“Oh, I don’t think so.” Her companion’s light laughter rang about the room.
“If it did you wouldn’t have driven all these miles to talk to me. You could have sought out your friendly policeman. He would have approved your change of heart.” Her eyes danced.
“I, on the other hand, am the one person you know who could be relied on to fight Olive’s corner.”
Roz smiled.
“Does that mean you now think she didn’t do it?”
Sister Bridget stared out of the window.
“No,” she said frankly.
“I’m still in two minds.”
“Thanks,” said Roz with heavy irony, ‘and you expect me to have faith.
That’s a bit two-faced, isn’t it?”
“Very. But you were chosen, Roz, and I wasn’t.”
Roz arrived back at her flat around midnight. The telephone was ringing as she let herself in but after three or four bells the answer phone took over. Iris, she thought. No one else would call at such an unearthly hour, not even Rupert. She had no intention of speaking to her but, out of curiosity, she flicked the switch on the machine to hear Iris leave her message.
“I wonder where you are,” slurred Hal’s voice, slack with drink and tiredness.
“I’ve been calling for hours. I’m drunk as a skunk, woman, and it’s your fault. You’re too bloody thin, but what the hell!” He gave a baritone chuckle.
“I’m drowning in shit here, Roz. Me and Olive both. Mad, bad and dangerous to know.” He sighed.
“From East to western md, no jewel is like Rosalind. Who are you, anyway? Nemesis? You lied, you know.
You said you’d leave me in peace.” There was the sound of a crash.
“Jesus” he roared into the telephone.
“I’ve dropped the bloody bottle.” The line was cut abruptly.
Roz wondered if her grin looked as idiotic as it felt. She switched the answer phone back to automatic and went to bed.
She fell asleep almost immediately.
The phone rang again at nine o’clock the next morning.
“Roz?” asked his sober, guarded voice.
“Speaking.”
“It’s Hal Hawksley.”
“Hi,” she said cheerfully.
“I didn’t know you knew my number.”
“You gave me your card, remember.”
“Oh, yes. What can I do for you?”
“I tried you yesterday, left a message on your answer phone She smiled into the receiver.
“Sorry,” she told him, ‘the tape’s on the blink. All I got was my ear-drums pierced by high pitched crackling. Has something happened?”
His relief was audible.
“No.” There was a brief pause.
“I just wondered how you got on with the O’Briens.”
“I saw Ma. It cost me fifty quid but it was worth it. Are you busy today or can I come and chew your ear off again? I need a couple of favours: a photograph of Olive’s father and access to her medical records.”
He was happy talking details.
“No chance on the latter,” he told her.
“Olive can demand to see them but you’d have more chance breaking into Parkhurst than breaking into NHS files. I might be able to get hold of a photograph of him, though, if I can persuade Geof Wyatt to take a photocopy of the one on file.”
“What about pictures of Gwen and Amber? Could he get photocopies of them too?”
“Depends how strong your stomach is. The only ones I remember are the post-mortem shots. You’ll have to get on to Martin’s executors if you want pictures of them alive.”
“OK, but I’d still like to see the post-mortem ones if that’s possible.
I won’t try to publish them without the proper authority,” she promised.
“You’d have a job. Police photocopies are usually the worst you’ll ever see. If your publisher can make a decent negative out of them, he probably deserves a medal. I’ll see what I can do. What time will you get here?”
“Early afternoon? There’s someone I need to see first. Could you get me a copy of Olive as well?”
