The Sculptress (4 page)

I woke up feeling nervous about going to
London on my own. I asked Amber, my sister,
to phone in sick and come with me. She has been
working in
Glitzy
, a fashion boutique in Dawlington,
for about a month. My mother got very angry
about this and stopped her. We had an argument
over breakfast and my father left for work in the
middle of it. He is fifty-five and works three days
a week, as a book-keeper for a private haulage
company. For many years he owned his own
garage. He sold it in 1985 because he had no son
to take it over.

The argument became very heated after he left,
with my mother blaming me for leading Amber
astray. She kept calling me Fattie and laughing at
me for being too wet to go to London alone. She
said I had been a disappointment to her from the
day I was born. Her shouting gave me a headache.
I was still very upset that she had done nothing for
my birthday and I was jealous because she had
given Amber a birthday party.

I went to the drawer and took out the rolling
pin. I hit her with it to make her be quiet, then I
hit her again when she started screaming. I might
have stopped then but Amber started screaming
because of what I had done. I had to hit her too.
I have never liked noise.

I made myself a cup of tea and waited. I
thought I had knocked them out. They were both lying on the floor. After an hour I wondered if they
were dead. They were very pale and hadn’t moved.
I know that if you hold a mirror to someone’s
mouth and there is no mist on it afterwards it
means they are dead. I used the mirror from my
handbag. I held it to their mouths for a long time
but there was no mist. Nothing.

I became frightened and wondered how to hide
the bodies. At first, I thought of putting them
in the attic, but they were too heavy to carry
upstairs. Then I decided the sea would be the best
place as it’s only two miles from our house, but I
can’t drive and, anyway, my father had taken the
car. It seemed to me that if I could make them
smaller I could fit them into suitcases and carry
them that way. I have cut chickens into portions
many times. I thought it would be easy to do the
same thing with Amber and my mother. I used an
axe that we kept in the garage and a carving knife
from the kitchen drawer.

It wasn’t at all like cutting up chickens. I was
tired by two o’clock and I had only managed to
take off the heads and the legs and three of the
arms. There was a lot of blood and my hands kept
slipping. I knew my father would be home soon
and that I could never finish by then as I still had
to carry the pieces to the sea. I realized it would
be better to ring the police and admit what I had done. I felt much happier once I had made this
decision.

It never occurred to me to leave the house and
pretend that someone else had done it. I don’t
know why except that my mind was set on hiding
the bodies. That’s all I thought about. I did not
enjoy cutting them up. I had to undress them so
I could see where the joints were. I did not know
I’d mixed the pieces up. I rearranged them out of
decency, but there was so much blood that I
couldn’t tell which body was which. I must have
put my mother’s head on Amber’s body by mistake.
I acted alone.

I am sorry for what I have done. I lost my
temper and behaved stupidly. I confirm that everything
written here is true.

Signed –
OLIVE MARTIN

The statement was a photocopy, covering three
typed sheets of A4. On the reverse of the last sheet
was a photocopied extract from what was presumably
the pathologist’s report. It was brief, just a concluding
paragraph, and there was no indication to show who
had written it.

The injuries to the heads are entirely consistent
with a blow or blows from a heavy solid object.
These were inflicted before death and were not
fatal. While there is no forensic evidence to suggest that the rolling pin was the weapon used, there is
none to prove it wasn’t. Death in both cases was
caused by severance of the carotid artery during
the decapitation process. Examination of the axe
revealed considerable rusting beneath the blood
stains. It is highly probable that it was blunt before
it was used to dismember the bodies. The extensive
bruising around the cuts on Amber Martin’s neck
and trunk indicate three or four strikes with an axe
before the carving knife was used to cut the throat.
It is unlikely that she ever regained consciousness.
In Mrs Gwen Martin’s case, however, the lacerations
to her hands and forearms, inflicted before
death, are consistent with her regaining consciousness
and trying to defend herself. Two stabbing
incisions below the jawline imply two failed
attempts before her throat was successfully cut with
the knife. These attacks were carried out with
savage ferocity.

Roz read the pages through then put them on the
table beside her and stared into the middle distance.
She felt very cold.
Olive Martin took an axe
. . . Oh,
God! No wonder Mr Crew called her a psychopath.
Three or four strikes with a blunted axe and Amber
was still alive! Bile rose in her throat, nauseous, bitter,
gagging.
She must stop thinking about it
. But she
couldn’t, of course. The muffled thuds of metal
bouncing off soft flesh boomed loudly in her brain.
How dark and shadowy the flat was
. She reached out
abruptly and snapped on a table lamp but the light
did nothing to dispel the vivid pictures that crowded
her imagination, nightmare visions of a madwoman,
frenzied by blood-lust. And the bodies . . .

How far had she committed herself to writing this
book? Had she signed anything? Had she received an
advance. She couldn’t remember and a cold fist of
panic squeezed her insides. She was living in a twilight
world where so little mattered that day followed day
with nothing to distinguish their passing. She thrust
herself out of her chair and paced about the floor,
cursing Iris for bouncing her, cursing herself for her
own insanity, and cursing Mr Crew for not sending
her the statement when she’d first written to him.

She seized the telephone and dialled Iris’s number.
‘Have I signed anything on the Olive Martin book?
Why? Because I damn well can’t write it, that’s why.
The woman scares the bloody shit out of me and I
am not visiting her again.’

‘I thought you liked her.’ Iris spoke calmly through
a mouthful of supper.

Roz ignored this comment. ‘I’ve got her statement
here and the pathologist’s report, or his conclusions
at least. I should have read them first. I’m not doing
it. I will not glorify what she did by writing a book
about it. My God, Iris, they were alive when she cut
their heads off. Her poor wretched mother tried to ward off the axe. It’s making me sick just thinking
about it.’

‘OK.’

‘OK what?’

‘Don’t write it.’

Roz’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘I thought you’d
argue at least.’

‘Why? One thing I’ve learnt in this business is that
you can’t force people to write. Correction. You can
if you’re persistent and manipulative enough, but the
result is always below par.’ Roz heard her take a drink.
‘In any case, Jenny Atherton sent me the first ten
chapters of her new book this morning. It’s all good
stuff on the inherent dangers of a poor self-image,
with obesity as number one confidence crippler. She’s
unearthed a positive goldmine of film and television
personalities who’ve all sunk to untold depths since
gaining weight and being forced off camera. It’s disgustingly
tasteless, of course, like all Jenny’s books,
but it’ll sell. I think you should send all your gen –
sorry about the pun – to her. Olive would make rather
a dramatic conclusion, don’t you think, particularly if
we can get a photograph of her in her cell.’

‘No chance.’

‘No chance of getting a photograph? Shame.’

‘No chance of my sending anything to Jenny Atherton.
Honestly, Iris,’ she stormed, losing her temper,
‘you really are beneath contempt. You should be
working for the gutter press. You believe in exploiting anyone just as long as they bring in the cash. Jenny
Atherton is the last person I’d allow near Olive.’

‘Can’t see why,’ said Iris, now chewing heartily on
something. ‘I mean if you don’t want to write about
her and you’re refusing ever to visit her again because
she makes you sick, why cavil at somebody else having
a bash?’

‘It’s the principle.’

‘Can’t see it, old thing. Sounds more like dog in
the manger to me. Listen, I can’t dally. We’ve got
people in. At least let me tell Jenny that Olive’s up
for grabs. She can start from scratch. It’s not as
though you’ve got very far, is it?’

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Roz snapped. ‘I will do
it. Goodbye.’ She slammed the receiver down.

At the other end of the line, Iris winked at her
husband. ‘And you accuse me of not caring,’ she
murmured. ‘Now, what could have been more caring
than that?’

‘Hobnailed boots,’ Gerry Fielding suggested acidly.

Roz read Olive’s statement again. ‘My relationship
with my mother and sister was never close.’ She
reached for her tape-recorder and rewound the tape,
flicking to and fro till she found the piece she wanted.
‘I called her Amber because, at the age of two, I
couldn’t get my tongue round the “
l
” or the “
s
”. It
suited her. She had lovely honey-blonde hair, and as she grew up she always answered to Amber and never
to Alison. She was very pretty . . .’

It meant nothing of course, in itself. There was no
unwritten law that said psychopaths were incapable of
pretending. Rather the reverse, in fact. But there was
a definite softening of the voice when she spoke about
her sister, a tenderness which from anyone else Roz
would have interpreted as love. And why hadn’t she
mentioned the fight with her mother? Really, that was
very odd. It could well have been her justification for
what she did that day.

The chaplain, quite unaware that Olive was behind
him, started violently as a large hand fell on his
shoulder. It wasn’t the first time she had crept up on
him and he wondered again, as he had wondered
before, how she managed to do it. Her normal gait
was a painful shuffle which set his teeth on edge every
time he heard its approach. He steeled himself and
turned with a friendly smile. ‘Why, Olive, how nice
to see you. What brings you to the chapel?’

The bald eyes were amused. ‘Did I frighten you?’

‘You startled me. I didn’t hear you coming.’

‘Probably because you weren’t listening. You must
listen first if you want to hear, Chaplain. Surely they
taught you that much at theological college. God talks
in a whisper at the best of times.’

It would be easier, he thought sometimes, if he could despise Olive. But he had never been able to.
He feared and disliked her but he did not despise her.
‘What can I do for you?’

‘You had some new diaries delivered this morning.
I’d like one.’

‘Are you sure, Olive? These are no different from
the others. They still have a religious text for every
day of the year and last time I gave you one you tore
it up.’

She shrugged. ‘But I need a diary so I’m prepared
to tolerate the little homilies.’

‘They’re in the vestry.’

‘I know.’

She had not come for a diary. That much he could
guess. But what did she plan to steal from the chapel
while his back was turned? What
was
there to steal
except Bibles and prayer books?

A candle, he told the Governor afterwards. Olive
Martin took a six-inch candle from the altar. But she,
of course, denied it, and though her cell was searched
from top to bottom, the candle was never found.

GRAHAM DEEDES WAS
young, harassed, and black. He
saw Roz’s surprise as she came into his room, and he
frowned his irritation. ‘I had no idea black barristers
were such a rarity, Miss Leigh.’

‘Why do you say that?’ she asked curiously, sitting
down in the chair he indicated.

‘You looked surprised.’

‘I am, but not by your colour. You’re much
younger than I expected.’

‘Thirty-three,’ he said. ‘Not so young.’

‘No, but when you were briefed to appear for Olive
Martin you can only have been twenty-six or twenty-seven.
That
is
young for a murder trial.’

‘True,’ he agreed, ‘but I was only the junior. The
QC was considerably older.’

‘But you did most of the preparation?’

He nodded. ‘Such as there was. It was a very
unusual case.’

She took her tape-recorder from her bag. ‘Have
you any objections to being recorded?’

‘Not if you intend to talk about Olive Martin.’

‘I do.’

He chuckled. ‘Then I’ve no objections, for the
simple reason that I can tell you virtually nothing
about her. I saw the woman once, on the day she was
sentenced, and I never even spoke to her.’

‘But I understood you were preparing a diminished
responsibility defence. Didn’t you meet her in the
course of doing that?’

‘No, she refused to see me. I did all my work from
material her solicitor sent me.’ He smiled ruefully.
‘Which wasn’t much, I have to say. We would, quite
literally, have been laughed out of court if we’d had
to proceed, so I was quite relieved when the judge
ruled her guilty plea admissible.’

‘What arguments would you have used if you had
been called?’

‘We planned two different approaches.’ Deedes
considered for a moment. ‘One, that the balance of
her mind was temporarily disturbed – as far as I recall
it was the day after her birthday and she was deeply
upset because instead of paying her attention the
family teased her about being fat.’ He raised his eyebrows
in query and Roz nodded. ‘In addition, I
believe, she made a reference in her statement to not
liking noise. We did manage to find a doctor who was
prepared to give evidence that noise can cause such violent distress in some people that they may act out
of character in trying to stop it. There was no psychiatric
or medical evidence, however, to prove that Olive
was of this type.’ He tapped his forefingers together.
‘Two, we were going to work backwards from the
appalling savagery of the crime and invite the court
to draw what we hoped to persuade them was an
inescapable inference – that Olive was a psychopath.
We hadn’t a cat’s chance on the balance of her mind
argument, but the psychopathy’ – he made a see-saw
motion with one hand – ‘maybe. We found a professor
of psychology who was prepared to stick his neck out
after seeing the photographs of the bodies.’