Peter Crew’s association with the case, particularly in view of his subsequent mishandling of Robert Martin’s estate, had attracted considerable and unwelcome interest. At worst he was accused of deliberately engineering Olive’s conviction in order to gain access to unlimited funds, and, at best, of bullying an emotionally disturbed young woman at a time when he had a responsibility to safeguard her interests. He denied both accusations strenuously, arguing that he could not have foreseen Robert Martin’s success on the stock exchange nor his early death; and claiming that because Olive’s story had been remarkably consistent with the forensic evidence he, in the absence of any denials on her part, had, like the police, accepted it as a true statement of fact. He had advised her to say nothing and could not be held liable for her confession.
Meanwhile, he remained at liberty on bail, facing the sort of charges that for most of his clients would have resulted in a remand to prison, bullishly declaring his mnnoce rice on all counts.
Roz, when she heard what he was saying, was angry enough to waylay him in the street with a local journalist in tow.
“We could argue about liability for ever, Mr. Crew, but just explain this to me. If Olive’s statement was as consistent with the forensic evidence as you maintain, then why did she claim there was no mist on the mirror at a time when Gwen and Amber were still alive?” She caught his arm as he tried to walk away.
“Why didn’t she mention that the axe was too blunt to cut off Amber’s head? Why didn’t she say she had struck her four times before resorting to the carving knife? Why didn’t she describe her fight with her mother and the stabbing incisions she’d made in her mother’s throat before cutting it? Why didn’t she mention burning the clothes? In fact, try quoting me one detail from Olive’s statement that does accord fully with the forensic evidence.”
He shook her off angrily.
“She said she used the axe and the carving knife,” he snapped.
“Neither of which had her fingerprints on them. The forensic evidence did not support her statement.”
“She had their blood all over her.”
“All over is right, Mr. Crew. But where does it say in her statement that she rolled in it?”
He tried to walk away but found the journalist blocking his path.
“Footprints,” he said.
“At the time, there were only her footprints.”
“Yes,” said Roz.
“And on that one piece of evidence, which was at odds with all the rest, you made up your mind she was a psychopath and prepared a defence on the grounds of diminished responsibility. Why did you never brief Graham Deedes on the lifelines her poor father was trying to throw her?
Why didn’t you question your own judge merit when she was pronounced fit to plead guilty? Why the hell didn’t you treat her like a human being, Mr. Crew, instead of a monster?”
He stared at her with dislike.
“Because, Miss Leigh,” he said, ‘she is a monster. Worse, she’s a clever monster. Doesn’t it worry you that this wretched woman you’ve set up to take Olive’s place is the only one who’s not mentally fit to fight the accusation? And doesn’t it worry you that Olive waited till her father died before she would talk to anyone? Mark my words, he was the one she intended to smear with her guilt because he was easy. He was dead. But you gave her Mrs. Clarke instead.”
He thrust his face angrily into hers.
“The evidence you’ve unearthed raises doubts, but no more.
Computer-enhanced photography is as open to interpretation as the nature of psychopathy.” He shook his head.
“Olive will get out because of it, of course. The law has become very flabby in the last few years. But I was there when she told her story and, as I made clear to you at the start, Olive Martin is a dangerous woman.
She’s after her father’s money. You’ve been led by the nose, Miss Leigh.”
“She’s not half as dangerous as you, Mr. Crew. At least she’s never paid to have people’s businesses destroyed and their lives threatened.
You’re a cheap crook.”
Crew shrugged.
“If that appears in print, Miss Leigh, I shall sue you for defamation, and it will cost you considerably more in legal fees than it will cost me. I suggest you remember that.”
The journalist watched him walk away.
“He’s doing a Robert Maxwell on you.”
“That’s the law for you,” said Roz in disgust.
“It’s nothing but a big stick if you know how to use it or you’re rich enough to employ someone else to use it for you.”
“You don’t think he’s right about Olive, do you?”
“Of course not,” said Roz angrily, sensing his doubt.
“But at least you know now what she was up against. This country is mad if it assumes that the presence of a solicitor during an interview will automatically protect a prisoner’s rights. They are just as fallible, just as lazy, and just as crooked as the rest of us. It cost the Law Society millions last year to compensate clients for their solicitors’ misdeeds.”
The book was scheduled to come out within a month of Olive’s release.
Roz had finished it in record time amidst the peace and seclusion of Bayview, which she bought on impulse when she discovered it was impossible to work above the continuous noise of people enjoying their food in the restaurant downstairs.
The Poacher had been relaunched in a whirl of somewhat exaggerated publicity featuring Hal as the heroic underdog fighting the evil of organised crime. His association with the Olive Martin case, particularly his latter efforts to help in securing her release, had only added to the hype. He applauded Roz’s decision to buy Bayview.
Making love against the backdrop of the ocean was a vast improvement on the metal bars at the Poacher.
And she was safer there.
Hal had discovered within himself a capacity for caring that he hadn’t known existed. It went deeper than love, encompassing every emotion from admiration to lust, and, while he would never have described himself as an obsessive man, the stress of worrying about Stewart Hayes, free on bail, slowly became intolerable to him. He was prompted finally to make Hayes a surprise visit at home one day. He found him playing in the garden with his ten-year-old daughter and it was there that he made Hayes an offer Hayes couldn’t refuse. A life for a life, a maiming for a maiming, should anything happen to Roz. Hayes recognised such compelling purpose in the dark eyes, perhaps because it’s what he would have done himself, that he agreed to an indefinite truce. His love for his daughter, it seemed, was matched only by Hal’s love for Roz.