manner. “Keep your shirt on. I was only joking. Go ahead and count away. Shall I get up?”
    “In a minute.”
    “Did you lay the nets?”
    Sam shook his head. “No, I didn’t. The wind was too fierce. It’ll need both of us.”
    He stirred the pile of notes and coins in the pot. Tim pulled the blanket up under his chin for warmth and