Sculptress

by Minette Walters

  “I really don’t like to think about it too much. It makes me sick when I think about it.”

  Her lower lip wobbled violently.

  “OK,” said Roz easily, ‘let’s concentrate on something else.

  What made you stay? Why didn’t you run out into the road and call for help?”

  Olive mopped at her eyes.

  “I couldn’t move,” she said simply.

  “I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I just stood there thinking how ashamed my mother would be when people saw her without her clothes on.” Her lip kept wobbling like some grotesque toddler’s.

  “I felt so ill. I wanted to sit down but there wasn’t a chair.” She held her hand to her mouth and swallowed convulsively.

  “And then Mrs. Clarke started banging on the kitchen window. She kept screaming that God would never forgive my wickedness, and there was dribble coming out of her mouth.” A shudder ran through the big shoulders.

  “I knew I had to shut her up because she was making it all so much worse. So I picked up the rolling pin and ran across to the back door.” She sighed.

  “But I fell over and she wasn’t there any more anyway.”

  “Is that when you called the police?”

  “No.” The wet face worked horribly.

  “I can’t remember it all now. I went mad for a bit because I had their blood all over me and I kept scraping my hands to clean them. But everything I touched was bloody.” Her eyes widened at the memory.

  “I’ve always been so clumsy and the floor was slippery. I kept stumbling over them and disturbing them and then I had to touch them to put them back again and there was more blood on me.”

  The sorrowful eyes flooded again.

  “And I thought, this is all my fault. If I’d never been born this would never have happened. I sat down for a long time because I felt sick.”

  Roz looked at the bowed head in bewilderment.

  “But why didn’t you tell the police all this?”

  She raised drowned blue eyes to Roz’s.

  “I was going to, but nobody would talk to me. They all thought I’d done it, you see.

  And all the time I was thinking how it was all going to come out, about Edward and me, and Edward and my father, and the abortion, and Amber, and her baby, and I thought how much less embarrassing it would be for everyone if I said Ididit.”

  Roz kept her voice deliberately steady.

  “Who did you think had done it?”

  Olive looked miserable.

  “I didn’t think about that for ages.”

  She hunched her shoulders as if defending herself.

  “And then I knew my father had done it and they’d find me guilty whatever happened because he was the only one who could save me.” She plucked at her lips.

  “And after that, it was quite a relief just to say what everyone wanted me to say. I didn’t want to go home, you see, not with Mum dead, and Edward next door and everyone knowing. I couldn’t possibly have gone home.”

  “How did you know your father had done it?”

  A whimper of pure pain, like a wounded animal’s, crooned from Olive’s mouth.

  “Because Mr. Crew was so beastly to me.”

  Sorrow poured in floods down her cheeks.

  “He used to come to our house sometimes and he’d pat me on the shoulder and say: “How’s Olive?” But in the police station’ she buried her face in her hands ‘he held a handkerchief to his mouth to stop himself being sick and stood on the other side of the room and said: “Don’t say anything to me or the police, or I won’t be able to help you.” I knew then.”

  Roz frowned.

  “How? I don’t understand.”

  “Because Dad was the only person who knew I wasn’t there, but he never said a word to Mr. Crew before, or to the police afterwards. Dad must have done it or he’d have tried to save me. He let me go to prison because he was a coward.” She sobbed loudly.

  “And then he died and left his money to Amber’s child when he could have left a letter, saying I was innocent.”

  She beat her hands against her knees.

  “What did it matter once he was dead?”

  Roz took the cigarette from Olive’s fingers and stood it on the table.

  “Why didn’t you tell the police you thought it was your father who had done it? Sergeant Hawksley would have listened to you. He already suspected your father.”

  The fat woman stared at the table.

  “I don’t want to tell you.”

  “You must, Olive.”

  “You’ll laugh.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I was hungry.”

  Roz shook her head in perplexity.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The sergeant brought me a sandwich and said I could have a proper dinner when we’d finished the statement.” Her eyes welled again.

  “I hadn’t eaten all day and I was so hungry,” she wailed.

  “It was quicker when I said what they wanted me to say and then I got my dinner.” She wrung her hands.

  “People will laugh, won’t they?”

  Roz wondered why it had never occurred to her that Olive’s insatiable craving for food might have been a contributory factor in her confession. Mrs. Hopwood had described her as a compulsive eater and stress would have piled on the agonies of the wretched girl’s hunger.

  “No,” she said firmly, ‘no one will laugh. But why did you insist on pleading guilty at your trial?

  You could have made a fight of it then. You’d had time to think and get over the shock.”

  Olive wiped her eyes.

  “It was too late. I’d confessed. I had nothing to fight with except diminished responsibility and I wasn’t going to let Mr. Crew call me a psychopath. I hate Mr. Crew.”

  “But if you’d told someone the truth they might have believed you.

  You’ve told me and I’ve believed you.”

  Olive shook her head.

  “I’ve told you nothing,” she said simply.

  “Everything you know you’ve found out for yourself.

  That’s why you believe it.” Her eyes flooded again.

  “I did try at the beginning, when I first came to prison. I told the Chaplain but he doesn’t like me and thought I was telling lies. I’d confessed, you see, and only the guilty confess. The psychiatrists were the most frightening. I thought if I denied the crime and didn’t show any remorse, they’d say I was sociopathic and send me to Broadmoor.”

  Roz looked at the bent head with compassion. Olive had never really stood a chance. And who was to blame at the end of the day? Mr. Crew?

  Robert Martin? The police? Poor Gwen even, whose dependence on her daughter had mapped Olive’s life. Michael Jackson had said it all: “She was one of those people you only think about when you want something done and then you remember them with relief because you know they’ll do it.” It had never been Amber who set out to please, she thought, only Olive, and as a result she had grown completely dependent herself. With no one to tell her what to do she had taken the line of least resistance.

  “You’ll be hearing this officially in the next few days but I’m damned if you should have to wait for it. Mr. Crew is on bail at the moment, charged with embezzlement of your father’s money and conspiracy to defraud. He may also be charged with conspiracy to murder.” There was a long pause before Olive looked up.

  The strange awareness was back in her eyes, a look of triumphant confirmation that made the hair prickle on the back of Roz’s neck. She thought of Sister Bridget’s simple assertion of her truth: You were chosen, Roz, and I wasn’t. And Olive’s truth? What was Olive’s truth?

  “I know already.” Idly Olive removed a pin from the front of her dress.

  “Prison grapevine,” she explained.

  “Mr. Crew hired the Hayes brothers to do over Sergeant Hawksley’s restaurant.

  You were there, and you and the Sergeant got beaten up. I’m sorry about that but I�
��m not sorry about anything else. I never liked Mr.

  Hayes much. He always ignored me and talked to Amber.” She stuck the pin into the tabletop. Bits of dried clay and wax still clung to the head.

  Roz arched an eyebrow at the pin.

  “It’s superstitious rubbish, Olive.”

  “You said it works if you believe in it.”

  Roz shrugged.

  “I was joking.”

  “The Encyclopaedia Britannica doesn’t joke.” Olive chanted in a sing-song voice: “Page 96, volume 25, general heading: Occultism.” She clapped her hands excitedly like an over boisterous child and raised her voice to a shout. ‘“Witchcraft worked in Salem because the persons involved believed in it.” She saw the frown of alarm on Roz’s face.

  “It’s all nonsense,” she said calmly.

  “Will Mr. Crew be convicted?”

  “I don’t know. He’s claiming that your father gave him the go-ahead, as executor, to invest the money while the searches were made for your nephew, and the bugger is’ she smiled grimly ‘if the property market takes off again, which it probably will, his investments look very healthy.” Of the other charges, only the conspiracy to defraud Hal of the Poacher had any chance of sticking, purely because Stewart Hayes’s brother, a far weaker character than Stewart, had collapsed under police questioning.

  “He’s denying everything, but the police seem fairly optimistic they can pin assault charges on both him and the Hayes boys. I’d give anything to get him for negligence where your case was concerned. Was he one of the people you tried to tell the truth to?”

  “No,” said Olive regretfully.

  “There was no point. He’d been Dad’s solicitor for years. He’d never have believed Dad had done it.”

  Roz started to gather her bits and pieces together.

  “Your father didn’t kill your mother and sister, Olive. He thought you did. Gwen and Amber were alive when he went to work the next morning.

  As far as he was concerned, your statement was completely true.”

  “But he knew I wasn’t there.”

  Roz shook her head.

  “I’ll never be able to prove it but I don’t suppose he even realised you’d gone. He slept downstairs, remember, and I’ll bet a pound to a penny you slipped out quietly to avoid attracting attention to yourself. If you’d only agreed to see him, you’d have sorted it out.”

  She stood up.

  “It’s water under the bridge, but you shouldn’t have punished him, Olive. He was no more guilty than you are. He loved you. He just wasn’t very good at showing it. I suspect his only fault was to take too little notice of the clothes women wore.”

  Olive shook her head.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He told the police your mother owned a nylon overall.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Roz sighed.

  “I suppose because he didn’t want to admit he never looked at her. He wasn’t a bad man, Olive. He couldn’t help his sexuality any more than you or I can help ours. The tragedy for you all was that none of you could talk about it.” She took the pin from the tabletop and wiped the head clean.

  “And I don’t believe for one moment that he would ever have blamed you for what happened. Only himself. That’s why he went on living in the house. It was his atonement.”

  A large tear rolled down Olive’s cheek.

  “He always said the game wasn’t worth the candle.” She held out her hand for the pin.

  “If I’d love him less I’d have hated him less, and it wouldn’t be too late now, would it?”

  TWENTY

  Hal was dozing in the car outside, arms crossed, an old cap pulled over his eyes to block out the sun. He raised his head and surveyed Roz lazily from under the brim as she tugged open the driver’s door.

  “Well?”

  She dumped her briefcase on the back seat and slipped in behind the wheel.

  “She shot my version down in flames.” She gunned the engine into life and reversed out of the parking slot.

  Hal eyed her thoughtfully.

  “So where are we going?”

  “To tear strips off Edward,” she told him.

  “He’s had nothing like the punishment he deserves.”

  “Is that wise? I thought he was a psychopath.” Hal pulled the cap over his eyes again and settled down for another snooze.

  “Still, I’m sure you know what you’re doing.” His faith in Roz was unshakeable. She had more bottle than most of the men he knew.

  “I do.” She inserted the tape she had just made into the deck and rewound it.

  “But you don’t, Sergeant, so cock an ear to this.

  I’m inclined to think it’s you I should be tearing strips off. The wretched child because let’s face it, that’s all she really is, even now was starving, and you promised her a “proper dinner” when she’d finished her statement. No wonder she couldn’t confess fast enough. If she’d told you she hadn’t done it you’d have kept her waiting for her food.” She turned the volume up full blast.

  *

  It took several rings of the doorbell before Edward Clarke finally opened the door to them on the burglar chain. He gestured angrily for them to go away.

  “You have no business here,” he hissed at Roz.

  “I shall call the police if you persist in harassing us.”

  Hal moved into his line of sight, smiling pleasantly.

  “Detective Sergeant Hawksley, Mr. Clarke. Dawlington CID. The Olive Martin case. I’m sure you remember me.”

  A look of dejected recognition crossed Edward’s face.

  “I thought we’d done with all that.”

  “I’m afraid not. May we come in?”

  The man hesitated briefly and Roz wondered if he was going to call Hal’s bluff and demand identification. Apparently not.

  The ingrained British respect for authority ran deep with him.

  He rattled the chain and opened the door, his shoulders slumped in weary defeat.

  “I knew Olive would talk eventually,” he said.

  “She wouldn’t be human if she didn’t.” He showed them into the sitting room.

  “But on my word I knew nothing about the murders.

  If I’d had any idea what she was like, do you really think I’d have befriended her?”

  Roz took the chair she had sat in before and surreptitiously switched on the tape-recorder in her handbag. Hal walked to the window and looked out. Mrs. Clarke was sitting on the small patio at the back of the house, her face, vacant of expression, turned towards the sun.

  “You and Olive were rather more than friends,” he said without hostility, turning back into the room.

  “We didn’t harm anyone,” said Mr. Clarke, unconsciously echoing Olive.

  Roz wondered how old he was. Seventy? He looked more, worn out by care of his wife perhaps. The rough wig she had painted on cellophane over his photograph had been a revelation. It was quite true that hair made a man look younger. He squeezed his hands between his knees as if unsure what to do with them.

  “Or should I say we did not set out with the intention to harm anyone.

  What Olive did was incomprehensible to me.”

  “But you felt no responsibility for it?”

  He stared at the carpet, unable to look at either of them.

  “I assumed she had always been unstable,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Her sister was. I thought it was a genetic thing.”

  “So she behaved oddly before the murders?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “As I say, I wouldn’t have pursued’ he paused ‘the relationship if I had known the kind of person she was.”

  Hal changed tack.

  “What exactly was your relationship with Olive’s father?”

  He clamped his knees tighter about his hands.

  “Friendly.”

  “How friendly?”

  Mr. Clarke sighed.
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br />   “Does it matter now? It was a long time ago and Robert is dead.” His eyes drifted towards the window.

  “It matters,” said Hal brusquely.

  “We were very friendly.”

  “Did you have a sexual relationship?”

  “Briefly.” His hands struggled from between his knees and he buried his face in them.

  “It sounds so sordid now, but it really wasn’t. You have to understand how lonely I was. God knows it’s not her fault, but my wife has never been much in the way of a companion. We married late, no children, and her mind has never been strong. I became her nurse and keeper before we’d been married five years, imprisoned in my own house with someone I could barely communicate with.” He swallowed painfully.

  “Robert’s friendship was all I had and he, as you obviously know, was homosexual. His marriage was as much a prison as mine, though for different reasons.” He pressed the bridge of his nose with a finger and thumb.

  “The sexual nature of the relationship was simply a by-product of our dependence on each other. It mattered a great deal to Robert and very much less to me, though I admit that at the time a period of three or four months only I genuinely believed myself to be a homosexual.”

  “Then you fell in love with Olive?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Clarke simply.

  “She was very like her father, of course, intelligent, sensitive, really quite charming when she wanted to be, and extraordinarily sympathetic. She made so few demands, unlike my wife.” He sighed.

  “It seems strange to say it, in view of what happened later, but she was a very comfortable person to be with.”

  “Did Olive know about your relationship with her father?”

  “Not from me. She was very naY ve in many respects.”

  “And Robert didn’t know about you and Olive.”

  “No.”

  “You were playing with fire, Mr. Clarke.”

  “I didn’t plan it, Sergeant. It happened. All I can say in my defence is that I ceased being’ he sought for the right word - ‘intimate with Robert the minute I recognised my feelings for Olive. We did not stop being friends, however. That would have been cruel.”

  “Bullshit!” said Hal with calculated anger.