You should talk to old Hayes’ she jerked her head towards the adjoining garages ‘he’s the only one who knew the family.”
“I have talked to him. He doesn’t know either.” She glanced towards the open front door but all she could see was an expanse of peach wall and a triangle of russet carpet.
“I gather the house has been gutted and redecorated. Did you do that yourselves or did you buy it after it was done?”
“We did it ourselves. My old man’s in the building trade. Or was,” she corrected herself.
“He was made redundant ten, twelve months ago. We were lucky, managed to sell our other house without losing too much, and bought this for a song. Did it without a mortgage, too, so we’re not struggling the way some other poor sods are.”
“Has he found another job?” Roz asked sympathetically.
The young woman shook her head.
“Hardly. Building’s all he knows and there’s precious little of that at the moment. Still, he’s trying his best. Can’t do more than that, can he?” She lowered the shears.
“I suppose you’re wondering if we found anything when we gutted the house.”
Roz nodded.
“Something like that.”
“If we had, we’d have told someone.”
“Of course, but I wouldn’t have expected you to find anything incriminating. I was thinking more in terms of impressions. Did the place look loved, for example? Is that why he stayed?
Because he loved it?”
The woman shook her head.
“I reckon it was more of a prison. I can’t swear to it because I don’t know for sure, but my guess is he only used one room and that was the room downstairs at the back, the one that was attached to the kitchen and the cloakroom with its own door into the garden. Maybe he went through to the kitchen to cook, but I doubt it. The connecting door was locked and we never found the key. Plus, there was an ancient Baby Being still plugged into one of the sockets in that room, which the house clearers couldn’t be bothered to take, and my bet is he did all his cooking on that.
The garden was nice. I think he lived in the one room and the garden, and never went into the rest of the house at all.”
“Because the door was locked?”
“No, because of the nicotine. The windows were so thick with it that the glass looked yellow. And the ceiling’ she pulled a face ‘was dark brown. The smell of old tobacco was overpowering. He must have smoked non-stop in there. It was disgusting. But there were no nicotine stains anywhere else in the house. If he ever went beyond the connecting door, then it can’t have been for very long.”
Roz nodded.
“He died of a heart attack.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Would you object to my taking a look inside?”
“There’s no point. It’s completely different. We knocked out any walls that weren’t structural and changed the whole layout downstairs.
If you want to know what it looked like when he was here, then I’ll draw you a plan. But you don’t come in. If I say yes to you, then there’s no end to it, is there? Any Tom, Dick, or Harry can demand to put his foot through our door.”
“Point taken. A plan would be more helpful, anyway.” She reached into the car for a notepad and pencil and passed it across.
“It’s much nicer now,” said the self-possessed young woman, drawing with swift strokes.
“We’ve opened up the rooms and put some colour into them. Poor Mrs.
Martin had no idea at all. I think, you know, she was probably rather boring. There.” She passed the notepad back.
“That’s the best I can do.”
“Thank you,” said Roz studying the plan.
“Why do you think Mrs. Martin was boring?”
“Because everything walls, doors, ceilings, everything was painted white. It was like an operating theatre, cold and antiseptic, without a spot of colour. And she didn’t have pictures either, because there were no marks on the walls.” She shuddered.
“I don’t like houses like that. They never look lived in.”
Roz smiled as she glanced up at the red-brick facade.
“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 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.”