Sculptress Page 5

  Sit down.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re from Mr. Crew, you say. They found the child yet?”

  He stared into her face with disconcertingly bright blue eyes.

  Roz stared back, her mind racing.

  “That’s not my province,” she said carefully, ‘so I’m not sure where they are on that one. I’m conducting a follow-up of Olive’s case. You did know that Mr. Crew is still representing her?”

  “What’s to represent?” he asked. His eyes strayed in disappointment.

  “Poor little Amber. They should never have made her give it up. I said it would cause trouble.”

  Roz sat very still and stared at the worn carpet.

  “People don’t listen, of course,” he said crossly.

  “You give them well-meant advice and they tell you you’re interfering.

  What shall I say? I could see where it would lead.” He fell into a resentful silence.

  “You’re talking about the child,” said Roz at last.

  He looked at her curiously.

  “If they’d found him, you’d know.”

  It was a boy, then.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Bob did his best but there’s rules about these things.

  They’d signed him away, given up their stake, so to speak.

  You’d think it was different where money’s concerned, but there’s no contest for the likes of us against the government.

  What shall I say? They’re all thieves.”

  Roz made what she could of this speech. Was he talking about Mr.

  Martin’s will? Was this child (Amber’s child?) the beneficiary? On the pretext of looking for a handkerchief, she opened her bag and surreptitiously switched on her tape-recorder. This conversation, she felt, was going to be tortuous.

  “You mean,” she tried tentatively, ‘that the government will get the money?”

  “Course.”

  She nodded wisely.

  “Things aren’t exactly stacked in our favour.”

  “Never are. Damn thieves. Take every last penny off you. And what for? To make sure the ski vers go on breeding like rabbits at the expense of the rest of us. Makes you sick. There’s a woman in the council houses has five children, and all by different fathers.

  What shall I say? They’re all worthless. Is that the sort of breeding stock we want in this country? Goodfor-nothings, with not a brain between them. Where’s the sense in encouraging a woman like that?

  Should have sterilised her and put a stop to it.”

  Roz was noncommittal, unwilling to be drawn down a culdesac, even more unwilling to antagonise him.

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Course I’m right, and it’ll be the death of the species.

  Before the dole, she’d have starved to death and her brood with her, and quite right too. What shall I say? It’s the survival of the fittest in this world. There’s no other species mollycoddles its rotten apples the way we do, and certainly none that pays its rotten apples to produce more rotten apples. Makes you sick.

  How many children have you got?”

  Roz smiled faintly.

  “None, I’m afraid. I’m not married.”

  “See what I mean?” He cleared his throat noisily.

  “Makes you sick. What shall I say? It’s your sort, decent sort, should have the children.”

  “How many do you have, Mr. er-?” She made a play of consulting her diary, as if looking for his name.

  “Hayes. Mr. Hayes. Two lads. Fine boys. Grown up now, of course.

  Only the one granddaughter,” he added morosely.

  “It’s not right. I keep telling them they’ve a duty to their class but I could be pissing in the wind excuse my French for all the good it does.” His face set into familiar lines of irritation. His obsession was clearly a deep-seated one.

  Roz knew she had to take the plunge or one hobby horse would follow another as inexorably as night follows day.

  “You’re a very perceptive man, Mr. Hayes. Why were you so sure that making Amber give up her son would cause trouble?”

  “Stands to reason there’d come a time when he was wanted again. It’s sod’s law, isn’t it? The minute you throw something out, that’s the minute you find you needed it after all. But it’s too late by then.

  It’s gone. My wife was one, forever throwing things away, pots of paint, carpet, and two years later you needed to patch. Me, I hoard.

  What shall I say? I value everything.”

  “So, are you saying Mr. Martin wasn’t bothered about his grandson before the murders?”

  He touched the end of his nose with thumb and forefinger.

  “Who’s to say? He kept his own counsel, did Bob. It was Gwen who insisted on signing the kid away. Wouldn’t have it in the house.

  Understandable, I suppose, in view of Amber’s age.”

  “How old was she?”

  He frowned.

  “I thought Mr. Crew knew all this.”

  She smiled.

  “He does but, as I told you, it’s not my province. I’m just interested, that’s all. It seems so tragic.”

  “It is that. Thirteen,” he said wistfully.

  “She was thirteen. Poor little kid. Didn’t know anything about anything. Some lout at the school was responsible.”

  He jerked his head towards the back of his house.

  “Parkway Comprehensive.”

  “Is that the school Amber and Olive went to?”

  “Hah!” His old eyes were amused.

  “Gwen wouldn’t have stood for that. She sent them to the posh Convent where they learnt their times tables and didn’t learn the facts of life.”

  “Why didn’t Amber have an abortion? Were they Catholics?” She thought again about Olive and foetuses being washed down the sink.

  “They didn’t know she was pregnant, did they?

  Thought it was puppy fat.” He cackled suddenly.

  “Rushed her off to hospital with suspected appendicitis and out pops a bouncing baby boy. They got away with it, too. Best kept secret I’ve ever come across. Even the nuns didn’t know.”

  “But you knew,” she prompted.

  “The wife guessed,” he said owlishly.

  “It was obvious something untoward had happened, and not appendicitis neither. Gwen was well-nigh hysterical the night it happened and my Jeannie put two and two together. Still, we know how to keep our mouths shut. No reason to make life harder for the kid. It wasn’t her fault.”

  Roz did some rapid mental arithmetic. Amber was two years younger than Olive which would have made her twenty-six if she were still alive.

  “Her son’s thirteen,” she said, ‘and due to inherit half a million pounds. I wonder why Mr. Crew can’t find him. There must be records of the adoption.”

  “I heard they’d found traces.” The old man clicked his false teeth with disappointment.

  “But, there, it was probably just rumour, Brown Australia,” he muttered with disgust, as if that explained everything.

  “I ask you.”

  Roz allowed this cryptic remark to pass unchallenged. Time enough to puzzle over it later without claiming ignorance yet again.

  “Tell me about Olive,” she invited.

  “Were you surprised that she did what she did?”

  “I hardly knew the girl.” He sucked his teeth.

  “And you don’t feel surprised when people you know get hacked to death, young lady, you feel bloody sick. It did for my Jeannie. She was never the same afterwards, died a couple of years later.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He nodded, but it was clearly an old wound that had healed.

  “Used to see the child come and go but she wasn’t a great talker. Shy, I suppose.”

  “Because she was fat?”

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  “Maybe. Jeannie said she was teased a lot, but I’ve known fat girls who’ve been the life and soul of t
he party. It was her nature, I think, to look on the black side. Never laughed much. No sense of humour. That sort doesn’t make friends easily.”

  “And Amber did?”

  “Oh, yes. She was very popular.” He glanced back down the passages of time.

  “She was a pretty girl.”

  “Was Olive jealous of her?”

  “Jealous?” Mr. Hayes looked surprised.

  “I’ve never thought about it. What shall I say? They always seemed very fond of each other.”

  Roz shrugged her bewilderment.

  “Then why did Olive kill her? And why mutilate the bodies? It’s very odd.”

  He scowled suspiciously.

  “I thought you were representing her. You should know if anyone does.”

  “She won’t say.”

  He stared out of the window.

  “Well, then.”

  Well then what?

  “Do you know why?”

  “Jeannie reckoned it was hormones.”

  “Hormones?” Roz echoed blankly.

  “What sort of hormones?”

  “You know.” He looked embarrassed.

  “Monthly ones.”

  “Ah.” PMT? she wondered. But it was hardly a subject she could pursue with him. He was of a generation where menstruation was never mentioned.

  “Did Mr. Martin ever say why he thought she did it?”

  He shook his head.

  “The subject didn’t arise.

  What shall I say? We saw very little of him afterwards. He talked about his will once or twice, and the child it was all he thought about.” He cleared his throat again.

  “He became a recluse, you know. Wouldn’t have anyone in the house, not even the Clarkes, and there was a time when Ted and he were close as brothers.” His mouth turned down at the corners.

  “It was Ted started it, mind. Took against Bob for some reason and wouldn’t go in.

  And others followed suit, of course, the way they do.

  Reckon I was his only friend at the end. It was me as realised something was wrong, seeing the milk bottles outside.”

  “But why did he stay? He was rich enough to let number twenty-two go for peanuts. You’d have thought he’d go anywhere rather than stay with the ghosts of his family.”

  Mr. Hayes muttered to himself.

  “Never understood it myself. Perhaps he wanted his friends about him.”

  “You said the Clarkes moved. Where did they go?”

  He shook his head.

  “No idea. They upped and went one morning without a word to anyone. A removal van took out their furniture three days later and the house stood empty for a year till the Blairs bought it. Never heard a word from them since. No forwarding address. Nothing. What shall I say?

  We were good friends, the six of us, and I’m the only one left now.

  Strange business.”

  Very strange, thought Roz.

  “Can you remember which estate agent sold the house?”

  “Peterson’s, but you won’t learn anything from them. Little Hitlers,” he said, ‘all bursting with self importance Told me to mind my own business when I went in and asked what was what. It’s a free world, I pointed out, no reason why a man shouldn’t ask after his friends, but oh, no, they had instructions of confidentiality or some such rubbish.

  What shall I say? Made out it was me the Clarkes were cutting their ties with. Hah!

  More likely Bob, I told them, or ghosts. And they said if I spread those sort of rumours, they’d take action. You know who I blame. The estate agents’ federation, if there is one, which I doubt…” He rambled on, venting his spleen out of loneliness and frustration.

  Roz felt sorry for him.

  “Do you see much of your sons?” she asked when he drew to a halt.

  “Now and then.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Forties,” he said after a moment’s thought.

  “What did they think of Olive and Amber?”

  He pinched his nose again and waggled it from side to side.

  “Never knew them. Left home long before either of the girls reached their teens.”

  “They didn’t baby-sit or anything like that?”

  “My lads? You wouldn’t catch them baby-sitting.” His old eyes moistened, and he nodded towards the sideboard where photographs of two young men in uniform crowded the surface.

  “Fine boys. Soldiers.” He thrust out his chest.

  “Took my advice and joined up. Mind, they’re out of jobs now, what with the bloomin’ regiment being cut from under them. It makes you sick when you think them and me’s served Queen and country for nigh on fifty years between us. Did I tell you I was in the desert during the war?” He looked vacantly about the room.

  “There’s a photograph somewhere of Churchill and Monty in a jeep. We all got one, us boys who were out there. Worth a bob or two, I should think. Now where is it?” He became agitated.

  Roz picked up her briefcase.

  “Don’t worry about it now, Mr. Hayes. Perhaps I could see it next time I come.”

  “You coming back?”

  “I’d like to, if it’s no trouble.” She took a card from her handbag, flicking the switch on the recorder at the same time.

  “That’s my name and telephone number. Rosalind Leigh. It’s a London number but I’ll be down here regularly over the next few weeks, so if you feel like a chat’ she smiled encouragingly and stood up - ‘give me a ring.”

  He regarded her with astonishment.

  “A chat.

  Goodness me. A youngster like you has better things to do with her time.”

  Too right, she thought, but I do need information.

  Her smile, like Mr. Crew’s, was false.

  “I’ll be seeing you then, Mr. Hayes.”

  He pushed himself awkwardly out of his chair and held out a marbled hand.

  “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Leigh. What shall I say? It’s not often an old man sees charming young ladies out of the blue.”

  He spoke with such sincerity that she felt chastened by her own lack of it. Why, oh why, she wondered, was the human condition so damn bloody?

  FOUR

  Roz found the local convent with the help of a police an “That’ll be St. Angela’s,” he told her.

  “Left at the traffic lights and left again. Large red-brick building set back from the road. You can’t miss it. It’s the only decent piece of architecture still standing round there.”

  It reared in solid Victorian magnificence above its surrounding clutter of cheap concrete obsolescence, a monument to education in a way that none of the modern prefabricated schools could ever be. Roz entered the front door with a sense of familiarity, for this was a schooling she recognised.

  Glimpses through classroom doors of desks, blackboards, shelves of books, attentive girls in neat uniforms. A place of quiet learning, where parents could dictate the sort of education their daughters received simply by threatening to remove the pupils and withhold the fees. And whenever parents had that power the requirements were always the same: discipline, structure, results. She peeped through a window into what was obviously the library. Well, well, no wonder Gwen had insisted on sending the girls here. Roz would put money on Parkway Comprehensive being an unruly bedlam where English, History, Religion and Geography were all taught as the single subject of General Studies, spelling was an anachronism, French an extracurricular activity, Latin unheard of, and Science a series of chats about the greenhouse effect…

  “Can I help you?”

  She turned with a smile.

  “I hope so.”

  A smart woman in her late fifties had paused in front of a door marked Secretary.

  “Are you a prospective parent?”

  “I wish I were. It’s a lovely school. No children,” she explained at the woman’s look of puzzled enquiry.

  “I see. So how can I help you?”

  Roz took out one of her cards.
>
  “Rosalind Leigh,” she introduced herself.

  “Would it be possible for me to talk to the headmistress?”

  “Now?” said the woman in surprise.

  “Yes, if she’s free. If not, I can make an appointment and come back later.”

  The woman took the card and read it closely.

  “May I ask what you want to talk about?”

  Roz shrugged.

  “Just some general information about the school and the sort of girls who come here.”

  “Would you be the Rosalind Leigh who wrote Through the Looking Glass by any chance?”

  Roz nodded. Through the Looking Glass, her last book and her best, had sold well and won some excellent reviews. A study of the changing perceptions of female beauty down the ages, she wondered now how she had ever managed to summon the energy to write it. A labour of love, she thought, because the subject had fascinated her.

  “I’ve read it.” The other smiled.

  “I agreed with very few of your conclusions but it was extremely thought-provoking none the less. You write lovely prose, but I’m sure you know that.”

  Roz laughed. She felt an immediate liking for the woman.

  “At least you’re honest.”

  The other looked at her watch.

  “Come into my office. I have Some parents to see in half an hour, but I’m happy to give you general information until then.

  This way.” She opened the secretary’s door and ushered Roz through to an adjoining office.

  “Sit down, do. Coffee?”

  “Please.” Roz took the chair indicated and watched her busy herself with a kettle and some cups.

  “Are you the headmistress?”

  “I am.”

  “They were always nuns in my day.”

  “So you’re a convent girl. I thought you might be. Milk?”

  “Black and no sugar, please.”

  She placed a steaming cup on the desk in front of Roz and sat down opposite her.

  “In fact I am a nun. Sister Bridget. My order gave up wearing the habit quite some time ago. We found it tended to create an artificial barrier between us and the rest of society.” She chuckled.

  “I don’t know what it is about religious uniforms, but people try to avoid you if they can. I suppose they feel they have to be on their best behaviour. It’s very frustrating.