The Sculptress Part 28

Ma cackled.

"Used to dress *im up in *er sister's frocks.

G.o.d, *e looked a sight. Like I said, she treated *im like a doll."

Roz snapped the locks on her briefcase and stood up.

"Were you surprised she became a murderess?"

"No more surprised by that than by anything else. There's nowt so queer as folk." She escorted Roz to the front door and stood, arms akimbo, waiting for her to leave.

"It might make an interesting introduction to the programme," Roz mused, *the fact that Gary was a doll-subst.i.tute for a notorious murderess. Does he remember her?"

Ma cackled again.

"Course *e remembers *er. Carried messages between *er and *er fancy man, didn't *e, when she was workin' for the Social."

Roz made a beeline for the nearest telephone. Ma O'Brien either wouldn't or couldn't elaborate on her tantalising statement and had closed the door abruptly when pressed for information on Gary's whereabouts. Roz dialled Directory Enquiries and asked for Wells-Fargo in Southampton, then used her last fifty pence to call the number she was given. A bored female voice on the other end gave her the company's address and some directions on how to find it.

"We close in forty minutes," was the woman's parting shot.

By dint of parking on a double yellow line and shrugging off the prospect of a parking ticket Roz made it to the WelisFargo office with ten minutes to spare. It was a dingy place, approached through a doorway between two shops and up a ifight of uncarpeted stairs. Two anaemic Busy Lizzies and an ancient Pirelli calendar were the only spots of colour against the yellowed walls. The bored female voice resolved itself into a bored-looking middle-aged woman who was counting the seconds to the start of her weekend.

"We don't often see customers," she remarked, filing her nails.

"I mean if they can bring their package here they might just as well deliver it themselves." It was an accusation, as if she felt Roz were wasting company time. She abandoned her nails and held out a hand.

"What is it and where's it for?"

"I'm not a customer," said Roz.

"I'm an author and I'm hoping you can give me some information for a book I'm writing."

Stirrings of interest animated the other's face so Roz pulled forward a chair and sat down.

"How long have you been working here?"

"Too long. What sort of book?"

Roz watched her closely.

"Do you remember Olive Martin?

She murdered her mother and sister in Dawlington six years ago." She saw immediate recognition in the woman's eyes.

"I'm writing a book about her."

The woman returned to her nails but didn't say anything.

"Did you know her?"

"G.o.d, no."

"Did you know of her? Before the murders, that is. I've been told one of your messengers delivered letters to her." It was true enough. The only trouble was that she didn't know if Gary was working for Wells-Fargo when he did it.

A door to an inner office opened and a man fussed out. He looked at Roz.

"Did this lady want to see me, Mamie?" His fingers ran involuntarily up and down his tie, playing it like a clarinet.

The nail file vanished from sight.

"No, Mr. Wheelan. She's an old friend of mine. Popped in to see if I've time for a drink before I go home." She stared hard at Roz, her eyes demanding support. There was a curious intimacy in her expression as if she and Roz already shared a secret.

Roz smiled amiably and glanced at her watch.

"It's nearly six now," she said.

"Half an hour won't delay you too much, will it?"

The man made shooing motions with his hands.

"You two get on then. I'll lock up tonight." He paused in the doorway, his forehead wrinkling anxiously.

"You didn't forget to send someone to Hasler's, did you?"

"No, Mr. Wheelan. Eddy went two hours ago."

"Good, good. Have a nice weekend. What about Prestwick's?"

"All done, Mr. Wheelan. There's nothing outstanding." Mamie raised her eyes to heaven as he closed the door behind him.

"He drives me mad," she muttered.

"Fuss, fuss, fuss, all the time.

Come on, quick, before he changes his mind. Friday evenings are always the worst." She scurried across to the door and started down the stairs.

"He hates weekends, that's his trouble, thinks the business is going to fold because we have two consecutive days without orders. He's paranoid. Had me working Sat.u.r.day mornings last year till he realised we were simply sitting around twiddling our thumbs because none of the offices we deal with open on a Sat.u.r.day." She pushed through the bottom door and stepped out on to the pavement.

"Look, we can forget about that drink. I'd like to get home in reasonable time for once." She looked at Roz, measuring the other's reaction.

Roz shrugged.

"Fine. I'll go and talk to Mr. Wheelan about Olive Martin. He doesn't seem to be in any hurry."

Mamie tapped her foot impatiently.

"You'll get me sacked."

"You talk to me then."

There was a long pause while the other woman considered her options.

"I'll tell you what I know, as long as you keep it to yourself," she said at last.

"Is that a deal? It's not going to help you one little bit, so you won't need to use it."

"Suits me," said Roz.

"We'll talk as we walk. The station's this way. If we hurry I might be able to catch the six thirty."

Roz caught her arm to hold her back.

"My car's over there," she said.

"I'll drive you instead." She took Mamie across the road and unlocked the pa.s.senger door.

"OK," she said, getting in the other side and starting the engine.

"Fire away."

"I did know of her, or at least I knew of an Olive Martin. I can't swear it's the same one because I never saw her, but the description sounded right when I read about her in the newspaper. I've always a.s.sumed it was the same person."

"Who gave you her description?" asked Roz, turning into the main road.

"There's no point asking questions," snapped Marie.

"It'll just take longer. Let me tell the story my way." She collected her thoughts.

"I said back there that we hardly ever see customers. Sometimes office managers come in to suss out what sort of operation we run, but normally it's all done by telephone. Somebody wants something delivered, they phone us and we dispatch a rider, simple as that. Well, one lunchtime, when Wheelan was out getting his sandwiches, this man came into the office. He had a letter that he wanted delivered that afternoon to a Miss Olive Martin. He was prepared to pay over the odds if the dispatch rider would hang around outside where she worked and give it to her quietly as she was leaving.

He was absolutely adamant that it wasn't to be taken inside and said he was sure I understood why."

Roz forgot herself.

"And did you?"

"I a.s.sumed they were having an affair and that neither of them wanted people asking questions. Anyway, he gave me a twenty quid note for the one letter, and we're talking six years ago, remember, plus a very good description of Olive Martin, right down to the clothes she was wearing that day. Well, I thought it was a one-off and as that old b.a.s.t.a.r.d Wheelan pays peanuts at the best of times, I pocketed the cash and didn't bother to record the transaction. Instead, I got one of our riders who lived in Dawlington to do it freelance, as it were, on his way home. He got ten for doing virtually nothing and I kept the other ten." She motioned with her hand.

"You take the next right at the traffic lights and then right at the roundabout."

Roz put on her indicator.

"Was that Gary O'Brien?"

Marie nodded.

"I suppose the little sod's been talking."

"Something like that," said Roz, avoiding a direct answer.

"Did Gary ever meet this man?"

"No, only Olive. It turned out he'd known her before she used to look after him when he was a child or something so he had no trouble recognising her and didn't bungle the job by trying to give the letter to the wrong woman. Which, considering what an oaf he was, I thought he might do. Pull in here." She glanced at her watch as Roz drew to a halt.

"That's grand. OK, well, the upshot of the whole thing going so smoothly was that Olive's bloke started to use us quite regularly. All in all we must have delivered about ten letters in the six months before the murders. I think he realised we were doing it on the side because he always came in at lunchtime after Wheelan had gone out. I reckon he used to wait until he saw the old fool leave."

She shrugged.

"It stopped with the murders and I've never seen him since. And that's all I can tell you except that Gary got really nervous after Olive was arrested and said we should keep our mouths shut about what we knew or the police would be down on us like a ton of bricks. Well, I wasn't keen to say anything anyway, not because of the police but because of Wheelan. He'd have burst a blood vessel if he'd found out we'd been running a bit of private enterprise behind his back."

"But didn't the police turn up anyway about a month later to warn Wheelan against the O'Brien brothers?"

Mamie looked surprised.

"Who told you that?"

"Gary's mother."

"First I've heard of it. As far as I know they just got bored.

Gary wasn't so bad because he loved his motorbike but the other two were the most work-shy creeps I've ever come across. In the end they were skiving off so often that Wheelan sacked the lot. It's about the only decision he's ever made that I agreed with. G.o.d, they were unreliable." She checked her watch again.

"To tell you the truth it amazed me that Gary delivered Olive's letters so conscientiously. I did wonder if he had a bit of a yen for her himself." She opened the car door.

"I'll have togo."

"Hang on," said Roz sharply.

"Who was this man?"

"No idea. We dealt in cash and he never gave his name."

"What did he look like?"

"I'll miss my train."

Roz leant across and pulled the door to.

"You've got ten minutes and if you don't give me a decent description I'll go straight back to your office and spill the beans to Wheelan."

Mamie shrugged petulantly.

"He was fifty-odd, old enough to be her father if the age they gave for her in the paper was right.

Quite good-looking in a smarmy sort of way, very clean cut and conservative. He had a posh accent. He smoked. He always wore a suit and tie. He was about six foot and he had blond hair. He never said very much, just sort of waited for me to speak, never smiled, never got excited. I remember his eyes because they didn't go with his hair.

They were very dark brown. And that's it," she said firmly.