“Because I told the Governor that whatever you had done was nothing to do with me. Which it wasn’t, was it?” She pressed one of Olive’s feet with hers under the table.
“Presumably somebody else upset you?”
“Bloody Chaplain,” said Olive morosely. A bald eyelid drooped in a wink.
“Told me that God would do the rock’ n’roll in heaven if I got down on my knees and said: “Alleluiah, I repent.” Stupid sod. He’s always trying to make religion relevant to modern criminals with low IQs. We can’t cope with “There will be much rejoicing in heaven over one sinner that repenteth”, so we get God will do the fucking rock’n’roll instead.” She listened with some satisfaction to the snorts of amusement behind her, then her eyes narrowed. I TRUSTED YOU, she mouthed at Roz.
Roz nodded.
“I assumed it was something like that.” She watched Olive’s meaty fingers play with the tiny cigarette.
“But it was rude of me not to phone the prison and ask them to pass on a message. I had the mother and father of all headaches most of last week. You’ll have to put it down to that.”
“I know you did.”
Roz frowned.
“How?”
With a ifick of her fingers Olive squeezed the glowing head from the cigarette and dropped it into an ashtray on the table.
“Elementary, my dear Watson. Your ex gave you two black eyes if all that yellow round them isn’t some weird sort of make-up.
And headaches usually accompany black eyes.” But she was bored with the subject and fished an envelope abruptly from her pocket. She held it above her head.
“Mr. Allenby, sir. Are you going to let me show this to the lady?”
“What is it?” asked one of the men, stepping forward.
“Letter from my solicitor.”
He took it from her raised hand, ignoring the two-fingered salute she gave him, and skimmed through it.
“I’ve no objections,” he said, placing it on the table and returning to his place by the door.
Olive prodded it towards Roz.
“Read it. He says the chances of tracing my nephew are virtually nil.”
She reached for another cigarette, her eyes watching Roz closely. There was a strange awareness in them as if she knew something that Roz didn’t, and Roz found it disturbing. Olive, it seemed, now held the initiative in this unnatural glasshouse relationship of theirs but why and when she had taken it, Roz couldn’t begin to fathom. It was she, wasn’t it, who had engineered this meeting against the odds?
Surprisingly, Crew had handwritten his letter in a neat, sloping script, and Roz could only assume he had composed it out of office hours and decided not to waste company time and money by having it typed. She found that oddly offensive.
Dear Olive, I understand from Miss Rosalind Leigh that you are acquainted with some of the terms of your late father’s will, principally those concerning Amber’s illegitimate son. The bulk of the estate has been left in trust to the child although other provisions have been made in the event of failure on our part to trace him. Thus far, my people have met with little success and it is fair to say that we are increasingly pessimistic about our chances. We have established that your nephew emigrated to Australia with his family some twelve years ago when he was little more than a baby but, following their move from a rented flat in Sydney where they remained for the first six months, the trail goes cold. Unfortunately the child’s adopted surname is a common one and we have no guarantee that he and his family remained in Australia. Nor can we rule out the possibility that the family decided to add to their name or change it entirely. Carefully worded advertisements in several Australian newspapers have produced no response.
Your father was most insistent that we should be circumspect in how we traced the child. His view, which I endorsed wholeheartedly, was that great damage could be done if there was any publicity associated with the bequest. He was very conscious of the shock his grandson might suffer if he learnt through an incontinent media campaign of his tragic association with the Martin family. For this reason, we have kept and will continue to keep your nephew’s name a closely guarded secret. We are pressing on with our enquiries but, as your father stipulated a limited period for searches, the likelihood is that I, as executor, will be obliged to adopt the alternative provisions specified.
These are a range of donations to hospitals and charities which care entirely for the needs and welfare of children.
Although your father never instructed me to keep the terms of his will from you, he was very concerned that you should not be distressed by them. It was for this reason that I thought it wiser to keep you in ignorance of his intentions.
Had I known that you were already in possession of some of the facts, I should have corresponded sooner.
Trusting you are in good health, Yours sincerely, Peter Crew Roz refolded the letter and pushed it back to Olive.
“You said last time that it mattered to you if your nephew was found, but you didn’t enlarge on it.” She glanced towards the two officers, but they were showing little interest in anything except the floor. She leaned forward and lowered her voice.
“Are you going to talk to me about it now?”
Olive jammed her cigarette angrily into the ashtray. She made no attempt to keep her voice down.
“My father was a terrible MAN.” Even in speech the word carried capital letters.
“I couldn’t see it at the time but I’ve had years to think about it and I can see it now.” She nodded towards the letter.
“His conscience was troubling him. That’s why he wrote that will. It was his way of feeling good about himself after the appalling damage he’d done. Why else would he leave his money to Amber’s baby when he never cared shit for Amber herself?”
Roz looked at her curiously.
“Are you saying your father did the murders?” she murmured.
Olive snorted.
“I’m saying, why use Amber’s baby to whitewash himself?”
“What had he done that needed whitewashing?”
But Olive didn’t answer.
Roz waited a moment, then tried a different tack.
“You said your father would always leave money to family if he could.
Does that mean there’s other family he could have left it to? Or did you hope he’d leave it to you?”
Olive shook her head.
“There’s no one. Both my parents were only children. And he couldn’t leave it to me, could me?”
She slammed her fist on the table, her voice rising furiously.
“Otherwise everyone would kill their fucking families!” The great ugly face leered at Roz. YOU WANTED TO, mouthed the sausage lips.
“Keep the volume down, Sculptress,” said Mr. Allenby mildly, ‘or the visit finishes now.”
Roz pressed a finger and thumb to her eyelids where she could feel her headache coming back. Olive Martin took an axe she tried to thrust the thought away, but it wouldn’t go -and gave her mother forty whacks.
“I don’t understand why the will makes you so angry,” she said, forcing her voice to sound steady.
“If family was important to him who else is there except his grandson?”
Olive stared at the table, her jaw jutting aggressively.
“It’s the principle,” she muttered.
“Dad’s dead. What does it matter now what people think?”
Roz recalled something Mrs. Hopwood had said.
“I’ve always assumed he must have had an affair…” She took a shot in the dark.
“Do you have a half-brother or sister somewhere? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
Olive found this amusing.
“Hardly. He’d have to have had a mistress for that and he didn’t like women.” She gave a sardonic laugh.
“He did like MEN though.” Again the strange emphasis on the word.
Roz was very taken aback.
“Are you saying he was a homosexual?”
“I’m saying,” said Olive with exaggerated patience, ‘that the only person I ever saw make Dad’s face light up was our nextdoor neighbour, Mr. Clarke. Dad used to get quite skittish whenever he was around.”