She had wreaked complete havoc on everything. Even the lavatory bowl had shattered under a mighty blow from her welded metal chair which, bent and buckled, had been discarded amongst the shards of porcelain.
The few possessions which had adorned her chest of drawers lay broken across the floor and anything that could be lifted had been hurled in fury against the walls. A poster of Madonna, ripped limb from limb, lay butchered on the floor.
Her rage, even under sedation, continued long into the night from the confines of an unfurnished cell, designed to cool the tempers of ungovernable inmates.
“What the hell’s got into her?” demanded the duty governor.
“God knows,” said a shaken officer.
“I’ve always said she should be in Broadmoor. I don’t care what the psychiatrists say, she’s completely mad. They’ve no business to leave her here and expect us to look after her.”
They listened to the muffled bellowings from behind the locked door.
“N-ITCH! el-ITCH! BI-ITCH!”
The duty governor frowned.
“Who’s she talking about?”
The officer winced.
“One of us, I should think. I wish we could get her transferred. She puts the wind up me, she really does.”
“She’ll be fine again tomorrow.”
“Which is why she puts the wind up me. You never know where you are with her.” She tucked her hair back into place.
“You noticed none of her day figures were touched except the ones she’s already mutilated?” She smiled cynically.
“And have you seen that mother and child she’s working on? The mother’s only smothering her baby, for God’s sake. It’s obscene.
Presumably it’s supposed to be Mary and Jesus.” She sighed.
“What do I tell her? No breakfast if she doesn’t calm down?”
“It’s always worked in the past. Let’s hope nothing’s changed.”
NINE
The following morning, a week later than planned, Roz was shown through to a clerical supervisor at the Social Security office in Dawlington.
He regarded her scabby lip and dark glasses with only mild curiosity and she realised that for him her appearance was nothing unusual. She introduced herself and sat down.
“I telephoned yesterday,” she reminded him.
He nodded.
“Some problem that goes back over six years, you said.” He tapped his forefingers on the desk.
“I should stress we’re unlikely to be able to help. We’ve enough trouble chasing current cases, let alone delving into old records.”
“But you were here six years ago?”
“Seven years in June,” he said without enthusiasm.
“It won’t help, I’m afraid. I don’t remember you or your circumstances.”
“You wouldn’t.” She smiled apologetically.
“I was a little economical with the truth on the telephone. I’m not a consumer.
I’m an author. I’m writing a book about Olive Martin. I need to talk to someone who knew her when she worked here and I didn’t want a straight refusal down the phone.”
He looked amused, glad perhaps that he was spared an impossible search for lost benefits.
“She was the fat girl down the corridor. I didn’t even know what her name was until it appeared in the paper. As far as I remember, I never exchanged more than a dozen words with her. You probably know more about her than I do.” He crossed his arms.
“You should have said what you wanted. You could have saved yourself a drive.”
Roz took out her notebook.
“That doesn’t matter. It’s names I need. People who did speak to her. Is there anyone else who’s been here as long as you?”
“A few, but no one who was friendly with Olive. A couple of reporters came round at the time of the murders and there wasn’t a soul who admitted to passing anything more than the time of day with her.”
Roz felt his distrust.
“And who can blame them?” she said cheerfully.
