“She’s kosher,” he had said.
“A London-based author. Divorced.
Had a daughter who died in a car accident. No previous connections with anyone in the area. Sorry, Hal.”
“OK,” Roz said mildly, ‘but you must admit it’s very intriguing. I was effectively warned off eating here by a police man when I went to the station to find out where you were. I’ve been wondering why ever since. With friends like that you don’t really need enemies, do you?”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Then you’re very brave to accept my hospitality a second time.” He held the door wide.
She walked past him into the kitchen.
“Just greedy,” she said.
“You’re a better cook than I am. In any case, I intend to pay for what I eat unless, of course’ her smile didn’t reach her eyes either ‘this isn’t a restaurant at all, but a front for something else.”
That amused him.
“You’ve an overactive imagination.” He pulled out a chair for her.
“Maybe,” she said, sitting down.
“But I’ve never met a restaurateur before who barricades himself behind bars, presides over empty tables, has no staff, and looms up in the dark looking like something that’s been fed through a mincing machine.”
She arched her eyebrows.
“If you didn’t cook so well, I’d be even more inclined to think this wasn’t a restaurant.”
He leaned forward abruptly and removed her dark glasses, folding them and laying them on the table.
“And what should I deduce from this?” he said, unexpectedly moved by the damage done to her beautiful eyes.
“That you’re not a writer because someone’s left his handprints all over your face?” He frowned suddenly.
“It wasn’t Olive, was it?”
She looked surprised.
“Of course not.”
“Who was it, then?”
She dropped her gaze.
“No one. It’s not important.”
He waited for a moment.
“Is it someone you care about?”
“No.” She da sped her hands loosely on the table top.
“Rather the reverse. It’s someone I don’t care about.” She looked up with a half smile.
“Who beat you up, Sergeant? Someone you care about?”
He pulled open a fudge door and examined its contents.
“One of these days your passion for poking your nose into other people’s business is going to get you into trouble. What do you fancy?
Lamb?”
“I really came to see you for some more information,” she told him over coffee.
Humour creased his eyes. He really was extraordinarily attractive, she thought, wistfully aware that the attraction was all one way. Lunch had been a friendly but distant meal, with a large sign between them saying: so far and no further.
“Go on, then.”
“Do you know the O’Brien family? They live on the Barrow Estate.”
“Everyone knows the O’Briens.” He frowned at her.
“But if there’s a connection between them and Olive I’ll eat my hat.”
“You’re going to have galloping indigestion then,” she said acidly.
“I’ve been told she was going out with one of the sons at the time of the murders. Probably Gary, the youngest. What’s he like? Have you met him?”
He linked his hands behind his head.
“Someone’s winding you up,” he murmured.
“Gary is marginally brighter than the rest of them, but I’d guess his educational level is still about fourteen years old. They are the most useless, inadequate bunch I’ve ever come across. The only thing they know how to do is petty thieving and they don’t even do that very well.
There’s Ma O’Brien and about nine children, mostly boys, all grown up now, and, when they’re not in prison, they play box and cox in a three-bed roomed house on the estate.”
