They had declared a truce that day, she remembered, for Alice’s sake.
And they had kept it, up to a point, although as usual the responsibility for refusing to be drawn had been Roz’s. As long as she could keep her cool and smile while Rupert let slip his poisoned darts about Jessica, Jessica’s flat, and Jessica’s job, everything was hunky-dory. Alice’s joy in having her parents back together again shone from the photographs.
Roz pushed them tenderly to one side and rummaged through her carrier bag of shopping, removing some cellophane, a paintbrush, and three tubes of acrylic paint. Then, munching into a pork pie, she set to work.
Every now and then she paused to smile at her daughter. She should have had the film developed before, she told Mrs. Antrobus, who had curled contentedly into her lap. The rag doll of the newspapers had never been Alice. This was Alice.
“He’s legged it,” said Iris baldly down the wire two hours later, ‘and Gerry has been threatened with all sorts of nasties if he doesn’t reveal his client’s whereabouts the minute he knows them. There’s a warrant out for the wretched man’s arrest.
Where on earth do you find these ghastly creatures? You should take up with a nice one, like Gerry,” she said severely, ‘who wouldn’t dream of beating up women or involving them in criminal activities.”
“I know,” agreed Roz mildly, ‘but the nice ones are already taken. Did they mention what the charge is against Hal?”
“Charges, more like. Arson, resisting arrest, GBH, absconding from the scene of a crime. You name it, he’s done it. If he gets in touch with you, don’t bother to let me know. Gerry’s already behaving like the man who knew the identity of Jack the Ripper but kept it quiet. He’ll have a heart attack if he thinks I know where he is.”
“Mum’s the word,” Roz promised.
There was a moment’s silence.
“You might do better to hang up if he calls. There’s a man in hospital with appalling facial burns, apparently, a policeman with a dislocated jaw, and when they arrived to arrest him he was trying to set fire to his restaurant. He sounds horribly dangerous to me.”
“I think you’re probably right,” said Roz slowly, wondering what on earth had happened after she left.
“He’s got a lovely arse, too. Aren’t I the lucky one?”
“Cow!”
Roz laughed.
“Thank Gerry for me. I appreciate his niceness even if you don’t.”
She went to sleep on the sofa in case she missed the phone when it rang. It occurred to her that he might not want to trust himself to an answer machine.
But the telephone remained stubbornly silent all weekend.
SIXTEEN
On Monday morning, with the black dog of depression on her shoulder again, Roz went to the Belvedere Hotel and placed the photograph on the desk.
“Is this Mr. Lewis?” she asked the proprietress.
The amiable woman popped on her glasses and took a good look. She shook her head apologetically.
“No, dear, I’m sorry.
He doesn’t ring a bell at all.”
“Try now.” She smoothed the cellophane across the photograph.
“Good heavens. How extraordinary. Yes, that’s Mr. Lewis all right.”
Marie agreed.
“That’s him. Dirty bugger.” She screwed up her eyes.
“It doesn’t flatter him, does it? What would a young girl see in that?”
“I don’t know. Uncritical affection perhaps.”
“Who is he?”
“A psychopath,” said Roz.
The other whistled.
“You want to be careful then.”
“Yes.”
Marie tapped her carmined nails on the desk.
“Sure you don’t want to tell me who he is in case you end up in bits on your kitchen floor?” She flicked Roz a speculative glance. There might, she thought, be some money in this somewhere.
Roz caught the glint in the other’s eye.
“No thanks,” she said shortly.
“This is one piece of information I intend to keep to myself. I don’t fancy my chances if he learns I’m close.”
“I won’t blab,” said Mamie with a pout of injured innocence.
“You can’t if I don’t put temptation your way.” Roz tucked the photograph into her handbag.
“It would be irresponsible, anyway. You’re a prime witness. He could just as easily come after you and chop you into little pieces.” She smiled coldly.
“I should hate to have that on my conscience.”
Roz returned to her car and sat for some minutes staring out of the window. If ever she had needed a tame ex-policeman to guide her through the maze of legal procedure, she thought, it was now. She was an amateur who could all too easily make mistakes and muck up the chances of a future prosecution.
And where would that leave Olive? Languishing in prison, presumably.
The verdict against her could only be overturned rapidly if someone else was convicted. On its own the seed of reasonable doubt would take years of germination before the Home Office would feel pressured enough to take notice.
How long had the Birmingham Six had to wait for justice? The responsibility to get it right was frightening.
But, loath though she was to admit it, what weighed rather more heavily with her was the knowledge that she hadn’t the courage to write the book while Olive’s psychopathic lover remained at liberty. Try as she might, she could not get the pictures of Gwen and Amber out of her mind.
She slammed her fists against the steering-wheel.
Where are you, Hawksley? You bastard! I was always there for you.
Graham Deedes, Olive’s one-time barrister, walked into his chambers after a long day in court and frowned in irritation to find Roz parked on a seat outside his door. He looked pointedly at his watch.
“I’m in a hurry, Miss Leigh.”
She sighed, unfolding herself from the hard chair.
“Five minutes,” she begged.
“I’ve been waiting two hours.”
“No, I’m sorry. We have people coming to dinner and I promised my wife I wouldn’t be late.” He opened his door and went inside.
“Ring and make an appointment. I’m in court for the next three days but I may be able to fit you in towards the end of the week.” He prepared to shut her out.
She stood up and leaned her shoulder on the door jamb, holding the door open with one hand.
“Olive did have a lover,” she told him.
“I know who he is and I’ve had his photograph identified by two witnesses, one of whom is the owner of the hotel that he and Olive used throughout the summer before the murders. I have a witness who bears out Olive’s claim to have had an abortion. The date she gave me implies that Olive’s baby, had it lived, would have been born around the time of the murders. I have learned that two people, Robert Martin and the father of a friend of Olive’s, quite independently of each other, told the police that Olive was incapable of murdering her sister.
The scenario they both offered was that Gwen killed Amber she didn’t like Amber, apparently and Olive killed Gwen. I admit the forensic evidence doesn’t support that case but it proves that serious doubts existed even at the time which I don’t think were brought to your attention.”
She saw the impatience in his face and hurried on.
“For all sorts of reasons, principally because it was her birthday, I do not believe that Olive was in the house on the night before the murders and I do believe that Gwen and Amber were killed much earlier than the time Olive claims to have done it. I think Olive returned home some time during the morning or afternoon of the ninth, found the carnage in the kitchen, knew her lover was responsible, and was so overcome with shock and remorse that she confessed to the crime herself. I think she was very unsure of herself, very distressed, and didn’t know how to cope when the main prop in her life, her mother, was so suddenly taken from her.”