“I was, once. Now I’m just plain Hal.” He turned round and poured the wine into two glasses.
“Who’s asking?”
She opened her bag again.
“I’ve got a card somewhere.”
“A voice would do just as well.” He pushed one of the glasses towards her.
“Rosalind Leigh,” she said shortly, propping the card against the telephone on the bar.
She stared at him in the semi-darkness, her embarrassment temporarily forgotten. He was hardly a run of the mill restaurateur. If she had any sense, she thought, she would take to her heels now. He hadn’t shaved and his dark suit hung in rumpled folds as if he’d slept in it.
He had no tie and half the buttons on his shirt were missing, revealing a mass of tight black curls on his chest. A swelling contusion on his upper left cheek was rapidly closing the eye above it, and thick dried blood encrusted both nostrils. He raised his glass with an ironic smile.
“To your good health, Rosalind. Welcome to the Poacher.” There was a lilt to his voice, a touch of Geordie, tempered by long association with the South.
“It might be more sensible to drink to your good health,” she said bluntly.
“You look as though you need it.”
“To us then. May we both get the better of whatever ails us.
“Which, in your case, would appear to be a steamroller.”
He fingered the spreading bruise.
“Not far off,” he agreed.
“And you? What ails you?”
“Nothing,” she said lightly.
“I’m fine.”
“Sure you are.” His dark eyes rested kindly on her for a moment.
“You’re half alive and I’m hail dead.”
He drained his glass and filled it again.
“What did you want with Sergeant Hawksley?”
She glanced about the room.
“Shouldn’t you be opening up?”
“What for?”
She shrugged.
“Customers.”
“Customers,” he echoed thoughtfully.
“Now there’s beautiful word.” He gave a ghost of a chuckle.
“They’re an endangered species, or haven’t you heard? The last time I saw a customer was three days ago, a skinny little runt with a rucksack on his back who was scratching about in search of a vegetarian omelette and decaffeinated coffee.” He fell silent.
“Depressing.”
“Yes.”
She eased herself on to the stool again.
“It’s not your fault,” she said sympathetically.
“It’s the recession. Everyone’s going under. Your neighbours already have, by the look of it.” She gestured towards the door.
He reached up and flicked a switch at the side of the bar. Muted lamplight glowed around the walls, bringing a sparkle to the glasses on the tables. She looked at him with alarm. The contusion on his cheek was the least of his problems. Bright red blood was seeping from a scab above his ear and running down his neck. He seemed unaware of it.
“Who did you say you were?” His dark eyes searched hers for a moment then moved past her to search the room.
“Rosalind Leigh. I think I should call an ambulance,” she said helplessly.
“You’re bleeding.”
She had a strange feeling of being outside herself, quite remote from this extraordinary situation. Who was this man?
Not her responsibility, certainly. She was a simple bystander who had stumbled upon him by accident.
“I’ll call your wife,” she said.
He gave a lopsided grin.
