“Judging by the way I feel today, somebody else is at that already.”
A flicker of amusement crossed Olive’s face. She abandoned the smears and fixed Roz with her penetrating stare.
“So what’s wrong with you.”
Roz had spent a weekend in limbo, analysing and re analysing until her brain was on fire.
“Nothing. Just a head ache, that’s all.” And that was true as far as it went.
Her situation hadn’t altered. She was still a prisoner.
Olive screwed her eyes against the smoke.
“Changed your mind about the book?”
“No.”
“OK. Fire away.”
Roz switched on the tape-recorder.
“Second conversation with Olive Martin. Date: Monday, April nineteen.
Tell me about Sergeant Hawksley, Olive, the policeman who arrested you.
Did you get to know him well? How did he treat you?”
If the big woman was surprised by the question, she didn’t show it, but then she didn’t show anything very much. She thought for some moments.
“Was he the dark-haired one? Hal, I think they called him.”
Roz nodded.
“He was all right.”
“Did he bully you?”
“He was all right.” She drew on her cigarette and stared stolidly across the table.
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you he threw up when he saw the bodies?” There was an edge to her voice. Of amusement? Roz wondered. Somehow, amusement didn’t quite square.
“No,” she said.
“He didn’t mention that.”
“He wasn’t the only one.” A short silence.
“I offered to make them a pot of tea but the kettle was in the kitchen.”
She transferred her gaze to the ceiling, aware, perhaps, of having said something tasteless.
“Matter of fact, I liked him. He was the only one who talked to me. I might have been deaf and dumb for all the interest the others showed.
He gave me a sandwich at the police station. He was all right.”
Roz nodded.
“Tell me what happened.”
Olive took another cigarette and lit it from the old one.
“They arrested me.”
“No. I mean before that.”
“I called the police station, gave my address, and said the bodies were in the kitchen.”
“And before that?”
Olive didn’t answer.
Roz tried a different tack.
“The ninth of September, eighty seven was a Wednesday. According to your statement you killed and dismembered Amber and your mother in the morning and early afternoon.” She watched the woman closely.
“Did none of the neighbours hear anything, come and investigate?”
There was a tiny movement at the corner of one eye, a tic, hardly noticeable amidst the fat.
“It’s a man, isn’t it?” said Olive gently.
Roz was puzzled.
“What’s a man?”
Sympathy peeped out from between the puffy, bald lids.
“It’s one of the few advantages of being in a place like this. No men to make your life a misery. You get the odd bit of bother, of course, husbands and boyfriends playing up on the outside, but you don’t get the anguish of a daily relationship.” She pursed her lips in recollection.
“I always envied the nuns, you know.
It’s so much easier when you don’t have to compete.”
Roz played with her pencil. Olive was too canny to discuss a man in her own life, she thought, assuming there had ever been one. Had she told the truth about her abortion?
“But less rewarding,” she said.
A rumble issued from the other side of the table.
“Some reward you’re getting. You know what my father’s favourite expression was? The game is not worth the candle. He used to drive my mother mad with it. But it’s true in your case.
Whoever it is you’re after, he’s not doing you any good.”
Roz drew a doodle on her pad, a fat cherub inside a balloon.
Was the abortion a fantasy, a perverted link in Olive’s mind with Amber’s unwanted son? There was a long silence. She pencilled in the cherub’s smile and spoke without thinking.
“Not whoever,” she said, ‘whatever. It’s what I want, not who I want.”
She regretted it as soon as she’d said it.
“It’s not important.”
Again there was no response and she began to find Olive’s silences oppressive. It was a waiting game, a trap to make her speak. And then what? The toe-curling embarrassment of stammered apologies.
She bent her head.
“Let’s go back to the day of the murders,” she suggested.
A meaty hand suddenly covered hers and stroked the fingers affectionately.
“I know about despair.
I’ve felt it often. If you keep it bottled up, it feeds on itself like a cancer.”
There was no insistence in Olive’s touch. It was a display of friendship, supportive, undemanding.
Roz squeezed the fat, warm fingers in acknowledgement then withdrew her hand. It’s not despair, she was going to say, just overwork and tiredness.
“I’d like to do what you did,” she said in a monotone, ‘and kill someone.” There was a long silence. Her own statement had shocked her.
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
“I doubt it. I haven’t the guts to kill anyone.”
Olive stared at her.
“That doesn’t stop you wanting to,” she said reasonably.
“No. But if you can’t summon the guts then I don’t think the will is really there.” She smiled distantly.
“I can’t even find the guts to kill myself and sometimes I see that as the only sensible option.”
“Why?”
Roz’s eyes were over bright.
“I hurt,” she said simply.
“I’ve been hurting for months.” But why was she telling Olive all this instead of the nice safe psychiatrist Iris had recommended? Because Olive would understand.
“Who do you want dead?” The question vibrated in the air between them like a tolled bell.
Roz thought about the wisdom of answering.
“My ex husband she said.
“Because he left you?”
“No.”
“What did he do?”
But Roz shook her head.
“If I tell you, you’ll try to persuade me I’m wrong to hate him.” She gave a strange laugh.
“And I need to hate him. Sometimes I think it’s the only thing that’s keeping me alive.”
“Yes,” said Olive evenly.
“I can understand that.” She breathed on the window and drew a gallows in the mist with her finger.
“You loved him once.” It was a statement, expecting no reply, but Roz felt compelled to answer.
“I can’t remember now.”
“You must have done.” The fat woman’s voice became a croon.
“You can’t hate what you never loved, you can only dislike it and avoid it. Real hate, like real love, consumes you.”
With a sweep of her large palm she wiped the gallows from the window.
“I suppose,” she went on, matter of factly, ‘you came to see me to find out whether murder is worth it.”
“I don’t know,” Roz said honestly.
“Hall the time I’m in limbo, the other hail I’m obsessed by anger. The only thing I’m sure of is that I’m slowly falling apart.”
Olive shrugged.
“Because it’s inside your head. Like I said, it’s bad to keep things bottled up. It’s a pity you’re not a Catholic. You could go to confession and feel better immediately.”
Such a simple solution had never occurred to Roz.
“I was a Catholic, once. I suppose I sti
ll am.”
Olive took another cigarette and placed it reverently between her lips like a consecrated wafer.
“Obsessions,” she murmured, reaching for a match, ‘are invariably destructive. That, at least, I have learnt.” She spoke sympathetically.
“You need more time before you can talk about it. I understand. You think I’ll pick at the scab and make you bleed again.”
Roz nodded.
You don’t trust people. You’re right. Trust has a way of rebounding.
I know about these things.”
Roz watched her light the cigarette.
“What was your obsession?”
She ificked Roz a strangely intimate look but didn’t answer.
“I needn’t write this book, you know, not if you don’t want me to.”
Olive smoothed her thin blonde hair with the back of her thumb.
“It’ll upset Sister Bridget if we give up now. I know you’ve seen her.”
“Does that matter?”
Olive shrugged.
“It might upset you if we give up now. Does that matter?”
She smiled suddenly and her whole face brightened. How very nice she looked, thought Roz.
“Maybe, maybe not,” she said.
“I’m not convinced myself that I want to write it.”
“Why not?”
Roz pulled a face.
“I should hate to turn you into a freak side-show.”
“Aren’t I that already?”
“In here perhaps. Not outside. They’ve forgotten all about you outside. It may be better to leave it that way.”
“What would persuade you to write it?”
“If you tell me why.”
The silence grew between them. Ominous.
“Have they found my nephew?” Olive asked at last.
“I don’t think so.” Roz frowned.
“How did you know they were looking for him?”
Olive gave a hearty chuckle.
“Cell telegraph.
Everyone knows everything in here. There’s bugger all else to do except mind other people’s business, and we all have solicitors and we all read the newspapers and everyone talks. I could have guessed anyway. My father left a lot of money. He would always leave it to family if he could.”
“I spoke to one of your neighbours, a Mr. Hayes. Do you remember him?” Olive nodded.
“If I understood him right, Amber’s child was adopted by some people called Brown who’ve since emigrated to Australia. I assume that’s why Mr. Crew’s firm is having so much difficulty in tracing him. Big place, cone on name.”
She waited for a moment but Olive didn’t say anything.
“Why do you want to know? Does it make a difference to you whether he’s found or not?”
“Maybe,” she said heavily.
“Why?”
Olive shook her head.
“Do you want him found?”
The door crashed open, startling them both.
“Time’s up, Sculptress. Come on, let’s be having you.” The officer’s voice boomed about the peaceful room, tearing the fabric of their precarious intimacy. Roz saw her own irritation reflected in Olive’s eyes. But the moment was lost.
She gave an involuntary wink.
“It’s true what they say, you know. Time does fly when you’re enjoying yourself. I’ll see you next week.” The huge woman lumbered awkwardly to her feet.
“My father was a very lazy man, which is why he let my mother rule the roost.” She rested a hand against the door jamb to balance herself.
“His other favourite saying, because it annoyed her so much, was: never do today what can always be done tomorrow.” She smiled faintly.
“As a result, of course, he was completely contemptible. The only allegiance he recognised was his allegiance to himself, but it was allegiance without responsibility. He should have studied existentialism.”
Her tongue lingered on the word.
“He would have learnt something about man’s imperative to choose and act wisely. We are all masters of our fate, Roz, including you.” She nodded briefly then turned away, drawing the prison officer and the metal chair into her laborious, shuffling wake.
Now what, Roz wondered, watching them, was that supposed to mean?
“Mrs. Wright?”
“Yes?” The young woman held the front door half open, a restraining hand hooked into her growling dog’s collar. She was pretty in a colourless sort of way, pale and fine drawn with large grey eyes and a swinging bob of straw-gold hair.
Roz offered her card.
“I’m writing a book about Olive Martin. Sister Bridget at your old convent school suggested you might be prepared to talk to me. She said you were the dos est friend Olive had there.”
Geraldine Wright made a pretence of reading the card then offered it back again.
“I don’t think so, thank you.” She said it in the sort of tone she might have used to a Jehovah’s Witness. She prepared to close the door.
Roz held it open with her hand.
“May I ask why not?”
“I’d rather not be involved.”
“I don’t need to mention you by name.” She smiled encouragingly.
“Please, Mrs. Wright. I won’t embarrass you. That’s not the way I work. It’s information I’m after, not exposure. No one will ever know you were connected with her, not through me or my book at least.” She saw a slight hesitancy in the other woman’s eyes.
“Ring Sister Bridget,” she urged.
“I know she’ll vouch for me.”
“Oh, I suppose it’s all right. But only for half an hour. I have to collect the children at three thirty.” She opened the door wide and pulled the dog away from it.
“Come in. The sitting room’s on the left. I’ll have to shut Boomer in the kitchen or he won’t leave us alone.”
Roz walked through into the sitting room, a pleasant, sunny space with wide patio doors opening out on to a small terrace. Beyond, a neat garden, carefully tended, merged effortlessly into a green field with distant cows.
“It’s a lovely view,” she said as Mrs. Wright joined her.
“We were lucky to get it,” said the other woman with some pride.
“The house was rather out of our price range, but the previous owner took a bridging loan on another property just before the interest rates went through the roof. He was so keen to be shot of this one we got it for twenty-five thousand less than he was asking. We’re very happy here.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Roz warmly.
“It’s a beautiful part of the world.”
“Let’s sit down.” She lowered herself gracefully into an armchair.
“I’m not ashamed of my friendship with Olive,” she excused herself.
“I just don’t like talking about it. People are SO persistent. They simply won’t accept that I knew nothing about the murders.” She examined her painted fingernails.
“I hadn’t seen her, you know, for at least three years before it happened and I certainly haven’t seen her since. I really can’t think what I can tell you that will be of any use.”
Roz made no attempt to record the conversation. She was afraid of scaring the woman.
“Tell me what she was like at school,” she said, taking out a pencil and notepad.
“Were you in the same form?”
“Yes, we both stayed on to do A-levels.”
“Did you like her?”
“Not much.” Geraldine sighed.
“That does sound unkind, doesn’t it? Look, you really won’t use my name, will you? I mean, if there’s a chance you will, I just won’t say any more. I should hate Olive to know how I really felt about her. It would be so hurtful.”
Of course it would, thought Roz, but why would you care?
She took some headed notepaper from her briefcase, wrote two sentences on it and signed it. “I, Rosalind Leigh, of the above address, agree to treat all information given to
me by Mrs. Geraldine Wright of Oaktrees, Wooing, Hants, as confidential. I shall not reveal her as the source of any information, either verbally or in writing, now or at any time in the future.” There.
Will that do?” She forced a smile.
“You can sue me for a fortune if I break my word.”
“Oh dear, she’ll guess it’s me. I’m the only one she talked to.
At school, anyway.” She took the piece of paper.
“I don’t know.”
God, what a ditherer! It occurred to Roz then that Olive may well have found the friendship as unrewarding as Geraldine appeared to have done.
“Let me give you an idea of how I’ll use what you tell me, then you’ll see there’s nothing to worry about.
You’ve just said you didn’t like her much. That will end up in the book as something like: “Olive was never popular at school.” Can you go along with that?”
The woman brightened.
“Oh, yes. That’s absolutely true anyway.”
“OK. Why wasn’t she popular?”
“She never really fitted in, I suppose.”
“Why not?”
“Oh dear.” Geraldine shrugged irritatingly.
“Because she was fat, perhaps.”
This was going to be like drawing teeth, slow and extremely painful.
“Did she try to make friends or didn’t she bother?”
“She didn’t really bother. She hardly ever said anything, you know, just used to sit and stare at everyone else while they talked. People didn’t like that very much. To tell you the truth, I think we were all rather frightened of her. She was very much taller than the rest of us.”
“Was that the only reason she scared you? Her size?”
Geraldine thought back.
“It was a sort of overall thing. I don’t know how to describe it. She was very quiet. You could be talking to someone and you’d turn round to find her standing right behind you, staring at you.”
“Did she bully people?”
“Only if they were nasty to Amber.”
“And did that happen often?”
“No. Everyone liked Amber.”
“OK.” Roz tapped her pencil against her teeth.
“You say you were the only one Olive spoke to. What sort of things did you talk about?”
Geraldine plucked at her skirt.
“Just things,” she said unhelpfully.
“I can’t remember now.”
“The sort of things all girls talk about at school.”
“Well, yes, I suppose so.”
Sculptress Page 8
