The Sculptress (29 page)

“Street angel, ‘ouse devil,” he said.

“Like our Tracey.”

Roz smiled at him.

“What does that mean?”

Ma elucidated.

“A bitch to your family, a perfect darling to everybody else. But our Tracey’s nothing like Amber Martin. I always said that child would come a cropper and I was right.

You can’t face two ways all your life and expect to get away with it.”

Roz showed her curiosity.

“You really did know the family quite well then. I thought you only worked there a short while.”

“So I did, but Amber took a fancy to one of the boys later’ she paused ‘though I’m blowed if I can remember at the moment which one. Was it you, Nipper?”

He shook his head.

“Chris,” said Mike.

“That’s right,” agreed Ma, ‘took a real shine to ‘im and ‘im toer She’d sit in this room, pleased as punch with herself, making sheep’s eyes at ‘im and she can’t ‘ave been more than twelve or thirteen.

“E was what? fifteen, sixteen but, of course, any attention at that age is flattering and she was a pretty girl, I’ll say that for ‘er, and looked older than she was.

Anyway, we saw the real Amber then. She treated Chris like a king and the rest of us like something the cat’d brought in. She had a tongue on ‘er like I’ve never heard. Bitch, bitch, bitch, all the time.” She looked thoroughly indignant.

“Can’t think ‘ow I kept my ‘ands offer but I did, for Chris’s sake.

Besotted, ‘e was, poor lad.

“Er mother didn’t know, of course. Put a stop to it straight away the minute she found out.”

Roz hoped her expression was less revealing than it felt. Did that make Chris O’Brien the father of Amber’s illegitimate child? It made sense. Mr. Hayes had referred to a lad from Parkway Comprehensive being responsible, and if Gwen had put a stop to the relationship then she would have known who to blame when a baby appeared. It would also explain the secrecy surrounding Robert Martin’s efforts to trace his grandchild.

Presumably the O’Briens had no idea that Chris had fathered a son nor that the son, if he could be found, was worth half a million pounds.

“It’s fascinating,” she murmured, searching desperately for something to say.

“I’ve never met anyone so closely associated with a murder. Was Chris upset when Amber was killed?”

“No,” said Ma with an unfeeling chuckle.

“E ‘adn’t seen erin years. Gary Was more upset for Olive, weren’t you, love?”

He was watching Roz closely.

“Not really,” he said bluntly.

“I was jumpy about being roped in on it. I mean, I’d seen quite a bit of ‘er one way and another. Reckoned the cops’d be rounding up everyone she knew and grilling them.” He shook his head.

“Er bloke got off lightly.

“E’d’ve been ‘auled in and no mistake if she’d named a few names to try and get off.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

“No.” His face became suddenly sly and he stared at Roz with an expression that said he saw right through her.

“I know where he took her for sex, though.” He gave a conspiratorial smile.

“What’s it worth to you?”

She stared back.

“How do you know?”

“The silly sod used self-sticking envelopes. They’re a doddle to open.

I read one of the letters.”

“Did he sign it? Do you know his name?”

Gary shook his head.

“Something beginning with P. “All my love, P”, was how it finished.”

Roz didn’t bother with further pretence.

“Another fifty pounds,” she said, ‘on top of the hundred and fifty I’ve already agreed to. But that’s it. I’ll be cleaned out.”

“OK.” He held out his hand in unconscious mimicry of his mother.

“Money up front.”

She took out her wallet and emptied it.

“Two hundred pounds.” She counted it on to his palm.

“I knew you wasn’t from the television,” said Ma in disgust.

“I bloody knew it.”

“Well?” Roz demanded of Gary.

“It was on for Sunday at the Belvedere Hotel in Farraday Street.

“All my love, P.” That’s the Farraday Street in Southampton, in case you didn’t know.”

The route to Southampton took Roz along Dawlington High Street. She had passed Glitzy boutique before the name registered, and nearly caused a pile-up by standing on her brakes in the middle of the road.

With a cheerful wave to the furious man behind her, who was mouthing imprecations against women drivers, she drew into a side street and found a parking space.

Glitzy was something of a misnomer, she thought, as she pushed open the door. She had expected designer wear or, at the very least, clothes from the more expensive end of the market. But then, she was used to London boutiques. Glitzy catered very definitely for the cheaper end of the market, wisely recognising that their customers would be predominantly teenage girls without the wherewithal or the transport to go shopping in the more stylish parts of Southampton.

Roz sought out the manager, a woman in her thirties with a splendid hairdo back combed into a blonde beehive on top of her head. Roz handed her one of her cards and ran through her spiel about her book on Olive Martin.

“I’m trying to find someone who knew the sister, Amber,” she said, ‘and I’m told she worked here during the month before she was murdered. Were you here then? Or do you know anyone who was?”

“No, love, sorry. Staff turns over very quickly in a place like this, young girls normally, doing a short stint till something better comes up. I don’t even know who was manager then.

You’ll have to get on to the owners. I can give you their address,” she finished helpfully.

“Thank you. It’s worth a shot, I suppose.”

The woman took her over to the cash desk and sorted through a card index.

“Funny, I remember those murders, but I never put two and two together.

You know, that the sister had worked here.”

“She wasn’t here very long and I’m not sure it was even reported. The press was more interested in Olive than in Amber.”

“Yeah.” She took out a card.

“Amber. It’s not that common a name, is it?”

“I suppose not. It was a nickname, anyway. Her real name was Alison.”

The woman nodded.

“I’ve been here three years and for three years I’ve been pressing to have the staff toilet redecorated. The recession’s their excuse for not doing it, same as it’s their excuse for any wretched thing, from cuts in wages to cheap imported stock that’s not even stitched properly. Anyway, the toilet’s tiled and that’s an expensive job, apparently, chipping off the old ones to put up new.” Roz smiled politely.

“Don’t worry, love, it’s to the point and I’m getting there. The reason I want new tiles is that someone took a chisel or something similar to the old ones. They scratched graffiti into the surface and then filled in the scratches with some sort of indelible ink. I’ve tried everything to get it out, bleach, oven cleaner, paint remover, you name it, love, I’ve tried it.” She shook her head.

“It can’t be shifted. And why? Because whoever did it gouged so deep they cut right through the ceramic, and the china clay underneath just goes on absorbing dirt and stains. Every time I look at it, it gives me the shivers.

Pure hate, that’s what it was done with.”

“What does the graffiti say?”

“I’ll show you. It’s at the back.” She negotiated a couple of doors, then pushed open another and stood aside to let Roz pass.

“There. It sucks, doesn’t it? And, you know, I’ve always wondered who Amber was. But it must be the sister, mustn’t it?

Like I say, Amber’s not that common a name.”

It was the same two words, repeated ten or eleven times across the tiles, a violent inversion of the hearts and arrows that more usually adorned lavatory walls. HATES ER… HATES BER… HATES AMBER.

“I wonder who did it?” murmured Roz.

“Someone very sick, I should think. They certainly didn’t want her to know, seeing how they’ve left their name off the front.”

“It depends how you read it,” said Roz thoughtfully.

“If it were set out neatly for you in a circle it would say Amber hates Amber hates Amber ad infinitum.”

The Belvedere was a typical back-street hotel, two substantial semis knocked together and entered via a flight of steps and a pillared front door. The place had an air of neglect as if its customers sales reps for the main part had deserted it. Roz rang the bell at the reception desk and waited.

A woman in her fifties emerged from a room at the back, all smiles.

“Good afternoon, madam. Welcome to the Belvedere.”

She pulled the registration book towards her.

“Is it a room you’re after?”

What terrible things recessions were, thought Roz. How long could people maintain this sad veneer of confident optimism when the reality was empty order books?

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I’m afraid it isn’t.” She handed over one of her cards.

“I’m a freelance journalist and I think someone I’m writing about may have stayed here. I was hoping you could identify her photograph for me.”

The woman tapped a finger on the book then pushed it away.

“Will what you write be published?”

Roz nodded.

“And will the Belvedere be mentioned if whoever it is did stay here?”

“Not if you’d rather it wasn’t.”

“My dear, how little you know about the hotel trade. Any publicity would be welcome at the moment.”

Roz laughed as she placed the photograph of Olive on the desk.

“If she came it would have been during the summer of eighty-seven. Were you here then?”

“We were.” The woman spoke with regret.

“We bought in eighty-six when the economy was booming.” She took a pair of glasses from her pocket and popped them on her nose, leaning forward to examine the photograph.

“Oh, yes, I remember her very well. Big girl. She and her husband came most Sundays during that summer. Used to book the room for the day and go home in the evening.” She sighed.

“It was a wonderful arrangement. We were always able to let the room again for the Sunday night. Double pay for one twenty-four-hour period.” She heaved another sigh.

“Chance’d be a fine thing now. I wish we could sell, I really do, but what with so many of the small hotels going bankrupt we wouldn’t even get what we paid for it.

Soldier on, that’s all we can do.”

Roz brought her back to Olive by tapping the photograph.

“What did she and her husband call themselves?”

The woman was amused.

“The usual, I should think. Smith or Brown.”

“Did they sign in?”

“Oh, yes. We’re very particular about our register.”

“Could I take a look?”

“Don’t see why not.” She opened a cupboard under the desk and sorted out the register for 1987. “Now, let me see. Ah, here we are. Mr. and Mrs. Lewis. Well, well, they were more imaginative than most.”

She twisted the book so that Roz could look at it.

She gazed at the neat script and thought: Got you, you bastard.

“This is the man’s handwriting.” She knew already.

“Oh, yes,” said the woman.

“He always signed. She was a lot younger than he was and very shy, particularly at the beginning.

She gained in confidence as time passed, they always do, but she never put herself forward. Who is she?”

Roz wondered if the woman would be so keen to help once she knew, but there was no point in keeping it from her. She would learn all the details the minute the book appeared.

“Her name’s Olive Martin.”

“Never heard of her.”

“She’s serving a life sentence for murdering her mother and sister.”

“Good lord! Is she the one who-‘ She made chopping motions with her hands. Roz nodded.

“Good Lord!”

“Do you still want the Belvedere mentioned?”

“Do I heck!” She beamed broadly.

“Of course I do! A murderess in our hotel. Fancy! We’ll have a plaque put up in the bedroom. What are you writing exactly? A book? A magazine article? We’ll provide photographs of the hotel and the room she stayed in. Well, well, I must say. How exciting! If only I’d known.”

Roz laughed. It was a coldbloodedly ghoulish display of pleasure at another’s misfortune but she couldn’t find it in her heart to criticise. Only a fool would look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Before you get too excited,” she warned, ‘the book probably won’t be published for another year and it will be an exoneration of Olive, not a further condemnation. Yeu see, I believe she’s innocent.”

“Better and better. We’ll have the book on sale in the foyer. I knew our luck had to turn eventually.” She beamed at Roz.

“Tell Olive she can stay here free of charge for as long as she likes the minute she gets out of prison. We always look after our regulars.

Now, my dear, anything else I can help you with?”

“Do you have a photocopying machine?”

“We do. Every mod. con. here, you know.”

“Then may I have a copy of this entry in the register? And perhaps you could also give me a description of Mr. Lewis.”

She pursed her lips.

“He wasn’t very memorable. Early fifties. Blond, always wore a dark suit, a smoker. Any good?”

“Maybe. Did his hair look natural? Can you remember?” The woman chuckled.

“There now, I’d forgotten. It never occurred to me till I took them in some tea one day and surprised him adjusting his wig in the mirror. I laughed afterwards, I can tell you. But it was a good one. I wouldn’t have guessed just by looking at him. You know him then?”

Roz nodded.

“Would you recognise him from a photograph?”

“I’ll try. I can usually remember a face when I see it.”

“Visitor for you, Sculptress.” The officer was in the room before Olive had time to hide what she was doing.

“Come on. Get a move on.”

Olive swept her wax figures into one hand and crushed them together in her palm.

“Who is it?”

“The nun.” She looked at Olive’s closed fist.

“What have you got there?”

“Just plasticine.” She uncurled her fingers. The wax figures, carefully painted and clothed in coloured scraps, had merged into a multi-coloured mash, unidentifiable now as the altar candle they had sprung from.