The Sculptress (24 page)

‘But you said yourself, men can bring about amazing
transformations. Perhaps she changed under his
influence.’

‘I can’t deny that, but if he was Amber’s lover,
then I can point to a very definite lie that Olive has
told you. She would know exactly what was in the
letters, either because Amber would have told her or
because she would have found a way to open them.
She always pried into things that weren’t her concern.
It sounds so churlish to say it now, but we all had to
be very careful of our personal possessions while Olive
was at St Angela’s. Address books and diaries, in particular,
drew her like magnets.’

‘Marnie at Wells-Fargo thought Gary O’Brien had
a yen for Olive. Perhaps
he
was the man she was
dressing up for.’

‘Perhaps.’

They sat in silence for some time watching twilight
fall. Sister Bridget’s cat, a threadbare tabby of
advanced years, had curled in a ball on Roz’s lap, and she stroked it mechanically in time to its purrs with
the same careless affection that she bestowed on Mrs
Antrobus. ‘I wish,’ she murmured, ‘there was some
independent way of finding out whether or not she
had the abortion, but I’d never be allowed within
spitting distance of her medical records. Not without
her permission, and probably not even then.’

‘And supposing it turns out that she didn’t have
an abortion? Would that tell you anything? It doesn’t
mean she didn’t have a man in her life.’

‘No,’ agreed Roz, ‘but by the same token if she
did
have an abortion then there can be no doubt
there
was
a man. I’d be so much more confident
about pressing ahead if I knew a lover existed.’

Sister Bridget’s perceptive eyes remained on her
too long for comfort. ‘And so much more confident
about dropping the whole thing if you can be convinced
he didn’t. I think, my dear, you should have
more faith in your ability to judge people. Instinct is
as good a guide as written evidence.’

‘But my instinct at the moment tells me she’s guilty
as hell.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Her companion’s light
laughter rang about the room. ‘If it did you wouldn’t
have driven all these miles to talk to me. You could
have sought out your friendly policeman. He would
have approved your change of heart.’ Her eyes
danced. ‘I, on the other hand, am the one person you
know who could be relied on to fight Olive’s corner.’

Roz smiled. ‘Does that mean you now think she
didn’t do it?’

Sister Bridget stared out of the window. ‘No,’ she
said frankly. ‘I’m still in two minds.’

‘Thanks,’ said Roz with heavy irony, ‘and you
expect me to have faith. That’s a bit two-faced, isn’t
it?’

‘Very. But you were chosen, Roz, and I wasn’t.’

Roz arrived back at her flat around midnight. The
telephone was ringing as she let herself in but after
three or four bells the answerphone took over. Iris,
she thought. No one else would call at such an
unearthly hour, not even Rupert. She had no intention
of speaking to her but, out of curiosity, she flicked
the switch on the machine to hear Iris leave her
message.

‘I wonder where you are,’ slurred Hal’s voice, slack
with drink and tiredness. ‘I’ve been calling for hours.
I’m drunk as a skunk, woman, and it’s your fault.
You’re too bloody thin, but what the hell!’ He gave
a baritone chuckle. ‘I’m drowning in shit here, Roz.
Me and Olive both. Mad, bad and dangerous to
know.’ He sighed. ‘
From East to western Ind, no jewel
is like Rosalind.
Who are you, anyway? Nemesis? You
lied, you know. You said you’d leave me in peace.’
There was the sound of a crash. ‘Je-
sus
!’ he roared into the telephone. ‘I’ve dropped the bloody bottle.’
The line was cut abruptly.

Roz wondered if her grin looked as idiotic as it felt.
She switched the answerphone back to automatic and
went to bed. She fell asleep almost immediately.

The phone rang again at nine o’clock the next morning.
‘Roz?’ asked his sober, guarded voice.

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s Hal Hawksley.’

‘Hi,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I didn’t know you knew
my number.’

‘You gave me your card, remember.’

‘Oh, yes. What can I do for you?’

‘I tried you yesterday, left a message on your
answerphone.’

She smiled into the receiver. ‘Sorry,’ she told him,
‘the tape’s on the blink. All I got was my ear-drums
pierced by high-pitched crackling. Has something
happened?’

His relief was audible. ‘No.’ There was a brief
pause. ‘I just wondered how you got on with the
O’Briens.’

‘I saw Ma. It cost me fifty quid but it was worth
it. Are you busy today or can I come and chew your
ear off again? I need a couple of favours: a photograph
of Olive’s father and access to her medical records.’

He was happy talking details. ‘No chance on the latter,’ he told her. ‘Olive can demand to see them
but you’d have more chance breaking into Parkhurst
than breaking into NHS files. I might be able to get
hold of a photograph of him, though, if I can persuade
Geoff Wyatt to take a photocopy of the one on file.’

‘What about pictures of Gwen and Amber? Could
he get photocopies of them too?’

‘Depends how strong your stomach is. The only
ones I remember are the post-mortem shots. You’ll
have to get on to Martin’s executors if you want
pictures of them alive.’

‘OK, but I’d still like to see the post-mortem ones
if that’s possible. I won’t try to publish them without
the proper authority,’ she promised.

‘You’d have a job. Police photocopies are usually
the worst you’ll ever see. If your publisher can make
a decent negative out of them, he probably deserves a
medal. I’ll see what I can do. What time will you get
here?’

‘Early afternoon? There’s someone I need to see
first. Could you get me a copy of Olive as well?’

‘Probably.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘High-pitched
crackling. Are you sure that’s all you heard?’

PETERSON’S ESTATE AGENCY
in Dawlington High
Street maintained a brave front, with glossy photographs
turning enticingly in the window and bright
lights inviting the punters in. But, like the estate
agents in Southampton centre, the recession had
taken its toll here, too, and one neat young man
presided over four desks in the despondent knowledge
that another day would pass without a single house
sale. He jerked to his feet with robotic cheerfulness
as the door opened, his teeth glittering in a salesman’s
smile.

Roz shook her head to avoid raising false hopes.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said apologetically. ‘I haven’t come to
buy anything.’

He gave an easy laugh. ‘Ah, well. Selling perhaps?’

‘Not that either.’

‘Very wise.’ He pulled out a chair for her. ‘It’s still
a buyer’s market. You only sell at the moment if you’re desperate to move.’ He resumed his chair on the other
side of the desk. ‘How can I help?’

Roz gave him a card. ‘I’m trying to trace some
people called Clarke who sold their house through
this agency three or four years ago and moved out of
the area. None of their neighbours knows where they
went. I was hoping you might be able to tell me.’

He pulled a face. ‘Before my time, I’m afraid. What
was the address of the house?’

‘Number twenty, Leven Road.’

‘I could look it up, I suppose. The file will be out
the back if it hasn’t been binned.’ He looked at the
empty desks. ‘Unfortunately there’s no one to cover
for me at the moment so I won’t be able to do it
until this evening. Unless—’ He glanced at Roz’s
card again. ‘I see you live in London. Have you ever
thought about buying a second property on the south
coast, Mrs Leigh? We have a lot of authors down here.
They like to escape to the peace and quiet of the
country.’

Her mouth twitched. ‘Miss Leigh. And I don’t
even own a first property. I live in rented accommodation.’

He spun his chair and pulled out a drawer in the
filing cabinet behind him. ‘Then let me suggest a
mutually beneficial arrangement.’ His fingers ran
nimbly through the files, selecting a succession of
printed pages. ‘You read these while I search out that
information for you. If a customer comes into the shop, offer them a seat and call for me. Ditto, if
the phone rings.’ He nodded to a back door. ‘I’ll
leave that open. Just call “Matt” and I’ll hear you.
Fair?’

‘I’m happy if you are,’ she said, ‘but I’m not planning
on buying anything.’

‘That’s fine.’ He walked across to the door. ‘Mind
you, there’s one property there that would fit you like
a glove. It’s called Bayview, but don’t be put off by
the name. I shan’t be long.’

Roz fingered through the pages reluctantly as if
just touching them might induce her to part with her
money. He had the soft insidiousness of an insurance
salesman. Anyway, she told herself with some amusement,
she couldn’t possibly live in a house called
Bayview. It conjured up too many images of net-curtained
guest-houses with beak-nosed landladies in
nylon overalls and lacklustre signs saying vacancies
propped against the downstairs windows.

She came to it finally at the bottom of the pile
and the reality, of course, was very different. A small
whitewashed coastguard’s cottage, the last of a group
of four, perched on a cliff near Swanage on the Isle
of Purbeck. Two up, two down. Unpretentious.
Charming. Beside the sea. She looked at the price.

‘Well?’ asked Matt, returning a few minutes later
with a folder under one arm. ‘What do you think?’

‘Assuming I could afford it, which I can’t, I think
I’d freeze to death in the winter from winds lashing in off the sea and be driven mad in the summer by
streams of tourists wandering along the coastal path.
According to your blurb it passes only a matter of
yards from the fence. And that’s ignoring the fact that
I’d be rubbing shoulders with the inhabitants of the
other three cottages, day in, day out, plus the frightening
prospect of knowing that sooner or later the cliff
will slip and take my very expensive cottage with it.’

He chuckled good-humouredly. ‘I knew you’d like
it. I’d have bought it myself if it wasn’t too far to
travel each day. The cottage at the other end has a
retired couple in it in their seventies and the two in
the middle are weekend cottages. They are situated
in the middle of a small headland, well away from the
cliff edges, and, frankly, the bricks will crumble long
before the foundations do. As for the wind and the
tourists, well, it’s to the east of Swanage so it’s sheltered
from the prevailing winds, and the sort of tourists
who walk that coastal path are not the sort to
disturb your peace, simply because there is no public
access beside these cottages. The nearest one is four
miles away and you don’t get noisy children or drunken
lager louts tackling that sort of hike for the fun
of it. Which leaves’ – his boyish face split into a carefree
smile – ‘the problem of cost.’

Roz giggled. ‘Don’t tell me. The owners are so
desperate to get rid of it they’re prepared to give it
away.’

‘As a matter of fact, yes. Liquidity problems with their business and this is only a weekend retreat.
They’ll take a twenty-thousand reduction if someone
can come up with cash. Can you?’

Roz closed her eyes and thought of her fifty per
cent share of the proceeds of divorce, sitting on
deposit. Yes, she thought, I can. ‘This is absurd,’ she
said impatiently. ‘I didn’t come in to buy anything.
I’ll hate it. It’ll be far too small. And why on earth
have you got it on your books? It’s miles away.’

‘We have a reciprocal arrangement with our other
branches.’ He had hooked his fish. Now he let her
swim a little. ‘Let’s see what this file can tell us.’ He
drew it forward and opened it. ‘Twenty, Leven Road.
Owners: Mr and Mrs Clarke. Instructions: quick sale
wanted; carpets and curtains included in asking price.
Bought by Mr and Mrs Blair. Completion date:
twenty-fifth Feb., eighty-nine.’ He looked surprised
‘They didn’t pay very much for it.’

‘It was vacant for a year,’ said Roz, ‘which would
probably explain the low price. Does it give a forwarding
address for the Clarkes?’

He read on: ‘It says here: “Vendors have asked
Peterson’s not to divulge any information about their
new whereabouts.” I wonder why.’

‘They fell out with their neighbours,’ said Roz,
economical as ever with the truth. ‘But they must
have given a forwarding address,’ she remarked
reasonably, ‘or they wouldn’t have asked for it to be
withheld.’

He turned over several pages then carefully closed
the file, leaving his finger to mark a place. ‘We’re
talking professional ethics here, Miss Leigh. I am
employed by Peterson’s, and Peterson’s were asked to
respect the Clarkes’ confidence. It would be very
wrong to abuse a client’s trust.’

Roz thought for a moment. ‘Is there anything from
Peterson’s in writing saying they agreed to honour
the Clarkes’ request?’

‘No.’

‘Then I don’t see that you’re bound by anything.
Confidences cannot be inherited. If they could, they
would no longer be confidences.’

He smiled. ‘That’s a very fine distinction.’

‘Yes.’ She picked up the details of Bayview. ‘Supposing
I said I wanted to view this cottage at three
o’clock this afternoon? Could you arrange it for me,
using that telephone over there’ – she nodded to the
furthest desk – ‘while I stay here looking through
these other house details?’

‘I could, but I’d take it very badly if you failed to
keep the appointment.’

‘My word’s my bond,’ she assured him. ‘If I say
I’m going to do something I always do it.’

He stood up, letting the file fall open on the desk.
‘Then I’ll phone our Swanage branch,’ he told her.
‘You will have to collect the key from them.’

‘Thank you.’ She waited until his back was turned, then swung the file round and jotted down the
Clarkes’ address on her pad. Salisbury, she noted.