“I’m glad it’s you who bought it. I should think it feels lived in flow. I don’t believe in ghosts myself.”
“Put it this way, if you want to see ghosts, you’ll see them.
If you don’t, you won’t.” She tapped the side of her head.
“It’s all in the mind. My old dad used to see pink elephants but no one ever thought his house was haunted.”
Roz was laughing as she drove away.
SIX
The car park of the Poacher was as deserted as before but this time itw as three o’clock in the afternoon, lunchtime was over, and the door was bolted. Roz tapped on the window pane but, getting no response, made her way round to the alley at the back where the kitchen door must be.
It stood ajar and from inside came the sound of singing.
“Hello,” she called.
“Sergeant Hawksley?” She put her hand on the door to push it wider and almost lost her balance when it was whipped away from her.
“You did that on purpose!” she snapped.
“I could have broken my arm.”
“Good God, woman,” he said in mock disgust.
“Can’t you open your mouth without nagging? I’m beginning to think I did my ex-wife an injustice.” He crossed his arms, a fish slice dangling from one hand.
“What do you want this time?”
He had a peculiar talent for putting her at a disadvantage. She bit back an angry retort.
“I’m sorry,” she said instead.
“It’s just that I nearly fell over. Look, are you busy at the moment or can I come in and talk to you?” She examined his face warily for signs of further damage but there were none that hadn’t been there before.
“I’m busy.”
“What if I came back in an hour? Could you talk then?”
“Maybe.”
She gave a rueful smile.
“I’il try again at four.”
He watched her walk up the alleyway.
“What are you going to do for an hour?” he called after her.
She turned round.
“I expect I’il sit in the car. I’ve some flotes to work on.”
He swung the fish slice.
“I’m cooking steak au poivre with some lightly steamed vegetables and potatoes fried in butter.”
“Bully for you,” she said.
“There’s enough for two.”
She smiled.
“Is that an invitation or a refined form of torture?”
“It’s an invitation.”
She came back slowly.
“Actually, I’m starving.”
A slight smile warmed his face.
“So what’s new?” He took her into the kitchen and pulled out a chair at the table. He eyed her critically as he turned the gas up under some simmering pans.
“You look as if you haven’t had a square meal in days.”
“I haven’t.” She recalled what the young policeman had said.
“Are you a good cook?”
He turned his back on her without answering, and she regretted the question. Talking to Hawksley was almost as intimidating as talking to Olive. She couldn’t speak, it seemed, without treading on a nerve.
Except for a muted thank you when he poured her a glass of wine she sat in uncomfortable silence for five minutes, wondering how to open the conversation. She was highly doubtful that he would greet her proposed book on Olive with any enthusiasm.
He placed the steaks on warmed plates, surrounded them with fried whole potatoes, steamed mange tout and
