Free The Sculptress by Minette Walters Page A

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