The Sculptress Part 23

"And you're not calling them either."

Iris shrugged.

"So what have you been doing all morning?"

"Trying to work out how I could get by without calling anyone. At midday, I realised I couldn't. I've used all my aspirin, I've no food in the house, and I'm not going out looking like this." She raised bruised and suspiciously bright eyes.

"So I thought of the least shock able and the most egocentric person I know and I telephoned her. You'll have to go out shopping for me, Iris. I need enough to last me a week."

Iris was amused.

"I would never deny that I'm egocentric but why is that important?"

Roz bared her teeth.

"Because you're so wrapped up in yourself you'll have forgotten all about this by the time you get home. Plus, you're not going to pressure me into doing the right thing and nailing the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

It wouldn't reflect well on your agency if one of your authors was in the habit of bringing home pick-ups from wine bars." She clenched both hands over the telephone and Iris watched her knuckles whiten under the strain.

"True," she agreed calmly.

Roz relaxed a little.

"I really couldn't bear it, you know, if this got out, and it will if doctors or the police are involved.

You know the b.l.o.o.d.y press as well as I do. Any excuse, and they'll plaster their front pages all over again with pictures of Alice in the wreckage." Poor little Alice. Malign providence had put a freelance photographer beside the dual carriage way when she was tossed like a rag doll from Rupert's car. His dramatic shots published, according to the tabloid editors, as a tragic reminder to other families of the importance of wearing seat belts had been Alice's most lasting memorial.

"You can imagine the sordid parallels they'll draw. MOTHER DISFIGURED LIKE DAUGHTER. I couldn't survive it a second time." She fished in her pocket and produced a shopping list.

"I'll write you a cheque when you come back. And whatever you do, don't forget the aspirin. I'm in agony."

Iris tucked the shopping list into her bag.

"Keys," she said, holding out her hand.

"You can go to bed while I'm out. I'll let myself back in."

Roz pointed to her keys on a shelf by the door.

"Thank you," she said, *and, Iris-* She didn't finish.

"And, Iris, what?"

She made an attempt at a wry grimace but abandoned it because it was too painful.

"And, Iris, I'm sorry."

"So am I, old thing." She gave an airy wave and let herself out of the flat.

For reasons best known to herself, Iris returned a couple of hours later with the shopping and a suitcase.

"Don't look at me like that," she said severely, administering aspirin in a gla.s.s of water.

"I intend to keep an eye on you for a day or two. For entirely mercenary purposes, of course. I like to guard my investments closely.

And anyway," she scratched under Mrs. Antrobus's chin, *someone's got to feed this revolting moggy for you. You'll only start howling if it dies of starvation."

Roz, depressed and very lonely, was touched.

Detective Sergeant Geof Wyatt toyed unhappily with his wine gla.s.s. His stomach was playing up, he was very tired, it was Sat.u.r.day, he would rather have been at a Saints' football match, and the sight of Hal tucking into a plateful of rare steak needled him.

"Look," he said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, "I hear what you're saying but evidence is evidence.

What are you expecting me to do? Tamper with it?"

"It's hardly evidence if it was tampered with at the outset," Hal snapped.

"It was a frame, for Christ's sake." He pushed his plate away.

"You should have had some," he said acidly.

"It might have improved your temper."

Wyatt looked away.

"There's nothing wrong with my temper and I ate before I got here." He lit a cigarette and glanced towards the door into the restaurant.

"I've never felt comfortable in kitchens, not since seeing those women on Olive's floor. Too many murder weapons and too much b.l.o.o.d.y meat about the place. Couldn't we go next door?"

"Don't be a fool," said Hal curtly.

"d.a.m.n it, Geof, you owe me a few one way and another."

Wyatt sighed.

"How's it going to help you if I get suspended for doing dodgy favours for an ex-copper?"

"I'm not asking for dodgy favours. Just get the pressure taken off.

Give me a breathing s.p.a.ce."

"How?"

"You could start by persuading the Inspector to back off."

"And that's not dodgy?" His mouth turned down.

"Anyway, I've tried. He's not playing. He's new, he's honest, and he doesn't like anyone who bends the rules, particularly policemen." He tapped ash on the floor.

"You should never have left the Force, Hal. I did warn you. It's very lonely outside."

Hal rubbed his unshaven face.

"It wouldn't be so bad if my erstwhile colleagues didn't keep treating me like a criminal."

Wyatt stared at the remains of the steak on Hal's plate. He felt very queasy.

"Well, if it comes to that, you shouldn't have been so d.a.m.n careless, then they wouldn't have to."

Hal's eyes narrowed unpleasantly.

"One of these days you're going to wish you hadn't said that."

With a shrug, Wyatt ground his cigarette against his shoe and tossed the b.u.t.t into the sink.

"Can't see it, old son. I've been s.h.i.tting my backside off ever since the Inspector rumbled you.

It's made me ill, it really has." He pushed back his chair and stood up.

"Why the h.e.l.l did you have to cut corners instead of doing it by the book the way you were supposed to?"

Hal nodded towards the door.

"Out," he said, *before I rip your two-faced head off."

"What about that check you wanted me to run?"

Hal fished in his pocket and removed a piece of paper.

"That's her name and address. See if there's anything on her."

"Like what?"

Hal shrugged.

"Anything that will give me a lever. This book she's writing is too well timed." He frowned.

"And I don't believe in coincidence."

One of the few advantages of being fat was that it was easier to hide things. Another bulge here or there pa.s.sed unnoticed and the soft cavity between Olive's b.r.e.a.s.t.s could accommodate itself to almost anything. In any case, she had noticed very early on that the officers preferred not to search her too diligently on the rare occasions when they thought it necessary. She had a.s.sumed at first that they were frightened of her, but she soon came to recognise that it was her fatness that inhibited them.

Politically correct thinking within the prison service meant that while they were free to say what they liked about her behind her back they had to guard their tongues in her presence and treat her with a modic.u.m of respect. Thus the helpful legacy of her anguished tears during strip-searches at the beginning, when her huge, repulsive body shook with distress, was a reluctance on the part of the screws now to do anything more than a perfunctory running of their hands down the sides of her shift.

But she had problems. Her small family of wax figures, absurdly cheerful in their painted cottonwool wigs and strips of dark material which she had wound around them like miniature suits, kept softening against the warmth of her skin and losing their shape. With infinite patience, she set her awkward fingers to re moulding them, first removing the pins which skewered the wigs to each of the heads. She wondered idly if the one of Roz's husband looked anything like him.

"What a ghastly place this is," said Iris, gazing critically about the bleak grey walls of Roz's flat from her place on the vinyl sofa.

"Haven't you ever felt the urge to liven it up a bit?"

"No. I'm just pa.s.sing through. It's a waiting room."

"You've been here twelve months. I can't think why you don't use the money from the divorce and buy yourself a house."

Roz rested her head against the back of her chair.

"I like waiting rooms. You can be idle in them without feeling guilty.

There's nothing to do except wait."

Thoughtfully, Iris put a cigarette between her brilliant red lips.

"What are you waiting for?"

"I don't know."

She flicked a lighter to the tip of her cigarette while her penetrating eye-lined gaze fixed uncomfortably on Roz.

"One thing does puzzle me," she said.

"If it wasn't Rupert, then why did he leave another tearful message on my answer phone telling me he had behaved badly?"

"Another?" Roz stared at her hands.

"Does that mean he's done it before?"

"With tedious regularity."

"You've never mentioned it."

"You've never asked me."

Roz digested this for some moments in silence, then let out a long sigh.

"I've been realising recently how dependent I've become on him." She touched her sore lip.

"His dependence hasn't changed, of course. It's the same as it always was, a constant demand for rea.s.surance. Don't worry, Rupert. It's not your fault, Rupert. Everything will be all right, Rupert." She spoke the words without emphasis.

"It's why he prefers women.

Women are more sympathetic." She fell silent.

"How does that make you dependent on him?"

Roz gave a slight smile.

"He's never left me alone long enough to let me think straight. I've been angry for months." She shrugged.

"It's very destructive. You can't concentrate on anything because the anger won't go away. I tear his letters up without reading them, because I know what they'll say, but his handwriting sets my teeth on edge. If I see him or hear him, I start shaking." She gave a hollow laugh.