“Oh yeah?”
“I was told Olive Martin murdered her mother and sister about half a mile down the road.”
“Oh, ‘er,” said Ma dismissively, standing up.
“Strange girl.
Knew ‘er quite well at one time. Used to clean for the mother when she and ‘er sister were nippers. She took a real fancy to Gary. Used to pretend ‘e was ‘er doll whenever I took ‘im ha long with me. There was only three years between them but she was nearly twice as big as my skinny little runt. Strange girl.”
Roz busied herself with sorting out her briefcase.
“It must have been a shock hearing about the murders then. If you knew the family, that is.”
“Can’t say I gave it much thought. I was only there six month.
Never liked ‘er. She only took me on for a bit of snobbery, then got rid of me the minute she found out my old man was in the nick.”
“What was Olive like as a child. Was she violent to your Gary?”
Ma cackled.
“Used to dress ‘im up in ‘er sister’s frocks.
God, ‘e looked a sight. Like I said, she treated ‘im like a doll.”
Roz snapped the locks on her briefcase and stood up.
“Were you surprised she became a murderess?”
“No more surprised by that than by anything else. There’s nowt so queer as folk.” She escorted Roz to the front door and stood, arms akimbo, waiting for her to leave.
“It might make an interesting introduction to the programme,” Roz mused, ‘the fact that Gary was a doll- substitute for a notorious murderess. Does he remember her?”
Ma cackled again.
“Course ‘e remembers ‘er. Carried messages between ‘er and ‘er fancy man, didn’t ‘e, when she was workin’ for the Social.”
Roz made a beeline for the nearest telephone. Ma O’Brien either wouldn’t or couldn’t elaborate on her tantalising statement and had closed the door abruptly when pressed for information on Gary’s whereabouts. Roz dialled Directory Enquiries and asked for Wells-Fargo in Southampton, then used her last fifty pence to call the number she was given. A bored female voice on the other end gave her the company’s address and some directions on how to find it.
“We close in forty minutes,” was the woman’s parting shot.
By dint of parking on a double yellow line and shrugging off the prospect of a parking ticket Roz made it to the WelisFargo office with ten minutes to spare. It was a dingy place, approached through a doorway between two shops and up a ifight of uncarpeted stairs. Two anaemic Busy Lizzies and an ancient Pirelli calendar were the only spots of colour against the yellowed walls. The bored female voice resolved itself into a bored-looking middle-aged woman who was counting the seconds to the start of her weekend.
“We don’t often see customers,” she remarked, filing her nails.
“I mean if they can bring their package here they might just as well deliver it themselves.” It was an accusation, as if she felt Roz were wasting company time. She abandoned her nails and held out a hand.
“What is it and where’s it for?”
“I’m not a customer,” said Roz.
“I’m an author and I’m hoping you can give me some information for a book I’m writing.”
Stirrings of interest animated the other’s face so Roz pulled forward a chair and sat down.
“How long have you been working here?”
“Too long. What sort of book?”
Roz watched her closely.
“Do you remember Olive Martin?
She murdered her mother and sister in Dawlington six years ago.” She saw immediate recognition in the woman’s eyes.
“I’m writing a book about her.”
The woman returned to her nails but didn’t say anything.
“Did you know her?”
“God, no.”
“Did you know of her? Before the murders, that is. I’ve been told one of your messengers delivered letters to her.” It was true enough. The only trouble was that she didn’t know if Gary was working for Wells-Fargo when he did it.
A door to an inner office opened and a man fussed out. He looked at Roz.
“Did this lady want to see me, Mamie?” His fingers ran involuntarily up and down his tie, playing it like a clarinet.
