The Sculptress (40 page)

‘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 loved him less I’d have
hated him less, and it wouldn’t be too late now, would
it?’

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. ‘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 naïve 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 recognized my feelings for Olive. We did not stop
being friends, however. That would have been cruel.’

‘Bullshit!’ said Hal with calculated anger. ‘You
didn’t want to be found out. My guess is you were
shafting both of them at the same time and loving
every exciting minute of it. And you have the bloody
gall to say you don’t feel responsible!’

‘Why should I?’ Clarke said with a flash of spirit.
‘My name was never mentioned by either of them. Do
you imagine it wouldn’t have been if I had unwittingly
precipitated the tragedy?’

Roz smiled contemptuously. ‘Did you never
wonder why Robert Martin wouldn’t speak to you
after the murders?’

‘I assumed he was too distressed.’

‘I think you feel a little more than simple distress
when you discover that your lover has seduced your
daughter,’ she said ironically. ‘Of course you precipitated
it, Mr Clarke, and you knew it. But, by God,
you weren’t going to say anything. You’d rather see
the entire Martin family destroy itself than prejudice
your own position.’

‘Was that so unreasonable?’ he protested. ‘They
were free to name me. They didn’t. How would it
have helped if I had spoken out? Gwen and Amber
would still have been dead. Olive would still have
gone to prison.’ He turned to Hal. ‘I regret intensely
my involvement with the family but I really can’t be
held responsible if my connection with them led to
tragedy. There was nothing illegal about what I did.’

Hal looked out of the window again. ‘Tell us why
you moved, Mr Clarke. Was it your decision or your
wife’s?’

He clamped his hands between his knees again. ‘It
was a joint decision. Life there became unbearable for both of us. We saw ghosts everywhere. A change of
environment seemed the only sensible course.’

‘Why were you so keen to keep your forwarding
address secret?’

Clarke raised haunted eyes. ‘To avoid the past
catching up with me. I’ve lived in constant dread of
this.’ He looked at Roz. ‘It’s almost a relief to have
it out in the open at last. You probably won’t believe
that.’

She gave a tight smile. ‘The police took a statement
from your wife on the day of the murders, saying
that she saw Gwen and Amber on the doorstep that
morning after you and Robert left for work. But when
I came here the other day, she said she had lied about
it.’

‘I can only repeat what I said to you then,’ he
answered wearily. ‘Dorothy’s senile. You can’t put any
reliance on anything she says. She doesn’t even know
what day it is most of the time.’

‘Was she telling the truth five years ago?’

He nodded. ‘In so far as saying they were alive
when I left for work, yes, she was. Amber was at
the window, watching. I saw her myself. She ducked
behind the curtain when I waved at her. I remember
thinking how odd that was.’ He paused. ‘As to
whether Dorothy saw Robert leave,’ he resumed after
a moment, ‘I don’t know. She said she did and I’ve
always understood that Robert had a cast-iron alibi.’

‘Has your wife ever mentioned seeing the bodies,
Mr Clarke?’ asked Hal casually.

‘Good God, no.’ He sounded genuinely shocked.

‘I just wondered why she saw ghosts. She wasn’t
particularly friendly with Gwen or Amber, was she?
Rather the reverse, I’d have thought, in view of the
amount of time you spent at the Martins’ house.’

‘Everyone in that road saw ghosts,’ he said bleakly.
‘We all knew what Olive had done to those wretched
women. It would have required a very dull imagination
not to see ghosts.’

‘Can you remember what your wife was wearing
the morning of the murders?’

He stared at Hal, surprised by the sudden switch.
‘Why do you ask?’

‘We’ve had a report that a woman was seen walking
down past the Martins’ garage.’ The lie rolled glibly
off his tongue. ‘From the description it was too small
for Olive but whoever it was was dressed in what
looked like a smart black suit. We’d like to trace her.
Could it have been your wife?’

The man’s relief was palpable. ‘No. She never had
a black suit.’

‘Was she wearing anything black that morning?’

‘No. She wore a floral overall.’

‘You’re very certain.’

‘She always wore it, every morning, to do the
housework. She used to get dressed after she’d finished. Except Sundays. She didn’t do housework
on Sundays.’

Hal nodded. ‘The same overall every morning?
What happened when it got dirty?’

Clarke frowned, puzzled by the line of questioning.
‘She had another one, a plain blue one. But she was
definitely wearing the floral one on the day of the
murders.’

‘Which one was she wearing the day after the
murders?’

He licked his lips nervously. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘It was the blue one, wasn’t it? And she went on
wearing the blue one, I suspect, until you or she
bought a spare.’

‘I can’t remember.’

Hal smiled unpleasantly. ‘Does she still have her
floral overall, Mr Clarke?’

‘No,’ he whispered. ‘It’s a long time since she did
any housework.’

‘What happened to it?’

‘I can’t remember. We threw out a lot of things
before we moved.’

‘How did you find the time to do that?’ asked Roz.
‘Mr Hayes said you upped and left one morning and
a removal company turned up three days later to pack
your stuff for you.’

‘Perhaps I sorted through everything when it came
here,’ he said rather wildly. ‘I can’t remember the
precise order of things so long afterwards.’

Hal scratched his jaw. ‘Did you know,’ he murmured
evenly, ‘that your wife identified some charred
remains of a floral overall, found in the incinerator in
the Martins’ garden, as being part of the clothing that
Gwen was wearing the day she was murdered?’

Colour drained from Clarke’s face, leaving it an
unhealthy grey. ‘No, I didn’t.’ The words were barely
audible.

‘And those remains were carefully photographed
and carefully stored, ready to be produced at a future
date if there was ever any dispute over their ownership.
Mr Hayes, I’m sure, will be able to tell us whether it
was your wife’s overall or Gwen’s.’

Clarke raised his hands in helpless surrender. ‘She
told me she’d thrown it away,’ he pleaded, ‘because
the iron had scorched a hole through the front. I
believed her. She often did things like that.’

Hal hardly seemed to hear him but went on in
the same unemotional voice. ‘I very much hope, Mr
Clarke, that we will find a way of proving that you
knew all along that it was your wife who killed Gwen
and Amber. I should like to see you tried and convicted
of allowing an innocent girl to go to prison for
a crime you knew she hadn’t committed, particularly a
girl whom you used and abused so shamelessly.’

They could never prove it, of course, but he drew
considerable satisfaction from the fear that set Clarke’s
face working convulsively.

‘How could I know? I wondered’ – his voice rose – ‘of course I wondered, but Olive confessed.’ His
eyes strayed beseechingly to Roz. ‘Why did Olive
confess?’

‘Because she was in deep shock, because she was
frightened, because she didn’t know what else to do,
because her mother was dead, and because she had
been brought up to keep secrets. She thought her
father would save her, but he didn’t, because he
thought she had done it.
You
could have saved her,
but you didn’t, because you were afraid of what
people would say. The woman at Wells-Fargo could
have saved her, but she didn’t, because she didn’t
want to be involved. Her solicitor could have saved
her if he had been a kinder man.’ She flicked a glance
at Hal. ‘The police could have saved her if they’d
questioned, just once, the value of confession evidence.
But it was six years ago, and six years ago,
confessions’ – she made a ring with her thumb and
forefinger – ‘were A-OK. But I don’t blame them,
Mr Clarke. I blame you. For everything. You played
at being a homosexual because you were bored with
your wife and then you seduced your lover’s daughter
to prove you weren’t the pervert you thought he was.’
She stared at him with disdain. ‘And that’s how I’m
going to portray you in the book that will get Olive
out of prison. I really despise people like you.’