and the legs and three of the arms. There was a lot of blood and my hands kept slipping. I knew my father would be home soon and that I could never finish by then as I still had to carry the pieces to the sea. I realised it would be better to ring the police and admit what I had done. I felt much happier once I had made this decision.
It never occurred to me to leave the house and pretend that someone else had done it. I don’t know why except that my mind was set on hiding the bodies. That’s all I thought about. I did not enjoy cutting them up. I had to undress them so I could see where the joints were. I did not know I’d mixed the pieces up. I rearranged them out of decency, but there was so much blood that I couldn’t tell which body was which. I must have put my mother’s head on Amber’s body by mistake. I acted alone.
I am sorry for what I have done. I lost my temper and behaved stupidly. I confirm that everything written here is true.
Signed-OLIVE MARTIN
The statement was a photocopy, covering three typed sheets of A4. On the reverse of the last sheet was a photocopied extract from what was presumably the pathologist’s report. It was brief, just a concluding paragraph, and there was no indication to show who had written it.
The injuries to the heads are entirely consistent with a blow or blows from a heavy solid object. These were inflicted before death and were not fatal. While there is no forensic evidence to suggest that the rolling pin was the weapon used, there is none to prove it wasn’t.
Death in both cases was caused by severance of the carotid artery during the decapitation process. Examination of the axe revealed considerable rusting beneath the blood stains. It is highly probable that it was blunt before it was used to dismember the bodies. The extensive bruising around the cuts on Amber Martin’s neck and trunk indicate three or four strikes with an axe before the cawing knife was used to cut the throat. It is unlikely that she ever regained consciousness In Mrs. Gwen Martin’s case, however, the lacerations to her hands and forearms, inflicted before death, are consistent with her regaining consciousness and trying to defend herself. Two stabbing incisions below the jawline imply two failed attempts before her throat was successfully cut with the knife. These attacks were carried out with savage ferocity.
Roz read the pages through then put them on the table beside her and stared into the middle distance. She felt very cold.
Olive Martin took an axe… Oh, God! No wonder Mr. Crew called her a psychopath. Three or four strikes with a blunted axe and Amber was still alive! Bile rose in her throat, nauseous, bitter, gagging. She must stop thinking about it. But she couldn’t, of course. The muffled thuds of metal bouncing off soft flesh boomed loudly in her brain. How dark and shadowy the flat was. She reached out abruptly and snapped on a table lamp but the light did nothing to dispel the vivid pictures that crowded her imagination, nightmare visions of a madwoman, frenzied by blood-lust. And the bodies… How far had she committed herself to writing this book? Had she signed anything? Had she received an advance. She couldn’t remember and a cold fist of panic squeezed her insides. She was living in a twilight world where so little mattered that day followed day with nothing to distinguish their passing. She thrust herself out of her chair and paced about the floor, cursing Iris for bouncing her, cursing herself for her own insanity, and cursing Mr.
Crew for not sending her the statement when she’d first written to him.
She seized the telephone and dialled Iris’s number.
“Have I signed anything on the Olive Martin book? Why? Because I damn well can’t write it, that’s why. The woman scares the bloody shit out of me and I am not visiting her again.”
“I thought you liked her.” Iris spoke calmly through a mouthful of supper.
Roz ignored this comment.
“I’ve got her statement here and the pathologist’s report, or his conclusions at least. I should have read them first. I’m not doing it. I will not glorify what she did by writing a book about it. My God, Iris, they were alive when she cut their heads off. Her poor wretched mother tried to ward off the axe. It’s making me sick just thinking about it.”
“OK.”
“OK what?”
“Don’t write it.”
Roz’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“I thought you’d argue at least.”
“Why? One thing I’ve learnt in this business is that you can’t force people to write. Correction. You can if you’re persistent and manipulative enough, but the result is always below par.”
Roz heard her take a drink.
“In any case, Jenny Atherton sent me the first ten chapters of her new book this morning. It’s all good stuff on the inherent dangers of a poor self-image, with obesity as number one confidence crippler.
She’s unearthed a positive gold mine of film and television personalities who’ve all sunk to untold depths since gaining weight and being forced off camera. It’s disgustingly tasteless, of course, like all Jenny’s books, but it’ll sell. I think you should send all your gen sorry about the pun to her. Olive would make rather a dramatic conclusion, don’t you think, particularly if we can get a photograph of her in her cell.”
“No chance.”
“No chance of getting a photograph? Shame.”
“No chance of my sending anything to Jenny Atherton.
Honestly, Iris,” she stormed, losing her temper, ‘you really are beneath contempt. You should be working for the gutter press. You believe in exploiting anyone just as long as they bring in the cash.
Jenny Atherton is the last person I’d allow near Olive.”
“Can’t see why,” said Iris, now chewing heartily on something.
“I mean if you don’t want to write about her and you’re refusing ever to visit her again because she makes you sick, why cavil at somebody else having a bash?”
“It’s the principle.”
