He smoothed his white hair.
“We think Olive walked in on her mother battering Amber. That would have been quite enough to send her berserk, assuming she had retained her fondness for the girl.”
“Was Gwen capable of doing such a thing?”
They looked at each other.
“We’ve always thought so,” said Mr. Hopwood.
“She was very hostile towards Amber, probably because Amber was so like her father.”
“What did the police say?” asked Roz.
“I gather Robert Martin had already suggested the same thing.
They put it to Olive and she denied it.”
Roz stared at him.
“You’re saying Olive’s father told the police that he thought his wife had battered his younger daughter to death and that Olive then killed her mother?”
He nodded.
“God!” she breathed.
“His solicitor never said a word about that.” She thought for a moment.
“It implies, you know, that Gwen had battered the child before. No man would make an accusation like that unless he had grounds for it, would he?”
“Perhaps he just shared our disbelief that Olive could kill her sister.”
Roz chewed her thumbnail and stared at the carpet.
“She claimed in her statement that her relationship with her sister had never been close. Now, I might go along with that if I accept that in the years after school they drifted apart, but I can’t go along with it if her own father thought they were still so close that Olive would kill to revenge her.” She shook her head.
“I’m damn sure Olive’s barrister never got to hear about this. The poor man was trying to conjure a defence out of thin air.” She looked up.
“Why did Robert Martin give up on it? Why did he let her plead guilty?
According to her she did it to spare him the anguish of a trial.”
Mr. Hopwood shook his head.
“I really couldn’t say. We never saw him again. Presumably, he somehow became convinced of her guilt.” He massaged arthritic fingers.
“The problem for all of us is trying to accept that a person we know is capable of doing something so horrible, perhaps because it shows up the fallibility of our judgement. We knew her before it happened. You, I imagine, have met her since. In both cases, we have failed to see the flaw in her character that led her to murder her mother and sister, and we look for excuses. In the end, though, I don’t think there are any.
It’s not as if the police had to beat her confession out of her. As far as I understand it, it was they who insisted she wait till her solicitor was present.”
Roz frowned.
“And yet you’re still troubled by it.”
He smiled slightly.
“Only when someone pops up to stir the dregs again. By and large we rarely think about it. There’s no getting away from the fact that she signed a confession saying she did it.”
“People are always confessing to crimes they didn’t commit,” countered Roz bluntly.
“Timothy Evans was hanged for his confession, while downstairs Christie went on burying his victims under the floorboards. Sister Bridget said Olive lied about everything, you and your daughter have both cited lies she told. What makes you think she was telling the truth in this one instance?”
They didn’t say anything.
“I’m so sorry,” said Roz with an apologetic smile.
“I don’t mean to harangue you. I just wish I understood what it was all about. There are so many inconsistencies. I mean why, for example, did Robert Martin stay in the house after the deaths?
You’d expect him to move heaven and earth to get out of it.”
“You must talk to the police,” said Mr. Hopwood.
“They know more about it than anyone.”
“Yes,” Roz said quietly, “I must.” She picked up her cup and saucer from the floor and put them on the table.
“Can I ask you three more things? Then I’ll leave you in peace. First, is there anyone else you can think of who might be able to help me?”
Mrs. Hopwood shook her head.
“I really know very little about her after she left school. You’ll have to trace the people she worked with.”
“Fair enough. Second, did you know that Amber had a baby when she was thirteen years old?” She read the astonishment in their faces.
“Good Heavens!” said Mrs. Hopwood.
“Quite. Third…” She paused for a moment, remembering Graham Deedes’ amused reaction. Was it fair to make Olive a figure of fun?
“Third,” she repeated firmly, “Gwen persuaded Olive to have an abortion. Do you know anything about that?”
Mrs. Hopwood looked thoughtful.
“Would that have been at the beginning of eighty-seven?”
Roz, unsure how to answer, nodded.
“I was having problems of my own with a prolonged menopause,” said Mrs.
Hopwood, matter of factly.
“I bumped into her and Gwen quite by chance at the hospital. It was the last time I saw them. Gwen was very jumpy. She tried to pretend they were there for a gynaecological reason of her own but I couldn’t help noticing that it was clearly Olive who had the problem. The poor girl was in tears.” She tut-tutted crossly.
“What a mistake not to let her have it. It explains the murders, of course. They must have happened around the time the baby would have been due. No wonder she was disturbed.”
Roz drove back to Leven Road. This time the door to number 22 stood ajar and a young woman was clipping the low hedge that bordered the front garden. Roz drew her car into the kerb and stepped out.
“Hi,” she said, holding out her hand and shaking the other’s firmly.
Immediate, friendly contact, she hoped, would stop this woman barring the door to her as her neighbour had done.
“I’m Rosalind Leigh. I came the other day but you were out. I can see your time’s precious so I won’t stop you working, but can we talk while you’re doing it?”
The young woman shrugged as she resumed her clipping.
“If you’re selling anything, and that includes religion, then you’re wasting your time.”
“I want to talk about your house.”
“Oh, Christ!” said the other in disgust.
“Sometimes I wish we’d never bought the flaming thing. What are you?
Psychical bloody research? They’re all nutters. They seem to think the kitchen is oozing with ectoplasm or something equally disgusting.”
“No. Far more earthbound. I’m writing a follow-up report on the Olive Martin case.”
“Why?”
“There are some unanswered questions. Like, for example, why did Robert Martin remain here after the murders?”
“And you’re expecting me to answer that?” She snorted.
“I never even met him. He was long dead before we moved in.
You should talk to old Hayes’ she jerked her head towards the adjoining garages ‘he’s the only one who knew the family.”
“I have talked to him. He doesn’t know either.” She glanced towards the open front door but all she could see was an expanse of peach wall and a triangle of russet carpet.
“I gather the house has been gutted and redecorated. Did you do that yourselves or did you buy it after it was done?”
“We did it ourselves. My old man’s in the building trade. Or was,” she corrected herself.
“He was made redundant ten, twelve months ago. We were lucky, managed to sell our other house without losing too much, and bought this for a song. Did it without a mortgage, too, so we’re not struggling the way some other poor sods are.”
“Has he found another job?” Roz asked sympathetically.
The young woman shook her head.
“Hardly. Building’s all he knows and there’s precious little of that at the moment. Still, he’s trying his best. Can’t do more than that, can he?” She lowered the shears.
“I suppose you’re wondering if we found anything when we gutted the house.”
Roz nodded.
“Something like that.”
“If we had, we’d have told someone.”
“Of course, but I wouldn’t have expected you to find anything incriminating. I was thinking more in terms of impressions. Did the place look loved, for example? Is that why he stayed?
Because he loved it?”
The woman shook her head.
“I reckon it was more of a prison. I can’t swear to it because I don’t know for sure, but my guess is he only used one room and that was the room downstairs at the back, the one that was attached to the kitchen and the cloakroom with its own door into the garden. Maybe he went through to the kitchen to cook, but I doubt it. The connecting door was locked and we never found the key. Plus, there was an ancient Baby Being still plugged into one of the sockets in that room, which the house clearers couldn’t be bothered to take, and my bet is he did all his cooking on that.
The garden was nice. I think he lived in the one room and the garden, and never went into the rest of the house at all.”
“Because the door was locked?”
“No, because of the nicotine. The windows were so thick with it that the glass looked yellow. And the ceiling’ she pulled a face ‘was dark brown. The smell of old tobacco was overpowering. He must have smoked non-stop in there. It was disgusting. But there were no nicotine stains anywhere else in the house. If he ever went beyond the connecting door, then it can’t have been for very long.”
Roz nodded.
“He died of a heart attack.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Would you object to my taking a look inside?”
“There’s no point. It’s completely different. We knocked out any walls that weren’t structural and changed the whole layout downstairs.
If you want to know what it looked like when he was here, then I’ll draw you a plan. But you don’t come in. If I say yes to you, then there’s no end to it, is there? Any Tom, Dick, or Harry can demand to put his foot through our door.”
“Point taken. A plan would be more helpful, anyway.” She reached into the car for a notepad and pencil and passed it across.
“It’s much nicer now,” said the self-possessed young woman, drawing with swift strokes.
“We’ve opened up the rooms and put some colour into them. Poor Mrs.
Martin had no idea at all. I think, you know, she was probably rather boring. There.” She passed the notepad back.
“That’s the best I can do.”
“Thank you,” said Roz studying the plan.
“Why do you think Mrs. Martin was boring?”
“Because everything walls, doors, ceilings, everything was painted white. It was like an operating theatre, cold and antiseptic, without a spot of colour. And she didn’t have pictures either, because there were no marks on the walls.” She shuddered.
“I don’t like houses like that. They never look lived in.”
Roz smiled as she glanced up at the red-brick facade.
“I’m glad it’s you who bought it. I should think it feels lived in flow. I don’t believe in ghosts myself.”
“Put it this way, if you want to see ghosts, you’ll see them.
If you don’t, you won’t.” She tapped the side of her head.
“It’s all in the mind. My old dad used to see pink elephants but no one ever thought his house was haunted.”
Roz was laughing as she drove away.
SIX
The car park of the Poacher was as deserted as before but this time itw as three o’clock in the afternoon, lunchtime was over, and the door was bolted. Roz tapped on the window pane but, getting no response, made her way round to the alley at the back where the kitchen door must be.
It stood ajar and from inside came the sound of singing.
“Hello,” she called.
“Sergeant Hawksley?” She put her hand on the door to push it wider and almost lost her balance when it was whipped away from her.
“You did that on purpose!” she snapped.
“I could have broken my arm.”
“Good God, woman,” he said in mock disgust.
“Can’t you open your mouth without nagging? I’m beginning to think I did my ex-wife an injustice.” He crossed his arms, a fish slice dangling from one hand.
“What do you want this time?”
He had a peculiar talent for putting her at a disadvantage. She bit back an angry retort.
“I’m sorry,” she said instead.
“It’s just that I nearly fell over. Look, are you busy at the moment or can I come in and talk to you?” She examined his face warily for signs of further damage but there were none that hadn’t been there before.
“I’m busy.”
“What if I came back in an hour? Could you talk then?”
“Maybe.”
She gave a rueful smile.
“I’il try again at four.”
He watched her walk up the alleyway.
“What are you going to do for an hour?” he called after her.
She turned round.
“I expect I’il sit in the car. I’ve some flotes to work on.”
He swung the fish slice.
“I’m cooking steak au poivre with some lightly steamed vegetables and potatoes fried in butter.”
“Bully for you,” she said.
“There’s enough for two.”
She smiled.
“Is that an invitation or a refined form of torture?”
“It’s an invitation.”
She came back slowly.
“Actually, I’m starving.”
A slight smile warmed his face.
“So what’s new?” He took her into the kitchen and pulled out a chair at the table. He eyed her critically as he turned the gas up under some simmering pans.
“You look as if you haven’t had a square meal in days.”
“I haven’t.” She recalled what the young policeman had said.
“Are you a good cook?”
He turned his back on her without answering, and she regretted the question. Talking to Hawksley was almost as intimidating as talking to Olive. She couldn’t speak, it seemed, without treading on a nerve.
Except for a muted thank you when he poured her a glass of wine she sat in uncomfortable silence for five minutes, wondering how to open the conversation. She was highly doubtful that he would greet her proposed book on Olive with any enthusiasm.
He placed the steaks on warmed plates, surrounded them with fried whole potatoes, steamed mange tout and baby carrots, and garnished them with the juices from the pan.
“There,” he said, whisking a plate in front of Roz, apparently unaware of her discomfort, ‘that’ll put some colour in your cheeks.” He sat down and attacked his own plate.
“Well, come on, woman. What are you waiting for?”
“A knife and fork.”
“Ah!” He pulled open a drawer in the table and slid some cutlery across.
“Now, get stuck in and don’t yatter while you’re eating. Food should be enjoyed for its own sake.”
She needed no further bidding but set to with a will.
“Fabulous,” she said at last, pushing her empty plate to one side with a sigh of contentment.
“Absolutely fabulous.”
He arched a sardonic eyebrow.
“So what’s the verdict? Can I cook or can I cook?”
She laughed.
“You can cook. May I ask you something?”
He filled her empty glass.
“If you must.”
“If I hadn’t turned up would you have eaten all that yourself?”
“I might have drawn the line at one steak.” He paused.
“Then again I might not. I’ve no bookings for tonight and they don’t keep. I’d probably have eaten them both.”
She heard the trace of bitterness in his voice.
“How much longer can you stay open without customers?” she asked incautiously.
He ignored the question.
“You said you wanted to talk to me,” he reminded her.
“What about?”
She nodded. Apparently, he had no more desire than she to lick wounds in public.
“Olive Martin,” she told him.
“I’m writing a book about her. I believe you were one of the arresting officers.”
He didn’t answer immediately but sat looking at her over the rim of his wine glass.
“Why Olive Martin?”
“She interests me.” It was impossible to gauge his reaction.
“Of course.” He shrugged.
“She did something completely horrific. You’d be very unnatural if you didn’t find her interesting. Have you met her?”
She nodded.
“And?”
“I like her.”
“Only because you’re naive.” He stretched his long arms towards the ceiling, cracking the joints in his shoulders.
“You steeled yourself to delve in the sewer, expecting to pull out a monster, and you’ve landed yourself something comparatively pleasant instead. Olive’s not unusual in that. Most criminals are pleasant most of the time. Ask any prison officer. They know better than anyone that the penal system relies almost entirely on the goodwill of the prisoners.” His eyes narrowed.
“But Olive hacked two completely innocent women to death. The fact that she presents a human face to you now doesn’t make what she did any less horrific.”
“Have I said it does?”
“You’re writing a book about her. Even if you castigate her, she will still be something of a celebrity.” He leaned forward, his tone unfriendly.
“But what about her mother and sister?
Where is the justice for them in giving their murderer the thrill and the kudos of being written about?”
Roz dropped her eyes.
“It does worry me,” she admitted.
“No, that’s wrong.” She looked up.
“It did worry me. I’m a little more sure now of where I’m heading. But I take your point about her victims. It’s all too easy to focus on Olive. She’s alive and they’re dead, and the dead are difficult to recreate.
You have to rely on what other people tell you, and just as their perceptions at the time were not always accurate, neither are their memories now.” She sighed.
Sculptress Page 10