“Yes, she is. She could have gone to university if only the then headmistress had managed to persuade her mother of the advantages. I was a lowly teacher in those days.” She sighed.
“But Mrs. Martin was a decided woman, and Olive very much under her thumb. There was nothing we, as a school, could do to make her change her mind. The two girls left together, Olive with three good A-levels and Amber with four rather indifferent 0-levels.” She sighed again.
“Poor Olive. She went to work as a cashier in a supermarket while Amber, I believe, tried her hand at hairdressing.”
“Which supermarket was it?”
“Pettit’s in the High Street. But the place went out of business years ago. It’s an off-licence now.”
“She was working at the local DHSS, wasn’t she, at the time of the murders?”
“Yes and doing very well, I believe. Her mother pushed her into it, of course.” Sister Bridget reflected for a moment.
“Funnily enough, I bumped into Olive quite by chance just a week or so before the murders. I was pleased to see her. She looked’ she paused ‘happy. Yes, I think happy is exactly the word for it.”
Roz let the silence drift while she busied herself with her own thoughts. There was so much about this story that didn’t make sense.
“Did she get on with her mother?” she asked at last. “I don’t know. I always had the impression she preferred her father. It was Mrs. Martin who wore the trousers, of course. If there were choices to be made, it was invariably she who made them. She was very domineenng, but I don’t recall Olive voicing any antagonism towards her. She was a difficult woman to talk to. Very correct, always. She appeared to watch every word she said in case she gave herself away.” She shook her head.
“But I never did find out what it was that needed hiding.”
There was a knock on the connecting door and a woman popped her head inside.
“Mr. and Mrs. Barker are waiting, Sister. Are you ready for them?”
“Two minutes, Betty.” She smiled at Roz.
“I’m sorry. I’m not sure I’ve been very helpful. Olive had one friend while she was here, not a friend as you or I would know it, but a girl with whom she talked rather more than she did with any of the others.
Her married name is Wright Geraldine Wright and she lives in a village called Wooling about ten miles north of here. If she’s willing to talk to you then I’m sure she can tell you more than I have. The name of her house is Oaktrees.
Roz jotted down the details in her diary.
“Why do I have the feeling you were expecting me?”
“Olive showed me your letter the last time I saw her.”
Roz stood up, gathering her briefcase and handbag together. She regarded the other woman thoughtfully.
“It may be that the only book I can write is a cruel one.”
“I don’t think so.”
“No, I don’t think so either.” She paused by the door.
“I’ve enjoyed meeting you.”
“Come and see me again,” said Sister Bridget.
“I’d like to know how you get on.”
Roz nodded.
“I suppose there’s no doubt that she did it?”
“I really don’t know,” said the other woman slowly.
“I’ve wondered, of course. The whole thing is so shocking that it is hard to accept.” She seemed to come to a conclusion.
“Be very careful, my dear.
The only certainty about Olive is that she lies about almost everything.”
Roz jotted down the name of the arresting officer from the press clippings and called in at the police station on her way back to London.
“I’m looking for a DS Hawksley,” she told the young constable behind the front desk.
“He was with this division in nineteen eighty-seven. Is he still here?”
He shook his head.
“Jacked it in, twelve eighteen months ago.” He leaned his elbows on the counter and eyed her over with an approving glance.
“Will I do instead?”
Her lips curved involuntarily.
“Perhaps you can tell me where he went?”
“Sure. He opened a restaurant in Wenceslas Street. Lives in the flat above it.”
