The Sculptress (6 page)

‘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 skivers 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? Good-for-nothings,
with not a brain between them. Where’s
the sense in encouraging a woman like that? Should
have sterilized her and put a stop to it.’

Roz was noncommittal, unwilling to be drawn
down a cul-de-sac, even more unwilling to antagonize
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 the 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 realized 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?

ROZ FOUND THE
local convent with the help of a
policeman. ‘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 recognized. 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. . .