THIRTEEN
Roz’s sleep that night was intermittent, fitful dozing between turbulent dreams. Olive with an axe, hacking chen tables to pieces.
I didn’t think you would… it’s not as easy as it looks on the ……… Hal’s fingers on her wrist, but his face the gleeful face of her brother as he gave her Chinese burns as a child.
Goddamnit, woman, do you think I did this… Olive hanging from the gallows, her face the slimy grey of wet day. Have you no qualms about releasing someone like her back into society… A priest with the eyes of Sister Bridget. It’s a pity you’re not a Catholic… You could go to confession and feel better immediately… You keep offering me money…
The law is an ass… Have you called the police? She woke in the morning to the sound of the phone ringing in her sitting room. Her head was splitting. She snatched up the receiver to shut off the noise.
“Who is it?”
“Well, that’s a nice welcome, I must say,” remarked Iris.
“What’s eating you?”
“Nothing. What do you want?”
“Shall I phone off,” said Iris sweetly, ‘and call you back again in half an hour when you’ve remembered that I’m your friend and not some piece of dog’s dirt that you’ve just scraped off your shoe?”
“Sorry. You woke me. I didn’t sleep very well.”
“M’m, well, I’ve just had your editor on the phone pressing me for a date and I don’t mean an invitation to dinner. He wants a rough idea of when the book will be ready.”
Roz made a face into the receiver.
“I haven’t started writing it yet “Then you’d better get a move on, my darling, because I’ve told him it will be finished by Christmas.”
“Oh, Iris, for Heaven’s sake. That’s only six months away and I’m no further forward than the last time I spoke to you. Olive clams up every time we get to the murders. In fact I-‘ “Seven months,” Iris cut in.
“Go and grill that dodgy policeman again. He sounds absolutely frightful and I’ll bet you anything you like he framed her. They all do it. It boosts their quotas. The buzz word is productivity, darling, something that is temporarily absent from your vocabulary.”
Mrs. Clarke listened to Roz’s introductory speech about her book on Olive with an expression of complete horror.
“How did you find us?” she asked in a quavering voice. For no particular reason, Roz had pictured her in her fifties or early sixties. She was unprepared for this old woman, closer in age to Mr.
Hayes than to the age Robert and Gwen Martin would have been if they were still alive.
“It wasn’t difficult,” she hedged.
“I’ve been so afraid.”
It was an odd reaction but Roz let it pass.
“Can I come in? I won’t take up much of your time, I promise.”
“I couldn’t possibly speak to you. I’m alone. Edward is shopping.”
“Please, Mrs. Clarke,” she begged, her voice catching under the strain of her tiredness. It had taken two and a half hours to drive to Salisbury and locate their house.
“I’ve come such a long way to see you.”
The woman smiled suddenly and held the door wide.
“Come in. Come in. Edward made some cakes specially. He’ll be so thrilled you found us.”
With a puzzled frown, Roz stepped inside.
“Thank you.”
“You remember Pussy, of course’ she waved at an ancient cat curled beneath a radiator ‘or was she after your time? I forget things, you know. We’ll sit in the lounge. Edward,” she called, “Mary’s here.”
There was no response.
“Edward’s gone shopping,” said Roz.
“Oh, yes.” She looked at Roz in confusion.
“Do I know you?”
“I’m a friend of Olive’s.”
“I’m a friend of Olive’s,” mimicked the old lady.
“I’m a friend of Olive’s.”
She lowered herself on to the sofa.
“Sit down. Edward’s made some cakes specially. I remember Olive. We were at school together. She had long pigtails which the boys used to pull. Such wicked boys. I wonder what happened to them.” She looked at Roz again.
