baby carrots, and garnished them with the juices from the pan.
“There,” he said, whisking a plate in front of Roz, apparently unaware of her discomfort, ‘that’ll put some colour in your cheeks.” He sat down and attacked his own plate.
“Well, come on, woman. What are you waiting for?”
“A knife and fork.”
“Ah!” He pulled open a drawer in the table and slid some cutlery across.
“Now, get stuck in and don’t yatter while you’re eating. Food should be enjoyed for its own sake.”
She needed no further bidding but set to with a will.
“Fabulous,” she said at last, pushing her empty plate to one side with a sigh of contentment.
“Absolutely fabulous.”
He arched a sardonic eyebrow.
“So what’s the verdict? Can I cook or can I cook?”
She laughed.
“You can cook. May I ask you something?”
He filled her empty glass.
“If you must.”
“If I hadn’t turned up would you have eaten all that yourself?”
“I might have drawn the line at one steak.” He paused.
“Then again I might not. I’ve no bookings for tonight and they don’t keep. I’d probably have eaten them both.”
She heard the trace of bitterness in his voice.
“How much longer can you stay open without customers?” she asked incautiously.
He ignored the question.
“You said you wanted to talk to me,” he reminded her.
“What about?”
She nodded. Apparently, he had no more desire than she to lick wounds in public.
“Olive Martin,” she told him.
“I’m writing a book about her. I believe you were one of the arresting officers.”
He didn’t answer immediately but sat looking at her over the rim of his wine glass.
“Why Olive Martin?”
“She interests me.” It was impossible to gauge his reaction.
“Of course.” He shrugged.
“She did something completely horrific. You’d be very unnatural if you didn’t find her interesting. Have you met her?”
She nodded.
“And?”
“I like her.”
“Only because you’re naive.” He stretched his long arms towards the ceiling, cracking the joints in his shoulders.
“You steeled yourself to delve in the sewer, expecting to pull out a monster, and you’ve landed yourself something comparatively pleasant instead. Olive’s not unusual in that. Most criminals are pleasant most of the time. Ask any prison officer. They know better than anyone that the penal system relies almost entirely on the goodwill of the prisoners.” His eyes narrowed.
“But Olive hacked two completely innocent women to death. The fact that she presents a human face to you now doesn’t make what she did any less horrific.”
“Have I said it does?”
“You’re writing a book about her. Even if you castigate her, she will still be something of a celebrity.” He leaned forward, his tone unfriendly.
“But what about her mother and sister?
Where is the justice for them in giving their murderer the thrill and the kudos of being written about?”
Roz dropped her eyes.
“It does worry me,” she admitted.
“No, that’s wrong.” She looked up.
“It did worry me. I’m a little more sure now of where I’m heading. But I take your point about her victims. It’s all too easy to focus on Olive. She’s alive and they’re dead, and the dead are difficult to recreate.
