Authors: Minette Walters
‘So-so. It was all right at the beginning but there’s
no fun driving a bike in town and it was all town
work. It wouldn’t ’ave been so bad if the bastard who
ran it ’ad paid us enough to cover the cost of the
bikes.’ He shook his head. ‘’E was a mean sod. We
’ad ’em took off us after six months and that was it.
No bikes, no work.’
Roz had now heard three different versions of how
the O’Brien boys had lost their jobs at Wells-Fargo.
Were any of them true, she wondered, or was it that
they were all true, but seen from different perspectives?
Truth, she thought, was not the absolute she
had once believed it to be. ‘Your mother told me,’
she said with a look of innocent amusement, ‘that you
had a brush with a murderess while you were doing
that job.’
‘You mean Olive Martin?’ Whatever qualms he had
had on the matter at the time of the murders had obviously
disappeared. ‘Funny business, that. I used to
deliver letters to her on a Friday evening from some
bloke she was keen on, then – wham! – she did her folks in. Bloody shocked me to tell you the truth. ’Ad
no idea she was a nutter.’
‘But she must have been to hack her mother and
sister to pieces.’
‘Yeah.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Never did understand
it. She was all right. I knew ’er as a kid. She was
all right then, as well. It was the bloody mother who
was the cow and the stuck-up sister. Christ, she was a
’orrible little swine.’
Roz hid her surprise.
Everyone loved Amber
. How
often had she heard that said? ‘Maybe Olive had had
enough and just snapped one day. It happens.’
‘Oh,’ he said with a dismissive shrug, ‘that’s not
the bit I don’t understand. It’s why she didn’t just go
off with ’er fancy man instead. I mean, even if ’e was
married, ’e could’ve set her up in a flat somewhere. ’E
wasn’t short of a bob or two judging by what ’e paid
to have the letters delivered. Twenty quid a throw. ’E
must have been bloody rolling in it.’
She chewed her pencil. ‘Maybe she didn’t do it,’ she
mused. ‘Maybe the police got the wrong person. Let’s
face it, it wouldn’t be the first time.’
Ma compressed her lips. ‘They’re all corrupt,’ she
said. ‘Nick anyone for anythink these days. You don’t
want to be Irish in this country. You’ve no ’ope if
you’re Irish.’
‘Still,’ said Roz, looking at Gary, ‘if Olive didn’t
do it, who did?’
‘I’m not saying it wasn’t ’er,’ he said sharply. ‘She went guilty so she must of done it. All I’m saying is
she didn’t
need
to do it.’
Roz gave a careless shrug. ‘Just lost her temper and
didn’t think. You’ll probably find the sister provoked
her. You said she was horrible.’
Surprisingly, it was Mike who spoke. ‘Street angel,
’ouse devil,’ he said. ‘Like our Tracey.’
Roz smiled at him. ‘What does that mean?’
Ma elucidated. ‘A bitch to your family, a perfect
darling to everybody else. But our Tracey’s nothing
like Amber Martin. I always said that child would
come a cropper and I was right. You can’t face two
ways all your life and expect to get away with it.’
Roz showed her curiosity. ‘You really did know the
family quite well then. I thought you only worked
there a short while.’
‘So I did, but Amber took a fancy to one of the
boys later’ – she paused – ‘though I’m blowed if I
can remember at the moment which one. Was it you,
Nipper?’
He shook his head.
‘Chris,’ said Mike.
‘That’s right,’ agreed Ma, ‘took a real shine to ’im
and ’im to ’er. She’d sit in this room, pleased as punch
with herself, making sheep’s eyes at ’im and she can’t
’ave been more than twelve or thirteen. ’E was – what?
– fifteen, sixteen but, of course, any attention at that
age is flattering and she was a pretty girl, I’ll say
that for ’er,
and
looked older than she was. Anyway, we saw the real Amber then. She treated Chris like a
king and the rest of us like something the cat’d
brought in. She had a tongue on ’er like I’ve never
heard. Bitch, bitch, bitch, all the time.’ She looked
thoroughly indignant. ‘Can’t think ’ow I kept my
’ands off ’er but I did, for Chris’s sake. Besotted, ’e
was, poor lad. ’Er mother didn’t know, of course. Put
a stop to it straight away the minute she found out.’
Roz hoped her expression was less revealing than
it felt. Did that make Chris O’Brien the father of
Amber’s illegitimate child? It made sense. Mr Hayes
had referred to a lad from Parkway Comprehensive
being responsible, and if Gwen had put a stop to the
relationship then she would have known who to blame
when a baby appeared. It would also explain the
secrecy surrounding Robert Martin’s efforts to trace
his grandchild. Presumably the O’Briens had no idea
that Chris had fathered a son nor that the son, if he
could be found, was worth half a million pounds.
‘It’s fascinating,’ she murmured, searching desperately
for something to say. ‘I’ve never met anyone so
closely associated with a murder. Was Chris upset
when Amber was killed?’
‘No,’ said Ma with an unfeeling chuckle. ‘’E ’adn’t
seen ’er in years. Gary was more upset for Olive,
weren’t you, love?’
He was watching Roz closely. ‘Not really,’ he said
bluntly. ‘I was jumpy about being roped in on it. I
mean, I’d seen quite a bit of ’er one way and another. Reckoned the cops’d be rounding up everyone she
knew and grilling them.’ He shook his head. ‘’Er
bloke got off lightly. ’E’d’ve been ’auled in and no
mistake if she’d named a few names to try and get
off.’
‘Did you ever meet him?’
‘No.’ His face became suddenly sly and he stared
at Roz with an expression that said he saw right
through her. ‘I know where he took her for sex,
though.’ He gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘What’s it
worth to you?’
She stared back. ‘How do you know?’
‘The silly sod used self-sticking envelopes. They’re
a doddle to open. I read one of the letters.’
‘Did he sign it? Do you know his name?’
Gary shook his head. ‘Something beginning with
P. “All my love, P”, was how it finished.’
Roz didn’t bother with further pretence. ‘Another
fifty pounds,’ she said, ‘on top of the hundred and fifty
I’ve already agreed to. But that’s it. I’ll be cleaned
out.’
‘OK.’ He held out his hand in unconscious mimicry
of his mother. ‘Money up front.’
She took out her wallet and emptied it. ‘Two
hundred pounds.’ She counted it on to his palm.
‘I knew you wasn’t from the television,’ said Ma in
disgust. ‘I bloody knew it.’
‘Well?’ Roz demanded of Gary.
‘It was on for Sunday at the Belvedere Hotel in Farraday Street. “All my love, P.” That’s the Farraday
Street in Southampton, in case you didn’t know.’
The route to Southampton took Roz along Dawlington
High Street. She had passed Glitzy boutique
before the name registered, and nearly caused a pile-up
by standing on her brakes in the middle of the
road. With a cheerful wave to the furious man behind
her, who was mouthing imprecations against women
drivers, she drew into a side street and found a parking
space.
Glitzy was something of a misnomer, she thought,
as she pushed open the door. She had expected
designer wear or, at the very least, clothes from the
more expensive end of the market. But then, she
was used to London boutiques. Glitzy catered very
definitely for the cheaper end of the market, wisely
recognizing that their customers would be predominantly
teenage girls without the wherewithal or the
transport to go shopping in the more stylish parts of
Southampton.
Roz sought out the manager, a woman in her thirties
with a splendid hairdo backcombed into a blonde
beehive on top of her head. Roz handed her one of
her cards and ran through her spiel about her book
on Olive Martin. ‘I’m trying to find someone who
knew the sister, Amber,’ she said, ‘and I’m told she
worked here during the month before she was murdered. Were you here then? Or do you know anyone
who was?’
‘No, love, sorry. Staff turns over very quickly in a
place like this, young girls normally, doing a short
stint till something better comes up. I don’t even
know who was manager then. You’ll have to get on to
the owners. I can give you their address,’ she finished
helpfully.
‘Thank you. It’s worth a shot, I suppose.’
The woman took her over to the cash desk and
sorted through a card index. ‘Funny, I remember
those murders, but I never put two and two together.
You know, that the sister had worked here.’
‘She wasn’t here very long and I’m not sure it was
even reported. The press was more interested in Olive
than in Amber.’
‘Yeah.’ She took out a card. ‘Amber. It’s not that
common a name, is it?’
‘I suppose not. It was a nickname, anyway. Her real
name was Alison.’
The woman nodded. ‘I’ve been here three years
and for three years I’ve been pressing to have the staff
toilet redecorated. The recession’s their excuse for not
doing it, same as it’s their excuse for any wretched
thing, from cuts in wages to cheap imported stock
that’s not even stitched properly. Anyway, the toilet’s
tiled and that’s an expensive job, apparently, chipping
off the old ones to put up new.’ Roz smiled politely.
‘Don’t worry, love, it’s to the point and I’m gettin there. The reason I want new tiles is that someone
took a chisel or something similar to the old ones.
They scratched graffiti into the surface and then filled
in the scratches with some sort of indelible ink. I’ve
tried everything to get it out, bleach, oven cleaner,
paint remover, you name it, love, I’ve tried it.’ She
shook her head. ‘It can’t be shifted. And why? Because
whoever did it gouged so deep they cut right through
the ceramic, and the china clay underneath just goes
on absorbing dirt and stains. Every time I look at it,
it gives me the shivers. Pure hate, that’s what it was
done with.’
‘What does the graffiti say?’
‘I’ll show you. It’s at the back.’ She negotiated a
couple of doors, then pushed open another and stood
aside to let Roz pass. ‘There. It sucks, doesn’t it? And,
you know, I’ve always wondered who Amber was. But
it must be the sister, mustn’t it? Like I say, Amber’s
not that common a name.’
It was the same two words, repeated ten or eleven
times across the tiles, a violent inversion of the hearts
and arrows that more usually adorned lavatory walls.
HATES AMBER . . . HATES AMBER . . . HATES
AMBER.
‘I wonder who did it?’ murmured Roz.
‘Someone very sick, I should think. They certainly
didn’t want her to know, seeing how they’ve left their
name off the front.’
‘It depends how you read it,’ said Roz thoughtfully. ‘If it were set out neatly for you in a circle it would
say Amber hates Amber hates Amber ad infinitum.’
The Belvedere was a typical back-street hotel, two
substantial semis knocked together and entered via a
flight of steps and a pillared front door. The place had
an air of neglect as if its customers – sales reps for the
main part – had deserted it. Roz rang the bell at
the reception desk and waited.
A woman in her fifties emerged from a room at the
back, all smiles. ‘Good afternoon, madam. Welcome
to the Belvedere.’ She pulled the registration book
towards her. ‘Is it a room you’re after?’
What terrible things recessions were, thought Roz.
How long could people maintain this sad veneer of
confident optimism when the reality was empty order
books? ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t.’ She
handed over one of her cards. ‘I’m a freelance journalist
and I think someone I’m writing about may have
stayed here. I was hoping you could identify her
photograph for me.’
The woman tapped a finger on the book then
pushed it away. ‘Will what you write be published?’
Roz nodded.
‘And will the Belvedere be mentioned if whoever
it is did stay here?’
‘Not if you’d rather it wasn’t.’
‘My dear, how little you know about the hotel trade. Any publicity would be welcome at the
moment.’
Roz laughed as she placed the photograph of Olive
on the desk. ‘If she came it would have been during
the summer of eighty-seven. Were you here then?’
‘We were.’ The woman spoke with regret. ‘We
bought in eighty-six when the economy was booming.’
She took a pair of glasses from her pocket and
popped them on her nose, leaning forward to examine
the photograph. ‘Oh, yes, I remember her very well.
Big girl. She and her husband came most Sundays
during that summer. Used to book the room for the
day and go home in the evening.’ She sighed. ‘It was
a wonderful arrangement. We were always able to let
the room again for the Sunday night. Double pay
for one twenty-four-hour period.’ She heaved another
sigh. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing now. I wish we could
sell, I really do, but what with so many of the small
hotels going bankrupt we wouldn’t even get what we
paid for it. Soldier on, that’s all we can do.’
Roz brought her back to Olive by tapping the
photograph. ‘What did she and her husband call
themselves?’
The woman was amused. ‘The usual, I should
think. Smith or Brown.’
‘Did they sign in?’
‘Oh, yes. We’re very particular about our register.’
‘Could I take a look?’
‘Don’t see why not.’ She opened a cupboard under the desk and sorted out the register for 1987. ‘Now,
let me see. Ah, here we are. Mr and Mrs Lewis. Well,
well, they were more imaginative than most.’ She
twisted the book so that Roz could look at it.
She gazed at the neat script and thought: Got you,
you bastard. ‘This is the man’s handwriting.’ She
knew already.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the woman. ‘He always signed. She
was a lot younger than he was and very shy, particularly
at the beginning. She gained in confidence as
time passed, they always do, but she never put herself
forward. Who is she?’