The Sculptress (17 page)

Tears slithered down his drink-sodden face. ‘I weep
for her every day, you know.’

‘Do you, Rupert? I don’t. I haven’t the energy.’

‘Then you didn’t love her as much as I loved her,’
he sobbed, his body heaving to control itself.

Roz’s lips curled contemptuously. ‘Really? Then
why your indecent haste to provide her replacement?
I worked it out, you know. You must have impregnated
your precious Jessica within a week of walking
away unscathed from the –
accident
.’ She larded the
word with sarcasm. ‘Is Sam a good replacement,
Rupert? Does he wind your hair round his finger the
way Alice used to do? Does he laugh like her? Does
he wait by the door for you and hug your knees and
say: “Mummy, Mummy, Daddy’s home”?’ Her anger
made her voice brittle. ‘Does he, Rupert? Is he everything
Alice was and more? Or is he nothing like her
and that’s why you have to weep for her every day?’

‘He’s a baby, for Christ’s sake.’ He clenched his
fists, her hatred mirrored in his eyes. ‘God, you’re a
fucking bitch, Roz. I never set out to replace her.
How could I? Alice was Alice. I couldn’t bring
her back.’

She turned away to look out of the window. ‘No.’

‘Then why do you blame Sam? It wasn’t his fault
either. He doesn’t even know he had a half-sister.’

‘I don’t blame Sam.’ She stared at a couple, lit by
orange light, on the other side of the road. They
held each other tenderly, stroking hair, stroking arms,
kissing. How naïve they were. They thought love was
kind. ‘I resent him.’

She heard him blunder against her coffee table.
‘That’s just bloody spite,’ he slurred.

‘Yes,’ she said quietly, more to herself than to him,
her breath misting the glass, ‘but I don’t see why
you should be happy when I am not? You killed my
daughter but you got away with it because the law
said you’d suffered enough. I’ve suffered far more and
my only crime was to let my adulterous husband have
access to his daughter because I knew she loved him
and I didn’t want to see her unhappy.’

‘If you’d only been more understanding,’ he wept,
‘it would never have happened. It was your fault, Roz.
You’re the one who really killed her.’ She didn’t hear
his approach. She was turning back into the room
when his fist smashed against her face.

It was a shabby, sordid fight. Where words had failed
them – the very predictability of their conversations
meant they were always forearmed – they hit and
scratched instead in a brutish desire to hurt. It was
a curiously passionless exercise, motivated more by
feelings of guilt than by hate or revenge, for at the
back of both their minds was the knowledge that it
was the failure of their marriage, the war they had
conducted between themselves, that had led Rupert
to accelerate away in frustrated anger with their
daughter, unstrapped, upon the back seat. And who
could have foreseen the car that would hurtle out of control across a central reservation and, under the
force of its impact, toss a helpless five-year-old
through shards of broken glass, smashing her fragile
skull as she went? An act of God, according to the
insurance company. But for Roz, at least, it had been
God’s final act. He and Alice had perished together.

Rupert was the first to stay his hand, aware, perhaps,
that the fight was an unequal one or because,
quite simply, he had sobered up. He crawled away to
sit huddled in a corner. Roz fingered the tenderness
round her mouth and licked blood from her lips, then
closed her eyes and sat for several minutes in restful
silence, her murderous anger assuaged. They should
have done this a long time ago. She felt at peace for
the first time in months, as if she had exorcised her
own guilt in some way. She should, she knew, have
gone out to the car that day and strapped Alice into
the seat herself, but instead she had slammed the front
door on them both and retreated to the kitchen to
nurse her hurt pride with a bottle of gin and an orgy
of tearing up photographs. Perhaps, after all, she had
needed to be punished too. Her guilt had never been
expiated. Her own atonement, a private rending of
herself, had brought about her disintegration and not
her redemption.

Enough, she saw now, was enough.
‘We are all
masters of our fate, Roz, including you.’

She pushed herself gingerly to her feet, located the
jackplug and inserted it back into its socket. She glanced at Rupert for a moment, then dialled Jessica.
‘It’s Roz,’ she said. ‘Rupert’s here and he needs collecting,
I’m afraid.’ She heard the sigh at the other
end of the line. ‘It’s the last time, Jessica, I promise.’
She gave a hint of a laugh. ‘We’ve declared a truce.
No more recriminations. OK, half an hour. He’ll be
waiting for you downstairs.’ She replaced the receiver.
‘I mean it, Rupert. It’s over. It was an accident. Let’s
stop blaming each other and find some peace at last.’

Iris Fielding’s insensitivity was legendary but even she
was shocked by the sight of Roz’s battered face the
next day. ‘God, you look awful!’ she said bluntly,
making straight for the drinks cabinet and pouring
herself a brandy. As an afterthought she poured one
for Roz. ‘Who did it?’

Roz closed the door and limped back to the sofa.

Iris drained her glass. ‘Was it Rupert?’ She proffered
the second glass to Roz who shook her head to the
brandy and the question.

‘Of course it wasn’t Rupert.’ She lowered herself
carefully on to the sofa, half lying, half sitting, while
Mrs Antrobus stalked across the soft fluff of her
dressing-gowned chest to butt her chin with an affectionate
head. ‘Could you feed Mrs A. for me? There’s
an opened tin in the fridge.’

Iris glowered at Mrs Antrobus. ‘Horrible flea-bitten
creature. Where were you when your mistress needed you?’ But she disappeared into the kitchen
and rattled a saucer anyway. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t
Rupert?’ she asked again when she re-emerged.

‘No. Not his style at all. The fights we have are
entirely verbal and infinitely more bruising.’

Iris looked thoughtful. ‘You’ve always told me how
supportive he’s been.’

‘I lied.’

Iris looked even more thoughtful. ‘So who was it?’

‘Some creep I picked up at a wine bar. He was
more fanciable with his clothes on than off, so I told
him to get stuffed and he took exception.’ She saw a
question in Iris’s eyes and smiled cynically through
her split lip. ‘No, he didn’t rape me. My virtue is
intact. I defended it with my face.’

‘Hm. Well, far be it from me to criticize, my love,
but wouldn’t it have been more sensible to defend
your face with your virtue? I’m not a great believer in
fighting over lost causes.’ She drank Roz’s brandy.
‘Did you call the police?’

‘No.’

‘A doctor?’

‘No.’ She put a hand on the telephone. ‘And you’re
not calling them either.’

Iris shrugged. ‘So what have you been doing all
morning?’

‘Trying to work out how I could get by without
calling anyone. At midday, I realized I couldn’t. I’ve
used all my aspirin, I’ve no food in the house, and I’m not going out looking like this.’ She raised
bruised and suspiciously bright eyes. ‘So I thought of
the least shockable and the most egocentric person I
know and I telephoned her. You’ll have to go out
shopping for me, Iris. I need enough to last me a
week.’

Iris was amused. ‘I would never deny that I’m
egocentric but why is that important?’

Roz bared her teeth. ‘Because you’re so wrapped
up in yourself you’ll have forgotten all about this by
the time you get home. Plus, you’re not going to
pressure me into doing the right thing and nailing
the little bastard. It wouldn’t reflect well on your
agency if one of your authors was in the habit of
bringing home pick-ups from wine bars.’ She clenched
both hands over the telephone and Iris watched her
knuckles whiten under the strain.

‘True,’ she agreed calmly.

Roz relaxed a little. ‘I really couldn’t bear it, you
know, if this got out, and it will if doctors or the
police are involved. You know the bloody press as well
as I do. Any excuse, and they’ll plaster their front
pages all over again with pictures of Alice in the wreckage.’
Poor little Alice. Malign providence had put a
freelance photographer beside the dual carriageway
when she was tossed like a rag doll from Rupert’s
car. His dramatic shots – published, according to the
tabloid editors, as a tragic reminder to other families
of the importance of wearing seat belts – had been Alice’s most lasting memorial. ‘You can imagine the
sordid parallels they’ll draw.
MOTHER DISFIGURED
LIKE DAUGHTER
. I couldn’t survive it a second time.’
She fished in her pocket and produced a shopping
list. ‘I’ll write you a cheque when you come back.
And whatever you do, don’t forget the aspirin. I’m in
agony.’

Iris tucked the shopping list into her bag. ‘Keys,’
she said, holding out her hand. ‘You can go to bed
while I’m out. I’ll let myself back in.’

Roz pointed to her keys on a shelf by the door.
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘and, Iris—’ She didn’t
finish.

‘And, Iris, what?’

She made an attempt at a wry grimace but abandoned
it because it was too painful. ‘And, Iris, I’m
sorry.’

‘So am I, old thing.’ She gave an airy wave and let
herself out of the flat.

For reasons best known to herself, Iris returned a
couple of hours later with the shopping and a suitcase.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she said severely, administering
aspirin in a glass of water. ‘I intend to keep an
eye on you for a day or two. For entirely mercenary
purposes, of course. I like to guard my investments
closely. And anyway,’ she scratched under Mrs Antrobus’s
chin, ‘someone’s got to feed this revolting moggy for you. You’ll only start howling if it dies of
starvation.’

Roz, depressed and very lonely, was touched.

Detective Sergeant Geoff Wyatt toyed unhappily with
his wine glass. His stomach was playing up, he was
very tired, it was Saturday, he would rather have been
at a Saints’ football match, and the sight of Hal tucking
into a plateful of rare steak needled him. ‘Look,’
he said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice,
‘I hear what you’re saying but evidence is evidence.
What are you expecting me to do? Tamper with it?’

‘It’s hardly evidence if it was tampered with at the
outset,’ Hal snapped. ‘It was a frame, for Christ’s
sake.’ He pushed his plate away. ‘You should have had
some,’ he said acidly. ‘It might have improved your
temper.’

Wyatt looked away. ‘There’s nothing wrong with
my temper and I ate before I got here.’ He lit a
cigarette and glanced towards the door into the restaurant.
‘I’ve never felt comfortable in kitchens, not
since seeing those women on Olive’s floor. Too many
murder weapons and too much bloody meat about
the place. Couldn’t we go next door?’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Hal curtly. ‘Damn it, Geoff,
you owe me a few one way and another.’

Wyatt sighed. ‘How’s it going to help you if I get
suspended for doing dodgy favours for an ex-copper?’

‘I’m not asking for dodgy favours. Just get the
pressure taken off. Give me a breathing space.’

‘How?’

‘You could start by persuading the Inspector to
back off.’

‘And that’s not dodgy?’ His mouth turned down.
‘Anyway, I’ve tried. He’s not playing. He’s new, he’s
honest, and he doesn’t like anyone who bends the
rules, particularly policemen.’ He tapped ash on the
floor. ‘You should never have left the Force, Hal. I
did warn you. It’s very lonely outside.’

Hal rubbed his unshaven face. ‘It wouldn’t be so
bad if my erstwhile colleagues didn’t keep treating me
like a criminal.’

Wyatt stared at the remains of the steak on Hal’s
plate. He felt very queasy. ‘Well, if it comes to that,
you shouldn’t have been so damn careless, then they
wouldn’t have to.’

Hal’s eyes narrowed unpleasantly. ‘One of these
days you’re going to wish you hadn’t said that.’

With a shrug, Wyatt ground his cigarette against
his shoe and tossed the butt into the sink. ‘Can’t see
it, old son. I’ve been shitting my backside off ever
since the Inspector rumbled you. It’s made me ill, it
really has.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up.
‘Why the hell did you have to cut corners instead of
doing it by the book the way you were supposed to?’

Hal nodded towards the door. ‘Out,’ he said,
‘before I rip your two-faced head off.’

‘What about that check you wanted me to run?’

Hal fished in his pocket and removed a piece of
paper. ‘That’s her name and address. See if there’s
anything on her.’

‘Like what?’

Hal shrugged. ‘Anything that will give me a lever.
This book she’s writing is too well timed.’ He
frowned. ‘And I don’t believe in coincidence.’

One of the few advantages of being fat was that it was
easier to hide things. Another bulge here or there
passed unnoticed and the soft cavity between Olive’s
breasts could accommodate itself to almost anything.
In any case, she had noticed very early on that the
officers preferred not to search her too diligently on
the rare occasions when they thought it necessary. She
had assumed at first that they were frightened of her,
but she soon came to recognize that it was her fatness
that inhibited them. Politically correct thinking within
the prison service meant that while they were free to
say what they liked about her behind her back they
had to guard their tongues in her presence and treat
her with a modicum of respect. Thus the helpful
legacy of her anguished tears during strip-searches at
the beginning, when her huge, repulsive body shook
with distress, was a reluctance on the part of the
screws now to do anything more than a perfunctory
running of their hands down the sides of her shift.

But she had problems. Her small family of wax
figures, absurdly cheerful in their painted cottonwool
wigs and strips of dark material which she had wound
around them like miniature suits, kept softening against
the warmth of her skin and losing their shape. With
infinite patience, she set her awkward fingers to
remoulding them, first removing the pins which skewered
the wigs to each of the heads. She wondered idly
if the one of Roz’s husband looked anything like him.