“He was furious. Ordered me out of the house.” She made a wry face.
“We got off to a bad start. He thought I was from the Social Services, spying on him.”
A wheeze of amusement eddied up through Olive’s throat.
“Poor Mr. Clarke.”
“You said your father liked him. Did you?”
She shrugged indifference.
“I didn’t know him well enough to like him or dislike him. I suppose I felt sorry for him because of his wife. He had to retire early to look after her.”
Roz mulled this over.
“But he was still working at the time of the murders?”
“He carried on a small accountancy business from home.
Other people’s tax returns mostly.” She tapped ash on to the floor.
“Mrs. Clarke set fire to their living room once. He was afraid to leave her alone after that. She was very demanding but my mother said most of it was an act to keep him tied to her apron strings.”
“Was that true, do you think?”
“I expect so.” She stood the cigarette on its end, as was her habit, and took another.
“My mother was usually right.”
“Did they have children?”
Olive shook her head.
“I don’t think so. I never saw any.” She pursed her lips.
“He was the child. It was quite funny sometimes watching him scurrying about, doing what he was told, saying sorry when he got it wrong. Amber called him Puddleglum because he was wet and miserable.” She chuckled.
“I’d forgotten that until this minute. It suited him at the time. Does it still?”
Roz thought of his grip on her arms.
“He didn’t strike me as being particularly wet,” she said.
“Miserable, yes.”
Olive studied her with her curiously penetrating gaze.
“Why have you come back?” she asked gently.
“You didn’t intend to on Monday.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I saw it in your face. You thought I was guilty.”
“Yes.”
Olive nodded.
“It upset me. I hadn’t realised what a difference it made to have someone believe I didn’t do it. Politicians call it the feel-good factor.” Roz saw dampness on the pale lashes.
“You get used to being viewed as a monster. Sometimes I believe it myself.” She placed one of her disproportionate hands between her huge breasts.
“I thought my heart would burst when you left. Silly, isn’t it?” Tears welled in her eyes.
“I can’t remember being so upset about anything before.”
Roz waited a moment but Olive didn’t go on.
“Sister Bridget knocked some sense into me,” she said.
A glow, like a rising candle flame, lit the fat woman’s face.
“Sister Bridget?” she echoed in amazement.
“Does she think I didn’t do it? I never guessed. I thought she came out of Christian duty.”
Oh hell, thought Roz, what does a lie matter?
“Of course she thinks you didn’t do it. Why else would she keep pushing me so hard?” She watched the tremulous pleasure bring a sort of beauty to the awful ugliness that was Olive, and she thought, I’ve burnt my boats. I can never again ask her if she’s guilty or if she’s telling me the truth because, if I do, her poor heart will burst.
“I didn’t do it,” said Olive, reading her expression.
Roz leaned forward.
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know now. I thought I did at the time.” She stood her second cigarette beside the first and watched it die.
