It’s not as if the police had to beat her confession out of her. As far as I understand it, it was they who insisted she wait till her solicitor was present.”
Roz frowned.
“And yet you’re still troubled by it.”
He smiled slightly.
“Only when someone pops up to stir the dregs again. By and large we rarely think about it. There’s no getting away from the fact that she signed a confession saying she did it.”
“People are always confessing to crimes they didn’t commit,” countered Roz bluntly.
“Timothy Evans was hanged for his confession, while downstairs Christie went on burying his victims under the floorboards. Sister Bridget said Olive lied about everything, you and your daughter have both cited lies she told. What makes you think she was telling the truth in this one instance?”
They didn’t say anything.
“I’m so sorry,” said Roz with an apologetic smile.
“I don’t mean to harangue you. I just wish I understood what it was all about. There are so many inconsistencies. I mean why, for example, did Robert Martin stay in the house after the deaths?
You’d expect him to move heaven and earth to get out of it.”
“You must talk to the police,” said Mr. Hopwood.
“They know more about it than anyone.”
“Yes,” Roz said quietly, “I must.” She picked up her cup and saucer from the floor and put them on the table.
“Can I ask you three more things? Then I’ll leave you in peace. First, is there anyone else you can think of who might be able to help me?”
Mrs. Hopwood shook her head.
“I really know very little about her after she left school. You’ll have to trace the people she worked with.”
“Fair enough. Second, did you know that Amber had a baby when she was thirteen years old?” She read the astonishment in their faces.
“Good Heavens!” said Mrs. Hopwood.
“Quite. Third…” She paused for a moment, remembering Graham Deedes’ amused reaction. Was it fair to make Olive a figure of fun?
“Third,” she repeated firmly, “Gwen persuaded Olive to have an abortion. Do you know anything about that?”
Mrs. Hopwood looked thoughtful.
“Would that have been at the beginning of eighty-seven?”
Roz, unsure how to answer, nodded.
“I was having problems of my own with a prolonged menopause,” said Mrs.
Hopwood, matter of factly.
“I bumped into her and Gwen quite by chance at the hospital. It was the last time I saw them. Gwen was very jumpy. She tried to pretend they were there for a gynaecological reason of her own but I couldn’t help noticing that it was clearly Olive who had the problem. The poor girl was in tears.” She tut-tutted crossly.
“What a mistake not to let her have it. It explains the murders, of course. They must have happened around the time the baby would have been due. No wonder she was disturbed.”
Roz drove back to Leven Road. This time the door to number 22 stood ajar and a young woman was clipping the low hedge that bordered the front garden. Roz drew her car into the kerb and stepped out.
“Hi,” she said, holding out her hand and shaking the other’s firmly.
Immediate, friendly contact, she hoped, would stop this woman barring the door to her as her neighbour had done.
“I’m Rosalind Leigh. I came the other day but you were out. I can see your time’s precious so I won’t stop you working, but can we talk while you’re doing it?”
The young woman shrugged as she resumed her clipping.
“If you’re selling anything, and that includes religion, then you’re wasting your time.”
“I want to talk about your house.”
“Oh, Christ!” said the other in disgust.
“Sometimes I wish we’d never bought the flaming thing. What are you?
Psychical bloody research? They’re all nutters. They seem to think the kitchen is oozing with ectoplasm or something equally disgusting.”
“No. Far more earthbound. I’m writing a follow-up report on the Olive Martin case.”
“Why?”
“There are some unanswered questions. Like, for example, why did Robert Martin remain here after the
