The Sculptress Part 36

"Gutter journalism," he spat.

"I won't have anything to do with it. Leave now, or I shall call the police."

Mrs. Clarke gave a whimper of fear.

"Not the police. No, no, no. I'm afraid of the police." She peered at the stranger.

"I'm afraid of the police."

With reason, thought Roz, wondering if the shock of the murders had brought on the dementia. Was that why they had moved away? She picked up her briefcase and handbag.

"I'm no gutter journalist, Mr. Clarke. I'm trying to help Olive."

"She's beyond help. We all are." He glanced at his wife.

"Olive destroyed everything."

"I disagree."

"Please go." The thin reedy voice of the old woman broke in on them.

"I never saw Gwen and Amber that day," she cried plaintively.

"I lied. I lied, Edward."

He closed his eyes.

"Oh, G.o.d," he murmured, *what did I ever do to deserve this?" His voice vibrated with repressed dislike.

"Which day?" Roz pressed.

But the moment of lucidity, if that is what it was, had pa.s.sed.

"We've been waiting for cakes."

Irritation and something else relief? pa.s.sed across his face.

"She's senile," he told Roz.

"Her mind's gone. You can't rely on anything she says. I'll show you out."

Roz didn't move.

"Which day, Mrs. Clarke?" she asked gently.

"The day the police came. I said I saw them but I didn't." She furrowed her brow in perplexity.

"Do I know you?"

Mr. Clarke seized Roz roughly by the arm and manhandled her towards the front door.

"Get out of my house!" he stormed.

"Haven't we suffered enough at the hands of that family?" He thrust her into the street and slammed the door.

Roz rubbed her arm reflectively. Edward Clarke, in spite of his age, was a good deal stronger than he looked.

She turned the problem in her mind throughout the long drive home. She was caught in the same dilemma that Olive kept posing her, the dilemma of belief. Was Mrs. Clarke telling the truth? Had she lied to the police that day or was her senile recollection faulty? And if she had lied, did it make a difference?

Roz pictured herself in the Poacher's kitchen, listening to Hal talking about Robert Martin's alibi.

"We did wonder if he might have killed Gwen and Amber before he went to work and Olive then attempted to dispose of the bodies to protect him, but the numbers didn't add up. He had an alibi even for that. There was a neighbour who saw her husband off to work a few minutes before Martin himself left. Amber and Gwen were alive then because she spoke to them on their doorstep. She remembered asking Amber how she was getting on at Glitzy. They waved as Martin drove away."

Mrs. Clarke, thought Roz, it had to be. But how remiss of her not to question that statement before? Was it likely that Gwen and Amber would wave goodbye to Robert when so little love was lost between husband and wife? A sentence from Olive's statement pierced her thoughts like a sharp knife.

"We had an argument over breakfast and my father left for work in the middle of it."

So Mrs. Clarke had been telling lies. But why? Why give Robert an alibi when, according to Olive, she saw him as a threat?

"There was a neighbour who saw her husband off to work a few minutes before Martin himself left..

G.o.d, but she'd been blind. The alibi was Edward's.

She phoned Iris in a fever of excitement from a pay phone.

"I've cracked it, old thing. I know who did it and it wasn't Olive."

"There you are, you see. Always trust your agent's instincts.

I've had a flyer on you with Gerry. He'll be sick as a parrot about losing. So who did do it?"

"The neighbour, Edward Clarke. He was Robert Martin's lover. I think he killed Gwen and Amber out of jealousy."

Breathlessly, she rattled off her story.

"Mind you, I've still got to find a way of proving it."

There was a lengthy silence at the other end.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes, I was just mourning my five pounds. I know you're excited, darling, but you'll have to sober up and give it a little more thought.

If this Edward chopped up Gwen and Amber before Robert went to work, wouldn't Robert have stumbled across the bits in the kitchen?"

"Perhaps they did it together?"

"Then why didn't they kill Olive as well? Not to mention the small matter of why on earth Olive would want to s.h.i.+eld her father's h.o.m.os.e.xual lover. It would make much more sense if Mrs. Clarke lied to give Robert an alibi."

"Why?"

"They were having a raging affair," declared Iris.

"Mrs. C. guessed Robert had done his wife in to give himself a free hand with her and lied through her teeth to protect him. You don't know for sure he was a h.o.m.os.e.xual. The schoolfriend's mother didn't think he was. Is Mrs. C. attractive?"

"Not now. She was once."

"There you are, then."

"Why did Robert kill Amber?"

"Because she was there," said Iris simply.

"I expect she woke up when she heard the fight and came downstairs.

Robert would have had no option but to kill her as well. Then he skedaddled and left poor old Olive, who slept through it all, to face the music."

Somewhat reluctantly, Roz went to see Olive.

"I wasn't expecting you, not after-* Olive left the rest of the sentence unsaid.

"Well, you know." She smiled shyly.

They were back in their old room, unsupervised. The Governor's qualms, it seemed, had been laid to rest along with Olive's hostility. Really, thought Roz, the prison system never ceased to surprise her. She had foreseen enormous problems, particularly as it was a Wednesday and not her normal day, but there had been none. Access to Olive was once more unrestricted. She pushed forward the cigarette packet.

"You seem to be persona grata again," she said.

Olive accepted a cigarette.

"With you, too?"

Roz arched an eyebrow.

"I felt better after my headache had gone." She saw distress on the fat face.

"I'm teasing," she said gently.

"And it was my fault anyway. I should have phoned.

Have you had all your privileges restored?"

"Yes. They're pretty decent really, once you calm down."

"Good." Roz switched on her tape-recorder.

"I've been to see your nextdoor neighbours, the Clarkes."

Olive studied her through the flame of the match, then tipped it thoughtfully towards her cigarette.

"And?"

"Mrs. Clarke lied about seeing your mother and sister on the morning of the murders."

"How do you know?"

"She told me." Olive wedged the cigarette firmly between her lips and drew in a lungful of smoke.

"Mrs. Clarke's been senile for years," she said bluntly.

"She had a thing about germs, used to rush about every morning scrubbing the furniture with Domestos and hoovering like mad. People who didn't know them thought she was the char. She always called me Mary which was her mother's name. I should imagine she's completely loopy by now."

Roz shook her head in frustration.

"She is, but I'll swear she was lucid when she admitted lying. She's frightened of her husband, though."

Olive looked surprised.

"She was never frightened of him before. If anything, he was more frightened of her. What did he say when she told you she'd lied?"

"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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 ap.r.o.n 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."