The Sculptress (8 page)

He shook his head. ‘Jacked it in, twelve – eighteen
months ago.’ He leaned his elbows on the counter
and eyed her over with an approving glance. ‘Will I
do instead?’

Her lips curved involuntarily. ‘Perhaps you can tell
me where he went?’

‘Sure. He opened a restaurant in Wenceslas Street.
Lives in the flat above it.’

‘And how do I find Wenceslas Street?’

‘Well, now’ – he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully – ‘by
far the easiest way is to hang around for half an hour
till the end of my shift. I’ll take you.’

She laughed. ‘And what would your girlfriend say
to that?’

‘A ruddy mouthful. She’s got a tongue like a chainsaw.’
He winked. ‘I won’t tell her if you won’t.’

‘Sorry, sunshine. I’m shackled to a husband who
hates policemen only marginally less than he hates
toy-boys.’ Lies were always easier.

He grinned. ‘Turn left out of the station and Wenceslas
Street is about a mile down on the left. There’s
an empty shop on the corner. The Sergeant’s restaurant
is bang next door to it. It’s called the Poacher.’
He tapped his pencil on the desk. ‘Are you planning
to eat there?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s purely business. I don’t intend
to hang around.’

He nodded approval. ‘Wise woman. The Sergeant’s
not much of a cook. He’d have done better to stick
with policing.’

She had to pass the restaurant to reach the London
road. Rather reluctantly she pulled into its abandoned
car park and climbed out of the car. She was tired,
she hadn’t planned on talking to Hawksley that day,
and the young constable’s light-hearted flirtation
depressed her because it had left her cold.

The Poacher was an attractive red-brick building, set
back from the road with the car park in front. Leaded
bay windows curved out on either side of a solid oak
door and wistaria, heavy with buds, grew in profusion
across the whole façade. Like St Angela’s Convent it
was at odds with its surroundings. The shops on either
side, both apparently empty, their windows a repository
for advertising stickers, complemented each other
in cheap post-war pragmatism but did nothing for the
old faded beauty in their midst. Worse, a thoughtless
council had allowed a previous owner to erect a two-storey
extension behind the red-brick frontage, and it
gloomed above the restaurant’s tiled roof in dirty
pebble-dashed concrete. An attempt had been made
to divert the wistaria across the roof but, starved of
sunlight by the jutting property to the right, the probing
tendrils showed little enthusiasm for reaching up
to veil the dreary elevation.

Roz pushed open the door and went inside. The place
was dark and deserted. Empty tables in an empty
room, she thought despondently. Like her. Like her
life. She was on the point of calling out, but thought
better of it. It was all so peaceful and she was in no
hurry. She tiptoed across the floor and took a stool at
a bar in the corner. A smell of cooking lingered on
the air, garlicky, tempting, reminding her that she
hadn’t eaten all day. She waited a long time, unseen
and unheard, a trespasser upon another’s silence. She
thought about leaving, unobtrusively, as she had
come, but it was strangely restful and her head
drooped against her hand. Depression, an all too constant
companion, folded its arms around her again,
and turned her mind, as it often did, to death. She
would do it one day. Sleeping pills or the car. The car,
always the car. Alone, at night, in the rain. So easy
just to turn the wheel and find a peaceful oblivion. It
would be justice of a sort. Her head hurt where the
hate swelled and throbbed inside it. God, what a mess
she had become. If only someone could lance her
destructive anger and let the poison go. Was Iris right?
Should she see a psychiatrist? Without warning, the
terrible unhappiness burst like a flood inside her,
threatening to spill out in tears.

‘Oh, shit!’ she muttered furiously, dashing at her
eyes with the palms of her hands. She scrabbled in
her bag for her car keys. ‘Shit! Shit! And more bloody
shit! Where the hell are you?’

A slight movement caught her attention and she
lifted her head abruptly. A shadowy stranger leant
against the back counter, quietly polishing a glass and
watching her.

She blushed furiously and looked away. ‘How long
have you been there?’ she demanded angrily.

‘Long enough.’

She retrieved her keys from the inside of her diary
and glared at him briefly. ‘What’s that supposed to
mean?’

He shrugged. ‘Long enough.’

‘Yes, well, you’re obviously not open yet, so I’ll be
on my way.’ She pushed herself off the stool.

‘Suit yourself,’ he said with supreme indifference.
‘I was just about to have a glass of wine. You can go
or you can join me. I’m easy either way.’ He turned
his back on her and uncorked a bottle. The colour
receded from her cheeks.

‘Are you Sergeant Hawksley?’

He lifted the cork to his nose and sniffed it
appreciatively. ‘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 half 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
a 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 lop-sided grin. ‘Why not? She always
enjoyed a good laugh. Presumably she still does.’ He
reached for a tea-towel and held it to his head. ‘Don’t
worry, I’m not going to die on you. Head wounds
always look worse than they are. You’re very beautiful.
“From the east to western Ind, No jewel is like
Rosalind.” ’

‘It’s Roz and I’d rather you didn’t quote that,’ she
said sharply. ‘It annoys me.’

He shrugged. ‘
As You Like It
.’

She sucked in an angry breath. ‘I suppose you think
that’s original.’

‘A tender nerve, I see. Who are we talking about?’
He looked at her ring finger. ‘Husband? Ex-husband?
Boyfriend?’

She ignored him. ‘Is there anyone else here? Someone
in the kitchen? You should have that cut cleaned.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘In fact you should have this
place
cleaned. It stinks of fish.’ The smell, once
noticed, was appalling.

‘Are you always this rude?’ he asked curiously. He
rinsed the tea-towel under a tap and watched the
blood run out of it. ‘It’s me,’ he said matter of factly.
‘I went for a ride on a ton of mackerel. Not a pleasant
experience.’ He gripped the edge of the small sink
and stood staring into it, head lowered in exhaustion,
like a bull before the
coup de grâce
of the matador.

‘Are you all right?’ Roz watched him with a perplexed
frown creasing her forehead. She didn’t know
what to do. It wasn’t her problem, she kept telling
herself, but she couldn’t just walk away from it. Supposing
he passed out? ‘Surely there’s someone I can
call,’ she insisted. ‘A friend. A neighbour. Where do
you live?’ But she knew that. In the flat above, the
young policeman had said.

‘Jesus, woman,’ he growled, ‘give it a rest, for
Christ’s sake.’

‘I’m only trying to help.’

‘Is that what you call it? It sounded more like
nagging to me.’ He was alert suddenly, listening to
something she couldn’t hear.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, alarmed by his
expression.

‘Did you lock the door after you?’

She stared at him. ‘No. Of course I didn’t.’

He dowsed the lights and padded across to the
entrance door, almost invisible in the sudden darkness.
She heard the sound of bolts being thrust home.

‘Look—’ she began, getting off her stool.

He loomed up beside her and put an arm around
her shoulder and a finger to her lips. ‘Quiet, woman.’
He held her motionless.

‘But—’

‘Quiet!’

A car’s headlamps swept across the windows, slicing
the darkness with white light. The engine throbbed
in neutral for a moment or two, then the gears
engaged and the vehicle drove away. Roz tried to
draw away but Hawksley’s arm only gripped her more
firmly. ‘Not yet,’ he whispered.

They stood in silent immobility among the tables,
statues at a spectral feast. Roz shook herself free
angrily. ‘This is absolutely absurd,’ she hissed. ‘I don’t
know what on earth is going on but I’m not staying
like this for the rest of the night. Who was in that
car?’

‘Customers,’ he said regretfully.

‘You’re mad.’

He took her hand. ‘Come on,’ he whispered, ‘we’ll
go upstairs.’

‘We will not,’ she said, snatching her hand away.
‘My God, doesn’t anyone think about anything except
screwing these days.’

Amused laughter fanned her face. ‘Who said anything
about screwing?’

‘I’m going.’

‘I’ll see you out.’

She took a deep breath. ‘Why do you want to go
upstairs?’

‘My flat’s up there and I need a bath.’

‘So what do you want me for?’

He sighed. ‘If you remember, Rosalind, it was you
who came in here asking for me. I’ve never met a
woman who was so damn prickly.’

‘Prickly!’ she stuttered. ‘My God, that’s rich. You
stink to high heaven, you’ve obviously been in a fight,
you plunge us into total darkness, moan about not
having any customers and then turn them away when
they do come, make me sit for five minutes without
moving, try to manhandle me upstairs . . .’ She paused
for breath. ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she blurted
out.

‘Oh, great! That’s all I need.’ He took her hand
again. ‘Come on. I’m not going to rape you. To tell
you the truth I haven’t the strength at the moment.
What’s wrong?’

She stumbled after him. ‘I haven’t eaten all day.’

‘Join the club.’ He led her through the darkened
kitchen and unlocked a side door, reaching past her
to switch on some lights. ‘Up the stairs,’ he told
her, ‘and the bathroom’s on the right.’

She could hear him double-locking the door
behind her as she collapsed on the lavatory seat and
pressed her head between her knees, waiting for the
waves of nausea to pass.

The light came on. ‘Here. Drink this. It’s water.’
Hawksley squatted on the floor in front of her and
looked into her white face. She had skin like creamy
alabaster and eyes as dark as sloes. A very cold beauty,
he thought. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘What?’

‘Whatever’s making you so unhappy.’

She sipped the water. ‘I’m not unhappy. I’m
hungry.’

He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself
upright. ‘OK. Let’s eat. How does sirloin steak
sound?’

She smiled weakly. ‘Wonderful.’

‘Thank God for that! I’ve got a freezer full of the
flaming stuff. How do you like it?’

‘Rare but—’

‘But what?’

She pulled a face. ‘I think it’s the smell that’s
making me sick.’ She put her hands to her mouth.
‘I’m sorry but I really think it would be better if
you got cleaned up first. Mackerel-flavoured sirloin
doesn’t appeal over much.’