“Bloody awful night, that was. Depressing.”
Roz kept her expression as neutral as she could. Was Lily right, after all, and Hal wrong?
“The nineteen eight-seven gales,” she said.
“The first ones.”
“That’s it. Mind, it ‘appened again two years later. No electricity for a week the second time, hand you get no compensation for the ‘ardship neither. I tried and the buggers told me hif I didn’t pay what I owed they’d cut me off for good and all.”
“Did the police give a reason for getting your boys the sack?” asked Roz.
“Hah!” Ma sniffed.
“They never give reasons for nothing. It was victimisation, like I said.”
“Did they work for the messenger company long?”
Old eyes regarded her suspiciously.
“You’re mighty interested all of a sudden.”
Roz smiled ingenuously.
“Only because this was an occasion when three of your family were trying to go straight and build careers for themselves. It would make good television if we could show that they were denied that opportunity because of police harassment. Presumably it was a local firm they were working for?”
“Southampton.” Ma’s mouth became an inverted horseshoe.
“Bloody silly name it ‘ad too. Called their selves Wells Fargo Still, the boss was a ruddy cowboy so maybe it wasn’t so silly after all.”
Roz suppressed a smile.
“Is it still in business?”
“Last I ‘card, it was. That’s it. You’ve ‘ad your ‘our.”
“Thank you, Mrs. O’Brien.” She patted the tape-recorder.
“If the producers like what they hear I might need to come back and talk to your sons. Would that be acceptable, do you think?”
“Don’t see why not. Can’t see them sneezing at fifty quid apiece.” Ma held out her hand.
Dutifully, Roz took two twenty-pound notes and a ten from her wallet and laid them on the wrinkled palm. Then she started to gather her things together.
“I hear Dawlington’s quite famous,” she remarked chattily.
“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.
The nail file vanished from sight.
“No, Mr. Wheelan. She’s an old friend of mine. Popped in to see if I’ve time for a drink before I go home.” She stared hard at Roz, her eyes demanding support. There was a curious intimacy in her expression as if she and Roz already shared a secret.
Roz smiled amiably and glanced at her watch.
“It’s nearly six now,” she said.
“Half an hour won’t delay you too much, will it?”
The man made shooing motions with his hands.
“You two get on then. I’ll lock up tonight.” He paused in the doorway, his forehead wrinkling anxiously.
“You didn’t forget to send someone to Hasler’s, did you?”
“No, Mr. Wheelan. Eddy went two hours ago.”
“Good, good. Have a nice weekend. What about Prestwick’s?”
“All done, Mr. Wheelan. There’s nothing outstanding.” Mamie raised her eyes to heaven as he closed the door behind him.
“He drives me mad,” she muttered.
“Fuss, fuss, fuss, all the time.
Come on, quick, before he changes his mind. Friday evenings are always the worst.” She scurried across to the door and started down the stairs.
“He hates weekends, that’s his trouble, thinks the business is going to fold because we have two consecutive days without orders. He’s paranoid. Had me working Saturday mornings last year till he realised we were simply sitting around twiddling our thumbs because none of the offices we deal with open on a Saturday.” She pushed through the bottom door and stepped out on to the pavement.
“Look, we can forget about that drink. I’d like to get home in reasonable time for once.” She looked at Roz, measuring the other’s reaction.