Sculptress

THIRTEEN

Roz’s sleep that night was intermittent, fitful dozing between turbulent dreams. Olive with an axe, hacking chen tables to pieces.

I didn’t think you would… it’s not as easy as it looks on the ……… Hal’s fingers on her wrist, but his face the gleeful face of her brother as he gave her Chinese burns as a child.

Goddamnit, woman, do you think I did this… Olive hanging from the gallows, her face the slimy grey of wet day. Have you no qualms about releasing someone like her back into society… A priest with the eyes of Sister Bridget. It’s a pity you’re not a Catholic… You could go to confession and feel better immediately… You keep offering me money…

The law is an ass… Have you called the police? She woke in the morning to the sound of the phone ringing in her sitting room. Her head was splitting. She snatched up the receiver to shut off the noise.

“Who is it?”

“Well, that’s a nice welcome, I must say,” remarked Iris.

“What’s eating you?”

“Nothing. What do you want?”

“Shall I phone off,” said Iris sweetly, ‘and call you back again in half an hour when you’ve remembered that I’m your friend and not some piece of dog’s dirt that you’ve just scraped off your shoe?”

“Sorry. You woke me. I didn’t sleep very well.”

“M’m, well, I’ve just had your editor on the phone pressing me for a date and I don’t mean an invitation to dinner. He wants a rough idea of when the book will be ready.”

Roz made a face into the receiver.

“I haven’t started writing it yet “Then you’d better get a move on, my darling, because I’ve told him it will be finished by Christmas.”

“Oh, Iris, for Heaven’s sake. That’s only six months away and I’m no further forward than the last time I spoke to you. Olive clams up every time we get to the murders. In fact I-‘ “Seven months,” Iris cut in.

“Go and grill that dodgy policeman again. He sounds absolutely frightful and I’ll bet you anything you like he framed her. They all do it. It boosts their quotas. The buzz word is productivity, darling, something that is temporarily absent from your vocabulary.”

Mrs. Clarke listened to Roz’s introductory speech about her book on Olive with an expression of complete horror.

“How did you find us?” she asked in a quavering voice. For no particular reason, Roz had pictured her in her fifties or early sixties. She was unprepared for this old woman, closer in age to Mr.

Hayes than to the age Robert and Gwen Martin would have been if they were still alive.

“It wasn’t difficult,” she hedged.

“I’ve been so afraid.”

It was an odd reaction but Roz let it pass.

“Can I come in? I won’t take up much of your time, I promise.”

“I couldn’t possibly speak to you. I’m alone. Edward is shopping.”

“Please, Mrs. Clarke,” she begged, her voice catching under the strain of her tiredness. It had taken two and a half hours to drive to Salisbury and locate their house.

“I’ve come such a long way to see you.”

The woman smiled suddenly and held the door wide.

“Come in. Come in. Edward made some cakes specially. He’ll be so thrilled you found us.”

With a puzzled frown, Roz stepped inside.

“Thank you.”

“You remember Pussy, of course’ she waved at an ancient cat curled beneath a radiator ‘or was she after your time? I forget things, you know. We’ll sit in the lounge. Edward,” she called, “Mary’s here.”

There was no response.

“Edward’s gone shopping,” said Roz.

“Oh, yes.” She looked at Roz in confusion.

“Do I know you?”

“I’m a friend of Olive’s.”

“I’m a friend of Olive’s,” mimicked the old lady.

“I’m a friend of Olive’s.”

She lowered herself on to the sofa.

“Sit down. Edward’s made some cakes specially. I remember Olive. We were at school together. She had long pigtails which the boys used to pull. Such wicked boys. I wonder what happened to them.” She looked at Roz again.

“Do I know you?”

Roz sat awkwardly in an armchair, weighing the ethics of questioning a vulnerable old woman with senile dementia.

“I’m a friend of Olive Martin,” she prompted.

“Gwen and Robert’s daughter.” She studied the vacant blue eyes but there was no reaction. She was relieved. Ethics became irrelevant when asking questions was a nonsense. She smiled encouragingly.

“Tell me about Salisbury. Do you like living here?”

Their conversation was an exhausting one, filled with silences, chanting repetition, and strange inconsequential references that left Roz struggling to follow the thread. Twice, she had to divert Mrs.

Clarke from a sudden realisation that she was a stranger, fearing that if she left she would find it impossible to get back in to talk to Edward. With part of her mind she wondered how he coped. Could you go on loving an empty shell when your love was neither reciprocated nor appreciated? Could there ever be enough flashes of lucidity to make the loneliness of caring worthwhile?

Her eye was drawn again and again to the wedding photograph above the mantelpiece. They had married comparatively late, she thought, judging by their ages. He looked to be in his forties, with most of his hair already missing. She looked a little older. But they stood shoulder to shoulder, laughing together out of the frame, two happy, healthy people, with not a care in the world, unaware and how could they be? that she carried the seeds of dementia. It was cruel to make a comparison but Roz couldn’t help herself.

Beside the celluloid woman, so alive, so vivid, so substantial, the real Mrs. Clarke was a colourless, trembling shadow. Was this, Roz wondered, why Edward and Robert Martin had become lovers? She found the whole experience immensely depressing and when, at last, the sound of a key grated in the lock, it came like the welcome patter of rain on drought hardened earth.

“Mary’s come to see us,” said Mrs. Clarke brightly as her husband entered the room.

“We’ve been waiting for cakes.”

Roz stood up and handed Mr. Clarke one of her cards.

“I did tell her who I was,” she said quietly, ‘but it seemed kinder tobeMary.”

He was old, like his wife, and entirely bald, but he still carried himself erect with shoulders squared. He towered above the woman on the sofa who shrank away from him in sudden fear, muttering to herself.

Roz wondered if he ever lost his temper with her.

“I really don’t leave her alone very often,” he answered defensively, as if she had accused him of it, ‘but the shopping has to be done.

Everyone’s so busy and it’s not fair to keep asking the neighbours.” He ran a hand across his bald head and read the card.

“I thought you were Social Services,” he said, this time accusing her.

“Author? We don’t want an author. What good would an author be to us?”

“I was hoping you could help me.”

“I don’t know the first thing about writing. Who gave you my name?”

“Olive did,” said Mrs. Clarke.

“She’s a friend of Olive’s.”

He was shocked.

“Oh, no!” he said.

“No, no, no! You’ll have to leave. I’m not having that dragged up again. It’s an outrage.

How did you get hold of this address?”

“No, no, no!” chanted his wife.

“It’s an outrage. No, no, no!”

Roz held her breath and counted to ten, not sure if her sanity or her control would slip first.

“How on earth do you cope?” The words tumbled out as involuntarily as Mrs. Clarke’s did.

“I’m sorry.” She saw the strain in his face.

“That was unforgivably rude.”

“It’s not so bad when we’re alone. I just switch off.” He sighed.

“Why have you come? I thought we’d put all that behind us. There’s nothing I can do for Olive. Robert tried to help her at the time but it was all thrown back in his face. Why has she sent you here?”

“It’s an outrage,” muttered the old woman.

“She hasn’t. I’m here off my own bat. Look,” she said, glancing at Mrs. Clarke, ‘is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“But there is,” she said.

“You were a friend of Robert’s. You must have known the family better than anyone. I’m writing a book’ she remembered belatedly that her explanations had been given to Mrs. Clarke ‘and I can’t do it if no one will tell me about Gwen and Robert.”

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 flyer 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 nextdoor 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 realised 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 institutionalised. 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?”

“Yes.”

“Are you brave enough to collect them or do you want me to post them?”

“It’s not bravery that’s required, Hawksley, it’s thick bloody skin.

I’m tired of being needled.” She smiled to herself at the pun.

“Which reminds me, was it Mrs. Clarke who said Gwen and Amber were alive after Robert went to work?”

There was a slight pause while he tried to see a connection.

He couldn’t.

“Yes, if she was the one in the attached semi.”

“She was lying. She says now that she didn’t see them, which means Robert Martin’s alibi is worthless. He could have done it before he went to work.”

“Why would she give Robert Martin an alibi?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to work it out. I thought at first she was alibiing her own husband, but that doesn’t hold water.

Apart from anything else, Olive tells me he was already retired so he wouldn’t have gone to work anyway. Can you remember checking Mrs.

Clarke’s statement?”

“Was Clarke the accountant? Yes?” He thought for a moment.

“OK, he ran most of his business from home but he also looked after the books of several small firms in the area. That week he was doing the accounts of a central heating contractor in Portswood. He was there all day. We checked. He didn’t get home until after we had the place barricaded. I remember the fuss he made about having to park his car at the other end of the road. Elderly man, bald, with glasses. That the one?”

“Yes,” she said, ‘but what he and Robert did during the day is irrelevant if Gwen and Amber were dead before either of the men left for work.”

“How reliable is Mrs. Clarke?”

“Not very,” she admitted.

“What was the earliest estimate of death according to your pathologist?”

He was unusually evasive.

“I can’t remember now.”

“Try,” she pressed him.

“You suspected Robert enough to check his alibi so he can’t have been ruled out immediately on the forensic evidence.”

“I can’t remember,” he said again.

“But if Robert did it, then why didn’t he kill Olive as well? And why didn’t she try and stop him? There must have been a hell of a row going on. She couldn’t possibly have avoided hearing something. It’s not that big a house.”

“Perhaps she wasn’t there.

The Chaplain made his weekly visit to Olive’s room.

“That’s good,” he said, watching her bring curl to the mother’s hair with the point of a matchstick.

“Is it Mary and Jesus?”

She looked at him with amusement.

“The mother is suffocating her baby,” she said baldly.

“Is it likely to be Mary and Jesus?”

He shrugged.

“I’ve seen many stranger things that pass for religious art. Who is it?”

“It’s Woman,” said Olive.

“Eve with all her faces.”

He was interested.

“But you haven’t given her a face.”

Olive twisted the sculpture on its base and he saw that what he had taken to be curls at the side of the mother’s hair was in fact a crude delineation of eyes, nose and mouth. She twisted it the other way and the same rough representation stared out from that side as well.

“Two-faced,” said Olive, ‘and quite unable to look you in the eye.” She picked up a pencil and shoved it between the mother’s thighs.

“But it doesn’t matter. Not to MAN.” She leered unpleasantly.

“MAN doesn’t look at the mantelpiece when he’s poking the fire.”

Hal had mended the back door and the kitchen table, which stood in its customary place once more in the middle of the room. The floor was scrubbed clean, wall units repaired, fridge upright, even some chairs had been imported from the restaurant and placed neatly about the table. Hal himself looked completely exhausted.

“Have you had any sleep at all?” she asked him.

“Not much. I’ve been working round the clock.”

“Well, you’ve performed miracles.” She gazed about her.

“So who’s coming to dinner? The Queen? She could eat it off the floor.”

To her surprise he caught her hand and lifted it to his lips, turning it to kiss the palm. It was an unexpectedly delicate gesture from such a hard man.

“Thank you.”

She was at a loss.

“What for?” she asked helplessly.

He released her hand with a smile.

“Saying the right things.”

For a moment she thought he was going to elaborate, but all he said was: “The photographs are on the table.”

Olive’s was a mug-shot, stark and brutally unflattering. Gwen and Amber’s shocked her as he had said they would.

They were the stuff of nightmares and she understood for the first time why everyone had said Olive was a psychopath. She turned them over and concentrated on the head and shoulders’ shot of Robert Martin. Olive was there in the eyes and mouth, and she had a fleeting impression of what might lie beneath the layers of lard if Olive could ever summon the will-power to shed it. Her father was a very handsome man.

“What are you going to do with them?”

She told him about the man who sent letters to Olive.

“The description fits her father,” she said.

“The woman at Wells Fargo said she’d recognise him from a photograph.”

“Why on earth should her father have sent her secret letters?”

“To set her up as a scapegoat for the murders.”

He was sceptical.

“You’re plucking at straws. What about the ones of Gwen and Amber?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m tempted to show them to Olive to shock her out of her apathy.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’d think twice about that if I were you. She’s an unknown quantity, and you may not know her as well as you think you do. She could very easily turn nasty if you present her with her own handiwork.”

She smiled briefly.

“I know her better than I know you.” She tucked the photographs into her handbag and stepped out into the alleyway.

“The odd thing is you’re very alike, you and Olive.

You demand trust but you don’t give it.”

He wiped a weary hand around his two-day growth of stubble.

“Trust is a twoedged sword, Roz. It can make you extremely vulnerable. I wish you’d remember that from time to time