“But now, you know, I think it was because Mum knew that Edward and my father were doing it as well. That’s what really made her sick. Makes me sick now.”
“Why didn’t you deny it?”
Olive puffed unhappily on her cigarette.
“There was no point.
She knew Amber was telling the truth. I suppose it’s a kind of instinctive thing. You learn a fact and lots of other little bits and pieces, which didn’t make sense at the time, suddenly slot into place.
Anyway, all three of them started screeching at me then, my mother in shock, my father in fury.” She shrugged.
“I’d never seen Dad so angry. Mum let out about the abortion and he kept slapping my face and calling me a slut. And Amber kept screaming that he was jealous because he loved Edward, too, and it was so awful’ her eyes welled ‘that I left.” There was a rather comical expression on her face.
“And when I came back the next day there was blood everywhere and Mum and Amber were dead.”
“You stayed out all night?”
Olive nodded.
“And most of the morning.”
“But that’s good,” said Roz leaning forward.
“We can prove that. Where did you go?”
“I walked to the beach.” She stared at her hands.
“I was going to kill myself. I wish I had now. I just sat there all night and thought about it instead.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“No. I didn’t want to be seen. When it got light I hid behind a dinghy every time I heard someone coming.”
“What time did you get back?”
“About noon. I hadn’t had anything to eat and I was hungry.”
“Did you speak to anyone?”
Olive sighed wearily.
“Nobody saw me. If they had I wouldn’t be here.”
“How did you get into the house? Did you have a key?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” demanded Roz sharply.
“You said you left. I assumed you just walked out as you were.”
Olive’s eyes widened.
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me,” she howled.
“No one believes me when I tell the truth.” She started to cry again.
“I do believe you,” said Roz firmly.
“I just want to get it straight.”
“I went to my room first and got my things. I only went out because they were all making so much noise.” She screwed her face in distress.
“My father was weeping. It was horrible.”
“OK. Go on. You’re back at the house.”
“I let myself in and went down to the kitchen to get some food.
I stepped in all the blood before I even knew it was there.” She looked at the photograph of her mother and the ready tears sprang into her eyes afresh.
“I really don’t like to think about it too much. It makes me sick when I think about it.”
Her lower lip wobbled violently.
“OK,” said Roz easily, ‘let’s concentrate on something else.
What made you stay? Why didn’t you run out into the road and call for help?”
Olive mopped at her eyes.
“I couldn’t move,” she said simply.
“I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I just stood there thinking how ashamed my mother would be when people saw her without her clothes on.” Her lip kept wobbling like some grotesque toddler’s.
“I felt so ill. I wanted to sit down but there wasn’t a chair.” She held her hand to her mouth and swallowed convulsively.
“And then Mrs. Clarke started banging on the kitchen window. She kept screaming that God would never forgive my wickedness, and there was dribble coming out of her mouth.” A shudder ran through the big shoulders.
“I knew I had to shut her up because she was making it all so much worse. So I picked up the rolling pin and ran across to the back door.” She sighed.
“But I fell over and she wasn’t there any more anyway.”
“Is that when you called the police?”
“No.” The wet face worked horribly.
“I can’t remember it all now. I went mad for a bit because I had their blood all over me and I kept scraping my hands to clean them. But everything I touched was bloody.” Her eyes widened at the memory.
“I’ve always been so clumsy and the floor was slippery. I kept stumbling over them and disturbing them and then I had to touch them to put them back again and there was more blood on me.”
The sorrowful eyes flooded again.
“And I thought, this is all my fault. If I’d never been born this would never have happened. I sat down for a long time because I felt sick.”
Roz looked at the bowed head in bewilderment.
“But why didn’t you tell the police all this?”
She raised drowned blue eyes to Roz’s.
“I was going to, but nobody would talk to me. They all thought I’d done it, you see.
And all the time I was thinking how it was all going to come out, about Edward and me, and Edward and my father, and the abortion, and Amber, and her baby, and I thought how much less embarrassing it would be for everyone if I said Ididit.”
Roz kept her voice deliberately steady.
“Who did you think had done it?”
Olive looked miserable.
“I didn’t think about that for ages.”
She hunched her shoulders as if defending herself.
“And then I knew my father had done it and they’d find me guilty whatever happened because he was the only one who could save me.” She plucked at her lips.
“And after that, it was quite a relief just to say what everyone wanted me to say. I didn’t want to go home, you see, not with Mum dead, and Edward next door and everyone knowing. I couldn’t possibly have gone home.”
“How did you know your father had done it?”
A whimper of pure pain, like a wounded animal’s, crooned from Olive’s mouth.
“Because Mr. Crew was so beastly to me.”
Sorrow poured in floods down her cheeks.
“He used to come to our house sometimes and he’d pat me on the shoulder and say: “How’s Olive?” But in the police station’ she buried her face in her hands ‘he held a handkerchief to his mouth to stop himself being sick and stood on the other side of the room and said: “Don’t say anything to me or the police, or I won’t be able to help you.” I knew then.”
Roz frowned.
“How? I don’t understand.”
“Because Dad was the only person who knew I wasn’t there, but he never said a word to Mr. Crew before, or to the police afterwards. Dad must have done it or he’d have tried to save me. He let me go to prison because he was a coward.” She sobbed loudly.
“And then he died and left his money to Amber’s child when he could have left a letter, saying I was innocent.”
She beat her hands against her knees.
“What did it matter once he was dead?”
Roz took the cigarette from Olive’s fingers and stood it on the table.
“Why didn’t you tell the police you thought it was your father who had done it? Sergeant Hawksley would have listened to you. He already suspected your father.”
The fat woman stared at the table.
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“You must, Olive.”
“You’ll laugh.”
“Tell me.”
“I was hungry.”
Roz shook her head in perplexity.
“I don’t understand.”
“The sergeant brought me a sandwich and said I could have a proper dinner when we’d finished the statement.” Her eyes welled again.
“I hadn’t eaten all day and I was so hungry,” she wailed.
“It was quicker when I said what they wanted me to say and then I got my dinner.” She wrung her hands.
“People will laugh, won’t they?”
Roz wondered why it had never occurred to her that Olive’s insatiable craving for food might have been a contributory factor in her confession. Mrs. Hopwood had described her as a compulsive eater and stress would have piled on the agonies of the wretched girl’s hunger.
“No,” she said firmly, ‘no one will laugh. But why did you insist on pleading guilty at your trial?