“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 ski vers 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? Goodfor- nothings, with not a brain between them. Where’s the sense in encouraging a woman like that?
Should have sterilised her and put a stop to it.”
Roz was noncommittal, unwilling to be drawn down a culdesac, even more unwilling to antagonise 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.”
