The Sculptress (22 page)

God! Poor old Olive! Why on earth didn’t I have the
sense to phone?
Roz folded her hands in her lap and
collected her thoughts rapidly. ‘If it was three days
before she did anything, what makes you think it was
because of my not turning up? Did she say it was?’

‘No, but we’re stumped for any other explanation
and I’m not prepared to risk your safety.’

Roz mulled this over for a moment or two. ‘Let’s
assume for a moment you’re right – though I should
emphasize that I don’t think you are – then if I don’t
show up again won’t that distress her even more?’ She
leaned forward. ‘Either way it would be more sensible to let me talk to her. If it
was
to do with my nonappearance
then I can reassure her and calm her down;
if it
wasn’t
, then I see no reason why I should be
punished with Home Office delays and wasted journeys
when I haven’t contributed to Olive’s disturbance.’

The Governor gave a slight smile. ‘You’re very
confident.’

‘I’ve no reason not to be.’

It was the Governor’s turn to reflect. She studied
Roz in silence for some time. ‘Let’s be clear,’ she said
finally, ‘about what sort of woman Olive really is.’ She
tapped her pencil on the desk. ‘I told you when you
first came here that there was no psychiatric evidence
of psychopathy. That was true. It means that when
Olive butchered her mother and sister she was completely
sane. She knew exactly what she was doing,
she understood the consequences of her act, and she
was prepared to go ahead with it, despite those consequences.
It also means – and this is peculiarly relevant
to you – that she cannot be cured because there is
nothing to cure. Under similar circumstances –
unhappiness, low self-image, betrayal, in other words
whatever triggers her anger – she would do the same
thing again with the same disregard for the consequences
because, in simple terms, having weighed
them up, she would consider the consequences worth
the action. I would add, and again this is peculiarly
relevant to you, that the consequences are far less daunting to her now than they would have been six
years ago. On the whole Olive enjoys being in prison.
She has security, she has respect, and she has people
to talk to. Outside, she would have none of them.
And she knows it.’

It
was
like being up before her old headmistress.
The confident voice of authority. ‘So what you’re
saying is that she would have no qualms about taking
a swipe at me because an additional sentence would
only mean a longer stay here? And she would welcome
that?’

‘In effect, yes.’

‘You’re wrong,’ said Roz bluntly. ‘Not about her
sanity. I agree with you, she’s as sane as you or I. But
you’re wrong about her being a danger to me. I’m
writing a book about her and she wants that book
written. If it
is
me she’s angry with, and I stress again
that I don’t think it is, then her interpretation of my
non-appearance last week may be that I’ve lost
interest, and it would be very poor psychology to let
her go on thinking it.’ She composed her arguments.
‘You have a notice at the gate, presumably all prisons
do. It’s a declaration of policy. If I remember right,
it includes something about helping prison inmates
to lead law-abiding lives both inside prison and outside.
If that has any meaning at all, and isn’t simply a
piece of decorative wallpaper to appease the reformers,
then how can you justify provoking further punishable
outbursts from Olive by denying her visits which the Home Office has already approved?’ She fell silent,
worried about saying too much. However reasonable
the woman might be, she could not afford to have
her authority challenged. Few people could.

‘Why does Olive want this book written?’ asked the
Governor mildly. ‘She hasn’t sought public notoriety
before and you’re not the first author to show an
interest in her. We had several applications in the early
days. She refused them all.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Roz honestly. ‘Perhaps it has
something to do with her father’s death. She claimed
that one of her reasons for pleading guilty was to
avoid putting him through the mill of a trial.’ She
shrugged. ‘Presumably she felt a book would have
been just as devastating to him, so waited till he
died.’

The Governor was more cynical. ‘Alternatively,
while he was alive, her father was in a position to
contest what she said; dead, he cannot. However, that
is no concern of mine. My concern is with the ordered
running of my prison.’ She tapped her fingers
impatiently on her desk. She had no desire at all to
be drawn into a three-cornered dispute between herself,
the Home Office, and Roz, but time-consuming
correspondence with civil servants would pale into
insignificance beside the murder of a civilian inside
her prison. She had hoped to persuade Roz to abort
the visit herself. She was surprised and, if the truth be
told, rather intrigued by her own failure.
What was Rosalind Leigh getting right in her relationship with
Olive that the rest of them were getting wrong?
‘You
may talk to her for half an hour,’ she said abruptly,
‘in the Legal Visits room, which is larger than the one
you are used to. There will be two male officers present
throughout the interview. Should either you or
Olive breach any regulation of this prison, your visits
will cease immediately and I will personally ensure
that they will never resume. Is that understood, Miss
Leigh?’

‘Yes.’

The other nodded. ‘I’m curious, you know. Are
you raising her expectations by telling her your book
will get her released?’

‘No. Apart from anything else, she won’t talk to
me about the murders.’ Roz reached for her briefcase.

‘Then why are you so confident you’re safe with
her?’

‘Because as far as I can make out I’m the only
outsider she’s met who’s not frightened of her.’

Privately, she retracted that statement as Olive was
ushered into the Legal Visits room by two large male
officers who then retreated to the door behind Olive’s
back and stationed themselves on either side of it.
The woman’s look of dislike was chilling, and Roz
recalled Hal saying to her that she might think differently
about Olive if she ever saw her in a rage.

‘Hi.’ She held Olive’s gaze. ‘The Governor has
allowed me to see you, but we’re on trial, both of us.
If we misbehave today my visits will be stopped. Do
you understand?’

BITCH, Olive mouthed, unseen by the officers.
FUCKING BITCH. But was she referring to Roz or
the Governor? Roz couldn’t tell.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t make it last Monday.’ She
touched her lip where the ugly scab still showed. ‘I
got thrashed by my miserable husband.’ She forced a
smile. ‘I couldn’t go out for a week, Olive, not even
for you. I do have some pride, you know.’

Olive examined her stolidly for a second or two
then dropped her eyes to the cigarette packet on the
table. She plucked greedily at a cigarette and popped
it between her fat lips. ‘I’ve been on the block,’ she
said, flaring a match to the tip. ‘The bastards wouldn’t
let me smoke. And they’ve been starving me.’ She
threw a baleful glance behind her. ‘Bastards! Did you
kill him?’

Roz followed her gaze. Every word she and Olive
said would be reported back. ‘Of course not.’

Olive smoothed the limp, greasy hair from her forehead
with the hand that held the cigarette. A streak
of nicotine staining along her parting showed she had
done it many times before. ‘I didn’t think you would,’
she said contemptuously. ‘It’s not as easy as it looks
on the telly. You’ve heard what I did?’

‘Yes.’

‘So why have they let you see me?’

‘Because I told the Governor that whatever you
had done was nothing to do with me. Which it wasn’t,
was it?’ She pressed one of Olive’s feet with hers under
the table. ‘Presumably somebody else upset you?’

‘Bloody Chaplain,’ said Olive morosely. A bald
eyelid drooped in a wink. ‘Told me that God would
do the rock’n’roll in heaven if I got down on my
knees and said: “Alleluiah, I repent.” Stupid sod. He’s
always trying to make religion relevant to modern
criminals with low IQs. We can’t cope with “There
will be much rejoicing in heaven over one sinner that
repenteth”, so we get God will do the fucking
rock’n’roll instead.’ She listened with some satisfaction
to the snorts of amusement behind her, then her
eyes narrowed. I TRUSTED YOU, she mouthed at
Roz.

Roz nodded. ‘I assumed it was something like that.’
She watched Olive’s meaty fingers play with the tiny
cigarette. ‘But it was rude of me not to phone the
prison and ask them to pass on a message. I had
the mother and father of all headaches most of last
week. You’ll have to put it down to that.’

‘I know you did.’

Roz frowned. ‘How?’

With a flick of her fingers Olive squeezed the glowing
head from the cigarette and dropped it into an
ashtray on the table. ‘Elementary, my dear Watson.
Your ex gave you two black eyes if all that yellow round them isn’t some weird sort of make-up. And
headaches usually accompany black eyes.’ But she was
bored with the subject and fished an envelope
abruptly from her pocket. She held it above her head.
‘Mr Allenby, sir. Are you going to let me show this
to the lady?’

‘What is it?’ asked one of the men, stepping
forward.

‘Letter from my solicitor.’

He took it from her raised hand, ignoring the two-fingered salute she gave him, and skimmed through
it. ‘I’ve no objections,’ he said, placing it on the table
and returning to his place by the door.

Olive prodded it towards Roz. ‘Read it. He says
the chances of tracing my nephew are virtually nil.’
She reached for another cigarette, her eyes watching
Roz closely. There was a strange awareness in them
as if she knew something that Roz didn’t, and Roz
found it disturbing. Olive, it seemed, now held the
initiative in this unnatural glasshouse relationship of
theirs but why and when she had taken it, Roz
couldn’t begin to fathom. It was she, wasn’t it, who
had engineered this meeting against the odds?

Surprisingly, Crew had handwritten his letter in a
neat, sloping script, and Roz could only assume he
had composed it out of office hours and decided not
to waste company time and money by having it typed.
She found that oddly offensive.

Dear Olive,

I understand from Miss Rosalind Leigh that
you are acquainted with some of the terms of
your late father’s will, principally those concerning
Amber’s illegitimate son. The bulk of the estate
has been left in trust to the child although other
provisions have been made in the event of failure
on our part to trace him. Thus far, my people
have met with little success and it is fair to say
that we are increasingly pessimistic about our
chances. We have established that your nephew
emigrated to Australia with his family some twelve
years ago when he was little more than a baby
but, following their move from a rented flat in
Sydney where they remained for the first six
months, the trail goes cold. Unfortunately the
child’s adopted surname is a common one and
we have no guarantee that he and his family
remained in Australia. Nor can we rule out the
possibility that the family decided to add to their
name or change it entirely. Carefully worded
advertisements in several Australian newspapers
have produced no response.

Your father was most insistent that we should
be circumspect in how we traced the child. His
view, which I endorsed wholeheartedly, was that
great damage could be done if there was any
publicity associated with the bequest. He was very
conscious of the shock his grandson might suffer if he learnt through an incontinent media
campaign of his tragic association with the
Martin family. For this reason, we have kept and
will continue to keep your nephew’s name a
closely guarded secret. We are pressing on with
our enquiries but, as your father stipulated a
limited period for searches, the likelihood is that
I, as executor, will be obliged to adopt the
alternative provisions specified. These are a range
of donations to hospitals and charities which care
entirely for the needs and welfare of children.

Although your father never instructed me to
keep the terms of his will from you, he was very
concerned that you should not be distressed by
them. It was for this reason that I thought it
wiser to keep you in ignorance of his intentions.
Had I known that you were already in possession
of some of the facts, I should have corresponded
sooner.

Trusting you are in good health,

Yours sincerely,

Peter Crew

Roz refolded the letter and pushed it back to Olive.
‘You said last time that it mattered to you if your
nephew was found, but you didn’t enlarge on it.’
She glanced towards the two officers, but they were
showing little interest in anything except the floor. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘Are you
going to talk to me about it now?’

Olive jammed her cigarette angrily into the ashtray.
She made no attempt to keep her voice down. ‘My
father was a terrible MAN.’ Even in speech the word
carried capital letters. ‘I couldn’t see it at the time but
I’ve had years to think about it and I can see it now.’
She nodded towards the letter. ‘His conscience was
troubling him. That’s why he wrote that will. It
was his way of feeling good about himself after the
appalling damage he’d done. Why else would he leave
his money to Amber’s baby when he never cared shit
for Amber herself?’

Roz looked at her curiously. ‘Are you saying your
father did the murders?’ she murmured.

Olive snorted. ‘I’m saying, why use Amber’s baby
to whitewash himself?’

‘What had he done that needed whitewashing?’

But Olive didn’t answer.

Roz waited a moment, then tried a different tack.
‘You said your father would always leave money to
family if he could. Does that mean there’s other family
he could have left it to? Or did you hope he’d leave
it to you?’