Authors: Minette Walters
‘You’ll destroy me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that what Olive wants? My destruction?’
‘I don’t know what Olive wants. I only know
what I want, which is to get her released. If it means
your destruction, then so be it.’
He sat for some moments in silence, his fingers
plucking shakily at the creases in his trousers. Then,
as if reaching a sudden decision, he looked at Roz. ‘I
would have spoken if Olive hadn’t confessed. But she
did, and I assumed like everyone else that she was
telling the truth. Presumably you have no desire to
prolong her stay in prison? Her release in advance of
your book’s publication would improve your sales
considerably, wouldn’t it?’
‘Maybe. What are you suggesting?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘If I give you the evidence now
that will hasten her release, will you in return promise
not to divulge my real name or address in the book?
You could refer to me by the name Olive called me,
Mr Lewis. Do you agree?’
She smiled faintly. What an unbelievable shit he
was. He could never hold her to it, of course, but
he didn’t seem to realize that. And the police would
release his name, anyway, if only as Mrs Clarke’s
husband. ‘I agree. As long as it gets Olive out.’
He stood up, taking some keys out of his pocket,
and walked over to an ornate Chinese box on the
sideboard. He unlocked it and raised the lid, removing
something wrapped in tissue paper and handing it to
Hal. ‘I found it when we moved,’ he said. ‘She’d
hidden it at the bottom of one of her drawers. I swear I never knew how she got it, but I’ve always been
afraid that Amber must have taunted her with it. She
talks about Amber a lot.’ He washed his hands in
mimicry of Pontius Pilate. ‘She calls her the Devil.’
Hal peeled away the tissue paper and looked at
what was revealed. A silver bracelet with a tiny silver-chair
charm and a tag on which
U
.
R
.
N
.
A
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R
.
N
.
I
.
A
. was
barely discernible through a welter of deep angry
scratches.
It was almost Christmas before the scales of justice
had tipped enough in Olive’s favour to allow her to
leave the confines of her prison. There would always
be doubters, of course, people who would call her
the Sculptress till the day she died. After six years the
evidence in support of her story was desperately thin.
A silver bracelet where it shouldn’t have been. Tiny
fragments of a burnt floral overall, identified by a
senile woman’s bitter husband. And, finally, the painstaking
reappraisal of the photographic evidence, using
sophisticated computer enhancement, which had
revealed a smaller, daintier shoe print in the blood
beneath a huge ribbed rubber sole mark left by Olive’s
trainer.
No one would ever know what really happened that
day because the truth was locked inside a brain that no longer functioned, and Edward Clarke could not, or
would not, shed any light from statements his wife
had made in the past. He maintained his complete
ignorance of the whole affair, saying that any qualms
he might have had had been put to rest by Olive’s
confession and that the onus for mistakes must lie
with her and with the police. The most probable
scenario, and the one generally accepted, was that
Amber waited until Edward and Robert had left for
work and then invited Mrs Clarke into the house to
taunt her with the bracelet and the abortion. What
happened then was a matter for guesswork but Roz,
at least, believed that Mrs Clarke had set about the
murders in cold blood and with a clear mind. There
was something very calculating about the way she
must have donned gloves to perform her butchery
and her careful stepping around the blood to avoid
leaving too many traces. But most calculating of all
was the clever burning of her blood-stained overall
amidst Gwen and Amber’s clothes and her cool identification of the pieces afterwards as being the overall
worn by Gwen that morning. Roz even wondered
sometimes if the intention all along had been to implicate
Olive. There was no telling now why Mrs Clarke
had drawn attention to herself outside the kitchen
window, but Roz couldn’t help feeling that, had she
not done so, Olive might have had enough presence
of mind to phone the police immediately before she ran amok in the kitchen and obliterated the evidence
that might have exonerated her.
There were to be no disciplinary charges against
the police team involved. The chief constable issued
a press release, pointing to the recent tightening
of police procedure, particularly in relation to confession
evidence, but he stressed that as far as Olive’s
case was concerned the police had taken all available
steps to ensure her rights were fully protected. In the
circumstances it had been reasonable to assume that
her confession was genuine. He took the opportunity
to reiterate forcefully the duty imperative on the
public never to disturb evidence at the scene of a
crime.
Peter Crew’s association with the case, particularly
in view of his subsequent mishandling of Robert
Martin’s estate, had attracted considerable and unwelcome
interest. At worst he was accused of deliberately
engineering Olive’s conviction in order to gain access
to unlimited funds, and, at best, of bullying an
emotionally disturbed young woman at a time when
he had a responsibility to safeguard her interests. He
denied both accusations strenuously, arguing that he
could not have foreseen Robert Martin’s success on
the stock exchange nor his early death; and claiming
that because Olive’s story had been remarkably consistent
with the forensic evidence he, in the absence of
any denials on her part, had, like the police, accepted it
as a true statement of fact. He had advised her to say nothing and could not be held liable for her
confession. Meanwhile, he remained at liberty on bail,
facing the sort of charges that for most of his clients
would have resulted in a remand to prison, bullishly
declaring his innocence on all counts.
Roz, when she heard what he was saying, was angry
enough to waylay him in the street with a local
journalist in tow. ‘We could argue about liability for
ever, Mr Crew, but just explain this to me. If Olive’s
statement was as consistent with the forensic evidence
as you maintain, then why did she claim there was no
mist on the mirror at a time when Gwen and Amber
were still alive?’ She caught his arm as he tried to walk
away. ‘Why didn’t she mention that the axe was too
blunt to cut off Amber’s head? Why didn’t she say
she had struck her four times before resorting to the
carving knife? Why didn’t she describe her fight with
her mother and the stabbing incisions she’d made
in her mother’s throat before cutting it? Why didn’t
she mention burning the clothes? In fact, try quoting
me one detail from Olive’s statement that does accord
fully with the forensic evidence.’
He shook her off angrily. ‘She said she used the
axe and the carving knife,’ he snapped.
‘Neither of which had her fingerprints on them.
The forensic evidence did not support her statement.’
‘She had their blood all over her.’
‘All over is right, Mr Crew. But where does it say
in her statement that she rolled in it?’
He tried to walk away but found the journalist
blocking his path. ‘Footprints,’ he said. ‘At the time,
there were only her footprints.’
‘Yes,’ said Roz. ‘And on that one piece of evidence,
which was at odds with all the rest, you made up your
mind she was a psychopath and prepared a defence
on the grounds of diminished responsibility. Why did
you never brief Graham Deedes on the lifelines her
poor father was trying to throw her? Why didn’t you
question your own judgement when she was pronounced
fit to plead guilty? Why the hell didn’t you
treat her like a human being, Mr Crew, instead of a
monster?’
He stared at her with dislike. ‘Because, Miss Leigh,’
he said, ‘she
is
a monster. Worse, she’s a clever
monster. Doesn’t it worry you that this wretched
woman you’ve set up to take Olive’s place is the only
one who’s not mentally fit to fight the accusation?
And doesn’t it worry you that Olive waited till her
father died before she would talk to anyone? Mark
my words,
he
was the one she intended to smear with
her guilt – because he was easy. He was dead. But
you gave her Mrs Clarke instead.’ He thrust his face
angrily into hers. ‘The evidence you’ve unearthed
raises doubts, but no more. Computer-enhanced photography
is as open to interpretation as the nature of
psychopathy.’ He shook his head. ‘Olive will get out
because of it, of course. The law has become very
flabby in the last few years. But I was there when she told her story and, as I made clear to you at the start,
Olive Martin is a dangerous woman. She’s after her
father’s money. You’ve been led by the nose, Miss
Leigh.’
‘She’s not half as dangerous as you, Mr Crew. At
least she’s never paid to have people’s businesses
destroyed and their lives threatened. You’re a cheap
crook.’
Crew shrugged. ‘If that appears in print, Miss
Leigh, I shall sue you for defamation, and it will cost
you considerably more in legal fees than it will cost
me. I suggest you remember that.’
The journalist watched him walk away. ‘He’s doing
a Robert Maxwell on you.’
‘That’s the law for you,’ said Roz in disgust. ‘It’s
nothing but a big stick if you know how to use it or
you’re rich enough to employ someone else to use it
for you.’
‘You don’t think he’s right about Olive, do you?’
‘Of course not,’ said Roz angrily, sensing his doubt.
‘But at least you know now what she was up against.
This country is mad if it assumes that the presence of
a solicitor during an interview will automatically
protect a prisoner’s rights. They are just as fallible,
just as lazy, and just as crooked as the rest of us. It
cost the Law Society millions last year to compensate
clients for their solicitors’ misdeeds.’
*
The book was scheduled to come out within a month
of Olive’s release. Roz had finished it in record time
amidst the peace and seclusion of Bayview, which she
bought on impulse when she discovered it was
impossible to work above the continuous noise of
people enjoying their food in the restaurant downstairs.
The Poacher had been relaunched in a whirl of
somewhat exaggerated publicity featuring Hal as the
heroic underdog fighting the evil of organized crime.
His association with the Olive Martin case, particularly
his latter efforts to help in securing her release, had
only added to the hype. He applauded Roz’s decision
to buy Bayview. Making love against the back-drop of
the ocean was a vast improvement on the metal bars
at the Poacher.
And she was safer there.
Hal had discovered within himself a capacity for
caring that he hadn’t known existed. It went deeper
than love, encompassing every emotion from admiration
to lust, and, while he would never have
described himself as an obsessive man, the stress of
worrying about Stewart Hayes, free on bail, slowly
became intolerable to him. He was prompted finally
to make Hayes a surprise visit at home one day. He
found him playing in the garden with his ten-year-old
daughter and it was there that he made Hayes an offer
Hayes couldn’t refuse. A life for a life, a maiming for
a maiming, should anything happen to Roz. Hayes
recognized such compelling purpose in the dark eyes, perhaps because it’s what he would have done himself,
that he agreed to an indefinite truce. His love for his
daughter, it seemed, was matched only by Hal’s love
for Roz.
Iris, claiming almost more credit for the book than
Roz – ‘if it hadn’t been for me it would never have
been written’ – was busy selling it around the world
as the latest example of British justice reeling under
the body blows of its own inflexibility. A small, rather
ironic footnote to the story was that the boy Crew’s
firm had located in Australia proved not, after all, to
be Amber’s lost child and the search for him was
promptly abandoned. The time limit, set in Robert
Martin’s will, had run out and his money, swollen by
Crew’s investments – which were now out of his reach
– continued in limbo while Olive sought leave to
contest her right to it.
With her debut,
The Ice House
, Minette Walters won
the Crime Writers’ Association John Creasey Award for
the best first crime novel of 1992. Rapidly establishing
a reputation as one of the most exciting crime novelists
writing today, her second novel,
The Sculptress
, was
acclaimed by critics as one of the most compelling
and powerful novels of the year and won the Edgar
Allan Poe Award for the best crime novel published
in America in 1993. In 1994 Minette Walters achieved a
unique triple when
The Scold’s Bridle
was awarded the
CWA Gold Dagger for best crime novel of the year.
Her following five novels,
The Dark Room
,
The Echo
,
The Breaker
,
The Shape of Snakes
and
Acid Row
, were
also published to further critical acclaim throughout the
world and her ninth novel,
Fox Evil
, won the 2003 CWA
Gold Dagger for Fiction. Her short novel
Chickenfeed
was written for World Book Day to encourage emergent
readers and was voted the 2006 Quick Reads Readers’
Favourite.
Minette Walters lives in Dorset with her husband and
two children.
By the same author
The Ice House
The Scold’s Bridle
The Dark Room
The Echo
The Breaker
The Shape of Snakes
Acid Row
Fox Evil
Disordered Minds
The Devil’s Feather