The Sculptress (27 page)

She had shocked him again. ‘Gutter journalism,’
he spat. ‘I won’t have anything to do with it. Leave
now, or I shall call the police.’

Mrs Clarke gave a whimper of fear. ‘Not the
police. No, no, no. I’m afraid of the police.’ She
peered at the stranger. ‘I’m afraid of the police.’

With reason, thought Roz, wondering if the shock
of the murders had brought on the dementia. Was
that why they had moved away? She picked up her
briefcase and handbag. ‘I’m no gutter journalist, Mr
Clarke. I’m trying to help Olive.’

‘She’s beyond help. We all are.’ He glanced at his
wife. ‘Olive destroyed everything.’

‘I disagree.’

‘Please go.’

The thin reedy voice of the old woman broke in
on them. ‘I never saw Gwen and Amber that day,’ she
cried plaintively. ‘I lied. I lied, Edward.’

He closed his eyes. ‘Oh, God,’ he murmured, ‘what
did I ever do to deserve this?’ His voice vibrated with
repressed dislike.

‘Which day?’ Roz pressed.

But the moment of lucidity, if that is what it was,
had passed. ‘We’ve been waiting for cakes.’

Irritation and something else – relief? – passed
across his face. ‘She’s senile,’ he told Roz. ‘Her mind’s
gone. You can’t rely on anything she says. I’ll show
you out.’

Roz didn’t move. ‘Which day, Mrs Clarke?’ she
asked gently.

‘The day the police came. I said I saw them but I
didn’t.’ She furrowed her brow in perplexity. ‘Do
I know you?’

Mr Clarke seized Roz roughly by the arm and
manhandled her towards the front door. ‘Get out of
my house!’ he stormed. ‘Haven’t we suffered enough
at the hands of that family?’ He thrust her into the
street and slammed the door.

Roz rubbed her arm reflectively. Edward Clarke, in
spite of his age, was a good deal stronger than he
looked.

*

She turned the problem in her mind throughout the
long drive home. She was caught in the same dilemma
that Olive kept posing her, the dilemma of belief. Was
Mrs Clarke telling the truth? Had she lied to the
police that day or was her senile recollection faulty?
And if she had lied, did it make a difference?

Roz pictured herself in the Poacher’s kitchen, listening
to Hal talking about Robert Martin’s alibi. ‘We
did wonder if he might have killed Gwen and Amber
before he went to work and Olive then attempted to
dispose of the bodies to protect him, but the numbers
didn’t add up. He had an alibi even for that. There
was a neighbour who saw her husband off to work a few
minutes before Martin himself left. Amber and Gwen
were alive then because she spoke to them on their
doorstep. She remembered asking Amber how she was
getting on at Glitzy. They waved as Martin drove away.’

Mrs Clarke, thought Roz, it had to be. But how
remiss of her not to question that statement before?
Was it likely that Gwen and Amber would wave goodbye
to Robert when so little love was lost between
husband and wife? A sentence from Olive’s statement
pierced her thoughts like a sharp knife.
‘We had an
argument over breakfast and my father left for work in
the middle of it.’

So Mrs Clarke had been telling lies. But why? Why
give Robert an alibi when, according to Olive, she
saw him as a threat?

‘There was a neighbour who saw her husband off to
work a few minutes before Martin himself left . . .’

God, but she’d been blind. The alibi was Edward’s.

She phoned Iris in a fever of excitement from a pay
phone. ‘I’ve cracked it, old thing. I know who did it
and it wasn’t Olive.’

‘There you are, you see. Always trust your agent’s
instincts. I’ve had a fiver on you with Gerry. He’ll be
sick as a parrot about losing. So who did do it?’

‘The neighbour, Edward Clarke. He was Robert
Martin’s lover. I think he killed Gwen and Amber
out of jealousy.’ Breathlessly, she rattled off her story.
‘Mind you, I’ve still got to find a way of proving it.’

There was a lengthy silence at the other end.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes, I was just mourning my five pounds. I know
you’re excited, darling, but you’ll have to sober up
and give it a little more thought. If this Edward
chopped up Gwen and Amber before Robert went to
work, wouldn’t Robert have stumbled across the bits
in the kitchen?’

‘Perhaps they did it together?’

‘Then why didn’t they kill Olive as well? Not to
mention the small matter of why on earth Olive would
want to shield her father’s homosexual lover. It
would make much more sense if Mrs Clarke lied to
give Robert an alibi.’

‘Why?’

‘They were having a raging affair,’ declared Iris.
‘Mrs C. guessed Robert had done his wife in to give
himself a free hand with her and lied through her
teeth to protect him. You don’t know for sure he was
a homosexual. The schoolfriend’s mother didn’t think
he was. Is Mrs C. attractive?’

‘Not now. She was once.’

‘There you are, then.’

‘Why did Robert kill Amber?’

‘Because she was there,’ said Iris simply. ‘I expect
she woke up when she heard the fight and came
downstairs. Robert would have had no option but to
kill her as well. Then he skedaddled and left poor old
Olive, who slept through it all, to face the music.’

Somewhat reluctantly, Roz went to see Olive.

‘I wasn’t expecting you, not after—’ Olive left the
rest of the sentence unsaid. ‘Well, you know.’ She
smiled shyly.

They were back in their old room, unsupervised.
The Governor’s qualms, it seemed, had been laid to
rest along with Olive’s hostility. Really, thought Roz,
the prison system never ceased to surprise her. She
had foreseen enormous problems, particularly as it
was a Wednesday and not her normal day, but there had been none. Access to Olive was once more unrestricted.
She pushed forward the cigarette packet.
‘You seem to be
persona grata
again,’ she said.

Olive accepted a cigarette. ‘With you, too?’

Roz arched an eyebrow. ‘I felt better after my headache
had gone.’ She saw distress on the fat face. ‘I’m
teasing,’ she said gently. ‘And it was my fault anyway. I
should have phoned. Have you had all your privileges
restored?’

‘Yes. They’re pretty decent really, once you calm
down.’

‘Good.’ Roz switched on her tape-recorder. ‘I’ve
been to see your next-door neighbours, the Clarkes.’

Olive studied her through the flame of the match,
then tipped it thoughtfully towards her cigarette.
‘And?’

‘Mrs Clarke lied about seeing your mother and
sister on the morning of the murders.’

‘How do you know?’

‘She told me.’

Olive wedged the cigarette firmly between her lips
and drew in a lungful of smoke. ‘Mrs Clarke’s been
senile for years,’ she said bluntly. ‘She had a thing
about germs, used to rush about every morning
scrubbing the furniture with Domestos and hoovering
like mad. People who didn’t know them thought she
was the char. She always called me Mary which was
her mother’s name. I should imagine she’s completely
loopy by now.’

Roz shook her head in frustration. ‘She is, but I’ll
swear she was lucid when she admitted lying. She’s
frightened of her husband, though.’

Olive looked surprised. ‘She was never frightened
of him before. If anything, he was more frightened of
her. What did he say when she told you she’d lied?’

‘He was furious. Ordered me out of the house.’
She made a wry face. ‘We got off to a bad start. He
thought I was from the Social Services, spying on
him.’

A wheeze of amusement eddied up through Olive’s
throat. ‘Poor Mr Clarke.’

‘You said your father liked him. Did
you
?’

She shrugged indifference. ‘I didn’t know him well
enough to like him or dislike him. I suppose I felt
sorry for him because of his wife. He had to retire
early to look after her.’

Roz mulled this over. ‘But he was still working at
the time of the murders?’

‘He carried on a small accountancy business from
home. Other people’s tax returns mostly.’ She tapped
ash on to the floor. ‘Mrs Clarke set fire to their living
room once. He was afraid to leave her alone after
that. She was very demanding but my mother said
most of it was an act to keep him tied to her apron
strings.’

‘Was that true, do you think?’

‘I expect so.’ She stood the cigarette on its end, as was her habit, and took another. ‘My mother was
usually right.’

‘Did they have children?’

Olive shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I never
saw any.’ She pursed her lips. ‘
He
was the child. It
was quite funny sometimes watching him scurrying
about, doing what he was told, saying sorry when he
got it wrong. Amber called him Puddleglum because
he was wet and miserable.’ She chuckled. ‘I’d forgotten
that until this minute. It suited him at the time.
Does it still?’

Roz thought of his grip on her arms. ‘He didn’t
strike me as being particularly wet,’ she said. ‘Miserable,
yes.’

Olive studied her with her curiously penetrating
gaze. ‘Why have you come back?’ she asked gently.
‘You didn’t intend to on Monday.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I saw it in your face. You thought I was guilty.’

‘Yes.’

Olive nodded. ‘It upset me. I hadn’t realized what
a difference it made to have someone believe I didn’t
do it. Politicians call it the feel-good factor.’ Roz saw
dampness on the pale lashes. ‘You get used to being
viewed as a monster. Sometimes I believe it myself.’
She placed one of her disproportionate hands between
her huge breasts. ‘I thought my heart would burst
when you left. Silly, isn’t it?’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I can’t remember being so upset about anything
before.’

Roz waited a moment but Olive didn’t go on.
‘Sister Bridget knocked some sense into me,’ she said.

A glow, like a rising candle flame, lit the fat
woman’s face. ‘Sister Bridget?’ she echoed in amazement.
‘Does she think I didn’t do it? I never guessed.
I thought she came out of Christian duty.’

Oh hell, thought Roz, what does a lie matter? ‘Of
course she thinks you didn’t do it. Why else would she
keep pushing me so hard?’ She watched the tremulous
pleasure bring a sort of beauty to the awful ugliness
that was Olive, and she thought, I’ve burnt my boats.
I can never again ask her if she’s guilty or if she’s
telling me the truth because, if I do, her poor heart
will
burst.

‘I didn’t do it,’ said Olive, reading her expression.

Roz leaned forward. ‘Then who did?’

‘I don’t know now. I thought I did at the time.’
She stood her second cigarette beside the first and
watched it die. ‘At the time it all made sense,’ she
murmured, her mind groping into the past.

‘Who did you think it was?’ asked Roz after a while.
‘Someone you loved?’

But Olive shook her head. ‘I couldn’t bear to be
laughed at. In so many ways it’s easier to be feared.
At least it means people respect you.’ She looked at
Roz. ‘I’m really quite happy here. Can you understand
that?’

‘Yes,’ said Roz slowly, remembering what the Governor
had said. ‘Oddly enough, I can.’

‘If you hadn’t sought me out, I could have survived.
I’m institutionalized. Existence without effort.
I really don’t know that I could cope on the outside.’
She smoothed her hands down her massive thighs.
‘People will laugh, Roz.’

It was a question more than a statement and
Roz didn’t have an answer, or not the reassuring
answer that Olive wanted. People
would
laugh, she
thought. There was an intrinsic absurdity about this
grotesque woman loving so deeply that she would
brand herself a murderess to protect her lover.

‘I’m not giving up now,’ she said firmly. ‘A battery
hen is born to exist. You were born to live.’ She
levelled her pen at Olive. ‘And if you don’t know the
difference between existence and living then read
the Declaration of Independence. Living means Liberty
and the Pursuit of Happiness. You deny yourself
both by staying here.’

‘Where would I go? What would I do?’ She wrung
her hands. ‘In all my life I’ve never lived on my own.
I couldn’t bear it, not now, not with everyone
knowing.’

‘Knowing what?’

Olive shook her head.

‘Why can’t you tell me?’

‘Because,’ said Olive heavily, ‘you wouldn’t believe
me. No one ever does when I tell the truth.’ She rapped on the glass to attract a prison officer’s attention.
‘You must find out for yourself. It’s the only
way you’ll ever really know.’

‘And if I can’t?’

‘I’m no worse off than I was before. I can live with
myself, and that’s all that really matters.’

Yes, thought Roz, at the end of the day it probably
was. ‘Just tell me one thing, Olive. Have you lied to
me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

The door opened and Olive heaved herself upright
with the customary shove from behind. ‘Sometimes,
it’s safer.’

The telephone was ringing as she opened the door to
the flat. ‘Hi,’ she said, thrusting it under her chin and
taking off her jacket. ‘Rosalind Leigh.’
Pray God it
wasn’t Rupert.

‘It’s Hal. I’ve been ringing all day. Where the hell
have you been?’ He sounded worried.

‘Chasing clues.’ She leant her back against the wall
for support. ‘What’s it to you, anyway?’

‘I’m not psychotic, Roz.’

‘You damn well behaved like it yesterday.’

‘Just because I didn’t call the police?’

‘Among other things. It’s what normal people do when their property’s been smashed up. Unless
they’ve done it themselves, of course.’

‘What other things?’

‘You were bloody rude. I was only trying to
help.’

He laughed softly. ‘I keep seeing you standing by
my door with that table leg. You’re a hell of a gutsy
lady. Shit scared, but gutsy. I’ve got those photographs
for you. Do you still want them?’